Fine weather, calm sea, reliable boat and pleasant company...
Napoleon Solo casted anchor and sighed with contentment.
"Thank you, Napoleon..."
It caught him off guard. He turned to his friend who repeated softly, "Thank you..."
Napoleon felt uncertain. It wasn't just a polite and appropriate thank-you. A disconcerting gratitude showed genuinely in Illya's face.
"My pleasure... And..." He bent forwards, putting his hand on his partner's arm in a familiar gesture, "Thanks to you for being there!"
He chuckled and pointed at the guitar. "What about some music, before lunch? It was a nice song you played this morning..."
His partner's hands were fascinating: large, powerful and yet graceful. His fingers were dancing deftly on the guitar. With the blond tendrils fluttering in the breeze, the gray sweater carelessly spread over the shoulders, the black tee shirt, he didn't bear any resemblance to the deadly agent he was.
The Russian peeped at him, smiled faintly and sang.
April come she will,
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain...
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again.
June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember
A love once new has now grown old.
The breeze had taken away the last notes. Napoleon tilted his head, considering Illya.
"Beautiful song... "
The Russian rested his arm on the guitar.
"You surely heard about Paul Simon..."
It wasn't a question. Napoleon Solo sat down next to his friend.