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Someone's breaking in.
Illya snaps into wakefulness with the realisation fully-formed in his head. He remains still, schools his breathing to remain deep and even, years of KGB training automatically taking control. He waits, taut as a piano string, as his bedroom door swings open, inch by careful inch.
The hinges do not creak, the silence unnatural for a rough wooden door in a rustic Yugoslavian hunting lodge. The intruder must have oiled them, which means that he or she knew that UNCLE was coming to this safehouse before they ever got here. This new syndicate THRUSH, whoever they are, that Mr Waverly has sent them here to shelter from, must have an information source deep within UNCLE. Illya's blood thrums in his ears at the prospect of betrayal.
They'll have to warn Waverly. Illya revises his attack plans from kill to maim; leave speech apparatus intact.
A spill of pale blue light falls across the floor and against his eyelids. Dawn. Solo must be on patrol. Gaby should be next door. Illya's heart skips a beat. Gaby. Did the intruder deal with her first? And where the hell is Cowboy?
He should have set more traps on the perimeter. He should have set traps on his own door, for that matter, but Cowboy and Chop Shop Girl have the annoying habit of barging into his room uninvited, and he doesn't particularly want to dismember his partners by proxy.
The light blinks out as the intruder steals through the door, shutting it behind him - Illya's sure it's a him, now. He smells of pine needles, a fresh, woodsy scent. He must have been waiting in the forest for his chance to attack. In the dark, Illya cautiously cracks open his eyes, peeping through his eyelashes. The intruder is a shadow against shadows, but Illya tracks his crouching figure as he creeps towards the foot of the bed, and the outline of a conical cap, topped by an incongruous fluffy ball. His tread is soundless and professional. But the weapon he carries is neither gun nor knife. A blunt instrument, possibly a club. Illya's lip curls. If there is one thing he hates, it's being underestimated. And there are many, many things Illya Kuryakin hates.
The figure stops at the end of the bed. He raises the club. Illya strikes. He lashes out with one leg, sending the club crashing to the floor. A jab to the neck of the intruder robs him of his ability to cry for help. He stumbles backwards, spluttering uselessly. Illya hops onto his feet, throws a punch. The intruder ducks. He's fast. Illya is faster. He grabs a fistful of shirt and one leg and executes a perfect kata guruma. The man sails over Illya's head and lands sprawled against the bed. Illya is on him in an instant, applying the flat of his hand to the man's neck, before he remembers the goal. Speech apparatus intact. He releases the chokehold, and the man gasps, "Peril!"
"Cowboy?" Illya puts out a hand for the curtain and draws it. The light reveals the scene: lying on the bed, flushed and panting, hair wildly tousled under a ridiculous red and white cap, is not a THRUSH assassin, but his partner.
Or perhaps it's an assassin masquerading as Solo, who dislikes wearing headgear, has voiced his disgust with Illya's flat caps on multiple occasions over the last six months, and wouldn't be caught dead in that fluffy hat. Illya searches for evidence, fishing the man's club off the floor. It turns out to be a long sock, distended by something heavy. No self-respecting assassin would carry that as a weapon. He should know. He's been one himself.
Illya explodes. "What the hell, Cowboy? Have you gone crazy? Or do you have some kind of death wish?"
"Ow, ow, ow," is all Solo says in response, hand feeling for his throat.
Illya unwraps the sock, and finds himself staring at a bottle of -
"Stolichnaya?" he asks, reverence creeping into his voice despite himself.
Solo offers him a weak smile. "Merry Christmas?"
Gaby gives a tiny huff of relief when she hears the argument start up in the next room. Napoleon isn't quite as dead as she'd thought he would be, when he told her about his insane plan.
The puff of air sends ripples across the cup of coffee she's cradling in both hands. She hugs her knees and gazes out the frost-patterned window at the forest of snow-blanketed pines and spruces that sprawls beneath them. It would be the perfect Yuletide setting, if only it was accompanied by a town with a Christmas market. Instead they're stuck in the middle of nowhere, behind the Iron Curtain, guarding against a possible attack from the newest set of madmen to threaten the fragile geopolitical balance of the world, who are apparently convinced that she, Illya and Napoleon are the only things that stand in their way.
The frightening thing, she thinks as the boys enter the room still bickering away, is that they may be right.
"Relax, Peril," Napoleon says in that easy-going tone that seems custom-designed to raise Illya's ire. "No one's going to attack us in this weather. And not on Christmas Day." He makes it sound like the worst possible blasphemy.
Illya is far from appeased. "In Russian army, you would be shot for abandoning your post."
Perhaps it would be less worrying for the fate of the world if the boys didn't come so close to helpfully murdering each other every single day. She hasn't actually personally witnessed it in the past two days, since this is the first time the three of them have spent more than two minutes in the same room after implementing the strict system of four-hour patrols Illya insisted on in response to the THRUSH threat. But she can always feel the smouldering remains of a quarrel in the boys' moods afterwards.
"Now, now, Peril. I think I'm owed a thank-you. That's only the best vodka in the world, after all." Napoleon gestures at the bottle in Illya's hand. Gaby had wondered what it would be. It would hardly be another painting by Cézanne, which was what she'd found at the base of her bed this morning, the canvas tightly rolled and stuffed into a stocking.
Illya folds his arms. "You should be thanking me for not snapping your neck."
Napoleon tosses the Santa Claus cap into a corner and combs through his dark hair with his fingers. "Loveliest present I've ever received. Thank you, Peril. I'm glad to see you getting into the Christmas spirit."
Illya snorts. "Christmas. Is ridiculous story."
"In what way?" Napoleon asks, all defensive.
"I have read your Bible. Many discrepancies."
"Name one!"
They stare at each other for a moment, and just when Gaby thinks Napoleon has called Illya's bluff, Illya speaks. "For example, Gospel of Matthew says, after Jesus is born, his family travels to Egypt, then to Nazareth. But Gospel of Luke says, after Bethlehem, they go to Jerusalem, then return to Nazareth."
"The writers of the Gospels clearly failed to coordinate their stories before writing them down," Gaby offers, hiding a smile.
"Yes," Illya agrees. "They would have made terrible spies - what is that?" His jaw drops as he finally notices the elephant in the room, a seven-foot-tall pine tree that has somehow transplanted itself from the woods into what passes for their living room, and been expansively decorated with a variety of ornaments to boot.
"It's a Christmas tree," Napoleon says, somewhat unnecessarily.
Illya passes a hand over his eyes in a long-suffering gesture. "What part of 'travelling light' do you not understand?"
Napoleon puts up his palms. "I didn't bring the tree with me."
"I mean these - baubles!" Illya's gaze drops down to the base of the tree. "Are those more presents?"
"The stockings were from Santa Claus. These are from me." Napoleon looks every inch the excited little boy he is as he practically bounces over to the tree and picks them up. "This is for you, Gaby, my sweet."
She unwraps it carefully and draws out an amethyst pendant encrusted with diamonds. It's subtle enough that she can wear it on just about any occasion, but anyone seeing it would know immediately that it cost a fortune - to its original owner. "Napoleon, it's lovely. Thank you." She has no present to give him in exchange, so she rewards him with a peck on the cheek that seems to delight him just as much.
"And Peril, this is yours."
Illya doesn't take it. "No. The vodka, I accept as reparation for invading my room. But do not involve me in your decadent capitalist practices."
Gaby bites her cheek, waiting for more fireworks, but Napoleon instead gives a philosophical shrug. "All right, then I'll make it a present to myself. But I'll be challenging you to a game from time to time." He unwraps the gift to reveal a tiny travel chess set.
Illya looks down at it, then at Napoleon, then back down at the set. His face wears the look of bewilderment he always has when anyone does anything remotely nice for him. Gaby knows he's been quietly ruing the lack of a chess set on these long winter evenings, having taken Waverly's edict to "pack the minimum possible" to heart far more than either she or Napoleon had.
Finally he looks up at Napoleon. "Of course, I will play chess with you," he says. It's both capitulation and a thank-you. Napoleon gives him an expectant grin.
"No, that does not mean I will give you a kiss," Illya growls. "Unless you want the KGB version?"
Gaby's not sure what a KGB kiss entails, but from the grimace on Napoleon's face, it looks like something best left unexperienced.
"No, I've a much better idea," Napoleon says, and that's when the fireworks actually begin.
"This is stupid. Why am I doing this?" Peril grouses as he picks up another log, shakes the snow off it, and adds it to the growing pile strapped to his back.
Because Gaby has made it clear neither of them is allowed back into the lodge until they show signs they're at least trying to get along, is the answer supplied by Napoleon's brain. Not that she can physically stop either of them, since she's out on her patrol, but Peril always does as Gaby says. But because he, too, obeys Gaby, at least when it suits his own agenda, his mouth says, reasonably, "Because I need firewood to cook my Christmas turkey."
"Turkey is American bird. No turkey in this forest."
"Pheasant will do just as well," Napoleon says cheerfully, because - face it - someone has to inject some cheer into the proceedings to compensate for the Russian's dourness.
Peril shakes his head. "Are all Americans as crazy about Christmas as you?"
"My Nonna was," Napoleon replies before his brain can engage the brakes on his tongue. "My grandmother."
Peril stops and stares at Napoleon as if he'd imagined Napoleon had descended from the heavens fully-formed and thus never possessed a mother, father, or grandparents. Somehow that loosens Napoleon's tongue further, as if he needs to provide corroborative detail to prove that Nonna was indeed real.
"It was the one time each year when the whole family would be together. My father was a sailor. He'd dock back in New York twice a year. He'd take us by train to Nonna's house for Christmas. That was during the Great Depression and times were hard, but she scrimped and saved to make Christmas a joyous occasion for all of us. And not just family. Every single household living in her tenement received a massive fruitcake at Christmas. For many of them, it was the only sweet they had in the entire year. She single-handedly turned Christmas a beacon of hope for hundreds of people."
"I see." There's something hard in Peril's voice, that Napoleon doesn't like associated with his Nonna, until he realises that it's envy. That Napoleon had such an angel in his life, while Illya's been alone for most of his.
And somehow the stupid way in which his brain tries to make amends for that is to say, "She died when I was thirteen." At least it stops short before adding still more maudlin details, such as the fact that the rest of his extended family had died in the same fire that claimed the entire overcrowded and ill-maintained tenement building, or that it had happened five days before Christmas.
"Still," Napoleon continues with forced cheer, "it's better this way. No need to panic when nutcases like Victoria Vinciguerra threaten to murder your entire family, since I don't have family left to murder."
Illya's gaze locks onto Napoleon's. "No," he says firmly. "It is not better."
With five simple words, Illya dismantles the edifice of lies Napoleon has built around this belief, and leaves a single crystalline truth standing in its place. Napoleon is not alone. There are people he cares about, people Napoleon's enemies could target to get to him. He's cooking Christmas lunch for them, that makes them family, and he's every bit as vulnerable as he always was.
Images flash through his mind. A tearful Gaby in the electric chair, learning what a monster her uncle Rudi actually was. A stoic Illya in the electric chair, gritting his teeth against the shocks. Himself, chained to a wall, forced to watch as his friends are tortured, which is worse than any physical torture they could ever devise.
A gunshot shatters the silence, the images splinter in his mind, and he's left staring at a sudden space where Illya had been standing just a moment ago. THRUSH, Napoleon thinks. "Peril!" he shouts. A moment later the man reappears. "What were you - ?" Napoleon begins, and in response, Illya holds up a very dead pheasant. Oh.
Napoleon draws a ragged breath, then says, "That was supposed to be my job."
"I know. Needed to kill something," Illya grunts, but his hands are rock-steady as he passes Napoleon the bird. It's been shot cleanly through the eye. He then shoulders his shotgun, and lifts the basket of firewood again like it weighs nothing.
Somehow that combined display of skill and raw strength, and the sight of Illya himself, built like a tank, is enough to dispel the residue of the nightmare from Napoleon's mind. Anyone who tries to come after Gaby and Illya will have to bring an army and a navy.
"So," Illya says, as if nothing at all just happened. "Tell me more about your grandmother."
Gaby returns from patrol to a Christmas miracle. The boys are in the kitchen together. Napoleon, who looks incredibly out of place in this hunting lodge wearing his customary apron, is humming a carol as he chops up potatoes, and Illya isn't killing him. In fact, he's helping turn a makeshift spit over the fire with one hand, moving a tiny, intricately-carved rook across the chessboard with another. They look up when she comes in, stamping her feet to get warm and brushing the snow from her clothes.
"Welcome back, Gaby," Napoleon says warmly.
"All clear?" Illya asks, rising to his feet.
"All clear," she confirms. She dusts the snow off her coat and scarf, hanging them up on a convenient hook by the entrance.
"What's the weather like?" Napoleon asks, gesturing with his knife towards the outdoors.
"Chilly," she answers. She draws closer to the fire. "Wind's picking up."
Which spells an unpleasant four hours for Illya, but he reaches for his coat and scarf without comment. "Can you take over when you're ready?" he asks instead, nodding towards the spit.
"Of course," she agrees at once, moving to take his place by the fire. No task could be more pleasant for her chilled hands.
"I will go, then." Illya picks up a heavy-looking knapsack and heads to the door.
"What's in the pack?" Gaby asks.
"Supplies," Illya says shortly, and opens the door. A flurry of snowflakes rushes into the room.
"Dinner's at five!" Napoleon calls, but the door shuts before he finishes his sentence.
"I'm...not sure he heard," Gaby says. "And what is in that pack?"
"He's scheduled to return at five anyway, so I'm not worried." They both know Illya has a horror of being late. "As for the pack, I've no idea. Maybe it's some kind of strength training." They both also know that Illya has a habit of setting himself ridiculous physical challenges during his downtime, to stay in shape.
"So," Gaby says, "how are you going to arrange dinner? We can't all three eat together, with the patrols set up the way they are." Napoleon's scheduled to head out at five, and Illya has already seen red once today at Napoleon's perceived dereliction of duty for returning early from a patrol.
"It won't be a problem," is Napoleon's prompt reply. "I'll head out while the two of you eat."
That doesn't sit right with Gaby. "But you cooked it!"
"I can bring some with me."
"It'll be cold in ten seconds," Gaby reasons. "Eat before you go out, at least. Even if it weren't Christmas, you'll need your strength on patrol."
"Won't be ready. I have another six dishes to make." Napoleon looks tired, Gaby suddenly realises. He should have got some sleep after his patrol and chopping down, dragging in and setting up the Christmas tree that's currently twinkling merrily in a corner of the main room. Instead he went out to catch a pheasant with Illya and has spent the rest of the day making preparations.
"Does everyone you happen to spend Christmas day with get the same ten-course meal?" she asks pointedly.
To her surprise, he answers honestly. "This is the first Christmas in a long time that I've been with someone I really want to cook for. I know it's been a while since you had anything to celebrate. And it's Illya's first one ever." He flushes ever so slightly, and Gaby suddenly decides she loves this ridiculous man, whose suave exterior melts completely at the first mention of Christmas, who would slave away for hours to give his former enemy a taste of a beloved holiday tradition.
"You do know the Soviets just moved their Christmas traditions up to New Year's Day, right? They have a Santa equivalent, and a tree, and presents."
"It's not the same," Napoleon argues. "And I seriously doubt that the KGB brings presents to their thirteen-year-old trainees."
Gaby gives him a sad smile. "Fair enough." She abandons the roast pheasant for a second, and crosses the kitchen to deliver him a kiss.
It has the desired effect of easing some of the lines on his face. "Twice in one day. To what do I owe this embarrassment of riches?" Napoleon asks.
"Sometimes you're not as much of an ass as you make yourself out to be."
Napoleon scrunches up his face. "Why, thank you. I think." He returns to humming a carol. After a few notes, she recognises it. It's a German one, and so she joins in, her words mixing with his melody and rising into the rafters.
Peril is late.
Peril is never late, unless you count the time he left Napoleon sitting in an electric chair for half an hour, and then it wasn't really his fault.
"Solo? What are you doing?" Gaby asks.
Caught red-handed. Napoleon looks up from his crouching position by his bed. "Looking for my tracker," he reports, somewhat sheepishly.
"It's only been ten minutes. And the weather is pretty awful right now. Illya might have gotten stuck in a snowdrift. He'll be back," she reminds him, a little more gently than she normally would. She knows how much this means to him.
But part of Napoleon knows that a windstorm this size isn't enough to delay the Russian giant for more than a minute or two, if Illya is determined to get home on time.
"Aha." He sits down on the bed and turns it on. Despite her words, Gaby sits down beside him, and they examine the tracker together. It takes a while for him to tune in to the right frequency. It shows Illya being north-north-west of the lodge, and at the very edge of its tracking range. The dot does not move.
"That can't be right, that's beyond our patrol radius." Gaby hesitates before saying, "THRUSH?"
"No. They'd be trying to get away as quickly as possible. Or coming to attack us. And Peril would never allow himself to be captured." The man has the best survival instincts Napoleon has ever seen. He has to have, to have made it this long in the spy business. He'd started earlier than anyone.
Napoleon fetches the map, and locates the spot. "There's a small hut there."
"I think I remember seeing it in the distance on one of my patrols."
They look at each other. If Illya hasn't been captured, he must be deliberately staying away, possibly out of dislike for these Christmas traditions Napoleon is foisting on him. But no, Napoleon had made it clear that the thing he valued was the family sitting round the table together and breaking bread together, and Illya had listened, very seriously. The Russian might be stubborn, but he's not an asshole.
But then there's the knapsack. When Peril had said 'supplies', had he meant food? They all carry emergency food supplies with them when they go out on patrol, just in case they get trapped by a storm and can't get back to the lodge in a timely fashion. But what Illya had been carrying was a lot more than an emergency portion.
The idea, when it comes, knocks Napoleon for six. What if Illya had listened ever so carefully to his story, then decided that he wanted Napoleon to be able to enjoy his Christmas dinner together with Gaby, and therefore extended his patrol to give Napoleon time to eat? It's ridiculous and completely antithetical to everything Napoleon wants, but it somehow fits Illya's peculiar brand of Russian logic.
Napoleon folds up the map. "I'm going to get him." And drag him back, sit him down, and stand over him until he takes his first bite of the meal. "If I go straight there and back, I won't be more than forty-five minutes."
Gaby's lips twist unhappily - and Napoleon privately curses Illya for putting that look on her face, on such a day - but she acknowledges what has to be done. Napoleon moves about the room, prepping himself for gale-force conditions, and arming himself for a fight. With Peril, if not with THRUSH.
"Take care, Solo," Gaby says as he reaches for the door.
"Of course," Napoleon says. He braces himself for the elements, and promptly walks into the Abominable Snowman.
"Illya!" Gaby says.
Peril picks Napoleon up off the floor and sets him on his feet with embarrassing ease, and begins the process of transforming himself back into something resembling a human being. Off come the snow-encrusted clothes and boots, revealing a heaving chest and a face pink with exertion. Illya looks like he's run all the way here. He looks at his father's watch. "I am late. Apologies."
"You went beyond patrol radius," Gaby says.
Illya scowls at Napoleon. "You planted a tracker in my pack. Again."
Napoleon considers that a bit rich, coming from the man who regularly sews bugs into Napoleon's best jackets. "Never mind all that. Sit." He drags Illya over to the table. Illya surveys the cornucopia with some bafflement, so Napoleon names some of the dishes Illya is less likely to be familiar with. Caponata, it's made with eggplant. Roast chestnuts. Pasticcio al forno, Nonna's recipe. Spinach manicotti." The table has been set for the past ten minutes, so all Napoleon has to do is make sure that Illya and Gaby are comfortably seated. "Right. That should be everything. Buon appetito." He flashes them his most charming smile, and approaches the door once more.
"What do you think you are doing?" Illya asks.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm going on patrol."
"You should eat," Illya says.
"What happened to getting shot for abandoning my post?" Napoleon asks, a little testily.
"Sit down, Solo," Gaby says. "If Illya tells you it's okay, it's okay."
Napoleon sits down, uncomprehending, looking from Gaby's grinning face to Illya's solemn one.
"No one will attack in this weather," Illya says, "and no one will attack on Christmas Day."
"I seem to recall you not being very receptive to that argument earlier," Napoleon points out.
"I set up larger perimeter, with more traps," Illya admits. "If anyone crosses it, we will have half-hour's warning. Is plenty. No need for patrol tonight." His ears go pink, and this time it's not from the cold. He goes pinker still when Gaby puts a hand on his paw and squeezes it in thanks.
Napoleon stares at the Russian. So Illya had listened to his story, concluded the importance to Napoleon of the three of them - his family - sitting down together to Christmas dinner, and gone out and made all the preparations so that could happen.
He can honestly say it's the best Christmas present he's received in years.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of unfamiliar and frankly odd rituals. Illya is content to eat Solo's grandmother's food, drink the Stolichnaya, and watch Solo and Gaby make merry, although he does get dragged in sometimes, quite willingly in the case of the curious custom with the prickly plant called mistletoe.
He's on more familiar ground when Solo suggests inaugurating their new chess set after the table has been cleared. Solo begins with an unexpectedly strong opening gambit, the apt Yugoslav Attack, although it's soon clear that Solo's just memorised the opening, and once Illya starts throwing some unorthodox moves at him, his attack fizzles out. Solo rallies, though, calling Gaby to his side, and between the two of them they pose a challenge that takes some actual ingenuity to overcome.
"Your turn to pick the entertainment, Gaby," Solo says, once they've been thoroughly checkmated.
Gaby chooses dancing, of course, and Solo promptly produces a record player and a selection of records to dance to.
"You really did not listen when Mr Waverly said to pack light, did you," Illya observes, without heat this time, because he is for once glad for Solo's contempt for orders, seeing Gaby's face light up.
"Not at all, no," Solo admits, and then he and Gaby are off, dancing to a succession of quick numbers. When the music turns slow, however, Solo relinquishes his place to Illya. Heart thumping, Illya takes her tiny hand in his, and they begin to sway around the room. He is a bit stiff at first.
"Don't be so self-conscious," Gaby tells him.
"Cowboy is watching," he murmurs back.
"No, he's not," Gaby says, and swings him around to show him the proof: Solo is fast asleep in his chair. "I don't think he's slept since he started last night's watch."
Illya watches the gentle rise and fall of Solo's chest, and cannot bring himself to say idiot American or any of the usual things he would say in this situation. Gaby puts an arm on his shoulder, and he returns his attention to her. His dancing apparently improves, because Gaby does not make any further criticism, but lays her head against his chest, which must sound like a drum beating in her ear, but she does not complain. They continue like that until the record runs out, and Gaby suggests they go to bed.
"But take care of him first," she urges him, so Illya picks Solo up off his chair and carries him to his bed. Solo is so tired that he does not stir even when Illya lowers him into bed.
Illya looks down at his child-like face, the lines smoothed out in slumber, and says, "Merry Christmas, Cowboy."
"Mmm. Merry Christmas, Peril." Solo opens his eyes and gives Illya a wicked grin.
Illya sighs. "How long?"
Solo returns him a beatific smile. "You and Gaby make a lovely couple, you know that?" In other words, the whole time. Apparently the CIA gives its agents the same sleep training as the KGB. He'll have to guard against that in future.
"I am going to kill you," Illya swears.
"Can't kill me today," Solo says, burrowing into his pillow and giving a yawn. "Do it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, then," Illya agrees, and switches off the light.
In the darkness, Solo says, "Best Christmas I've had in years, Peril. Thanks."
"Same here, Cowboy," Illya says, and exits into the night.