Chapter Text
"How long did you say you were in the service?" The kid started before they even sat down at the kitchen table. He couldn't have been older than twenty. Solo had expected a veteran, a journalist as old as himself or older.
"With or without the time in the army?" Solo smiled through the dull pain in his bad leg.
"With, please."
He took a moment to count up the years. Good god. Had it really been that long? "Eight years a soldier, fifteen with the CIA, fifteen with U.N.C.L.E for a grand total of thirty-three years."
"Thirty-three? Wouldn't it be thirty-eight?" The journalist, Evan, tilted his head curiously, his furious scribbling paused.
"The last five years of my stint with Central Intelligence was spent on loan to U.N.C.L.E, so they overlap."
"Oh, okay," Evan nodded, striking something out on his notepad, "Let's start with your name. I know you introduced yourself as one of your aliases, but what's your real name?"
With a light laugh, Solo glanced out the kitchen window, an old habit. "Someone did his research," he teased, looking back at Evan, "Napoleon Solo."
"No middle name?"
"Ma figured the two were grandiose enough."
"Speaking of, do you know why she chose Napoleon? It's quite a unique name."
"She always told me that it was because I was destined for greatness. I think it was to get back at my father for cheating on her with a French woman. A permanent reminder of what he did." Solo gazed into the floral wallpaper, remembering the way his mother would hiss and spit his name like it was sour whenever his father was in earshot.
"What's it mean to you?"
He drummed his fingers on the table in thought, studying each wrinkle and scar on his hand. Solo had never cared for the name. Between the way his mother said it and the merciless teasing of his peers, it had developed a bitter taste. Then Gaby had called him "Nap" one sleepy morning and the nickname stuck, filling him with warmth. "I go by my last name for a reason," he said finally, "There are only two people that I let use my first, and that's because I love them. They actually don't even use the whole name. 'Nap'. Gaby came up with it."
"Gaby?"
"One of my partners."
"Romantic partner?"
"No, team mate. And my best friend. You should interview her next, she's got some incredible stories."
Evan wrote something down, presumably her name, then asked, "Where can I find her?"
Solo checked his watch, "Here, in a few hours. She's running errands."
"Thank you. Back on the topic of nicknames, do you have any others?"
"Cowboy," Solo grinned.
Evan looked him over, his brow knit in confusion, "I have to ask, where did that one come from?"
"Something Illya, my second partner, said to me on our first mission together. You know, I think we've called each other our nicknames more than our actual names."
"Because you don't like your name?"
Shaking his head, Solo clarified, "No, it's out of love for each other."
"If you could choose a different name, what would you choose?" Evan's gently inquisitive expression made Solo smile softly.
"I don't know," he breathed, "Maybe something simpler."
"Napoleon isn't too bad," Evan consoled, his pen still. After a moment, he took a breath and flipped the page, "Do you have a song that reminds you of yourself?"
That question caught Solo a little off guard. He hummed as he considered it. He had songs that reminded him of Illya, and of Gaby. But himself? "Marvin Gaye," he decided, "'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' to keep me from my lover."
A broad smile spread across Evan's face and he laughed, "I can relate. Next is, what's your favorite day of the week and why?"
"Sundays," Solo surprised himself with his answer. Usually, he hated Sundays. He didn't exactly get weekends in his line of work, so it wasn't your typical dread of the coming Monday. It was a fear that nestled deep in his chest, whispered by the voice of an eight year old altar boy. Now, however…"We have dinner and wine on Sunday evenings. I can't cook as much as I used to," Solo gestured to his sore leg, the joints of which had aged more rapidly due to an explosion shortly before he retired, "So I enjoy it when I can."
A sympathetic look from Evan made Solo inwardly roll his eyes. "What's next?"
"Uh," he peered at his notepad, "When's your birthday?"
"Why, you going to plan a surprise party?"
Laughter returned to the kid's face and Solo relaxed a bit. "It's just on my list."
"Good. Surprise parties aren't the best idea for a household of ex-spies. March ninth, 1929."
"You surely don't look fifty-six," Evan gawked.
The gray in Solo's slowly thinning hair and the deep lines and folds that seemed to cover every inch of him would beg to differ, but he just shrugged and said, "Thank you," in the most egotistical tone he could muster.
"You're very welcome. What fictional world do you think you'd thrive in?"
Solo fought the urge to say 'This one,' because even now, with the walls lined with photographic proof, it still amazed him to the point of disbelief that they'd all made it. Made it out. Made it together. "'Three's Company.' I'm already living it. Sort of."
Another chuckle from Evan. "What's your signature color, if you have one?"
"Most of my wardrobe is shades of blue. This one is my blue-est suit, and it's my favorite," Solo gestured down to his light blue-gray three-piece. He'd worn the first one to shreds over the three decades of field work, and the exact replica had been a retirement gift from Illya.
"And your style?"
"Professional. When I wasn't in tact gear, I was in a suit. I still won't leave the house without a dress shirt at least, but buttons are…," Solo flexed his hands. They'd developed a slight tremor, and his grip was starting to fail, "Buttons are hard, these days. Gaby has to help me sometimes."
The sound of a key in the lock of the door made Evan half-turn in his seat. Illya came through the door holding a bag with something wrapped in butcher's paper inside. Solo beamed at him and greeted, "Welcome home. This is Evan, he's doing an interview for the Herald."
Illya hummed, regarding Evan with a nod before leaning down and giving Solo a quick kiss. When he stood up straight again, he lifted the bag and told him, "Scraps. For Dahlia."
"You better hurry and put them in the freezer, then. She's bound to come running if she smells it."
Illya scanned the room in a glimpse of the super agent he once was. His hair was almost all white now, and he also bore the signs of age on his skin, but Solo took pride in the fact that he had more laugh lines around his eyes than frown lines around his mouth.
"Who's Dahlia?" Evan eased, eyeing Illya warily. He was still an immensely intimidating figure, despite his age, and his eyes never lost the dangerous quality they held.
"Our cat. She'll be three this year," Solo watched Illya carefully pack the meat scraps into the fridge, keeping an eye out for Dahlia the whole time, "Peril fell in love with cats on our Istanbul mission, but with how much moving around we did, pets just weren't an option. Gaby and I got Dahlia for him when he finally joined us in domesticity."
A quiet tinkling sound started up on the other end of the house and quickly grew louder. Illya's eyes widened and he picked up the pace, shutting the freezer door just as a spunky cream colored cat entered the kitchen with a chirp. She jumped onto the counter, sniffing the spot where the meat had just been. Her green eyes then stared up pitifully at Illya.
Scooping her up in his arms, Illya cooed, "Is for dinner. You have to wait."
"She's beautiful," Evan complimented, a look of adoration on his face. That familiar ache for what couldn't be twisted around Solo's heart.
They'd discussed it. Illya had been reluctant at first, fearing for the safety of a hypothetical child in his care. Then, Solo and Gaby had shown him just how gentle he could be, and a while later he agreed to try. And try they did. For years. Nothing ever came of it. The doctors threw around the words infertility and trauma and stress having a major impact on the body (as if they didn't know that and had the scars to prove it). Gaby tried to brush it off, ("We gave it a good shot. Just wasn't meant to be.") and Illya had agreed with her. But Solo caught the pain he felt reflected in their faces, especially around children in the first year or so after the diagnosis.
"She really is, isn't she?" Solo murmured, almost inaudibly. Dahlia's jingling bell collar would take the place of pattering footsteps. A fair trade, Solo thought. He loved that cat like a daughter. "You have any children, Evan? Furry or otherwise?"
"A dog. Samson. He's my best friend," Evan looked wistful for a moment before delving back into his notepad, "Shall we continue?"
"Be my guest," Solo invited, turning all the way to face him again. He heard Illya's footsteps retreat to the living room.
"Moving on to a heavier topic; how has retirement been? Did you ever expect to? As a former spy, do you think you have a different view on aging?"
"Retirement has been an…adventure. Before Waverly died, he'd write to us about little things that blew him away when he stepped down. We laughed at it, then, but…," Solo huffed a laugh that sounded more like a scoff, "When we first moved in here, I woke up before dawn, habitually. I made a pot of coffee and sat on the porch swing. The fucking porch swing. It faces east. I watched the sunrise and I cried. I'm not a crier. None of us are, really. Again, habit. But that first sunrise home had this sense of freedom to it that I hadn't felt since I was a teenager. It really is the little things, Evan. And to answer your follow up questions, I thought I'd die in the field by my mid thirties. Planned on it. I have a new appreciation for getting old. All of this," another gesture to himself, "Is proof that I fucking lived. That my best friend and my husband lived right alongside me. It's…" Solo trailed off, trying to find the right words. A smile crept onto his face as he did. "It's a privilege. Not to mention I aged like a fine wine."
Illya voiced his agreement from the couch, making Solo and Evan giggle like school children.
"You said husband," Evan asked once they settled, "You two are married?"
"Not on paper," Solo held up his left hand, which sported a simple gold band on the ring finger, "I wear one, Gaby wears one, and Illya wears a stacked ring for both of us."
"I didn't realize Gaby was a part of your relationship," Evan mused, jotting down more notes.
"Oh, yeah, I didn't mention that part did I," Solo tsked, "Gaby and I love each other. We're also in love with Peril, and he's in love with us. So he's 'married' to us. One big happy family."
"That's wonderful to hear, Solo," Evan closed his notepad and folded his hands over it. He had a pensive expression. The kid would have to learn to separate himself from his interviewees, but that didn't have to be today, "I was given some information about you before I came here. You've been through a lot. I'm glad you're happy."
"Me too, kid. Me too. What's next in that notepad of yours?"
"That's it. My article is about the personal life of U.N.C.L.E's most famous founding agent. The little things, if you will."
Solo leaned back in his chair a bit, skeptical, "You're not going to ask about an important mission or a survival situation?"
"No. I'm purely interested in what makes these all-powerful figures human. I'll interview Gaby…"
"Kuryakin," Solo filled in.
"I'll interview Gaby Kuryakin next. Then I'd like to interview Illya (I'm assuming) Kuryakin."
"Correct. Gaby will talk to you. You might have trouble getting answers out of the big guy, though," Solo warned.
"That's fine. I'm a journalist. I'm good at getting answers," Evan winked at him, then checked his watch, "Would you be bothered if I waited here for Gaby?"
"Not at all," Solo stood slowly, bracing himself on the table, "Help yourself to a drink or a snack. I'm moving to the couch, but feel free to sit wherever."
Evan nodded and stood as well, offering his hand for Solo to shake, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Solo."
Solo shook his hand with a smile that briefly faltered at the notice of how light his hold was. "You're very welcome, Evan."
Evan sat back at the table and Solo made his way to the couch, his hip stiff from sitting in the chair for so long. He sank down beside Illya and laid his head in his lap. The tremor in his husband's hands was worse than his own, despite being younger, but the motion of his fingers through Solo's hair was comforting all the same. He closed his eyes and sighed happily.
"He is a good kid," Solo told him in Russian.
"Mm," Illya hummed, and Solo could feel him shrug, "He is too sensitive. You need to be emotionless to be a journalist."
"They say the same about spies, darling, " Solo teased, blindly finding Illya's face with his hand and pulling him down to kiss him.