Chapter Text
On the drive to the hospital, Illya explained the grim facts about Waverly’s condition. Faustina sat beside him, having exchanged the Rabanne for a pant suit, and absorbed his words in silence. Then, with the nervous energy that accompanied her distress, she launched into a vigorous defense of jazz fusion. Illya let her talk, her emotional and often illogical rationales pouring over him like a balm. As they navigated the hospital, he kept his hand on the small of her back, refusing to deny himself that subtle contact. Nodding to the Section III agent stationed at the door, they entered a private waiting room. Mrs. Waverly sat in an armchair knitting something pink and unidentifiable.
“Aunt,” Faustina cried and bent to embrace the elderly woman.
“My dear, hello. Do mind my knitting.” Her delicately-lined face was dignified and composed. “Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Mrs. Waverly,” he said with a nod.
“Isn’t your dance tonight?” She shook her head. “Really, there was no need to pull you away.”
“Nonsense, of course, we’d come,” Faustina said as she sat on the arm of the chair. “You shouldn't be alone at a time like this.”
“It’s preferable to being fussed over by a pack of long faces,” she replied matter-of-factly, then drew attention to her knitting. “I've grown quite accustomed to these sorts of waits in my lifetime.”
Illya said, “If you'd rather we go, please say so. We’ll understand.”
“You are welcome to stay. I would not expect much fuss from any of Alexander’s agents. On the contrary, I usually find you to be a steady, comforting presence,” Mrs. Waverly replied, then pursed her lips as Faustina toyed with the edge of her knitting. “Please, dear, you’ll cause me to drop a stitch. Besides, young man, aren’t you the one who likes to blend in?”
“Yes, Aunt,” Faustina said, before Illya could respond to the unexpected sally. “Soon we won’t even know he’s here. Furniture is one of his specialties.” There was something proprietary about her amused glance, and it did strange things to his chest.
“Speaking of furniture, perhaps you could sit on some properly.” Mrs. Waverly shooed her off the arm of the chair. “Really, what would your grandmother say?”
“Yes, Aunt,” Faustina repeated meekly, but with twitching lips. She took a seat on the couch beside Illya. “Would you tell us more of what happened? Uncle Alex seemed in the pink when I saw him yesterday.”
Mrs. Waverly continued knitting, Continental fashion, hands low in her lap. “It was all the work of Providence. This evening Alexander told me of strange pains. The doctors were inclined to pooh-pooh it, but if it was enough for Alexander to complain, I knew it must be serious. I was insistent that they not release him without running thorough tests. That's when they made their discovery and whisked him off to surgery.”
“Brava, dearest,” Faustina said. “He's lucky to have you as his champion.”
Mrs. Waverly colored faintly. “Nonsense. I don't believe in luck. Alexander is precisely where he's meant to be. We could easily have gone home none the wiser, but Providence had other plans. Alexander has more to do in this life, I'm certain of it.”
Not for the first time, Illya marveled at the stalwart faith and intrepid spirit of their chief’s wife. In respect of her preferences, he steered the conversation to more light-hearted topics and asked about her grandson Marvin. Mrs. Waverly seemed gratified by the question and related several chatty stories of her grandchildren. Eventually, a volunteer came by with a snack cart. Illya and Faustina had coffee while Mrs. Waverly sipped tea and raised amused brows at Illya’s plateful of snacks. Conversation tapered off as they ate, and they fell into a reflective silence. Mrs. Waverly resumed her knitting. Illya read a magazine. Faustina turned on the radio.
Illya was not surprised when, after a time, Faustina began to pace. She had always hated stakeouts, much preferring active surveillance. If there were the possibility of donning a nurse’s uniform and being in the operating theater, she would be there. Watching her stride across the length of the room, he considered how best to suggest they wait out the surgery elsewhere.
“Do stop prowling like a caged animal,” Mrs. Waverly requested. “Are you certain you don’t want to return to your dance?”
Faustina flopped back onto the couch. “Of course not.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to read aloud. I know Alexander has appreciated it during your visits.”
“I’ll see if the hospital library is open,” Faustina said, hopping to her feet. “What would you prefer? Dickens? Austen?”
“Midcult. Her newest one, if they have it, but Pieces of Fate will be fine.”
Faustina pretended to be scandalized. “Really, Aunt, what would my grandmother say?”
Mrs. Waverly’s lips curved. “I suggest you pay a visit to the chapel, as well. A little time with the Almighty will do you good.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what my grandmother would say,” she teased, then threw up her hands at Mrs. Waverly’s pointed look. “I go, I go.”
Mrs. Waverly shook her head, smiling fondly, as the door closed behind Faustina. “Just as cheeky as ever. I warned Alexander that she’d lead him a merry dance, but he was adamant about her joining UNCLE.”
“He has excellent instincts about such things,” Illya said, surprised by this confidence. “Miss Pemberley has proven to be a fine agent.”
“So he’s told me,” she said, then looked at Illya archly. “Which makes me wonder, who is it she has dancing?”
Illya could think of no appropriate reply. To his relief, Mrs. Waverly returned to her knitting, and he selected a new magazine. Twenty minutes and two magazines later, Illya could not seem find a comfortable position on the couch. His eyes frequently traveled to the door.
“Is that an interesting article, young man?”
Illya tore his eyes from the door and looked at Mrs. Waverly in confusion.
“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes,” she said, gazing at him with motherly kindness. “Mr. Kuryakin...Illya. There are times for one to blend in to the furniture. And then there are times for one to dance.”
He sighed and allowed himself a small, self-deprecating smile. “Will you be all right for a while?”
“Right as rain. I'm well occupied, and there is an agent at the door. And in the unlikely event of a threat, I have my knitting needles.” Her eyes twinkled. “They can kill a man six different ways. A gift from Alexander.”
Illya glanced at the innocent-looking tools clicking industriously in her lap, and a chuckle escaped him. “Excuse me, then, ma’am.” He made for the door.
“She needs a good cry, young man,” Mrs. Waverly added. “Don't let her return without one.”
Illya found the small, narrow chapel on the first floor. A table of votive candles stood by the door. One had recently been lit. Illya took a match, and catching the fire from Faustina’s candle, lit another. “For Alexander Waverly,” he whispered.
Faustina was kneeling at the prayer rail at the front of the chapel. Not wanting to disturb her, Illya sat down in a pew toward the rear. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of beeswax and wood polish and the tiniest trace of incense. Her murmured entreaties floated back to him, a mix of extemporaneous petitions and High Church prayers. Some he recognized as Orthodox, which they could both trace to a grandmother’s knee. Such were the strange threads that connected them. As exhaustion began to overtake him, strands of white and red merged into a fuzzy pink something in the lap of an elderly woman.
Her prayers completed, Faustina came and stood at the edge of Illya’s pew. He opened one eye at her, then patted the seat next to him. After a slight hesitation, she sat down. His arm, which lay along the back of the pew, came to rest on her shoulders. He started to hum quietly, and she leaned into him to listen. Illya took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and sang, “You'll search and you'll search, but you'll never find no way on earth to gain peace of mind.” She smiled in wonder as he did his best Elvis impersonation. “Take your troubles to the chapel. Get down on your knees and pray. Then your burdens will be lighter, and you'll surely find the way.”
She was chuckling as he finished. He said, “I also do ‘Viva Las Vegas,’ but this hardly seems the appropriate place.” Faustina’s chuckles turned to peals of laughter, and she clapped her free hand over her mouth. She laughed until tears came to her eyes, and the storm finally broke. Illya gathered her to his chest as she wept. She cried like she argued, noisily, gustily, holding nothing back. Great, shuddering sobs wracked her body, and he rocked her gently, murmuring half-remembered phrases from his childhood. Then as quickly as it came, the storm passed, and only watery hiccups remained.
He offered her his handkerchief, and she sat up to mop her face. The linen came away stained black and shimmering with glitter. “Oh, no, my makeup. I’m a mess.”
“I know.” He pulled a dampened washcloth from beside him and smiled at her surprise. “I passed a housekeeping trolley on the way here.” Cradling her chin, he gently wiped her face until all the cosmetics were gone. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”
Blue eyes held grey. Faustina was the first to drop her gaze. “I’ve ruined your coat.”
He looked down at the damp, glittering stain that marred the front of his jacket. “It won't be the first dry cleaning bill you’ve paid for,” he said.
“Nor the last,” she replied.
Those three words were more potent than the slivovitz. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. Minutes passed; they remained in place, content to let their breathing align and their disordered thoughts settle. Eventually, Faustina sighed. “Mrs. Waverly will wonder where we are.”
Illya didn’t move. “She is fine. Mr. Waverly specially commissioned her knitting needles.”
“How romantic,” Faustina said with a chuckle.
Illya felt her laughter resonate throughout his body, and he became uncomfortably aware that they sat in a chapel, the twelve apostles staring down at them from stained glass. Reluctantly, he pulled back. “We should go.”
Faustina had yet to get a book, so they went in search of the library. It proved to be closed for the night, but a cart at the door held a few returned volumes, including Jacqueline Midcult’s latest potboiler. On their return to the waiting room, Mrs. Waverly regarded Faustina’s clean, red-rimmed eyes in satisfaction. Shades of Night was a surprisingly taut thriller about a former spy seeking to start a new life; Jacqueline’s writing had matured. During Chapter Two, Mrs. Waverly put her knitting aside and leaned her head back. Soon she was sleeping.
Illya snaked an arm behind Faustina and pulled her close. “What are you doing?” she asked, even as she settled more comfortably against him.
“Dancing,” he said. Faustina raised her brows at him, but he only smiled mysteriously. She continued to read aloud until her yawns punctuated each paragraph. He took the book from her hands and drew her head against his shoulder. “Get some rest.”
She closed her eyes. Soon her breathing became steady. Illya felt his own lids begin to droop. He bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m sorry I was an ass.” At first he thought she hadn’t heard him, but then she snuggled closer. “Takes one to know one,” she murmured. He pressed a kiss into her hair, then laid his own head back.
They were awakened some time later by a knock on the door and the entrance of a nurse. Her business-like demeanor gave them no hint of what her news would be.
“The surgery was successful,” she said, pausing to let them absorb her words. She turned to Mrs. Waverly. “Your husband is in recovery. You’ll be able to see him in a little while.”
"Thank Heavens,” Mrs. Waverly declared, tears in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tiny square of lace and linen, then peppered the nurse with questions.
Faustina collapsed back against the couch in relief. Illya squeezed her hand. “I will call headquarters with the good news. Then I should talk with the surgeon so I can make a complete report to Napoleon,” he said.
“I’d like stay here until Uncle Alex is out of recovery.”
“I understand. But report back to headquarters afterwards.” She looked at him quizzically. “Senior agent,” he said, his eyes intense. “Please.”
“All right.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. Then, with a few polite words to Mrs. Waverly, he left.