Chapter Text
Now that Alexander Waverly is happily retired, he no longer knows a Mr. Solo. But he does know a certain Napoleon.
Heads of major UNCLE offices do not, as a rule, relinquish their positions through retirement. They leave them either feet first after THRUSH, stress or old age finishes them off, or via the interrogation cells after they have been unmasked as double agents.
So Alexander had already flummoxed everyone in early 1972 by announcing his intention to retire by the end of the year. Then, he flabbergasted a reasonable number of observers further by picking soon-to-be former CEA Napoleon Solo as his eventual successor.
Sure, the man was dedicated to UNCLE through and through, socially suave, a creative thinker, a hard worker despite the relaxed manner with which he sailed through most of life, they said. But he also possessed an impulsive streak and could be disturbingly fearless, as in, a risk-taker. And though perfectly adequate when standing in for Alexander during some brief absences, had limited executive experience.
Not to mention, at that point he was less than five years into his recovery from semi-compulsive skirt-chasing. How long would it be until he fell off the wagon and succumbed to a honeytrap? Very few men under fifty had previously reached a Head of Office position in the organisation either, so in that company, Napoleon Solo was little more than a boy. According to less generous commentators, UNCLE’s New York headquarters was about to gain its very own JFK, and look how that ended.
People concoct all kinds of stories in their heads to make sense of the world, both about themselves and others. Alexander has preferred to follow his intuition, and he has been right about Napoleon.
Napoleon is less particular about titles and hierarchy than Alexander himself was. This, together with his general approachability, is much to Napoleon’s credit. People aren’t afraid to talk to him, even to challenge him when necessary, and he is able to change his mind when he is presented with evidence that reveals a need for it. Because Napoleon was not afforded the opportunity to languish in the executive wing for years before rising to Number One, operatives on the ground also trust him to bat for them, making them more committed to UNCLE and less likely to be turned.
Furthermore, although he does not shy away from responsibility, there is more humility in Napoleon than one might suppose upon first acquaintance. It has greatly pleased Alexander to hear Napoleon has been able to surround himself with professionals whose varied expertise lets him play to his strengths and offsets his weaknesses. Apparently, the number of field agents killed and maimed in action is already declining globally, and no THRUSH operative has succeeded in sneaking into an UNCLE office for months.
Napoleon also has a source of support no former Head of Office has ever had: a spouse who is himself of UNCLE, exceptional in his own work, and armed with high morals (and a versatile firearm, and high-level martials arts, and expertise with explosives of the highest order). In Mr. Kuryakin, Napoleon has someone beside him who understands the realities far better than, say, dear Mrs. Waverly ever could.
Alexander is not wont to voice such notions aloud, but in his heart, and with the licence to sentimentality retirement grants, he feels Mr. Kuryakin is just the industrial magnet to keep Napoleon from floating away, in moments when contact with the earth is paramount. Just as Napoleon can be the airplane that occasionally takes Mr. Kuryakin into the clouds, in bursts short enough for your average Kuryakin to tolerate.
His extended metaphor is a mere oversimplification, of course. There was never any need for him to know what the partners are like when he is not watching. Not if the work got done, and it did.
But what he does know is this. In the great tradition of Number Ones, Napoleon happily claims Mr. Kuryakin is very much his better half, intellect and organising skills being only two examples of areas wherein he is the superior partner. Without him, Napoleon would merely be sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal, the current Number One says. The former Number One is not completely certain about that, but in Alexander’s view, it is the only acceptable way for any Number One to think about his life companion. Because behind every successful man is a hard-working wife, or in this case, an alarmingly capable husband-of-the-heart.
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“I don’t mean organising as in the apartment being in order, the man is horrendous at putting anything in its place after he has used it,” Napoleon says to Alexander on a Sunday afternoon in November 1973. “But he is the one who manages the calendar of our two households, writes out the timetable for every week and lo and behold, everyone ends up being where they should be at the right time. It’s a tremendous help.”
They are in the conservatory of the country house, Napoleon holding a notepad and pen, Alexander holding his pipe. The Waverlys now spend most of their days upstate, if none of their children or grandchildren require their presence in the Big Apple.
“I can see how Mr. Kuryakin’s character would lend itself to that sort of meticulousness,” Alexander says, and draws gently on his pipe. He isn’t allowed to smoke it in their newish house, which the conservatory still technically is part of, but Napoleon has promised not to tell Mrs. Waverly.
“Illya first wrote it only for himself, in case changes in Muriel’s or Mimi’s schedule requires tweaking of security measures. Then he realised he could just share it with the entire class.”
Alexander nods approvingly. He turns to look into the garden, where Miss Doolittle and little Muriel Solo are both brandishing cricket bats, and Mr. Kuryakin is jogging between the two of them, attempting to catch the ball when one of them bats it onto the lawn. Napoleon has been saved from participating by Alexander, who had still found some UNCLE documents in his possession the two have been looking at together.
“Not that anyone would know about his eye for detail from the way Mr. Kuryakin is running around there, rather resembling a headless chicken,” Alexander remarks.
“It is surprisingly easy to talk him into something like that these days,” Napoleon says and points his thumb at Mr. Kuryakin, who ends up sliding on the wet autumn grass and rises to his feet holding the ball, unruffled except for a little stain on his jumper, and for his hair which he smooths down with a hand. “It’s the decreased physical activity at work, he claims. It all helps when you want to keep in shape.”
“I see,” Alexander says. And he does, because he was also a father who couldn’t admit he enjoyed playing games with his children and was constrained to dress it up as something else.
Miss Doolittle misses the ball, and Muriel and Mr. Kuryakin race after it. Mr. Kuryakin, one of the speediest men Alexander has ever known, slows down just enough to let Muriel get there first.
“It’s not just that he knows UNCLE, and legends of him still put the fear of God in many a THRUSH operative,” Napoleon says, watching his partner with pride. “He is magnificent value as just himself, but the bond between him and Muriel these days, it’s such a joy to witness. Whenever I see them and Mimi horsing around like that, I truly feel like I live a charmed life.”
Miss Doolittle says something to Mr. Kuryakin and gestures at Muriel. Mr. Kuryakin goes to the girl and starts to carefully undo her braid, already half opened from all the physical excitement. He reties her hair into a loose bun and sends her off to run around once more with a pat on the shoulder.
Alexander and Napoleon are both men of the world. It doesn’t need to be said aloud that not all men sharing their life with another man would stay, if their partner’s past came knocking in the form of a raven-haired chatterbox. And from what Alexander had been privy to during 1972, he could tell it had driven relations between Napoleon and Mr. Kuryakin into turmoil like no other challenge prior to that.
How the partners walked through that fire remains between the two of them. But being able to deduce what this must have taken, it is even more of a marvel that both men, the child, and the child’s mother have all been able to accept his invitation for tea and cake today. And that Napoleon sounds more content than ever.
“Fatherhood suits you both rather well, Napoleon. It is especially fascinating to witness in Mr. Kuryakin, considering the more severe traits of his character.”
Napoleon looks at Alexander and smiles. “He doesn’t call himself a father, or even a stepfather, but I’ll be sure to tell him that. I believe he will appreciate the sentiment.”
“I rather hope he does.” Waverly puffs on his pipe. Mr. Kuryakin takes one of the bats, so Muriel can do the running for a while. “Could you also pass on my belated congratulations on your engagement, Napoleon? I realise you must have been wearing that ring for most of the year, but we have only seen one another a handful of times. I did not wish to say something until I was positive I was not mistaken.”
Napoleon blushes slightly and gazes at his right ring finger. “Thank you, Alexander. It is the old ring of Illya’s father, in fact. The one he used to wear himself.”
“I presumed as much. Have many people remarked on it?”
“Only Mimi, and now you.”
“That is excellent. It is most sensible of you that he doesn’t wear one. It would appear slightly too symmetrical, even on that hand.”
Alexander can’t quite imagine Mr. Kuryakin taking to one knee, holding up the ring for Napoleon. But he can imagine Napoleon covering his mouth with a hand and failing to hold back a joyful, manly tear or two, so it might even have occurred like that.
After they have watched the three people in the garden run around every which way, two of them waiving cricket bats about, and the ball having to be collected out of the hedge twice more, Alexander shakes his head and states with only mild displeasure, “Out of those three, not a single one of them has the foggiest idea how to play actual cricket.”
Napoleon laughs. “You’d think Illya would know, with the multitudes he contains. But maybe he had other things to pay attention to in Cambridge and London.”
“Very true.” Alexander huffs three smoke rings into the air. “If you don’t mind me asking, how is it that Mr. Kuryakin has succeeded in being so exceptional in so many different areas? Several scientific fields, various sports and musical instruments, twelve languages. If he wasn’t a somewhat modest man, it would be positively infuriating. Is it merely extraordinary giftedness, or a manifestation of some kind of complex?”
Napoleon leans against his hand. “What I can say without his consent is that he learned to keep his head busy early in life and for that, favoured the methods his environment rewarded.”
“I expected as much,” Alexander says and nods in a satisfied manner. He loves being right.
Alexander has a final issue to raise; one he suspects he cannot ask over tea. His defence is that professional curiosity does not leave one just because one retires from being Number One.
“And has Miss Doolittle remained in good health, if you do not mind my prying, Napoleon?”
Miss Doolittle hits the ball so fruitfully it flies over the entire length of the back garden. She drops the bat and celebrates the feat with several cartwheels and by walking on her hands for a yard or two, before ending with a forward roll, landing on her feet and shaking the wetness of the grass off her hands, her shoulder-length red hair like a beacon among the leafless trees. Very much a young woman still at thirty-three, wonderfully vibrant.
“She has been stable for years and is able to work three part-time jobs.” Napoleon watches young Muriel dance a little around her mother. Mr. Kuryakin runs after the ball again. “She needs a little more rest than most people her age and is teaching Muriel to take care of some chores that require particular dexterity of the fingers, but all is good for now.” He knocks on the oak table with his fist. “We naturally all hope it remains so for a very, very long time.”
“Naturally.”
“You can ask her yourself how she is getting on, Alexander. She is upfront about the subject, and it isn’t kept a secret from Muriel. There are enough of those in this family as it is.”
“Quite.” Alexander looks at his watch. “If I know Mrs. Waverly at all, it should be teatime in precisely two and a half minutes. I shall check on her, and you might fetch the cricket team in from the cold, Napoleon.”
They stand up and walk in opposite directions, Napoleon leaving the French windows open, so the pipe tobacco smoke won’t linger.