Mae Govannen everyone
I'm back!
so this story takes place after "She's your Sunshine" not that you can't just read this one first, but it WILL make more sense if you read the trilogy in order:
1) In All Seriousness
2) She's Your Sunshine
3) All's Well That Ends Well, Isn't It?
See you all in stories!
Namarïe
"... and what does this piece do again?"
"Napoleon," says Illya, in a long suffering voice. "How in God's name is it possible that you know nothing about chess?"
"Because," says the American, managing to look smug even though his forehead is bowed in pain, "I have had better things to do with my life."
Illya is going to argue, going to ask exactly what those things would be, but the small huff of pain that leaves his friend puts them out of his mind. Reacing out, Illya moves the little crooked table and leans forward to take one of Napoleon's shaking hands in his. The American gives him a little smile as the russian's thumb strokes over his pale knuckles
Napoleon's headaches have been growing steadily worse as the year rolls on. The night before Illya and Gaby's Wedding, he had been laid up, face pale as a sheet of paper, his mouth a thin hard line. It had taken Illya shaking him to illicit a response other than a soft moan.
Gaby keeps urging him to go see a doctor. Napoleon, like the stubborn mule he is, refuses every time. Says that them poking and prodding him will not do any good.
Illya is more worried that one day, he will go to wake Napoleon from one of his spells and his friend just will not move. He has more time to watch Napoleon, since he and Gaby had retired from the covert world. He's asked all the questions; could Napoleon have an underlying ailment he has never spoken about? Is it a genetic condition shared in his family? Could it be an injury playing up?
Napoleon's answer is always the same. "Illya, no. I'm fine. I promise."
For some reason, Illya does not believe him. His solution is to make sure he invites Napoleon to their home in London as often as he can. The American even has a bedroom there now.
And one more year.
One more year and then he is free of Sanders and the CIA, and even U.N.C.L.E.
God, Illya wishes that time would move faster. Wishes that this wonderful man could take his life back as his own at last.
He also wonders if the mysterious Michael knows what is wrong with Cowboy.
It has been three months since the wedding, and no sign of Napoleon's lover. Even though he'd said he would introduce them. Illya tries not to read too much into it... but sometimes he wonders if Napoleon really does trust them. He knows that in their time and place the American has a right to be cautious, that he might be scared of what will happen if people other than Gaby and Illya find out.
But it still hurts.
So he leaves it alone. Hoping nothing will get worse.
After all, Napoleon is only thirty-eight and far from old, yet there are subtile streaks of grey peering through the ink black stain of his curls and small crinkled crow's-feet at the corners of his dancing eyes.
Gaby is out with a friend one evening when Napoleon drops by for dinner. Once Illya realises the American clearly has several cracked ribs, however, the Russian puts his foot down.
And then Napoleon breaks.
It turns out that the CIA have recalled him.
Illya explodes. He cannot take it anymore, that those men have been using his partner again, and he did not even know.
"Why did you not tell me?" he shouts. "Sladkiy Lisus, Napoleon!"
Cowboy gives him a tired glance from the sofa, his blue eyes duller than they usually are. "Because they told me not to."
"Since when do you follow orders, Cowboy?" Illya is startled into a gentler tone of voice. The Napoleon Solo he knows is slightly reckless, and callous with orders, rules and everything else that goes hand in hand with them.
"Since they started threatening you and Gaby." Napoleon's face is calm, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. Under his usual suave charm, there is turmoil bubbling. Illya can see it now he knows what he is looking for. "That's why I haven't been able to introduce you to Michael, either. They're watching everything I do."
Oh.
Oh.
O' boheze, Illya is such an idiot. Of course there would have been a good reason. It wasn't that Napoleon didn't want them to meet Michael- they could not.
"I haven't been able to see him for the past month, since they doubled their surveillance." Napoleon sounds... like he has finally given up.
And Illya's heart breaks. He stands, head spinning- and fetches a bottle of the scotch he keeps in the kitchen for when Napoleon visits. Cowboy's lips curve in a faint smile when Illya presses the glass on him.
"Thanks, Peril..."
"I will talk to Waverly," says Illya.
Napoleon just gives him a small smile.
——
Illya does talk to Waverly. He comes as close to pleading as his pride can take. And the Englishman, who knew about Napoleon's situation the whole fucking time, steeples his fingers and tells the Russian that he is in discussion with Napoleon's handler, Sanders. That he is looking for a solution.
Illya can see the look of concern in Waverly's eyes when he speaks of Napoleon, so he decides to trust the man.
So Illya waits.
He waits as the grey dusts Napoleon's temples with a paler silver.
It looks good on the American, not that Illya will ever tell him so... he's cocky enough as it is.
Except, well, he is not.
Napoleon does not, cannot, tell Illya what his assignments entail. Is unable to let the Russian know just what level of danger he is in.
But Illya knows.
He knows every time that Cowboy comes to stay with him, and he is hosting another bruise. Another half-healed slash. Or, most recently, a rather spectacular black eye.
Napoleon laughs at that one and it seems that this is a wound Illya need not be concerned about. Apparently an old colleague of his thought he was an arsehole and needed to be taken down a peg.
"And did you?" asks Illya, amused despite himself. "Need to be taken down?"
Napoleon knocks back his shot and grins at him like a mischievous child. "Of course not."
Illya meets Michael the first time by mistake, and very much devoid of introductions from Napoleon- because it has been almost two months since he has last seen Cowboy.
He's at the train station, waiting to pick up Gaby- returning from affairs in the country- when a tall, handsome man stops beside him, checking his scuffed watch.
His deep auburn hair is short, slightly messy, almost in the way Napoleon's is just after he wakes up, and his eyes are the dark green-blue glass of the sea under a veil of storm clouds.
He's tapping his foot, seemingly unconsciously, humming a tune that sounds vaguely like The Bluebells of Scotland, so Illya feels safe to assume that the man is from said country.
Amongst the few things that Napoleon has mentioned about the elusive Michael, is the clue that he IS Scottish.
Not that this makes Illya curious of the man beside him. He could just be a ordinary man here to pick up his wife- same as Illya is.
"Mornin'," says the man absently, voice a heavy Scottish burr.
Illya glances sideways at him, to find the man offering a rueful smile. His coat is thick, lined with wool- perfect for the chill of a London winter, the shade of the beard on his jaw the same hue as his fiery hair.
"Morning," says Illya. And it is not that he has an issue with making conversation to pass the time, more that he still does not like conversing with strangers. Old habits die hard.
"Sorry, me ma would be turning in her grave, knowing that I did nae use me manners." The man rubs at the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. And Illya quirks a small smile, despite himself. "Have tae say a good morning to everyone, y' see... habit an' all."
Illya huffs a laugh, the tension bleeding from his spine. "She sounds like she was a firm woman."
"Aye, that she was." The man checks his watch again. "Here to pick up your Lass?"
Illya smiles, glancing off down the tracks. He longs to hear the sound of the train blundering its way home. To see Gaby leaping from the doors and running through the steam so he can catch her in his arms. "Da."
"Moscow or Kiev?" asks the man conversationally, sliding his hands into his pockets.
"Sorry?"
"Your hometown."
Oh. Illya checks the clock hanging over the platform. Ten minutes. "Moscow."
"Hm."
Illya looks to the man again, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you here?"
The man flashes a slightly lopsided smile. "Picking up a friend.
The silence that falls over them next is comfortable. And Illya likes that the company doesn't feel the need to fill the air with words for it to be so.
When the train pulls in at last, however, the silence becomes more due to shock than anything else.
Because getting off the train are Gaby and Napoleon, laughing as she waves her arms around in a recount of some amusing endeavour. The American is devoid of a coat and dressed in his usual waistcoat and undershirt- all different shades of blue, and while Illya recognises one of the cases he is carrying as Gaby's, the other must belong to Napoleon.
They barely have time to step onto the platform before Illya is striding over, and to his surprise, the scott follows him.
Napoleon looks up to catch the blonde russian heading their way and his blue eyes are shining like sapphires, and he laughs. He looks happy.
He looks free.
And that is when Illya knows, and he drags both Gaby and his ex-partner into a crushing hug. And Gaby is talking excitedly over the roar of the train's cooling engines, Napoleon has his face in the crook of Illya's shoulder, and Illya allows himself to just breathe.
Because Waverly has done it. He will go thank the man in person one day soon. But for now, he just holds onto his family and breathes them in.
When they finally break apart, Napoleon flashes a grin.
"Quite the welcome wagon... How did you know I was coming?"
"I did not." Illya looks to Gaby, who shakes her head- her face a dazzling smile.
"I met him on the train," she says.
"Making friends where ever you go," says the scott, ruffling Napoleon's hair.
Cowboy swats at his hand, laughing, "Oh, fuck off."
And then it hits him, watching as the scott's arm comes to rest gently about Napoleon's waist. At how the American lets his head rest on the other man's shoulder. And at how Napoleon's next look is for Illya and Gaby alone. How the quiet words swimming in his blue eyes tell them, I trust you. Always.
And then he smirks, because Cowboy could never resist a chance to be a little shit, now, could he?
"I feel introductions are in order..." he says to the scott. "Illya and Gaby have been dying to meet you for quite sometime..."
"As you wish, m'eudail," says the scott softly. Then he extends a hand to Illya, smiling like he has met a long-lost brother.
"I'm Michael Reid. Pleased tae meet the two of ye'."
Russian:
Sladkiy Lisus = Sweet Jesus
O' boheze = Oh, god
Da = Yes
——
Gaelic:
m'eudail = Darling/Dear