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It had been one of those days. One of those weeks, really, Solo thought to himself. He kicked off his leather shoes, placed his suit jacket neatly over the back of his chair, and all but face-planted into his pillow at his apartment in London. It took a lot to exhaust Napoleon Solo, but when he was constantly on call, constantly looking over his shoulder both for a tear in his cover or a pull from the American government, there were only so many times he could plaster on a winning smile and act as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Really, he had two.
Solo would never have guessed he’d become so fond of his UNCLE partners, a mixed-up trio if ever there were one. Illya with his ridiculous Soviet-poster-boy attitude that was slowly dimming, Gaby with her vodka and brightly-rimmed sunglasses. The two had been playing off each other, working hard to suppress their growing feelings, but Napoleon could see through their masks in an instant. It was fun to tease them. It distracted him from the day-to-day troubles of having, as Peril so eloquently put it, his “balls at the end of a very long leash held by a very short man.” Though, thankfully, UNCLE’s successes meant that he answered more to Waverly than to Sanders. Neither his nor Illya’s contracts had been bought out by the British Naval Intelligence officer, but it didn’t escape his notice that during Gaby’s weekly tea meetings with their boss, he could pick up snippets of their conversation where Gaby insisted he do just that.
It surprised him—Gaby’s insistence on both men being brought on full-time and not just on loan. He knew she and Waverly were fighting hard to bring Illya into the relative safety of the West, but why Gaby wanted him as well…it was rather baffling. After Rome, Gaby had pulled him aside and apologized for breaking his cover and letting him fall into the hands of her sadistic uncle. Illya stood nearby, arms crossed, fingers tapping, an eyebrow raised as if daring him to refuse her sincerity. It both amused and annoyed him. Gaby was either oblivious to his presence or pretended not to notice.
Either way, it was an unnecessary precaution as Solo breached all the rules of his personal protocol and placed a hand on her shoulder, insisting that it was water under the bridge. He didn’t even make a remark about how he expected worse from the East German spitfire or that it wasn’t the first time he had been left for dead by a beautiful woman. Both would have been typical for him but seemed inappropriate at the time, and it surprised him that he was willing to drop the suave façade for her.
After that, he and Gaby had developed a repartee that actually had him smiling. They had been partnered up on many missions as brother and sister given the similarity of their dark hair and flashing eyes, but it surprised him even more that, at times, he very much felt like an older brother, whether they were on a mission or not. He’d tease her about Illya or her cars or her taste in fashion, and she’d give it right back to him, always ready with a witty remark or German comeback that had him grinning like a fool. There was a tenderness there too, though he wasn’t quite sure how to process it, having lived without genuine care or concern for so long. The first time Gaby appeared at his elbow, carrying a small cup of coffee to his desk after a particularly rough mission, he almost hugged her. When she and Illya had broken into a THRUSH warehouse, shooting their adversaries in the head and rescuing him from certain watery demise, he actually did.
It surprised him, too, just how much his relationship with Illya had changed. The nickname ‘Cowboy’, though originally used as a stinging reference to his heritage as the son of an Irish immigrant, had developed into a phrase casually thrown about either in genuine annoyance or exasperated concern. Though their political ideologies differed, and he could never resist a joke at the Russian’s expense, he always allowed Illya to get away with one bug in his hotel room or on his person. After all, it was only one bug that had saved his life in Rome. He’d even politely turned his receiver off when the sounds coming from his own bugs placed in Illya’s hotel room had proved that he and their favorite Easter German mechanic had a more passionate relationship than he had thought. He’d even remembered to send flowers up with room service the next morning.
Call him sentimental, but five more years didn’t seem like too long when he was with UNCLE. Maybe it was because of his partners. Maybe it was because Waverly trusted him more than he probably deserved. Maybe it was some combination of that and feeling, in some small way, that he was part of a family again. An odd family to be sure—an exasperated British father with his three unruly and highly trained children—but one that Solo was afraid to give up, was afraid might be snatched from him, and that any indication that this affected him would put all their lives at risk.
It was just when his thoughts started to turn darker that a soft knock could be heard from the front door of his apartment. Solo wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse but stood and padded across to the sitting room, peeking through the peephole before unlocking the door and allowing Gaby and Illya entrance to his not-so-humble abode. They were both dressed to the nines: Gaby in an elegant forest green cocktail dress and Illya in a rather dapper black tuxedo.
“You know,” he said, stepping aside to close the door and relocking it before turning to face his partners again. “Most people call before showing up, especially when aforementioned people are rather conspicuous. What will the neighbors think?”
Illya raised an eyebrow. “You care what neighbors think of you?”
“No,” Solo admitted, glancing at Gaby, who was pulling a small envelope out of her matching clutch purse. “But it’s a normal practice for spies to keep a low profile. Well, the successful ones that is.” He turned, smirking at his Russian friend. “I can’t say for sure how the KGB operates.” Illya opened his mouth to let out a biting retort when Gaby cleared her throat, stepping between the two and waving the envelope with a twinkle in her eye.
“I have a surprise for you, Solo.” She passed the envelope to him, obviously expecting a response.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
With a shrug, Solo did as instructed and pulled out three invitations to an exclusive unveiling of a recovered Van Gogh, Painter on the Road to Tarascon, at the National Gallery in London later that evening. Solo grinned.
“How did you know I’d want to see this?”
Illya snorted. “Famous artwork stolen by Nazis, reportedly burned and thought to have been lost to the ages is found and revealed to large group of unsuspecting aristocrats?”
Gaby smiled back. “He’s right. Your name is all over this.”
“And it doesn’t bother you at all that Waverly will most likely be there?”
“Who do you think gave me the tickets?”
“He’s okay with three of his spies being present?”
Gaby shrugged. “Throw on a mustache, no one else will know it’s you.”
Solo looked over to Illya, still grinning.
“And our Russian friend here? The Red Peril is bound to draw some attention.”
Illya rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “This is international unveiling, many people from all over the world will be in attendance. I will not stand out in this.”
“Stop looking for loopholes,” Gaby chastised, plucking the tickets out of his hand and nodding her head in the direction of his bedroom. “Go put on something suitable. I am expecting to have a wonderful evening on the town with my boys.”
“I’d hate to disappoint.”
Solo smiled a truly genuine smile and obediently walked into his room, closing the door softly behind him to get changed.
“Your boys?” Illya asked in a hushed whisper. Solo could practically feel Gaby rolling her eyes.
“Yes. My boys.”
Illya humphed out a breath of air that was somewhere between exasperated and amused. A few minutes later, Solo reemerged dressed in a dark tuxedo, his hair combed back, and a rather convincing mustache attached to his upper lip.
“Shall we?” Solo offered his arm to Gaby who already had one hand looped around Illya’s elbow. He had to admit they made a very beautiful couple.
“We shall,” Gaby agreed, allowing her other arm to be placed in the crook of his own. The three left the apartment, Solo locking the door behind them, and walked arm and arm down the street looking quite the spectacle, but Solo didn’t mind. He was oblivious to anything other than Illya’s comments on their ridiculous appearance and Gaby’s peals of laughter.
He may be a spy. He may have ties to two different agencies and feel pulled in both directions, neither one offering any slack in their lines. He may feel crushed beneath the weight of the world on his shoulders. But tonight, Napoleon Solo was simply a man with his friends.
And for one night, this was exactly what he needed.