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Napoleon would like to say yes, but he's had too much to drink. Not much, only half a glass more than he ought to have had, but enough.
He hadn't intended to, when he asked out the charming Miss Cook. He didn't intend anything; Napoleon never does, not off-duty. Hopes, of course, and he always plays the game to the best of his considerable ability; but to try to direct an affair of the heart rather than the job is to take much of the joy out of it. But dinner and drinks are the least she is owed—oh, her face, when Illya stripped the film out of her camera—and Napoleon is happy to oblige.
Terry has been to New York before, but not enough times that she's jaded. His city is a different animal from London's, younger and moodier, the sunlight brighter in the day and the neon lights brighter at night, and Terry tries to affect disinterest, seen-it-all-before sophistication, but she keeps sneaking peeks out the taxi cab's window. And when they reach the restaurant her eyes go delightfully round.
"'But I can't—," she protests, brushing at her miniskirt like she can dust off the wild striped print. "I thought we'd be out dancing, or whatever, I'm not dressed for—"
"Satin or this, you'll turn heads either way," Napoleon tells her, with a hint of challenge that brings a vivid spot of color to her cheeks. "And the food here is fantastic. Worth the stuffy atmosphere, I assure you." A night out clubbing would bore her; she'll better enjoy something new. New sights, new tastes, so she has better souvenirs of this trip to New York than the memory of the chill thick walls of the U.N.C.L.E. debriefing room.
Besides, Arnaud's is one of his favorite restaurants. And it's practically next door to her hotel, he points out, nodding toward the grandiose Art Deco heights of the Waldorf-Astoria, and her eyes get even larger. "I can't afford—"
"Relax," he assures her with a smile, "my uncle is covering it," which is true insofar as his paycheck comes from U.N.C.L.E. The standard daily stipend granted to U.N.C.L.E.'s guests would just about cover the appetizer and desserts at Arnaud's, and she merits better than a two-star fleatrap anyway. Besides, the Waldorf's mattresses are the most decadently plush in the city, and he's still sore. Because Napoleon doesn't intend, but he does anticipate.
Heads do turn when they walk in, though the maitre d' is scrupulously courteous, his eyes not once flickering down to the miniskirt as he ushers them to Napoleon's usual table. Terry's cheeks are flushed, but her mouth purses in a secretive little smile when Napoleon winks at her. She's out of place amidst the black silk and pearls, and enjoys it; she dresses to stand out, and here she's as vivid as a citrine gemstone in a pile of colorless diamonds.
When Terry makes a face at the wine list, Napoleon closes it and orders them a Cru Beaujolais—inexpensive and sweeter than he likes, and their waiter struggles to master his critical sneer. But Terry sips with trepidation and then grins, pronounces, "Now that's actually tasty!" and he counts it a success.
When he reaches for his own glass, he feels the letter in his breast pocket, one folded corner digging into his chest. He shifts his arm lower, so it stops poking him, but though the flat envelope is invisible under the lines of his suit jacket, he still can feel it.
Unsure at first, curiously picking up the different pieces of silverware and putting them down again, Terry has relaxed by the time they're through the soup, chattering in cheerful Cockney about her journeys in pursuit of a good shoot, a cross-continental travelogue. Greece, Japan, sub-Saharan Africa; Napoleon's been to most of the list himself, and as he listens he imagines her in each place, can picture her vibrant determination cutting through city crowds and wilderness the world over. Some of those places, he might remember more fondly if she'd been there with him. A good arm at swinging an axe would have come in handy more than once.
She doesn't talk about South America, doesn't mention San Rico. Throughout dinner she only makes a few lapses, and Napoleon is quick to pick up the ball when she does. When she says, "Still, the baths were better than our hotel in—" he only has to cough, and she changes it to, "—in Rio," without scarcely missing a beat. Then she glances nervously about, looks up at him through her mascara-heavy lashes and whispers, "Sorry."
Napoleon shakes his head, assures her, "You're doing fine. Practice makes perfect," with a significant tap on the side of his nose.
"So is that what this is?" she asks. "Practice?"
"I certainly hope it's more than that," Napoleon says, overreaching when he returns his wineglass to the table, so his knuckle just grazes the back of her hand, and she blinks and smiles back at him.
But after dinner, during the short walk across the street to the Waldorf, she leans in to murmur, "I'm not used to keeping secrets. Journalism's about finding things out, not covering them up."
"And it's admirable for that," Napoleon tells her. "I admire you for it."
He's being honest, but she pulls back, suspicion writ large on her wonderfully unsubtle face. "You didn't seem very admiring when that—when your partner ripped open my camera."
"I'm afraid my admiration counts for little with our boss," Napoleon says easily, though he didn't miss the falter, anymore than he had missed the way she flinched at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, whenever Illya looked at her directly. Not a cringe, not from her; but an inevitable reaction.
He wonders what she had been going to say, in lieu of his partner. 'That man,' perhaps. 'That bastard'? Or worse?
She has reason to be angry, of course, even if they had recompensed her for the film. "Can I buy you a drink in the hotel bar to make it up to you?" he asks.
She glowers at him. "No," she says, and then flashes a mercurial grin, "but you can buy me a drink anyway."
Napoleon is pleased to learn that while she has no palate for wine, Terry has excellent taste in scotch. They share a fine Islay single malt and listen to the jazz band, Terry's fingers twitching as she resists the urge to snap along with the beat.
The bar is dark mahogany and the lighting is soft, the perfect ambience for the whisky, rich and smoky and smooth. His back still twinges, from their flight back this morning as much as what occurred before, but he's got as much practice ignoring pain as he does forgetting it. When he shifts in his chair, their legs bump, and Terry crosses her legs the other way, so her knee presses to his thigh, as warm and sure as her smiling eyes, under her darkened lashes.
It's comfortable, clear and certain, so that he's almost taken aback when he moves to lay his arm casually over the back of her chair, and feels the rustle of paper in his pocket, muffled quiet under his jacket, so only he can hear it.
He wrote the letter last month, because it's best to respond promptly to Mr. Waverly's requests, even (especially) the indirect ones. Then he'd filed it away and paid it no more mind. It's harder to forget now, sitting in his pocket, resting over his heart.
Mr. Kuryakin is the finest Enforcement agent I have ever worked with.
When Napoleon picks up his glass, the tumbler's crystal facets catch the light, a glitter like the harsh gleam off wire-frame lenses. He gulps instead of sipping, the scotch going down as smooth as water; he's drained the glass before he recalls that this was his final drink of the night, that he was going to nurse until Terry was ready, and leave half undrunk.
Terry's eyebrows arch higher, but there's no suspicion now, just satisfaction, as she clinks her glass to his and finishes the last of her own drink. "It is getting late," she acknowledges, and Napoleon rises with her. She waits while he pays, and then they're standing in a corner of the lobby by the elevators, out of sight in their own private nook.
"Nightcap?" she offers. "A hotel like this, they must got lots of little bottles in the rooms."
She's slipped her hand in Napoleon's, is close enough he can smell her lilac-scented shampoo. He guesses she might wear flavored lipstick, like a teenager—sweeter than their dinner wine, probably strawberry or raspberry, and he wants to know which. But when he leans down he turns his head, to press his lips to her cheek instead.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I have an early morning."
She blinks, eyes wide, and then they narrow crossly as comprehension overtakes confusion. "What?" she says. "What was this, if you didn't want—"
"Oh, I do," Napoleon promises her quickly. "Definitely, and I would, but..." Just to be sure, he takes the tally again, the wine over dinner and the scotch, the lightheaded heat of it under his skin, and regretfully he shakes his head. "I am sorry."
Terry glares, fierce and sparkling and almost overwhelmingly desirable; his fingers itch for the softness of her skin under the cheap polyesters, for the pliable strength of her trim, athletic body. She'd be an enthusiastic partner, sure of what she wants, and he would love offering it to her. It wouldn't be a restful night, and it's true that he's expected at headquarters at eight sharp tomorrow morning; Waverly wants a final accounting before they let her fly back to London at noon.
Though that isn't why, of course; he never lets the necessities of his work schedule interfere with his private pleasure more than he has to, and a night with her would be well worth a day of coffee and catnaps.
But it's going on forty-eight hours since he slept, discounting those few moments of simulated death, and now he's had enough to drink that he can't be sure he wouldn't drop off in the afterglow, fall asleep in the warmth of her bed. And that he cannot risk.
He didn't doze on the plane this morning, the seat fortunately too uncomfortable for that, but he can't count on the same mercy tonight. He doesn't know what will be waiting for him when he closes his eyes, but he isn't looking forward to it.
And Terry deserves a good night's rest, and few things are as disruptive to a woman's beauty sleep as her bed partner screaming bloody murder in the wee hours. Or worse, because he's woken on those rare occasions with his hands clenched tight around a pillow, twisting so violently and desperately that his fingers have torn the fabric.
Never when he's shared a bed, true; it's always worst when he's alone. But then, he's never picked up a tumbler of scotch and seen his partner's eyes in the glitter of the glass, so cold and hard they should be unrecognizable, except he'd know them anywhere. So tonight, he thinks, at least tonight, he should not risk it. Whatever demons are waiting, best their rage be expended on his own upholstery, and nothing less replaceable.
But still, it's hard, to take her arms and gently separate them; touching her is electric, magnetic, and he's an iron filing, joyously drawn in, when she pulls his head down to kiss him.
Raspberry, it turns out. She shoves him away when he doesn't kiss back, not to hurt, just frustrated. "Prat," she says, angrily, but there's no water in her eyes, and her pouting mouth is set in annoyance, not the ache of rejection. "Leading me on, pretending you're going to give me something—you, you spies, all of you—you're all unbelievably massive prats."
"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," Napoleon says, ruefully.
Terry straightens her collar, smoothes a wrinkle in her skirt with a short, irritated tug. "And I thought it was the other guy who was the torture master," she says.
Napoleon doesn't answer, doesn't think his expression changes, but when Terry looks up hers does, whole mobile face as dismayed as when her film was exposed. "Napoleon, I'm sorry," she blurts, "that was bloody awful of me to say—"
"No, not at all," Napoleon reassures her, and dares add, "and I'll consider it forgotten if you'll do me the honor of having breakfast with me tomorrow, before your flight?"
Terry stares at him, then heaves a sigh. "Fine. Bring aspirin."
"If you're planning to drink to our—"
"No," she says, "for yourself. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to bother breaking my new camera over your head. It'd be pricey, but so worth it."
"Fair enough," Napoleon agrees, and bids her a fond and sadly chaste goodnight.
Outside, the nip of late November frost cools his face. The candy taste of her lipstick lingers, but not the heat of her body; warmth, like pain, exists only in sensation, not really in memory. Napoleon has always preferred it like that. It makes the pleasure of touch precious, to be savored when he's lucky enough to get it. And pain...he's grateful for the transience, when his luck goes the other way.
Illya's eyes on him, hidden behind the shine off his glasses, absorbing every detail as if straining to preserve them, to remember each ragged gasp and shudder, and savoring every one—
But it hadn't been Illya; that pleasure had been Colonel Nexor's, and it had been an illusion, a disguise as much as the uniform and the ugly scar on his cheek. If it had appeared as anything more, then it was only a credit to Illya's theatrical skills. The fist clenched at his side, almost trembling with repressed need; the focus of his eyes, and the catch of his breath—method acting, Oscar-worthy.
Or it should have been; close enough for jazz. Terry had sounded disbelieving enough, "He says he's your friend Illya," as if Napoleon would doubt it. As if he'd question it for a moment. But Terry doesn't know Illya.
And Napoleon does, of course, well enough to write the letter now folded in his breast pocket, under his jacket and coat.
Mr. Kuryakin is the finest Enforcement agent I have ever worked with. His education is faultless, his skills are extraordinary, and his loyalty to U.N.C.L.E. and its principles is unquestionable.
It was the beginning of November, less than a week after Halloween, when Mr. Waverly had summoned Napoleon to his office, asked him a couple perfunctory questions about their latest mission report, and then, as was his way, changed topics without so much as a raised eyebrow as warning. "As you know, Mr. Solo, after the recent Summit Five affair, U.N.C.L.E. Northeast has found itself somewhat shorthanded. With the promotion of the new Section One head, they're in need of a new Chief Enforcement Agent to head Section Two of the European region."
Napoleon nodded, following his meaning. "I've met most of the Section Two men in U.N.C.L.E. Northeast, sir, I'd be happy to advise."
Only he wasn't really following after all, because Mr. Waverly continued, "I'd hoped you'd say that, Mr. Solo. As it turns out, the leading candidate selected by Section One is Mr. Kuryakin."
I have had the honor of knowing Illya Kuryakin for almost seven years, and have been his partner for four.
"Over four years," Waverly had said, as congenially calm as ever, no hint of judgment, so Napoleon might only have been imagining the note of chastisement in his tone.
Active field agents retire at forty; that is the official rule. The rule of retiring partnerships is unofficial, but hardly less abided by, that no agents stay partnered for over two years continuously. This is simple practicality; it is too dangerous otherwise. In undercover work, two men are more easily recognized than one. More importantly, there's the issue of discretion. Agents who don't know one another too well cannot betray one another, no matter what pressure THRUSH or other forces might bring to bear; no one can disclose secrets they do not know.
But Napoleon had established something of an infamous reputation for himself before he had been partnered with anyone, and if Illya did not know how to disguise his striking self convincingly, he could never have managed undercover assignments to begin with. And secrets—the safest way of all to keep a secret is never to have one. THRUSH's dossier on him, Napoleon knows, is as complete as it could be; they know his favorite wine, his ideal woman. There is no more that Illya or anyone else could add to it.
So two years came and went, and Waverly kept assigning them to missions together. They never asked, and by another year they stopped privately questioning it. Four years now, and Napoleon couldn't remember when last it had occurred to him. No one remarked on it anymore. When he visited U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in other regions, the only question he got was where Illya was, if he happened to be traveling alone.
"Sir," Napoleon said cautiously, "if our work lately has been unsatisfactory—"
"Oh, not at all, Mr. Solo," Waverly dismissed his concern. "Not any more than usual. And this is, I wish you to understand, not set in stone. No final selection has been made, and won't be for a several weeks yet. And naturally Mr. Kuryakin has the final decision. Wouldn't want to promote a man who doesn't feel ready for it. Not that I've known Mr. Kuryakin to ever be unready for any eventuality."
"No, sir," Napoleon said, and thought there ought to be more, something he should be saying, about Illya's qualifications, or the wisdom of Section One's choice, but there were no words when he reached for them.
"Mr. Solo," Waverly said, and if Napoleon didn't know better he would think there was a certain kindness in his quiet tone. "I'd also wish you to understand that this isn't intended to be a punishment, either. For either of you."
"Of course not, sir," Napoleon said.
"But four years is a long time, in our line of work," Waverly said, and that, too, sounded kind.
It is a long time, Napoleon thinks now, remembering writing the letter, trying to condense onto a single page the experience of almost half a decade. Their mission reports stand testament to the details, but when he wrote the letter he found himself questioning them, wondering if credit had truly been given where it was due.
In those four years, Mr. Kuryakin has proved himself countless times. In personal terms, I owe my life to him on well over a dozen occasions. In a professional accounting, there are few missions in our record that I possibly could have completed without him.
He'd written what he could, typed it up himself and signed the damn thing, and stuck it in his personal file, for when it was requested. If it is requested.
If Section One has spoken to Illya about the matter, Illya has not said, and Napoleon has no reason to ask. It is, as Mr. Waverly said, Illya's decision.
This afternoon, however, he took out the letter, read it over again. Thinking about what he could add to it: the impeccability of Mr. Kuryakin's undercover work, the unfaltering devotion to duty.
The coldness in his voice, in his eyes, in his hands as he straps the cuffs around Napoleon's wrists. He does not hesitate, does not balk for a moment from what must be done.
Napoleon did not put everything he could in the letter, but what he left out doesn't need to be said. Or rather, could be said of any of them, could be said of all of them, the facts of what they are, understood and unspoken.
He wouldn't try to say that there is no cruelty in Illya, because any one of them would know it for a lie. Pacifists don't last long in U.N.C.L.E., at least not in Enforcement. He's never known his partner to act out of vengeance or ambition or greed, but he has seen the fleeting, terrible flash of triumph in Illya's eyes, when in the name of protection or self-defense he kills a man who deserved to die. He recognizes it because it's the look in his own eyes.
If Illya could become Nexor, if his sadism was convincing, if for a moment Napoleon could believe he was genuinely enjoying himself—then it is only because Illya had plumbed the depths of his soul, fearless and determined a Russian son of a bitch that he is. He dredged up that vulgar brutality and bravely put it on display, because it was what he needed to do. However he had managed it—if he had reminded himself of all the slights he owes Napoleon for, four years of silly, petty offenses; or else more primal and less personal impulses, reflecting back the pains and scars of a decade as an U.N.C.L.E. agent—whatever he had done, it was in the name of duty. That, Napoleon never doubted; it is no more or less than what he would do himself.
He now understands better what Waverly was saying. Four years is a long time to know another man as well as you know yourself.
Napoleon meant to flag a cab; not until he's waiting for a light to turn green does he gaze idly up at the silhouetted skyline and realize he's halfway to his apartment already. A taxi now would be a waste of money. Besides, THRUSH regularly bugs NYC cabs, and while sometimes Napoleon might welcome the distraction, he's tired tonight.
"You are not as young as you used to be, Mr. Solo."
It's Nexor's voice in his ears. Illya's voice. The temperature tonight hovers right around freezing; after the humid heavy air of San Rico, this chill hurts his lungs. Napoleon sinks his head down into his overcoat's collar and walks faster. By the time he reaches his apartment he's breathing a little harder, as if he has been running, or climbing in high mountains.
He shakes his head at himself. Dreadfully out of shape, if a brisk walk of barely a mile puts him out. Or else he can blame the twinging ache in his back, or the rich dinner, or Terry's stimulation. The entryway is warm as he greets the night doorman, the heated air dry but easy to breathe, and rather than take the elevator he climbs the eight flights of stairs. It's foolish to prove a point to no one but himself, but his pulse and breathing still are even when he reaches his floor, and this satisfies him.
He's definitely had too much to drink.
There are no signs of tampering on his door's lock (it's basic instinct to check) and the lights are off, as he left them. But he knows there's an intruder before he sees or hears a thing, by the prickling hairs on the back of his neck. He mentally curses the alcohol as he swings himself inside, out of the target-practice silhouette he's making in the doorway; thanks to the scotch he's a half-second slow reaching for his special under his coat, and that might make all the difference.
Less than a second later, however, he registers the shape of the slender figure, lithe and black against the striped shadows of the window curtains, and the light from the hall haloing a blond head. Napoleon lowers his gun, takes his finger off the trigger. "Illya."
"Napoleon." Illya stays standing a couple feet before the sofa, motionless and unthreatening. Though if Napoleon had pulled the trigger, he would have been somewhere else before the gun fired.
When he flips on the light, Illya blinks once as his eyes adjust, so Napoleon knows he has been waiting in the dark for some time. "You could've at least sat down, turned on the lights," he says.
"If you knew I was here," Illya replies, "I thought perhaps you might not want to be."
It's possible. With Terry he was considering an active night, but now, after the walk home, he just wants to fall into a bed and sleep. It would've been easier to rent a cheap room than play host now. "You're lucky I came home at all. I might've stayed out with Miss Cook."
"No, you wouldn't have. Not tonight."
Illya continues to stand quietly, watching, as he enters the living room. Napoleon nods toward the kitchen as he passes. "Do you want something to drink?" His freezer is always stocked with imported Stolichnaya, too fine for even Illya to turn up his sharp Russian nose at.
"I do not want anything to drink," Illya says, shaking his head.
It's too warm in the apartment. Napoleon tugs at his collar to loosen his tie and realizes he's still wearing his overcoat. He sighs at himself. "That's all right, I had enough for both of us."
"I rather doubt that," Illya says, with the mildness of his deepest sarcasm. Considering how much Illya can imbibe without showing a single sign of intoxication, Napoleon concedes his point.
He shrugs out of his coat, his fingers clumsy on the buttons, from the cold more than the drink. Before he can turn to the closet, there's movement at his side, sweep of pale hair and a glitter like light on glass, and he twists away, dropping the coat as he brings up his arm—
He halts the blow in time, but Illya's already stepped out of range anyway, retreated back to the middle of the living room as if trying to pretend he never moved. His arms are at his side, held stiffly, as if Napoleon had hit him after all, for trying to take his coat.
His eyes on Napoleon, however, are not accusing but measuring, his head cocked slightly in evaluation, and after a silent moment while Napoleon tries to figure out what to say, Illya approaches again. Slower this time, the carefully even motions of a lion-tamer in the cage with the beasts, as he crouches to pick up the fallen coat and hands it back to Napoleon.
Napoleon takes it, his hand steady, no need in him to hide a flinch. He's used to having Illya close; it's easier to read his deep-set eyes and the tiny telling quirks of his mouth when there's fewer shadows between them. It wasn't Illya he was recoiling from, only the memory of an illusion.
But it was his partner whom he almost hit, and the apprehension in Illya's eyes now, as he tries to calculate the correct space to leave between them, is painful.
"I'm sorry," Napoleon says, roughly.
"You are sorry?" Illya's eyebrows rise, and he makes a sound too brief and hollow to be a laugh. "A month ago, I would've died at Karmak's hands, had you not gone against orders. And now, what I've done, following orders—I have not repaid you well, my friend."
"There wasn't a mission at stake," Napoleon says. "With Karmak, I had nothing better to do than wander over to see what you were up to. If there'd been something important..." but he stops there, because he doesn't know, honestly, what he'd do; won't know unless he's asked. Until he's asked.
Illya's eyes, studying him, and the incline of his head, are a little too much like Colonel Nexor's, and Napoleon looks away. "So what brings you here? Anything urgent from headquarters?"
"I don't think so." Illya doesn't continue, but it's not his infamous reserve; he's hesitating, his silence not cool but fraught with indecision.
Napoleon frowns. U.N.C.L.E. gossip would pose his partner as the Soviet's belated answer to Silent Cal, but Illya won't bite his tongue when he has something to say; he's merely not inclined to bother coming up with prattle when he doesn't. But he doesn't hesitate; he speaks with the same assurance which he does in all things. Napoleon has the reputation for being too damn cocksure for his own good, but he can't hold a candle to Illya's absolute self-confidence.
But then, this isn't any conversation they've needed to have before, and Napoleon's no more clear on the course than his partner. "You don't have to apologize," he says.
"No," Illya replies; or else it's a question: "No?"
"All in a day's work," Napoleon says, which it was; it's not like they haven't been in similar spots before. Maybe they've never cut it quite this fine, but they both know it wasn't the first time, and won't be the last.
Or maybe it was. The letter's still in his pocket.
Napoleon crosses over to the sofa, tosses his coat over one arm and sits, stretching out his legs under the coffee table as he loosens the knot of his tie and pulls it free. He tries not to stretch his arms too far, and when he does he covers his grimace with a yawn. But Illya sees it anyway, and his face goes blank, like he's got his own aches to hide.
Off in the kitchen the refrigerator hums, and outside the window the ceaseless traffic growls. Napoleon realizes he's waiting for Illya to say something, a sly and cutting comment about his tolerance, or how he's showing his advancing years.
"You are not as young as you used to be, Mr. Solo."
It's too close. Illya's not going to say anything, not tonight.
Napoleon rubs his hands over his face. "It can be your turn on the table next time," he says.
It usually is, Illya retorts, but only in Napoleon's head; aloud, he says nothing. When Napoleon drops his hands, Illya is still watching him.
He's still listening; he knows what he's supposed to say, but he isn't saying it.
Napoleon very rarely gets truly angry; the headaches aren't worth it. Rarely enough that he's not sure that the slow burn building behind his eyes isn't only the pressure of a premature hangover. He's never been angry with Illya before, that he can remember.
This isn't the satisfying righteousness of towering rage; it's unpleasant: bitter like bile, sick-making. For an insane second he wishes Colonel Nexor were still alive, so the rancor could be aimed at him, where it is deserved.
Napoleon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, closes it in, folds up the anger and stows it away for when he might need it. For when it's his turn to be standing before the dials, turning them just far enough to be convincing and no further, and smiling at the results.
The effort's exhausting, leaves him hollowed out, empty. He opens his eyes to squint up at Illya, still just standing there. "Sit down, will you?" he asks. "I'm getting a crick in my neck."
Illya takes a seat on the other side of the sofa, gingerly, perched on the edge with his back curved and his elbows on his knees. "Napoleon," he says, "whether it was my work—our work—or not—"
"You don't have to," Napoleon tells him again.
"Don't I?"
Napoleon wearily drops his head back on the sofa cushions, gazing up at the coffered ceiling panels above the mantle. "Illya, a couple months ago you tried to shoot me in the head. I don't remember you showing up here to apologize for that."
"I was brainwashed at the time," Illya says, not defensively, quite matter-of-fact.
"I wasn't," Napoleon replies. "And not this time, either. So, it's all the same to me."
"Is it?" Illya asks, unless it's not a question after all.
"Why should it be any different?"
Napoleon doesn't have to turn his head to see him; he can feel Illya watching him. Like selecting the right wine for a date, like checking the lock of his door, he doesn't have to think about it; after four years, awareness of his partner is second nature, not what he does but who he is.
When Illya speaks, Napoleon already knows what he's going to say. "Mr. Waverly spoke to me today."
"The U.N.C.L.E. Northeast Section Two position," Napoleon says.
"Yes."
Napoleon flips aside his jacket, extricates the letter from his pocket. It's the worse for wear, folded in half and one corner crumpled, but he can have one of the office girls retype it. "You'll want this, then," he says, and holds it out.
Illya reaches across the sofa and takes the envelope. He doesn't open it, however, no rustle of paper, and Napoleon finally rolls his head around on the cushion, to see Illya studying the front of the envelope.
"Oh, come, can't you read my handwriting by now?" Napoleon asks.
"Just barely," Illya retorts, dry as bone. In profile his face is quite unreadable.
"The letter itself is typed," Napoleon reassures him. "So have they made a final decision yet?"
"Not yet," Illya says. "But nearly, according to Mr. Waverly."
"And what about you, have you made a decision?"
In profile, Illya's eyes are more gray than blue. This time yesterday, there was a deep scar splitting his cheek; now the skin's unblemished. But Illya was the same man then, disguise or no disguise; and Napoleon too is no different.
Except that yesterday, he thinks, he would have known what Illya would answer; and tonight he doesn't.
"It's a grand opportunity," Illya says. "Difficult, to be sure, especially after the recent calumny around Summit Five, but my talents are eminently up to the challenge, and the benefit to my own career and all of U.N.C.L.E. might well be incalculable."
Napoleon snorts. "So did you memorize Waverly's pitch cold, or were you taking notes?"
"His words did have a certain memorable quality."
"I'll say. He's never said I'm eminently anything. Much less incalculable."
"On the contrary, he's used both before. In reference to your relations with the female staff of U.N.C.L.E. East, that I last recall."
"I believe the actual term was 'insatiable.'"
"That as well," Illya allows, then turns toward him. "Napoleon, what do you think?"
"It's in there," Napoleon says, waving his hand at the letter. He could recite it from memory himself, but the words are more solid on the page. More sincere. However honestly he might mean them, genuine sincerity is not something he's practiced at voicing, and Illya can recognize every shade of influence and manipulation and charm he has.
Knowing the importance of this position, I must say, that of all the people I have served with, I can think of no one better suited to the responsibilities of Chief Enforcement Agent than Mr. Kuryakin. U.N.C.L.E. could not hope to find another man more qualified, more dependable, or more worthy.
Illya doesn't open the envelope. "Mr. Waverly," he says softly, very nearly toneless, "was quite insistent in informing me that this position is a promotion. He seemed concerned that I might imagine it to be some sort of punishment."
"It's a well-known fact that U.N.C.L.E. routinely punishes its agents by bumping up their salaries," Napoleon confides.
Illya tilts his head a fraction, thoughtfully. "Do you really make that much more money than I?"
"How do you think I afford this?" and Napoleon gestures around the apartment, all his conscientiously assembled possessions. But of course such bourgeois achievement is lost on Illya's communist sensibilities; the twist of his lip is more condescending than jealous, and Napoleon admits, "No, not enough more to matter. But there's a symbolic increase, at least."
"We would be equals."
"Technically," Napoleon says, because in theory all the U.N.C.L.E. regions are equal, but in practice Mr. Waverly is the most equal, as is his chief of Section Two. Besides, as he cannot resist pointing out, "But I'm still senior by two years."
Illya arches one blond brow.
"You wouldn't have to stay in London or Berlin; it's the CEA's discretion where he's based," Napoleon remarks. "You could put yourself in Athens, finally perfect your Greek. Or Leningrad or Moscow, if you've been missing the mother tongue."
"You sound envious," and again he can't tell if it's a question.
"I wouldn't want the job," Napoleon says, truthfully. "But it'd be a boon to me, knowing I could put my complete trust in the Northeast CEA. And to Waverly and the rest of U.N.C.L.E., of course."
"So you want me to get the position," Illya says, watching him intently, reading every nuance in his expression, and for an instant Napoleon can't breathe. He's strapped to the tilted table, straps cutting into his wrists and the leather bands across his chest holding him down, as his body bucks and writhes in the electric current, out of his control. And Illya watches him all the while, his lips curved up in a small, exquisitely cruel smile, and the blue of his eyes lost behind the opaque reflections off his glasses.
And he trusts Illya, completely and unequivocally; knows that Illya is watching because he has to, is smiling because he has to. He's in too much pain to doubt it, to hold onto anything but the simplest of truths, and trusting Illya is the simplest of all.
"The position's got nothing to do with me, beyond that letter," Napoleon says. "I'm afraid that's the limit of my influence over Section One."
"But what do you think?" Illya asks. "Do you think I should accept it?"
"It's not my decision," Napoleon says. "It's yours."
"No," Illya denies. "It is ours, I think."
Napoleon lifts his left hand up before his eyes, examines it.
"What are you doing?" Illya demands with some asperity.
"Checking for my ring. I'm sorry to confess that I don't recall our wedding, my darling, when was the happy event, again?"
Illya doesn't suppress an unwilling smile, or even roll his eyes. Instead he answers, flatly, "Four years ago. Mr. Waverly officiated. He said, 'It seems you have a rare gift of endurance, Mr. Kuryakin; I hope you won't object to a second assignment with Mr. Solo in a row.'"
Napoleon looks over at him. "That's not quite how I remember it," he says lightly, but there's nothing light about Illya's stare; it feels like it might burn straight through his skull and scorch his sofa's upholstery.
"We are partners," Illya says.
"We should have stopped being partners two years ago," Napoleon says. "Over two years ago."
"Perhaps," Illya says. "But we did not. So here we are, still partners. With a decision to make."
Two years ago, Napoleon thinks, Illya wouldn't have said that. Two years ago, Illya would not have felt compelled to come tonight, and Napoleon would be asleep at last, with luck dead to the world, sunk even past the depths of nightmares for a few merciful hours. (Two years ago there would have been that many fewer nightmares waiting for him.)
Four years is a long time. He's not as young as he once was, and neither is Illya.
And he drank too much tonight, and he's too damn tired. "What do you want, Illya? What do you want me to tell you, what should I say? What decision do you want me to make?"
"I don't," Illya says. "It's not your decision."
"Then what the hell do you want out of me, you crazy Russian?"
He sounds angrier than he really is, too tired to temper it, but Illya knows better than to take offense. His tone is calm, almost gentle, almost pleading. "I want to know what you want. Whether you want to end our partnership."
"Of course I don't want to end it!"
It's out before Napoleon can curb or qualify it, echoing in the air and no way to take it back.
Illya is still watching him, as closely as in Gurnius's compound. But not with Nexor's eyes, now—the focus is the same, but now they aren't hidden behind elliptical lenses, so Napoleon can see the tight lines of stress around them. Not pleasure but its opposite; Illya hating to watch, but having to, forcing himself to for all it risked shattering his control and betraying his cover. Because he had no choice; because it was his duty.
Because Napoleon's life depended on Illya, depended on him knowing his partner's limits, precisely, and not exceeding them.
"If we hadn't been partners," Napoleon says, "then with Gurnius, yesterday—if you hadn't been the one being Nexor, than I'd be dead now. Or else we both would be, and the mission would've failed." Another agent, not knowing him so well, might have hesitated or demurred, and given them both away, to be executed on the spot. Or else he would have pressed ahead, and Napoleon would have died in agony.
He'd been on the knife's edge when Illya leaned over him, and it was only because he knew that it was Illya listening that he'd been able to say it, able to admit that he couldn't take more. With anyone else he would have tried to be strong, would have had to be, not knowing for sure if they would be strong enough; with Illya he was honest, and only that had saved him.
"It's your decision," Napoleon says, passing one hand over his face again, kneading at his throbbing temples. "And there's no better man for the job, and it's probably best for U.N.C.L.E. and for you to take it. But no, I don't want to end this."
His libido has compromised more than one affair, and his innate laziness has landed him—both of them—in hot water on occasion; and Illya is quick to remember any such instance, and quicker to needle him for those sins and more. But this, Napoleon thinks, this is perhaps the most selfish thing he has ever done; and yet Illya says nothing.
When he hears the rustle of paper, Napoleon lowers his hand, to see Illya ripping the envelope in two, and then in four, still unopened, and he's smiling as he does it, small and pleased.
"It is an opportunity," he tells Napoleon, as he casts the torn pieces away on the coffee table. "But there are other opportunities as important, and always more work to be done. For two agents, as much as for one. If you are willing to continue this, then I want to as well."
If you are willing, as if he could have conceived that Napoleon would not be, and it only now occurs to him that Illya had not known his partner's answer, any more than Napoleon had known what his partner had wanted him to say.
Practice makes perfect, and in this exercise, it seems, four years is not yet enough.
Napoleon feels like he should have a drink in his hand, feels as oddly lightheaded as if he had only just downed the last glass of scotch. "So, to another four years?" he says.
"Or more," Illya replies, and instead of clinking nonexistent glasses, they shake hands, reaching across the sofa.
"I believe you've worked with Mr. Kuryakin before," Mr. Waverly had said in his office, four years and change ago, and Napoleon had looked the dour blond up and down, put on the most charming smile he reserved for the male of the species and held out his hand. "Yes, of course, Illya, wasn't it? Good to see you again."
And he'd been surprised when Illya had smiled back, saying, "Yes, I'm glad to be here," as if he'd meant it.
He's not surprised by Illya's smile now, or the familiar coolness of his hand or the firmness of his grip; but he's not expecting the soft huff of Illya's released breath, which might be a sigh but might be a laugh, stuttering as it escapes, rushing out like it's too great for him to hold inside. As if however overwhelming Napoleon's relief is, his own is no less; as if, unknowing, Napoleon had said exactly what his partner wanted to hear.
Napoleon lets go his own breath, relaxes into the sofa's thick down cushions. The knot in his back has loosened, finally, and the ache in his temples is ebbing. He doesn't realize his eyes have closed, until Illya says, "Napoleon," and he has to open them to discover where his partner has gone. Illya has gotten up and is standing over him, his brow furrowed with impatience that is belied by the softened curve of his mouth, a frown that's really more of a joke.
"If you sleep here, you'll have too great a pain in your neck to appreciate your farewells with Ms. Cook tomorrow," Illya admonishes. "Come, get up," and he gives Napoleon room to push himself to his feet. He doesn't extend a hand to help him up, but when Napoleon stumbles on the rise to the hall, Illya is there, quick and unpredicted, blond hair and blue eyes, but no wireframe glasses and no scar, and Napoleon doesn't flinch, just slings an arm across his partner's wiry shoulders.
In the bedroom he forgoes turning on the lamp, struggles out of his suit jacket and holster and kicks off his shoes and doesn't bother with the rest, just drops facedown on the bed, burying his face in his thickest pillow. Behind him he hears the bedroom door being closed, the soft snick of the latch, cutting off the light from the hall to cast the room into blessed darkness.
But not silence; he hears the squeak of the floorboards, not quite muffled by his bedroom's carpet. Footsteps, so light they're almost inaudible, and anyone else's would have him jerking up and fully awake, reaching for the gun he shoved under the pillow without thinking; but this one tread provokes no adrenaline surge. Napoleon only turns his head enough to make out Illya's shadow, pulling up the armchair in the corner to beside the bed. The light from the hall, leaking around the edges of the door, limns his blond head without picking out the features of his face.
With nothing to see but shadows, Napoleon lets his eyes close. "You need sleep, too," he mumbles into the pillow.
"I slept on the plane," Illya explains. First class or economy or the baggage compartment; Illya has mastered the ability to sleep whenever he can, wherever he is. Of all his partner's myriad aptitudes, Napoleon envies him that one keenly.
"I'm not expecting THRUSH to call tonight," Napoleon remarks. "Or do you know something I don't?"
"Many things," Illya avows. The chair creaks as he settles in it. "But nothing about tonight. Still. Just in case."
Beside Napoleon, the mattress dips a little. "You better not be putting shoes on my bedspread," Napoleon warns.
"I've removed them," Illya says, and pokes one besocked toe into Napoleon's side.
Napoleon would push him off, but his arms are trapped under his body and his body's too heavy to move. He's sliding over the edge, into the black space between waking and dreams, that oblivion so absolute that everything is lost in it, no nightmares or pain or memories strong enough to reach him through it.
If later they do find him, if later he awakens in their grip—they're nothing that could surprise Illya, nothing he hasn't wrestled with himself. And Napoleon may have it over his partner in weight and height, but in a fight Illya can match him and then some; and it's probably worse for him if Illya happens to doze off, because his self-defense training is too ingrained for it to make a difference whether he's asleep or awake. Napoleon had better odds killing an enraged leopard than he does injuring his partner in hand-to-hand, accidentally or otherwise.
Besides, the nights are never as bad when he's sharing his bed.
"Good night," Napoleon says, or tries to; his sleep-muddled tongue might have rendered it, "Thank you," but he doesn't know if he actually got out any words before he's falling. And he doesn't need to anyway, because after four years Illya will hear them, and will answer, whether or not either of them pronounces anything aloud.