Chapter Text
He had no idea how long he had been sitting on the bed, numb, staring out the window on what was looking like a fine spring afternoon. His eyes wandered to the white ceramic keepsake on the night stand with the child’s handprint pressed into it. He picked it up and stared at it for a bit then pocketed it.
It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes or even hours later, he finally rose, and, lowering himself to his knees, he reached under the bed and pulled out the stack of record albums that had resided there for years. He noted dimly that there was no dust on them. He sat back down on the bed hugging the albums to his chest to try to fill the emptiness he felt inside and resumed his gaze through the window.
Finally, Napoleon heaved himself off the bed and carried the albums into the apartment’s dining area to set them carefully on the table with the hand print, adding them to the guitar, collecton of books, medals from his friend’s military service and other pieces of the sparse memorabilia collection in the apartment.
***
It had been two weeks since they lost contact with Illya. He had completed his assignment in Bhopal and was reporting that he was on his way out the country when he was cut off, mid transmission. A week of searching the area yielded no clues as to his whereabouts or his fate. Napoleon had finally been called home, Illya being presumed dead. He supposed it was going to happen at some point, that one of them wasn’t going to make it back from an assignment, but Napoleon still wasn’t prepared for when it actually happened. Maybe he was in shock, but the full weight of the enormity of the loss didn’t hit him until he came home.
When he returned from India Waverly offered condolences, watching him carefully as he spoke, “This has to be very difficult for you, Mister Solo. I know you and Mister Kuryakin were close.”
‘Close?’ He was my dearest friend and he took half of me with him. ‘Difficult’ isn’t the word.
“Mister Solo, I think it would be best if I assigned you to Section I for the time being. Your assistance is needed with reviewing field reports and planning strategy for upcoming assignments. We could also use your help in assigning our newer, younger, agents to assignments as they arise. I will be retiring at some point and since you are next in line for this position, you should have a chance to get your feet wet for when the time comes.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
“For now, though, you should take the week off. Take a week. You are all Mister Kuryakin had and his apartment and property needs to be handled. Do let me know if you need any assistance.”
With that, he dismissed his chief enforcement officer. Napoleon left rather stiffly, Waverly noting that the normally ebullient Solo had been quite subdued, overhearing remarks from some of the staff that nobody had seen him smile since he returned from searching for Illya. All attempts at condolences were met with nothing more than a nod. It can’t be helped but close relationships are often formed between men who faced death together and it’s wrenching for the one left behind.
Napoleon was next in line for head of Section I and Waverly had to be sure he had it in him to send young men and women on assigments with the possibility of their not returning.
***
Waverly gave him a week to take care of Illya’s property and time to grieve before jumping back into work. He would have preferred to work, but he did have one more thing he could do for Illya.
He scanned the collection on the table. This stuff he was going to keep. He didn’t know for sure, but he felt that Illya would want him to have it.
Looking through the kitchen, he noted that the refrigerator and cupbards were stocked with food with the expectation that the owner would return to eat it. Napoleon almost smiled to himself at the thought of his friend’s appetite. How he remained so slender considering what he ate never failed to amaze him.
The food could be donated to the Salvation Army. The furniture and books to various church groups and the Russian community in Brooklyn. He would make the calls tomorrow, he decided. It was late Tuesday afternoon, he had time.
Unwilling to leave Illya’s apartment just yet, he sat down on the couch. Inspiration struck, so he rose and sifted through Illya’s hidden record collection, thinking he wouldn’t have to hide them any more, and selected the Miles Davis album, Kind of Blue. Turning on the record player, he loaded the album and selected a song at random, “All Blues.” He thought playing Illya’s favorite music would give him a sense of his presence a little while longer.
The piano was joined with horns and snare drum into a bluesy jazz piece that he found quite pleasant. He stood at the player reading the back of the album.
“That one was always my favorite,” came the voice behind him.