Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night is clear and cold, it snowed the day before covering streets and roofs. Puffs of white on windowsills and trees glisten under the light of the stars and a crescent moon. In the tales from the old days -- tales older than his grandmother, older than the house he's in, older than the oldest tree in the woods -- tonight, the night before Christmas, is the night the devils come out to play. It's their last chance to cause mischief his grandmother whispers in his ear, before all sins are washed away.

"Stop filling the boy's head with nonsense" his grandfather calls out from across the room. "No need to look for devils in the sky, we all have enough of our own."

But there must be nights when the currents that flow through the earth, that force magnets to point true to the north, make the air crackle with possibilities, and anything can happen from one moment to the next. One step, one twist of fate, one wavelength instead of another and the world changes. One moment when you hold the future in your hands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Look who's back," Dave Weaver was the first to notice the sleek figure stepping into the Section 2 common room. "Nice tan, Solo"

"Thank you, thank you." Napoleon Solo preened a bit and adjusted his cuffs. "One of the few perks of two months in California."

"Yeah, a real hardship assignment", George Wozniak chimed in. "Stakeouts in the land of bikinis and blondes."

"Someone had to do it George. Speaking of blondes, who's the new beauty I glimpsed in Communications?"

Weaver laughed. "Trust you to nose her out within five minutes of coming back. We should have taken bets on it. Her name's Eva Dahl. So far we've all struck out."

"Ah, good thing I'm back then, to show you how it's done." Napoleon's eyes lit up at the implied challenge. "Anything else I should know about?" he asked while pouring himself coffee from the pot in corner of the room.

"Kuryakin's here," Wozniak said. "Waverly finally pried him loose from Berlin."

"Oh yeah, I remember. The Whiz Kid. What's he like?

"Cool as a cucumber. Chilly even. Smart guy, but a bit of a know it all."

"Have you worked with him?"

"Naw. Waverly's commandeered him for now, not sure what he's waiting for."

"Where is he now?"

Wozniak smirked. "Your office. You acquired a roommate while you were gone."

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"Only empty space there was when he came, so they moved an extra desk into your room. I suppose they'll move him out now you're back. Give him Glueck's spot, poor sod won't be needing it any more."

Napoleon winced inwardly at the reminder; then nodded, took his cup and went down the hall.

He found himself mildly irritated; in his position, as acting head of Section Two with Talbott still on medical leave, he considered himself past the office sharing phase. Of course space was always at a premium at the Command--and he'd been gone for two months. But then another desk always opened if you waited long enough. Or not so long... he let the thought trail away. He'd arrange Kuryakin's transfer to Glueck's desk.

The first thing he noticed was how crowded the office seemed with two desks, the next, Kuryakin's rise from his chair, and the small formal bow. "Good morning, Mr. Solo."

Not the heavy Russian accent he expected, a warm, cultured voice. Not the man he expected either, no super agent here. Instead he was faced by a small blond man in a slightly too large white shirt, a shoulder holster and a tie that apparently rebelled against hanging straight. Broad cheekbones and deep set eyes, tinged with wariness perhaps, but warm and curious, filled with anticipation. And blue, impossibly blue.

Mr. Kuryakin, Napoleon shifted the coffee cup and reached out to shake hands.

The connection is visceral. A current racing back and forth between them, powered by unseen drives deep inside. Magnets pulled together by their opposing poles. Positive charges, negative charges. Opposites attract and bond. Friendship, partnership, the words are immaterial, just names for a force that's always been there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But the earth wobbles sometimes, electrons reverse polarities. The opposite of attract is repel.

Electricity is running through Napoleon's nerves, it burns, and it keeps on burning until he begs that it stop. Glasses can't hide eyes that he knows have seen. His desperate plea is reflected in them. Someone speaks but he can't hear. He welcomes the ice that seeps into his veins now, slowly dousing the flames, dousing all heat, then dousing all thought. And when thought comes back he finds the ice is still there and like the fire it burns as well.

Napoleon was reclining, the the head of the bed cranked halfway up, eyes closed. He recognized the footsteps in the hallway, but said nothing when he heard the knock. Illya entered quietly, when he heard the door close Napoleon opened his eyes.

Illya had brought Napoleon's other suit, a clean shirt and a duffle bag with various necessities.

"How do you feel?" he asked rather needlessly while carefully draping the suit and shirt over the one chair in the room and placing the small duffle bag on the foot of the bed after seeing no other spot for it.

"Well enough to leave. I don't see why I had to spend the night here in the first place."

Illya reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. "You've been sprung. I have tickets for you and Miss Cook on the late flight back to New York. I'll take you to the hotel now to meet her, I'm going to have to stay here a few days longer to tie things up." As he leaned over to put the envelope on the night table, the light caught the scar on his cheek. Napoleon's nerve ends twiched and burned. In spite of his best efforts, he flinched.

Illya noticed. He took a step back and put his hand on his cheek. Damn Illya and the way he notices everything to hell. "It's a special glue. They'll have to slice the scar off when I get back to New York." He paused uncomfortably then stepped forward again and put a hand on Napoleon's shoulder. " Napoleon, I...."

Nerve ends twitch and burn. Napoleon put a hand up. "No, you don't need to say it. No apologies necessary. You did what you had to do. You saved the mission, you saved all our lives."

"This wasn't a normal mission, I...."

"No." Napoleon was more forceful this time. "I said no apologies. You did what you had to do. Mission accomplished, that's what matters." He moved Illya's hand off his shoulder. "Let me get up and get dressed."

Illya's face went blank. He nodded and stepped back. "I'll wait for you in the lounge then."

You've talked to your partner about it? Dr. Theobald asked.

The chair was very comfortable, to lull you of course, Napoleon thought as he crossed his legs and clasped his hands loosely in front of him. His smile was completely relaxed. "Of course we talk after missions, we write our reports. It's not the first time we had a difficult assignment, it won't be the last."

He waited while Theobald jotted a note. "No bad dreams?" the doctor asked.

A very disingenuous question Doctor. "Nightmares come with the territory. But do I have nightmares about Illya torturing me? No, doctor, I don't."  Napoleon offered a calculated smile, inviting the doctor to share his imperturbability.

It isn't the torture he dreams about, it's the explosion, the spectacular ball of flame erupting into the sky as Gurnius' observatory falls. Feeling the roar of the explosion more than hearing it, the wave of hot air that attacks them.

He dreams about the burning debris that rains from the sky, and Illya, shooting it down piece by piece; if he stops they'll all be enveloped in flames. He dreams of watching, lost and helpless.

Nerves twist and burn, with cold as well as with heat.

Only he and Illya knew what really happened to him in San Rico.   And that was two people too many.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It doesn't feel like Christmas this year. Napoleon didn't bother with a tree but at least there's a wreath on the door and a pine cone centerpiece with red bows and advent candles on the table. One of the girlfriends, he doesn't even remember which one it was, sent it. It's enough, maybe it's too much.

He leaves on only the hall light, lights the candles, pulls up the blinds and pushes the old recliner up to the window. The candles are a shadowy flicker on the glass as he looks out over the East River. He's up high enough that when he stands he can see two bridges with their holiday lights below, and still manage to pick out a few stars in the night sky above.

It's a cold night and still. Silent, and the silence is oppressive. He turns on the light again to find a record, hesitates when he sees which one he's picked up. Nerve ends jump for a moment, but this is what he wants to hear. He puts it on the stereo, then turns the light out. Opera is an indulgence, it's for when he's alone and wants to think... or not think. Never played for the girlfriends, not for any visitors.

He thinks of his mother, who made a young boy sit with her and listen to the singers she loved. He never minded, she played the records just for the two of them, never for anyone else. She was gone so soon, it's one of the few things he does remember.

Illya in one of his more cryptic moods once told him he didn't like opera because he found the singing to be a distraction from the music. Napoleon almost understood him, because at times he suspects that may be the thing about it that he likes the best.

In the chair again, he leans back with his drink and looks at the sky and lets the voices wash over him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You have to see it live," Napoleon said. "The glamour, the artistry, the electricity when the soprano goes above a High C. " It was their third night at Asti's waiting for a courier drop. The first night the singing waiters, to some extent even the singing customers were entertaining enough. The second night, they were bearable. Tonight, they were enough to make Napoleon wince and Illya turn sulky over his plate of ravioli. For now the singing had stopped, though the piano player seemed indefatigable. That was when Illya told him he had no use for opera.

"My opinion is well considered," Illya insisted. "It's not like I've never seen a live Opera. I did go to see Eugene Onegin at the Bolshoi once. Trying to impress a girl," he added in explanation.

"You? Impress a girl?" Napoleon's eyebrows rose.

"I was young and optimistic." Illya shrugged.

"And?"

"Oh, she was very impressed. By the tenor, not by me."

Napoleon laughed. "It's always the tenor, isn't it! Especially one who dies for love. And Lensky is a poet, you can't get more romantic than that."

"You see? That's what's wrong with opera. Everything sounds romantic. I explained to Mila it's not a romance. Misplaced pride caused the duel, and Onegin and Lensky were cowards too, too afraid of what people would think to call it off." Illya saw Napoleon's face and snorted. "She looked at me the way you just did, told me I had no romance in my soul. She was right."

"If you told her that, I can see why you made no headway. Who was the tenor?"

"Lemeshev. It wasn't easy to get the tickets either, let me tell you. "

"You saw Lemeshev sing Lensky? He's a legend you heathen. What I wouldn't give to hear him.  Unfortunately we can't even get our hands on his records here."

"Well, I see I've impressed you at least."

At that, the piano player finally stopped. Illya sighed. "I believe that's my cue."

He got up and leaned over Napoleon. "I'll do this now, but if that courier doesn't show up tonight whoever decided that Funiculi Funicula would be the safe signal is going to regret it."

Napoleon put on his most innocent look. "I'm sure they thought that with your extensive repertoire that wouldn't be a problem."

Illya rolled his eyes, then made his way to the piano. With a bang, he launched into the Onegin polonaise, then switched to Funiculi Funicula before the confused crowd had a chance to react.

That year, the day before Christmas, Napoleon found set of boxed records on his desk. Not wrapped, because that would have been too much holiday for Illya to commit to, but it was a present nevertheless. A Russian recording of Eugene Onegin, six LPs, with Lemeshev singing Lensky. When he pulled the first record out of its sleeve, a note came out with it. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. It was just like Illya; it was one of his most treasured possessions.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moon is up now, a crescent moon, dipping in and out of the clouds. He's waiting for something, he doesn't yet know what.

The music plays and Napoleon watches the sky. As he watches, the  stars begin to blink out, one by one, leaving nothing but black in their place. Clouds sweep over the moon and turn it into a shadow. But not before he sees Angelique, in a billowing cloak, stealing the stars with a wink, and hiding them in her sleeve.

He closes his eyes and waits, he opens them again when he smells her Arpege. She's in the room with him, the stars braided into a sash she's wrapped around her waist. She makes herself comfortable on the arm of his chair, and leans against his shoulder.

"Opera, darling. I would never have guessed it."

"I know," Napoleon tells her. " Its mine, I don't like to share it."

"Don't be unkind, Napoleon. I thought you might come to see me tonight, instead you're hiding away."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Aunt Amy, is everything alright?" She never called him at the office.

"Yes of course I'm coming for Christmas dinner tomorrow. I thought I.... I didn't?"

Napoleon pulled up a notepad and started to doodle as he listened.

"He sent you a note?" Napoleon scowled. "Oh, you sent an invitation to his home. I didn't..."

He drew a triangle with a stem. A Christmas tree. Lines branching out from the middle, little balls at the end.

"Yes, he's working tonight and tomorrow. We're so shortstaffed at the moment, he volunteered so some of the other men could be with their families."

Crosshatching, obliterating the lines. Zig zags, electrical charges.

"My dear, I wish I could just rearrange the schedules like that."

Two more triangles the other way around. If he puts numbers in the they'll look like UNCLE badges.

"Yes I know you're disappointed, but we're really in a bind here and he's needed. I'll bring him over another time, I promise."

Napoleon put the pencil down and rubbed his forehead as he listened, he knew how defensive he sounded. Nerves ends twist and burn.

"No, nothing is wrong. Really Aunt Amy sometimes it can't be helped, work takes precedence. Nothing is wrong. I'll see you tomorrow sweetheart."

Napoleon had just put on his over coat and was locking up his desk when Illya came in, and tossed his briefcase on his desk. "You're early," Napoleon said, surprised. "You're not due in for another hour,

"I thought I'd stop in at the party in the canteen and grab some food before I start my shift."

Napoleon looked at the clock on the wall. Well they'll be going another hour or so, there should be something left. "

Illya seemed to have something on his mind. He stood uncertainly, one hand in the pocket of his coat as though looking for something. "Napoleon," he said.

"I have to hurry," Napoleon interrupted. "I still have to get Aunt Amy's present at Saks." He kicked himself for saying it, as though he was trying to call attention to the party Illya would miss.

"Merry Christmas Napoleon," Illya replied with a small smile. He removed his hand from the pocket and began to unbutton his coat. "Give your Aunt my best wishes for the holidays."

Napoleon nodded and rushed out. Illya could see right through him, he thought. And the thought burned.

The revolving doors winnowed the window peeping hordes on Fifth Avenue from the hordes doing their last minute shopping at Saks. It had become an uncherished tradition for Napoleon, the first floor of Saks on Christmas Eve.

He let himself be swept into the store; noted, as always, the bright red poinsettias marching along the counters, their bracts blazing like spiky flames. A maze of mirrored and scented aisles stretched before him, framed by arches of frosted pine branches dripping with glittering icicles. Thank god he wouldn't have to go past the first floor, he was just buying perfume as always. He got perfume for all his ladies, the perfect present, intimate... and safe. This year though, there's only Aunt Amy. He could be in and out in a few minutes.

Flames and icicles, the thought stuck with him as he wound his way past the dark wood counters, his nerves crackle for a moment, then subside. Napoleon unbuttoned his coat. It was warm in here, too warm, too much noise. The chatter of the customers, sputtering like a damaged live wire below the din of the tinny music.

His heart was pounding, ice was cracking and breaking beneath him, nerve ends twist and burn. He was on fire but afraid of falling into the cold dark abyss below. Not real, he forced himself to say, not real. He tempered the panic enough to push his way through the crowds, back out onto Fifth Avenue. He stood outside, breathing shallowly, heart still pounding. Something was happening to him tonight.  Home. All he wanted to do was go home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You're not paying attention to me darling," Angelique leans down and kisses his cheek. You're getting to be as dull as your partner. Come out and play with me."

She glitters in the candlelight but he's waiting for something and he knows it's not her.

"Put the stars back before you go Angelique."

She pouts and stands up. "I just borrowed them for a while. See..... " She unknots the sash from her waist and opens the window to toss it out; as she does the stars one by one untangle from the braid and fly back to their place, the sky twinkles.

"Don't forget the moon."

"It wasn't I who took it. Dull Napoleon, and cold cold cold."  She blows him a kiss as she fades away.

Napoleon blinks. There's a man at the window now, holding the crescent moon. He's dressed in black, and when he turns, the white frill of his shirt gleams.

"A moment's impulse he says," nodding at the moon. "I wanted to see if I could do it."

His shirt is intricately ruffled, almost floridly so. Dark hair with streaks of gray on the sides. A mobile face, old enough so that lines that were sleek are now blurred, a trace of dissolution perhaps and general discontent. Napoleon sucks in his breath, his nerve ends spark. A familiar face, too familiar, he's seen it in the glint of Illya's glasses, the empty eyes that can't be his, staring back at him, no longer the man he was.

The man smiles a little when he sees Napoleon's face. "Don't worry, life is good. I make money, I spend it;  I gamble for excitement and I play for pleasure. The women are still there whenever I want them, things change, but life is good." He stops for a moment closes his eyes and listens. Napoleon doesn't say a word.

"I know that music." He sways a little with the waltz. He opens his eyes again and looks at Napoleon. "I have the same recording. A friend gave it to me." His eyes are no longer empty, they're shadowed with regret.

"What happened to your friend?" Napoleon whispers.

The man shrugs. " I lost track of him. Things change, maybe he wasn't such a good friend after all. But the album, I kept." His eyes are empty again.

He goes to open the window, then throws the moon up into the sky. "There, I've put it back. Tonight is the night of the devils you know. I should warn you to watch out for them, but I've never seen the point. In the end we all have enough of our own."

He comes back and grips Napoleon's wrist. Nerve endings twist and spark. "Time slips and slides but there's always a moment when you hold the future in your hands. Make sure you know when it's there."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He must have dozed again, there's a hand on his shoulder. It feels warm, safe, familiar. The air is electric, he knows. It's the moment he's been waiting for. He raises his own hand to cover it. "Illya."

"Hello Napoleon. I heard the music, but there was no answer when I knocked. Your door was unlocked, what were you thinking?"

Napoleon shivers. "I had the strangest dream... Are you sure you're here?"

Illya's grip on his shoulder tightens. "I'm here. I'm going to close the window though, it's freezing cold."

Illya closes the window then grabs a wool throw from the couch and wraps it around Napoleon's shoulders. It's not until then that Napoleon realizes how cold he is. Illya hands him a glass of brandy. "Drink this, while I go make some tea."

The light from the kitchen lets Napoleon see that the candles haven't burned down very far, and Onegin is still singing to Tatiana. In no time at all Illya's back with two steaming mugs.

"Carrington's flight was cancelled," Illya says as he pulls the wingchair closer and sits down. "She has to stay at HQ overnight, so I asked her to cover for me.  I ... I had a feeling that tonight I needed to see you. So I screwed up my courage and came."

"I'll give her an extra day off to make up for it, she must be sorry to miss the family Christmas."

"Oh I don't know, I don't think she's all that upset. Dancer is due back in New York tomorrow."

Napoleon chuckles and they sit in companionable silence for a few minutes listening to the music play. Something is loosening inside Napoleon, something that warmed not burned, that filled empty corners, not hollowed them out.

When the record ended Illya smiles at him. "You still have the album."

"I treasure it," Napoleon says. "My best friend gave it to me."

Even in the low light of the room he can see the warmth in Illya's eyes, the way his face brightens at the words.

Illya takes a deep breath. "Napoleon, your trust, your friendship, has been the most important thing in my life for a long time now, I've always been afraid of losing it.  I wish... I wish I could have done things differently.  I wish you'd let me apologize. Tell me what I can do to make you forgive me."

Napoleon shakes his head. "The fault was never in you, you saved my life.  I don't know how to explain this, but I was afraid to let you apologize. I didn't know how to forgive you for seeing something I didn't want you to see. Something I didn't want anyone to see, including me. Cowardice and false pride, I'd have to admit to myself that I wasn't invulnerable, that I could break like any other man."

"Napoleon."  Illya gets up and comes to kneel before Napoleon's chair. "You're my partner, my best friend, nothing I see will ever change that. We all have a breaking point, it can't define us.  You were a hero in San Rico. Would it be that bad to just be a man?"

"Says the man who likes to claim he's a rock, just part of the furniture."

"That's an acknowledgement of my limitations. Limitations you'll never have." He puts his hand in his pocket. "I brought you a present Napoleon."  He pulls out a cardboad box, held shut with twine. Illya still won't be bothered to wrap.

Napoleon takes it, he holds it for a moment before he opens it, enjoys the feeling of anticipation. Easy enough to slide off the twine. There's a round metal case inside, old burnished metal, the top engraved with concentric circles, framing stars and a crescent moon. Napoleon takes it out of the box.

"Open it." Illya is impatient now.

When Napoleon opens it maybe the earth wobbles one more time and maybe things that were out of place fall back in. It's an antique compass, an ornate construction, they both watch as the needle spins true to the north.

Magnets pulled together by their opposing poles. Illya's hand is on his knee as both of their heads bend over the compass.  A current racing back and forth between them, friends and partners,  just names for a tie that will always be there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's after midnight, and the brandy is almost gone. Napoleon has been choosing the music, now it's Nat King Cole's Christmas album on the record player and aside from rolling his eyes, Illya has been polite for once about Napoleon's choices. He's stretched out on the sofa, actually humming along.

Napoleon comes from the kitchen, another bottle of Courvoisier in his hand. "If it would truly make you feel better to make amends, I have a suggestion."

"Anything," Illya says without opening his eyes.

"I can get two tickets to the Met next week. I'd like you to go with me."

"That's it? " Illya opens his eyes to squint at him. "I can do that."

"It's black tie."

Illya nods. "Alright, black tie."

"Wagner," Napoleon says.

Illya is fully awake now, giving him a wary look. "One of the shorter operas, yes?"

"Parsifal, " Napoleon says, reaching down to tousle Illya's hair. He smiles.  Nerve ends purr.

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