Sacrifices for the Greater Good

Grief VI

Napoleon's journey back to London went similarly to his journey to the Soviet Union. It was mind-numbingly dull to be passed from escort to escort but mostly uneventful. He supposed that he should be grateful that nothing had gone catastrophically wrong, although at least that would have provided some much needed break in the monotony and misery of it all. The wet weather that greeted him once he exited the airport seemed to mirror his mood, and his disposition only soured further when he returned to his flat to find his handler waiting for him.

"Get your things." The CIA handler ordered. "Our flight back is in an hour." Napoleon nodded and did as he was told without complaint, knowing his movements were being carefully watched. He felt the album like a weight in his pocket and knew he couldn't pack it away until his handler's attention was drawn elsewhere. Luckily, the sound of the doorbell was enough of a distraction for Napoleon to slip the book underneath a small pile of his shirts. He straightened up again as he heard the sound of a small argument break out at the door, the English accent of one of the voices betraying the visitor as Waverly. Whatever the topic of the disagreement was, Waverly seemed to have won as his handler threw a dirty look at the Englishman before storming out of the flat.

"How was your trip?" Waverly asked.

"As good as could be expected." Napoleon replied. "No one tried to kill me at any rate, although Illya's handler may have wanted to at several times."

"And his father? How did he take the news?"

"Pretty well, all things considered. He didn't give much away." Napoleon said truthfully. "I could have been telling him about his pet dying and his reaction would have probably been much the same."

"He has likely had to live like that for a very long time." Waverly surmised. "Betraying his true feelings about anything might have had consequences. It can't be easy staying so in control like that when receiving such tragic news."

"They didn't tell him about Gaby's death." Napoleon said mournfully. "He knew that she was pregnant but now that she died, that can't have been accidental."

"I imagine they thought it would have more impact that way." Waverly said after a moment. "Hearing you might have a grandchild could soften the blow of a son's death. Ripping that away afterwards, I can't imagine how that must have felt." Napoleon had to agree and they both fell silent as they tried to contemplate it. "You'll be returning to the USA soon, I presume?"

"Yes, that's how it seems." Napoleon said. "It's been a pleasure working for you, Alex." The first name felt odd on his tongue, but calling him 'Mr Waverly' seemed far too formal for the circumstances.

"The pleasure has been all mine, Napoleon." Waverly returned, and with a final nod of respect to each other the Englishman departed, allowing his handler to return.

"Are you ready yet?" He demanded.

"Yes, sir." Napoleon replied, closing up his suitcase and picking it up by the handle. He was ready to get back to work.

Napoleon threw himself into his work with a vigour that surprised many of the people who knew him at the CIA. Some thought that his time spent working with Russians had reignited his non-existent patriotism, but focusing on plots did wonders to distract him from his ever continuing grief. For once in his career as a spy, he avoided toeing the line as much as he had done in the past, not out of any loyalty to the CIA but out of a desire to leave as soon as his sentence with them finished.

He wasn't a fool, he knew that if he continued to steal and make a general nuisance of himself then they might have an excuse to extend his time with them further. Before, the thought would not have bothered him too much. Yes he had always hated being their lapdog, Illya had hit the nail on the head at their first proper meeting when he had commented on the fact that Napoleon was on a very short leash. He would not have lashed out so harshly, pressing uncomfortable buttons like Illya's mother's reputation, had the comment not been so close to the bone. He regrets now the things he said in that moment of anger. Illya's comment had been insulting, but the attack was focussed solely on Napoleon and his own failures. He had no right to start attacking Illya's family in his rebuttal. He had tried to apologise once, but Illya had brushed him away telling him an apology was unnecessary. It never ceased to surprise him that someone who was so prone to violent rages had endless capacity for forgiveness and tended not to hold grudges.

As usual, he was placed on honeypots more than he would really like. It was an unpleasant but familiar role to fall back into. Near the beginning of his career he had tolerated more, but as time had passed he had begun to feel more and more like a convenient prostitute with the hands of an experienced thief. At least the women were mostly a pleasant enough distraction, almost always they were the trophy wives of some criminal of sorts who were pleased at the attentions he gave them even if they reeked of falsity. Women who rose to such positions were rarely idiots as many assumed, Victoria Vinciguerra being a prime example of contradicting the stereotype. Each seduction always felt like a careful dance of pretence and lies, where both parties knew the other had an ulterior motive and the game was to discover what they were hiding. Napoleon had always held the edge in such altercations, he had been lying and cheating his entire life so the subterfuge came easily to him and he was able to remain emotionally detached. Still he found his current apathetic mood translated poorly into his work and he became more careless than usual, culminating in an episode when the wife of a corrupt millionaire stumbled upon the album he still brought with him everywhere.

"Who are these people?" Cathy had asked. He had been lying on the bed, idly flicking through that morning's paper and had paid little attention to where her tentative exploration of his hotel room had led her to. The sight of the album in her uncaring hands had brought a sudden angry protectiveness out of him that he had to stifle.

"No one important." He tried to play it off and smiled at her suavely. "Come back to bed, it's rather cold over here." She danced away from his hands, holding the album above her head while she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and grinned at him.

"Seriously, is this some old girlfriend that you never got over? She's very pretty." She had the page opened to one of the photos of Gaby by herself, likely taken by Illya. It was not one he had left in the album when he had taken it to Illya's father, it was a picture too intimate to really be seen by anyone. Gaby's shoulders were bare in the photo, she smiled softly up at the photographer, her expression loving and affectionate as she held what could only be the rumpled remains of a bedsheet up to cover her chest.

"Yes." He said simply, hoping the answer would soothe her curiosity. "Would you please give it back?" He left the bed and reached out for it, but again she moved out of reach and flicked through several more pages.

"A little odd to have a book full of photos of your ex and her new lover." She commented. "You have photos of him as well, did you have something going on with him too?" He finally succeeded in snatching the album out of her hands, closing it to hide its secrets from her prying eyes.

"No, he was my brother." The lie slipped out before he could stop it.

"Was?"

"He died." Napoleon replied shortly, turning his back to Cathy as he returned the book to its shelf. He would have to buy some sort of cover for it, make it look like some boring literature so that visitors did not pay it any attention. A 'War and Peace' cover might be appropriate.

"And your ex?"

"She died too, car crash." Cathy let out a sudden gasp.

"Oh you poor thing, to lose both so tragically." He let her fuss over him, taking the kisses planted over his face with fake enthusiasm. She drew back slightly, and he could see it in her eyes that she was too curious to let the subject drop so easily. "So what exactly happened between you three?" Her eyes widened as she came to some realisation. "She picked your brother didn't she? You were in love with her and she picked him over you."

Had he been in love with Gaby? No, he wasn't stupid enough to let himself think something so absurd. But he wouldn't deny that he did feel something for her, a silly unrequited attraction or desire he had never allowed himself to dwell on for too long. When they had first met he had pulled his usual tricks, thinking that his customary charm and good looks would be enough to gain her attention as it was normally enough for most of the women he tried to bed. She had ignored every thinly veiled comment with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or a snort, instead she had been more drawn to Illya's clumsy attempt at courtship and utter lack of charm and flattery. His blunt comments, sometimes to the point of being insulting, had always elicited more of a reaction than his own more subtle gestures.

Had Illya been anyone else, Napoleon might have become jealous of how easily he seemed to draw such a firecracker like Gaby, but he was so honest and open about his feelings that he was impossible to dislike for that reason alone. She had not been the first woman to reject him, not by far. Plenty of women in the past had been perceptive enough to see through him, but in their cases he had simply been able to leave and never give them another thought. It was not so easy with Gaby, especially when he saw her near every day. Napoleon thinks that his continued affection and desire for her may be more of a product of her rejection rather than any feelings of love. Had she lived and Illya died in the explosion, he knows or at least he hopes he would never have acted on it, to take advantage of her grief like that would have made him feel filthier than all of his less pleasant honeypot missions put together.

"Something like that." He told Cathy simply in response to her slightly melodramatic theory.

"And then they died together, how tragically romantic." She nearly squealed at the thought, he felt a stab of irritation but didn't let it show. She had not had the best marriage, and who was he to deny her little fantasy? She spent the rest of the night showing her appreciation for the story, apparently trying to soothe him over his loss. He lost himself in her perfumed hair and body, trying to forget.

He continued to work effectively, remaining the consummate CIA agent while on missions, and being anything but during his time off. He avoided stealing, except on the odd occasion where he wanted to brush up his skills or the target was too tempting to avoid. One day, having finally completed the sentence he had been given, he found himself seated opposite his handler in Virginia.

"Well your time with us has come to an end." His handler said grudgingly. "The position is still available, should you wish to continue."

"Thank you but no." Napoleon replied. He had given this day a lot of thought, and had come to the decision that he didn't want to work for the CIA anymore. Working with UNCLE had given him a great insight into what it would be like to work for an agency that actually cared about its agents, and he knew that if he agreed to continue working with the CIA it would not end well. While he had worked out his sentence, they had been careful to keep any non-essential information away from him, conscious that the day would come when he would be given the opportunity to leave and they wanted to ensure he did not take any sensitive information with him when he left. If he stayed he had no guarantees they would let him go so easily.

"Very well." His handler said, voice not giving away whether he was disappointed or relieved by the decision. "You need to pack up your office and leave by the end of the week."

Author's Note: Happy new year everyone! I managed to get another chapter out but that doesn't mean there won't still be delays.