Work Text:
Somewhere over the Atlantic
1973
2.07 pm
Chief Enforcement Agent of UNCLE Northwest, Illya Kuryakin, has made it a hundred pages into The Book of Daniel when his communicator beeps. He glances around to check there is no-one suspicious looking nearby and answers it. “Kuryakin here.”
“It’s me. Do you know when you’re going to be home, partner?” Napoleon Solo is either in public or with someone, otherwise the nickname would be more inventive.
“We’re going to land in –" Illya starts to answer, then stops to listen, as a sound of scuffling can suddenly be heard on the other end. “Napoleon? Napoleon!”
“No honey, I can’t let you hold the communicator, it costs a lot of money to replace one if you drop it. How about I keep it, and you get close and say hi to Illya?”
“Hello, Uncle Illya!” Muriel Solo yells into Napoleon’s communicator. She has learned not to do it into a phone receiver, but apparently the lesson must be repeated with other machines.
“Indoor voice, Muriel, please,” Illya says gently. “But hello to you too. Apparently, your father is using his work communicator to speak to me about home life again, which is very much against the rules.”
“But Dad can change all of the rules at work if he wants to, right?” Muriel asks before Napoleon can answer.
Illya sighs. “You should think a little about what you say to her, Napoleon.”
He can practically hear Napoleon’s grin at the other end. “What use is there to head Section One if I’m not allowed to brag about it to my family?”
“What is it that your father and I work in again, Muriel?” Illya asks.
“I know! Export-import, Uncle Illya.”
“Clever girl. Napoleon, wasn’t it supposed to be on Friday that Muriel would come to spend the night? Or has it been brought forward a day because of the birdwatching activity?” Maybe Illya was wrong about this being a pure social call.
It’s silent on the other end for a bit. “It is Friday today, Illya. She just arrived as planned and couldn’t wait to say hello to her favourite Uncle. I took some files home, she’ll be drawing and I’ll be reading for the afternoon.”
“It is Friday? Oh right, yes, it must be, then.” The THRUSH compound he had been held at for three nights had been another one without windows, and they had taken his watch from him, too. “I was still on Thursday.”
“We’re coming to pick you up from the airport, Illya!” Muriel declares.
“Thank you. Tell your father we land at JFK at around five.”
“Dad, he lands at JFK at around five.”
“I can hear him perfectly, Muriel. OK IK, we’ll be waiting for you there.”
“See you then. Bye Muriel, bye Napoleon!”
“Bye Illya.” Napoleon ends the connection.
Illya puts the book away with his communicator and settles in for a nap in his seat. He’d better rest up to power through what awaits him at home.
---
5.30 pm
Muriel always wants to come pick Illya up from the airport if she’s staying and he is arriving. If Illya is honest, he often prefers a cab after a draining affair, as his character doesn’t tend to invite drivers to talk much and he can get used to New York again by looking at the skyscrapers in comfortable silence.
When Napoleon and Muriel come, it’s touching but not exactly relaxing.
“There he is honey, look!” Illya hears Napoleon say jubilantly when he steps into the arrivals lobby with his baggage. Then he sees Napoleon too, one hand in the pocket of his suit slacks and the other holding Muriel’s hand. Muriel, who has been bouncing up and down excitedly and waving a drawing, lets out an “Uncle Illya!”, hands the drawing to Napoleon and runs into Illya’s arms.
Illya lets his bags drop to the ground, kicking the one with the surveillance equipment and other UNCLE gear in Napoleon’s direction so it doesn’t get lost or stolen while he allows the child to hug him. “Hello, Muriel. It’s a pleasure to see you.” And a bit of a chore too, he doesn’t say out loud, because it is not the girl’s fault he spent most of last night hanging upside down and gained about twenty new bruises when he finally succeeded in picking the lock on his shackles and crashed to the ground.
Not that she’ll ever know. This child will have to shoulder responsibilities far beyond her years only over Illya’s cold, dead body. No famine, no war, no knowledge of the ridiculous work Illya and Napoleon do.
Muriel laughs in delight to have him home, and Illya looks at Napoleon, who holds the equipment bag and beams at the two of them like the luckiest man on Long Island.
Illya crouches next to his suitcase so he can look up at Muriel, encouraging her to stand still for a second. She looks so much like Napoleon it borders on the ridiculous and even has his nose. He taps Muriel there, says gravely, “I think you have grown again,” and Muriel laughs because it’s been two weeks since she last saw him.
Muriel isn’t a very demanding audience, not when it comes to Illya. Which is all well and good, as he won’t be coming up with anything creative in his post-assignment blues. “Of course she adored you,” Napoleon had said after they had first met her, at the park next to the social work department’s offices. “We Solos are naturally drawn to any errant Kuryakins.” Not that she was a Solo on paper yet back then.
Stepping forward, Napoleon gives Illya a quick one-handed, fraternal hug and hands his daughter’s drawing over. Illya looks at it, his other hand now in Muriel’s before she runs off somewhere.
“Very skilful.” Muriel has drawn a square house with a triangle roof on green grass, and four people standing next to it. One with fair hair, one with dark hair, one with red hair, and one wearing glasses. “What is this one called?”
Napoleon looks so proud he might burst. “It’s called ‘Muriel’s family’.”
Illya nods. He feels a bit disorientated in his tiredness and would like to get to the car, but sometimes appreciating art takes priority. “I see here’s me, your father, your mother, and Simon. Do we all live in the same house together?”
“You’re being silly, Uncle Illya. It’s the summer house.”
“Oh yes, I see now!” It had been Mimi’s idea to spend the weekend at her family’s old house upstate. Napoleon and Illya had managed one night there before THRUSH had tried to break into the New York headquarters via the roof and had to make a hasty return to the city. “But where are you?”
Muriel pouts her lips thoughtfully, exactly like Napoleon often does. “I’m not there cause I’m drawing the picture.”
See, she’s a genius! Napoleon says to Illya with his eyes, and Illya chuckles. “Could we go, though?” he asks Napoleon.
“Sure.” Napoleon picks up Illya’s suitcase as well, and Illya is grateful that it leaves him only with Muriel and the drawing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Illya sees Braithwaithe and Lopez, two Section Six men, starting to walk in the same direction around twenty yards behind them. He silently thanks Napoleon for taking proper security measures for once when he takes Muriel somewhere.
---
5.55 pm
What taking a cab and travelling with Napoleon and Muriel have in common is that he isn’t expected to talk much now either. The two of them are extremely diligent in filling any silences that are in danger of stretching over three seconds.
“Tough trip,” Napoleon comments quietly while Muriel is singing You’re so vain in the back seat.
“This present one or are you referring to the affair?”
“Very droll.” Napoleon’s eyes get soft. “I’ve read the reports.”
“You’ve changed.”
Napoleon sticks his tongue out to Illya, causing uncontrollable titters in Muriel. “I mean you had quite a hard time out there, Illya.”
“Later,” Illya warns Napoleon. “Besides, only a couple more to go.” He checks Muriel, singing again, and continues in a low voice, “Any news on the bird’s nest?”
“The problem bird has been caged; I just received word of it before we saw you at arrivals.” Napoleon can never be bothered to keep up with codewords if Muriel is preoccupied, and follows with, “It’s a sole operative with no evidence found that he could have carried out anything. Just idle threats. But we will keep Code Red measures until Monday.”
Muriel has started the song again from the beginning. You said that we made such a pretty pair, and that you’d never leave. “How sure are we that it’s only threats, Napoleon?”
“Very sure.” Napoleon glances at him. “Illya, have some faith in Section Six’s expertise on this, will you?”
“I’ll try.” Illya notices that it is silent in the back seat, so he turns to Muriel and says in a light tone: “Muriel, you remember I’m going to stop travelling for work quite so much soon, don't you?”
“Yes!” Muriel says in delight. “Then we can go to the zoo and to the beach and to the movies and the theatre and the toy store –”
“Indoor voice,” Napoleon and Illya remind her in unison, and she settles down to watch the buildings go by.
“But we can start with the movies next month,” Illya agrees, and Muriel looks pleased. “I haven’t been in a cinema in at least two years.”
--------
6.21 pm
Napoleon tries to make him have a lie down after they get in the apartment, but Illya is feeling that stage of tiredness where rest would not come easily. Besides, Muriel wasn’t staying over that much. Illya didn’t want her to have that many memories where Uncle Illya was there in the apartment but not really present.
So here they are, him trying to teach Muriel to appreciate chess.
“This one will set up something called the Slav defense,” Illya explains and moves his knight. He always chooses the black pieces.
Muriel is sitting opposite from him, drawing another picture and pausing occasionally to look at him and the chess board.
“Put him in detainment and feed him till Monday, we’ll continue then. Solo out.” Napoleon steps out of the study and shuts down the communicator. “Illya, you know she is too young to appreciate any of it yet.”
He means the chess, but Illya still gives him a warning look.
“Dad, what’s a detainment?”
Illya folds his arms and shakes his head at Napoleon.
“Something really boring, sweetie,” Napoleon says and ruffles Muriel’s hair. “As dreadfully, maddeningly boring as chess.”
Illya isn’t yet ready to uncross his arms. “There have been no female chess grandmasters yet. If we start on her early, she could make history.”
“There have been none because women are far too sacred and pure to waste their lives on something like chess,” Napoleon chides and puts a hand on Illya’s shoulder. When Napoleon was younger, he liked to pretend to understand chess but has since decided he doesn’t need it as part of his image. “What are you drawing now, Murmur?”
Muriel holds up a picture of Illya with his reading glasses and the chess board, the knight drawn into the right square.
“I don’t think this one will make it to chess grandmaster,” Napoleon says, and pats Illya on the back. “She is far too busy with her demanding work as president of The Illya Kuryakin Fan Club.”
“Very good, Muriel,” Illya agrees. He has acquired quite a collection of Muriel’s drawings by now. A couple of them are even in the office that he used to share with Napoleon and now shares with Mark Slate.
“Could you pack these away, the pair of you?” Napoleon taps the table. “We need to have dinner off this about five minutes ago.”
--
7.34 pm
Dinner is uneventful, except that Napoleon would be hurt if his casserole was described as such. He doesn’t work any less now that he has officially replaced Waverly, the opposite, but the desk job has given him more energy to spend on things like cooking. Illya can’t claim to be displeased by this turn of events.
“Eww,” Muriel comments on the steamed vegetables.
“Now Muriel, you need to eat your greens too,” Napoleon reminds her. “Otherwise, you won’t ever grow big and strong like Uncle Illya. Look at him there, clearing his plate.”
Illya puts some cauliflower in his mouth and chews in an exaggerated manner. He makes sure to swallow before he replies, “I might be strong, but I’m hardly big.”
“No, but you are the strongest person I know,” Napoleon says, eyes gone treacherously soft again, and toasts him with a wine glass with water in it. Muriel finishes every last morsel. As Napoleon goes to the bathroom with her to run a bath, Illya takes the plates to the sink and looks out of the kitchen window.
The black car that followed them from the airport parking lot is now parked on the street, right opposite their building.
“Everything as it should?” Napoleon inquires, popping his head around the door.
Illya nods. “Section Six has developed better decorum since I first started at the New York office. I don’t think she notices a thing.” Illya puts the dishes in the sink and starts to fill it with water. “No thanks to you though, Napoleon.”
Napoleon sighs. “Illya, she doesn’t understand yet. Some sense of humour is allowed, you know.”
Illya’s eyes narrow. “Flaunting the communicator, the jokes, trying to discuss affairs in front of her. She’ll understand plenty soon enough, Number One, if you don’t develop a healthy sense of worry on these things.”
Napoleon leans on the kitchen counter, the handsome devil. “I still think you are far too paranoid.”
Illya rolls up his shirtsleeves, so they won’t get wet. “And you are not nearly paranoid enough. What will happen if she says something at school?”
“Probably the same as when I claimed I was Clark Gable’s secret love child. Everyone laughed, no-one believed me, we all moved on to something else.”
“Speaking of secret love children,” Illya says, “Should you not be checking that yours doesn’t drown in the bath?”
“She is a strong swimmer, partner mine, but you do have a point.” Napoleon leaves the room, then pops his head around the door again to say, “You’re perfectly right, but you’re also jetlagged and mission-weary and it’s making you cranky. I’d go straight to bed after those dishes if I was you.”
Illya pretends to throw the sponge at him, because almost nothing annoys him more than Napoleon telling him to do something he is just about to do anyway. Of course, he is very fortunate, with Napoleon and him still around after spending over a decade as field agents. He much prefers Napoleon alive and annoying, rather than as a solemn memory.
After he finishes the dishes and before he falls into bed, he takes out the little monitor with a map of New York that tracks the coordinates of Muriel’s mother down to about a quarter mile in diameter. The dot is hovering around the Village, so Mimi probably is at the gallery opening with Simon The Photographer Fiancé as advertised, not, for example, being kidnapped to be held somewhere so that the head of UNCLE Northwest can be kicked where it hurts.
Mimi had accepted the tracker happily, but they had both agreed not to tell Napoleon just yet. He already thought Illya was worrying too much. And especially now Section Six had deemed the situation under control, Illya did not feel like having an argument about it.
--
8.42 pm
“Uncle Illya, could you sing to me?” he hears Muriel whine from ‘Illya’s room’, as the study with the single bed is officially known. She loves sleeping in there on her own because they trust her to be a big girl and because it supposedly is Illya’s bed. Illya, meanwhile, gets to sleep where he always sleeps, in his and Napoleon’s bed. Should a social worker bitten by a vampire bat burst in in the middle of the night, they would just be granting the child sufficient space for herself by bunking up together.
Illya is currently lying on his back across the bed and would prefer a bullet to the shoulder to getting up. The Book of Daniel is lying next to him out of principle, but he doesn’t have the strength to crank it open.
“Some other night, Muriel, Uncle Illya had to work really, really hard on his last trip,” Napoleon explains to the girl. “Illya must have a good night’s sleep so you can have a fun morning with him tomorrow. But I’ll tell you stories about some of the places Uncle Illya and I went to, back when we travelled the world together. Would you like that?”
Muriel makes a noise of agreement, and Napoleon starts to describe Marrakesh to her.
After a while, Illya hears a click as Napoleon turns off the study lights. He joins Illya in the bedroom and closes the door behind him. “She’s all tucked in and soundly asleep.”
“Good,” Illya says without opening his eyes.
He feels the bed dip as Napoleon comes to sit next to him. Then Napoleon’s hand combs through Illya’s hair, which sends pleasant little thrills down Illya’s neck. “You know what, pocket rocket, here in the West it is traditional to sleep underneath the bed covers. And we also tend to lie parallel to the pillows.”
Illya opens his eyes long enough to shoot a dirty look at Napoleon, then lets his eyes fall closed again.
“How did she come up with it originally, asking you to sing to her?”
“Haven’t I told you? It was when she had that upset stomach when you had to go meet Mark and April in Cairo.”
--
1972
It had been seven months since the social worker had knocked on the door with Muriel’s file, and the third time Muriel stayed over. Illya only wanted good things to happen to her and Mimi but still resented Napoleon for it, for all of it. Of sleeping with Mimi even that one time, of making her pregnant just when her real life was about to start and not even noticing for seven years because I was always very careful, Illya. He had even started to resent Napoleon for loving only Illya for five out of those seven years in between, when all the while there was a child out in the world Napoleon, they both, should have been protecting with all their might.
Illya, not a natural with children, had still found himself adoring Muriel at first sight. By the time they were ready to meet her (and to see Mimi again), Illya had adjusted to the worst shock and could only stand in awe of how similar the child was to Napoleon. The hair, the eyes, the prominent Cupid’s bow, that nose.
It was true that Illya was, at best, annoyed and, at worst, furious at Napoleon for most of the time they were getting to know Muriel. But Napoleon was also the dearest, his partner in everything, his best worst-kept secret, the loveliest thing to have happened to him in a world that had no natural justice, no promises of safety, and no higher being to look after you. He loved Napoleon, always would, and Muriel was part Napoleon, so what other options did Illya have but to love her too? Absolutely none.
The love and the resentment had cancelled one another out, and he had gone through the motions for months without feeling much at all. To the few observers who knew the complete truth about him and Napoleon, Illya Kuryakin had seemed wonderfully understanding about Napoleon’s child becoming a part of their lives. Napoleon had tried to push him to talk about it, of course, and of course Illya had steadfastly refused, because there was always work to do that couldn’t wait. Besides, what constructive way was there to say I love you just the way you are, Napoleon Solo, but the way you are, the way you were before you were mine, is maddening to me and I wish I knew what happens next.
And then Napoleon had rushed to April and Mark’s side without even telling Illya before he was on the plane to Egypt, because Illya had a week off after a long surveillance mission and was technically free to look after Muriel while Mimi was on some kind of mini tour with a new magician.
Then, it was Illya who broke the rule of no personal matters on communicators, with twisted glee. And he had said everything he had felt.
So you think I’m only good for babysitting, you second-hand Casanova
and
how is this my problem again when it’s not even my child
and
am I only allowed the rest if I have the wounds and broken bones to prove to you I can’t go without
and the worst of all,
is the love you constantly claim to feel for me really there or has it just been a convenient harbour to you that I have been so loyal, year to year, continent to continent, peril to peril, even when it would have benefitted me more not to be, like during the years you bedded two dozen women under my nose instead of just talking to me, Napoleon, you absolute prize oaf.
Because by then it wasn’t about Muriel anymore, or Napoleon’s misjudgements in contraceptives or communicating his whereabouts, it was about something larger they had never discussed for the almost-decade they had known one another at that point.
He had finished with a solid, “Just fuck off, Napoleon Solo.” A similar expletive was never far from him in Russian or Ukrainian, but in English he was a person who never used fuck except with Napoleon and only during sex. And wasn’t that what had landed them in this mess in the first place, Napoleon and sex?
“Illya.” Napoleon had never sounded so unsure, he hadn’t even got through those two syllables without his voice cracking. “Illya, please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be without you, ever.”
“Of course not. I love you, you big imbecile,” he had answered, then realised it was the first time he had said it in the five years without Napoleon using the words first and Illya feeling like he was being pressured into echoing them.
"Excuse me, but I am obliged to remind you I can hear everything you say," Wanda from Communications pointed out.
Before they could sort through any of it, Napoleon had been forced to go bail out April and Mark from a Cairo prison, and Mimi had knocked on the door with Muriel.
Two hours later, Muriel had started vomiting, and Illya had held her hair back and washed sheets and washed her and rocked her in his arms when she cried. Illya had felt like crying too after the day he had had, but tears are no use when children starve and people are bombed to smithereens and governments disappear their own people and villains destroy worlds, what is of use is to dust yourself off and keep fighting for another day. So of course he didn’t cry.
Instead, he found some Ukrainian children’s songs buried somewhere deep within his mind and sang those, and Muriel calmed down, and he calmed down, and she felt better and Napoleon came home and when it was just the two of them again after the week, they finally looked at all the metaphorical festering wounds that had been causing bad blood over the years. Because Napoleon might have been a fool, but Illya knew he himself had often been a martyr, and they couldn’t continue any longer without addressing it.
Talking those things through had been far more difficult than infiltrating a THRUSH satrap or shooting a man in the heart before he shoots at you first. But they had managed to cut open the scars, one by one and with great care, and flush all the poison out.
And then he finally felt free to love Napoleon without reservation and to care about Muriel, and to enjoy Mimi’s presence in his life, and to even occasionally rest between affairs before he was forced to by physical injury or sheer exhaustion.
Illya would not want to live through any of it again, but it had all been worth it.
--
11.23 pm
Illya wakes up and realises he is now lying in bed the right way around. Napoleon must have hauled him there. He has also been stripped to his undershirt and dressed in pyjama bottoms, and his reading glasses have been lovingly placed on the nightstand next to a glass of water. Napoleon is sitting next to him in bed, wearing his own blue pyjamas. He has an UNCLE file on his lap but has abandoned that for The Book of Daniel.
“Hello, you,” Napoleon says and ruffles his hair now. “You went out like a light, just like Mur. It’s handy you’re the right size for some gentle manoeuvring without having to wake you up.”
“I was reading that,” Illya complains. “I hope you didn’t move my bookmark.”
Napoleon leans on his elbow and holds up the book. “Haven’t you tried to read this for years?”
“Not years, not yet. I had just started it last year when we learned about Muriel.”
Napoleon checks the bookmark. “Page 107.”
“Exactly.”
Napoleon leans over Illya to put the book on his nightstand. “Well, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you? At work and at home.”
“Quite busy is one way to put it. You sound like Mark.”
Napoleon studies him. “Do you feel like you want to go back to sleep right away, love?”
Illya lowers his voice to a whisper and turns to Napoleon. “Napoleon, don’t even dare. She stays over so rarely, I’m not going to sleep with you while she is here. At least not until she learns to both knock and wait for permission before she comes in.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Napoleon scolds him.
“Go take yourself to the bathroom and do it in there if you are that desperate.”
“Come on,” Napoleon lowers himself so that they are lying on the bed facing each other. “Even I’m not that bad. I just meant I’d like to speak to you about something, unless you’d prefer to continue sleeping.”
“Oh. No, we can talk.” They have talked plenty since he came home, but Illya can guess what this is about.
“Have you thought about my proposition?”
Illya had plenty of time to think about it when he was taking breaks from plotting his escape in the THRUSH compound. “Yes, Napoleon. I will not be available to head Section Eight.”
“Are you sure? We can’t give Research and Development to just anyone, you’d have the background for it.”
“You know my scientific credentials have been greatly exaggerated. There is a reason I don’t walk around, insisting to be referred to as Dr. Kuryakin.” Both his Master’s and his Doctorate had been cover stories for the KGB. No-one had expected him to actually finish the Master’s, which he had done out of sheer stubbornness. By the time he got to Cambridge, he had been so thoroughly disillusioned by his country’s treatment of its own people that finishing the PhD felt like a good in-between goal while trying to make himself useful enough somewhere else. And that somewhere had turned out to be UNCLE, all over the world.
“All right,” Napoleon says, taking Illya’s hand. “But you’ll be forty in two months, and I’d like you to offer some insight into where I’m supposed to put you then. I don’t just want to make you a surveillance team manager or something because I need it for the numbers.”
“Napoleon, I appreciate this, but I’m not sure I have any answers for you tonight. If I agree to have a conventional meeting with you about this on Monday, could we relax for the weekend?”
“You and relaxation in the same sentence,” Napoleon chuckles and pulls Illya to his chest for a moment. “You really must be very, very tired.”
“I suppose I’m getting old.” Illya smiles.
“Aren’t we all,” Napoleon remarks and gives Illya a quick kiss on the lips.
“You must let go of me now,” Illya reminds him. “She might barge in, and fathers do not hold their best friends like this when they share a bed out of necessity.”
“This father does,” Napoleon whispers and kisses Illya’s nose, but rolls away from him and turns off the light.
They lie side by side, with a respectful distance between them. Napoleon’s hand finds his under the covers, and Illya arranges his own duvet a bit better so Muriel couldn’t see if she came in.
“Remember before, when we had to spend time apart and then could see each other again?” Napoleon continues to whisper, like they are on a sleepover, lazy smile on his lips, his eyes closed. “By the time we went to sleep, we would have fucked twice already.”
“I was worried we might have one night without you bringing up sex in any way. What a relief it is to be proven wrong,” Illya whispers back to him.
Napoleon is half right. They would have fucked once, Illya’s preferred pace, as little clothes removed as necessary, desperate and fumbling and so relieved to be alive together that going slow was never an option, doing it almost always just with hands or mouths or rocking against one another until orgasm hit. Napoleon saying I love you I love you I love you I love you until there was no meaning behind the sounds anymore.
Then they would, at Illya’s insistence, eat, and then talk and talk, until it was time for Napoleon’s preferred pace, all clothes removed and everything happening as slowly as possible. Sometimes hands and mouths were enough again, and sometimes it was Napoleon on top of Illya and in him, or Illya behind Napoleon, leaning his forehead against Napoleon’s back as he moved inside Napoleon.
Those had been Illya’s favourite years in the field, when Napoleon was his partner both at work and at home. It hadn’t been the same since Napoleon was kicked upstairs, because no-one else was Napoleon. But Illya did not have great ambitions for his next move. It seemed to be far more important to Napoleon than to him that his potential would be maximised. That was probably also an indication of how tired he had been feeling for months now, considering how driven he had been for most of his life.
“Tomorrow we can have a proper talk, and do much more than that,” Illya says to Napoleon, who doesn’t reply because he has fallen asleep.
Illya releases his hand from Napoleon’s and turns to sleep with his back to his partner.
--
3.02 am
“Uncle Illya, I need the bathroom.”
Illya comes to and finds Muriel standing next to his side of the bed. Because of the time difference, he should be all perky and ready to help, but it is a testament to his tiredness that he says, “One moment, Muriel,” prods Napoleon and, when Napoleon doesn’t stir, gives him a gentle kick.
“Ow.” Napoleon jolts awake, looking affronted. “Crazy Russian, what possessed you to do that now?”
“It is your daughter, she needs the toilet,” Illya says, not above reminding Napoleon who in this bed has given an Acknowledgment of Paternity, and who, as the father’s roommate and confidant, is in most people’s eyes stepping up to assist beyond expectation. Especially if it means he doesn’t have to walk an almost seven-year-old to the bathroom that is right outside their bedroom door.
“Muriel, you know how to use a bathroom,” Napoleon yawns.
“It’s scary in the dark.”
“How come you can walk up to us in the dark, then? That’s awfully scary too.”
“It’s different,” Muriel says. “I know I’m coming to Uncle Illya and you, Dad.”
Napoleon groans. “Oh, my sweet child, pulling on the heartstrings like a true Solo already. Off we go then,” he grumbles, leading Muriel out of the room by the hand like he used to lead their Innocents past dangers on assignments.
Illya falls back asleep before Napoleon returns.
--
9.45 am
A good night’s sleep could do wonders; Napoleon is right about that. Illya wakes up feeling a lot better, even looking forward to the day.
After breakfast, Muriel is granted some drawing time, while her father and Uncle retreat into the study. Napoleon dials Headquarters by the office desk while Illya packs up Muriel’s things.
“Channel D, get me the Section Six operative in charge of the weekend crew.”
“Section Six, Number 17 here.”
“Any news on the THRUSH operative issuing the kidnapping threats towards Muriel Solo and Mimi Doolittle?” Napoleon asks, as Illya picks up Muriel’s clothes from the day before. He thinks about putting them back into Muriel’s overnight bag but throws them into a laundry basket instead. Mimi probably prefers receiving them back clean.
“He begs to be given truth serum so he can be let go. The weekend shift hasn’t found anything to contradict his story that he only meant to cause upset.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, as this was the case the last time and the time before that.” Napoleon turns around to look pointedly at Illya, who folds his arms. You say paranoid, Napoleon Solo; I say cautious. “But you will probably advise me to keep the preparation levels intact until Monday, when we get to speak to the gentleman in more detail.”
“Affirmative.”
“Has anyone thought about creating a framework for a quicker assessment of threats?” Illya asks, frustrated that he has asked Napoleon that question twice before this year and nothing has come of it. “It might save resources, not to mention avoid unnecessary distress, if we can get these things sorted faster than we do at the moment.”
Napoleon throws a sideways look at him while Number Seventeen replies, “If only you knew how often Head of Section Six has said that we’ll create one as soon as possible, Mr. Kuryakin. At this rate, it will be operational sometime in the eighties.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t take that long,” Napoleon says while Illya grinds his teeth. “But if you manage up there without me and Head of Section Six, we’ll continue with our free weekend and regroup on Monday.”
“Nothing indicates your presence is necessary before that, Mr. Solo.”
“You’ll naturally inform me if new reasons to worry arise before that?”
“Of course. By the way, should Mr. Kuryakin really be present for a call like this? He’s Section Two, and not part of this chain of command.”
“I happen to live at the premises, Number Seventeen,” Illya says, unable to hide his irritation anymore. “Should you wish me to, I can go into another room and cover my ears, but the girl’s and her mother’s welfare matter very much to me as well. Chain of command or not.”
Number Seventeen pauses before replying, “I understand, Mr. Kuryakin. But as you just heard, measures will be reassessed on Monday, and until then, both of them enjoy the highest protection available outside of Headquarters.”
“Thank you very much for your co-operation, Number Seventeen. Talk to you later,” Napoleon chimes in as Illya opens his mouth.
Napoleon disconnects the call, and Illya lets out a groan.
“Now, now, tiger, put your claws back in,” Napoleon says. He rises from the chair, checks the door is closed, and slips his hand around Illya’s waist to give him a good-natured squeeze. “Everyone is doing their best. Why do you worry more than me or her mother?”
“Maybe it is just my overactive imagination,” Illya ponders. “Oh, I forgot, no, it’s knowing what these thrushlings are capable of. We’ve both got the scars to prove it. Napoleon, can you blame me for not wanting her to have any?”
“Do you really think I do not worry too?” Napoleon asks, frowning. “In case this has been unclear, I worry about her, and you, and Mimi, and even about Simon since he came into the picture, every day. But I cannot let it consume me or chain you all to a wall in the office just because it would make me feel better.”
“What are you worried about me for? Out of the four of us, I’d say I am the best equipped to look after myself.”
Napoleon scoffs. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you, and you know that, you silly, silly man. Because you’re not getting any younger either and statistically the last affairs are the riskiest. Because you’re one of three people in the world who would take a bullet for that girl, and she needs you.”
“Dad! Illya!” There is a gentle knock on the door, saving Illya from having to formulate any coherent response to that.
“See?” Napoleon says. “She does knock, sometimes.” He opens the door. “What is it, Mur?”
“Can we go to the park and wait for Mom and Simon there?”
“What do you need the park for, sweetie?”
“I like trees.”
Illya and Napoleon look at one another. “Who doesn’t? To be fair, her things are already packed,” Illya says. “Go to the bathroom, Muriel, then we can go.”
She bounces off, and Napoleon dials the Section Six car outside their building.
“Carter, Section Six outside the house here.”
“Hello, Mr. Carter. Muriel Solo wishes to visit the nearby park. And why wouldn’t she, it is a rather beautiful day for it. Two of you can follow her, me and Mr. Kuryakin, two can stay waiting by the front door. When Mimi Doolittle and her companion, Simon Skeeter, arrive, show them your UNCLE cards and explain where they can pick up Muriel.”
“Will do, Mr. Solo.”
“Thank you. Solo out.”
Illya hands Napoleon the laundry basket. “I just packed your daughter’s things, so it’s your turn to put a load on this afternoon.”
Napoleon puts the laundry basket under one arm and salutes Illya with his free hand.
--
11.30 am
The park has many excellent trees. Muriel chooses one and starts crawling up the lower branches, Napoleon standing close by to catch her in case she slips.
“Watch this,” Illya says, standing under the same tree and suddenly feeling playful. Section Six operatives are looming some distance away, so he decides he can slacken his personal vigilance just a little. Illya crouches, then launches himself upwards to hang from a thick, higher branch.
“Look, Muriel, look at Uncle Illya go!” Napoleon exclaims and Muriel shrieks happily as Illya flips himself in the air and closes his legs around the tree branch. He remains upside down just long enough for Muriel to notice, then clambers up to sit on the branch. He looks at Muriel, who looks at him like she’s seen actual magic, and at Napoleon, who is still holding on to Muriel and nodding admiringly. “Not bad for an export–import sales rep, our Illya.”
“I want to come up there too,” Muriel says, begging.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to climb up here,” Illya says.
“Well, you shouldn’t have given her ideas by playing Spider-Man,” Napoleon replies, looking so smug that it’s his turn to wear the sensible adult hat between the two of them for once. “Know what, Muriel? I lift you, and Uncle Illya pulls you up. He won’t let you fall. But do exactly as he says, don’t play around.”
To Illya’s surprise, they manage it without Muriel splitting her head open on the ground. He and the girl are sitting side by side on the branch, Illya steadying Muriel with one hand, when a Section Six man steps forward, followed by Mimi and Simon, hand in hand.
“Mom,” Muriel yells. “Look at us!”
“Goodness,” Mimi wonders. “Aren’t you two nimble creatures.”
“Stay put!” Simon says and whips out a small camera, taking a picture of Illya and Muriel in the tree.
“There was one flaw in this plan,” Napoleon then says, looking up and frowning. “How do we get them down?”
“I have total faith in you and Illya coming up with a solution,” Mimi says and winks.
“I know, Mimi dear. That’s what worries me the most.”
Illya ends up dangling Muriel by the arms, Napoleon standing under them and catching the girl.
“Your turn now, Mr. Spider-Man,” Napoleon says to Illya and extends his arms, willing Illya to jump.
“You won’t be able to take my weight, Napoleon.”
“Excuse me, I once carried you for two miles over my shoulder in the freezing cold. While you cried because you were hypothermic. Get down here.”
“I never cry, and you know that. But if you keep insisting, I will jump!”
Illya lets go, and Napoleon catches him too, stumbling but managing to keep upright and Illya in his arms, Illya wrapping his own arms around Napoleon’s neck. Muriel and Mimi, hand in hand, laugh at the image. Illya looks into Napoleon’s brown eyes. They are filled with such unbridled joy that Illya lets out one of his rare laughs himself.
“My dearest, dearest friend, I can take your weight anytime, anywhere,” Napoleon chants in a singsong voice and spins Illya around before finally putting him down. The park has been mercifully half-empty, but some of the Section Six men have a hard time keeping a straight face.
“That’s enough drawing attention to ourselves for one day,” Illya remarks. “I hope you two had a good evening yesterday,” he continues, turning to Simon and Mimi.
“Oh, it was wonderful!” Mimi sighs, and Simon nods. “I haven’t been to a gallery’s opening before. All abstract stuff though, couldn’t make head nor tail of it. But just in case I haven’t said it recently, boys,” she looks at Illya and Napoleon, “I feel so fortunate that we have succeeded in giving Muriel two units where she feels at home. Some lady at the gallery was crying in the bathroom, her ex-husband having just dropped off the face of the earth and leaving her with four kids! I was just thinking how well all of this has turned out. Don’t you think?”
Illya blinks rapidly. Simon, artistically impressive but emotionally less complicated, smiles widely.
“Oh, little Mimi,” Napoleon says and goes to embrace her. “My thoughts exactly. Aren’t we the luckiest?”
Muriel looks at both Simon and Illya with a puzzled expression. Illya realises that she has probably not seen her mother and father that close before.
Napoleon turns to Simon. “Simon, would you mind taking Muriel on the swings for a while? The three of us should align our calendars for me and Illya’s days with Muriel.”
Once the two are safely out of earshot, Napoleon and Illya fill Mimi in about the threats being investigated.
“So you are sure it isn’t anything to worry about this time, either?” Mimi asks.
“I can’t give you a hundred per cent, but it looks like it”, Napoleon says.
“But the security men will be with us at least until Monday?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I don’t know, they kinda give me the creeps,” Mimi says and looks over her shoulder where one of the operatives is watching Simon push Muriel on the swings. “But I appreciate the concern, of course I do. Thank you both.”
“There’s something else I’d like to talk to the two of you about,” Napoleon says, putting one hand in Mimi’s and the other on Illya’s shoulder.
“Well?” Illya prompts when Napoleon keeps them waiting. Knowing him, it’s probably for dramatic effect.
Napoleon grins. “Agent Kuryakin, if you are going to issue civilians with trackers outside of assignments and to programme your own target-monitoring displays, don’t leave one of them buzzing in the room where I have to check on my sleeping daughter.”
Illya blushes a little. “Oh yes, that one.”
“Do you want it back, Napoleon?” Mimi asks, and takes a small, round device out of her purse.
“Depends, Mimi. Do you mind Illya being able to check where you are whenever he feels like it?”
Mimi smiles at Illya. “He’s exactly the person I’d like to watch over me.”
Illya looks at the ground. “I promise to do it only in extreme circumstances.”
Mimi comes to hug him too. “I must admit I’m very relieved that you’ll soon stop with your fieldwork too, Illya. We all need you at home.”
“I’ve started to think I need myself at home too, Mimi,” Illya admits. Napoleon stands with his hands in his pockets and nods with his most serious face.
Mimi smiles. “Let’s have dinner soon, all five of us.”
“Let’s.”
“Are you ready?” Simon asks, walking towards them with Muriel.
“All clear,” Mimi says and looks at her daughter. “Now say hi to your dad and to Illya.”
“Uncle Illya,” Muriel says quietly and comes to hug Illya’s midriff. “I’m going now.”
Illya pets her black hair, curlier than Napoleon’s but just as soft. “So you are. But soon we will meet again. And you know we’ll call you many times in a week.”
“Take good care of dad,” Muriel says.
“Oh sweetie.” Napoleon drops to his knees and receives his own hug from Muriel. “No one does that better than Uncle Illya. See you soon again and be a good girl for your mother.”
Now it’s time for Mimi, Muriel and Simon to go. Napoleon directs a Section Six car to take them home and to leave two men to watch the door to their building until Monday.
“You’re not upset with me?” Illya asks him when they are alone and Napoleon has stopped looking longingly at Muriel’s retreating back.
“You need to be a bit more specific about it, my friend.”
“The tracker.”
Napoleon gestures Illya to start walking back home with him. “Well, I wish you’d warn me if you’re going to practically steal equipment from other Sections without authorisation. But this has given me an idea about your next role.”
“Section Eight is out of the question, Napoleon, you heard me.”
“Not that,” Napoleon counters. “The new Head of Section Six has confided in me that he has far too much on his plate.”
“That is evident for anyone with half a brain. Does he have a name?”
“It’s Frederick Salmi.”
“Never heard of the man.”
“You’ll be best buds soon enough, comrade.”
“Sorry?”
“He wants me to suggest someone for a new role as Director of Innocent and Family Protection. Someone with an enforcement background who knows THRUSH tricks through and through. And with an analytical mind. He feels the current candidates in Section Six ‘don’t catastrophise enough and can barely tie their shoelaces’ as he put it.”
Illya grins. “And you’ll suggest me because I am a paranoid man who can tie his laces.”
They’ve left the park and are on the street now. Napoleon touches Illya’s sleeve. “I’ll suggest you because I trust in your ability to elevate standards to protect the people who get mixed up in our lives. And if that happens to include Muriel and Mimi, well that’s just handy.”
“Napoleon.” Illya looks at the blue sky above Manhattan and sighs. “Of course I’ll do it. I wouldn’t feel at peace if I didn’t.”
“Excellent. Your onboarding starts Monday.”
Illya stops in the street and stares at Napoleon. “You’ll take me out of Enforcement on Monday already?”
“I couldn’t do that, I suppose you have plenty of loose ends to tie up. But Illya, how would you feel about your latest affair also being your final one in Section Two?”
Illya thinks of the days in the THRUSH compound, the damp, the boredom, the nausea, and how much he missed Napoleon and Muriel, and Mimi. “I would manage. You turning forty took the glamour out of that side of my life pretty well.”
“Naturally,” Napoleon smiles his most self-satisfied smile. “If anything, I know how to leave a noticeable space.”
Napoleon behaves himself at the front door and on the stairs, but predictably, he gives Illya a big, thorough kiss as soon as they get inside the apartment.
“I am so happy when she is around,” he sighs. “But I’m also happy when you let me do that.”
Giving in to Napoleon’s sense of sentimentality, Illya says, “Maybe there will be a day when we don’t have to choose.”
“I’d like that. Then again, which kid wants to see their parents making out?”
“If you start making out with Mimi again, both Simon and I will be very upset.”
“You always do that,” Napoleon says and wraps his arms around Illya, looking him in the eyes.
“Do what?”
“Deflect when I suggest she might see you as a parental figure.”
“I don’t mind being the favourite Uncle who lives with her father.”
“Well, could you at least stop emphasising how she is my daughter, as in, definitely not yours. Between her arriving yesterday and seeing you in the arrivals lobby, Illya, all she could talk about was you coming home. When you try to minimise your importance in her life, it actually feels rather hurtful.”
Illya looks at Napoleon, then the living room table where Muriel has left her drawing block and pencils. His throat feels like it might close up. “I love her so much it scares me sometimes, Napoleon,” Illya admits, and it is the first time he has felt safe to voice it. “But surely you can see it is a little complicated for the time being?”
“Oh Illya, my Illya,” Napoleon sighs and pulls Illya close, breathing in his hair. “How lucky that it is the only thing in our lives that is complicated.”
Illya snorts, then retreats enough to give Napoleon a kiss of his own. “Do you want to know something that doesn’t need to be complicated?”
“Hmm.” Napoleon slips a hand under Illya’s jumper. “I’ll try not to convolute it with too many words. Me. You. Bed. Now.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
--
2.07 pm
“Doesn’t that feel a lot better?” Napoleon asks, kissing Illya’s calf and pulling out before falling back on Illya in a lovely, sweaty mess.
“What have I told you about demanding coherent discussion too soon after a climax, Napoleon?”
“It was a rhetorical question.” Napoleon rolls off Illya and spoons him from behind. “I’m sure you’ll start to pester me for a wash in under a minute, but until then I’m going to make the most of holding you.”
Illya yawns. “You’ll get to hold me plenty after I’m clean and fed. I have another date with this bed in the form of at least a two-hour nap. Or four. Or five.”
“It’s so good to have you home,” Napoleon says and kisses Illya’s neck.
“Yes,” Illya agrees. “For good.”