N.B.: Although this story is primarily Napoleon/Illya, it revolves around and through The Sentinel episode The Real Deal, in which Robert Vaughn (a.k.a. "Napoleon Solo") played washed up actor "Vince Deal." If you haven't seen The Real Deal, it won't make any sense at all, so find a friend with a copy or catch it on the Sci-Fi Channel. Conversely, if you haven't seen any episodes of The Man from U.N.C.L.E., it probably won't make much sense either, so get thee to a video store. :)
The Real Deal loses a lot without the performances of all those involved, but here's a transcript of the ep if you can't get a copy.
N.B. #2: In our universe, most of the events in Return of the Man from U.N.C.L.E. (a.k.a. The Fifteen Years Affair) never happened—and it will be pretty darned obvious why. :)
"Open Channel D, please."
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, go ahead."
"We've located the satrap, sir, and are moving into position to take it down. Is there any additional information about the Hydra Protection Agency which has been uncovered?"
"No. You and Mr. Solo may proceed."
"Understood. Close Channel D."
How in the world did I manage to let him talk me into this one again? The maintenance worker stopped to brush the sweat out of his eyes, momentarily leaning against his mop. He suppressed a devilish smile as he watched the dapper older gentleman make his way out of the Major Crimes unit, escorted by the Australian inspector.
Yes, the rose boutonnière was a good finishing touch, he thought. Major Crimes hadn't known what had hit them this morning.
He moved the mop bucket closer to the elevator, near enough to overhear the conversation.
"Any chance for dinner?" The old fool was hitting on her, right in front of him! He smiled to himself. Oh, my dear Mr. Deal, you are going to have fun explaining that later.
"Tonight? Um, sorry..." The inspector did look genuinely apologetic, but still, she'd said no. Luckily for Deal.
"It's the age thing. But I'm still a child inside and I'm reasonably well-preserved on the outside."
The janitor's lips quirked as he straightened his coveralls, brushing a piece of lint attached to the embroidered "Ivan" just over the pocket.
"No question," the inspector answered, "but I'm on the night watch. Another time?"
Really, hitting on women who'd been fans of that ridiculous show. But at least the woman had good taste. He stifled a twinge of jealousy. Well, there's proof we haven't done this in a long time. As if I needed it.
"Another time. Thanks, Megan."
"Thank you." The Aussie had the most marvelous accent. Maybe he'd have the professor find a reason to visit with her...
He looked up as Vince Deal turned to enter the elevator and suppressed another smile as Deal winked at him. His heart lifted and Ivan the janitor began to whistle softly as he quickly finished mopping the rest of hallway floor.
"Open Channel A."
"Not now!"
Ivan pretended to give the mopping all his attention as Blair Sandburg exited the conference room. Wouldn't do to be caught eavesdropping.
"Megan. So—was he hitting on you?" Blair certainly had an infectious smile, Ivan thought. He made people all around him brighten up when he focused that beam on them, and never more than when he was teasing.
"Hmm... more like a light tap. Actually, I find him rather charming," replied Megan.
Ivan suppressed a smile. Vince, you haven't lost your touch.
"He is old enough to be your father."
Oh, come on, Blair, surely age doesn't matter if you really love the person in question.
"Sandy, are you jealous?"
"Jealous? Me? No! Come on. No. I'm just, I'm... concerned, all right. I don't want you falling for an image."
But it's such a marvelous image...
"Oh, really? Well, at least he has one."
Ouch. She certainly got you on that one, Blair. And here comes trouble. Ellison looks like a thundercloud. Just a bit of jealousy there, I think.
"Excuse me, Connor. Let's go, Romeo. We gotta pick up a warrant downtown." The irritation in Ellison's voice was loud and clear.
There, if that wasn't enough to prove his hypothesis that they were feeling more than just friendship, he didn't know what was. Getting a little territorial, Ellison? The janitor smiled to himself. I know just how you feel. Pity Blair wasn't picking up on it today. Or was choosing to ignore it. Usually he was much brighter than this.
"Hey, what do you think of my image?"
Oh Blair, you are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?
"Your image?"
"Be gentle."
"I don't know. Cut your hair. Run for president. I'll vote for you. I don't care."
Be just a bit more sincere with that disinterest, Ellison, and I might believe you. And there. That smile of Blair's—if that wasn't the smile of a man falling in love, he'd let his partner win the next game of chess.
"Open Channel A, please." A moment of silence, then: "Hi."
"Hi there."
"Where are you?"
"On my way to Miss Volker's house. What are you doing tonight?"
"I will keep an eye on Hydra. You watch to make sure no one destroys evidence at Miss Volker's before Ellison and Mr. Sandburg arrive."
"Yes, sir!"
"Do not use that tone with me, tovarishch, you know as well as I do that we are getting too old for anything more active."
"You're such a spoilsport."
"It is only because—how do you say it?—because I care, lyubovnik."
"You say that about a lot of things, including my pork chops."
A muffled laugh filtered over the comm pen. "Dr. Martinez says they are not good for you and since I intend to keep you around for another forty years, no more pork chops. Now, go and watch that poor young lady's house and stay out of trouble."
A long-suffering sigh was heard on the other end of the communications channel. "Yes, Illya."
Vince waved jauntily at the two occupants of the Ford pickup as it drove away, suppressing a sigh. His head hurt and he was not looking forward to the tongue-lashing he was about to receive, even though he knew it would be delivered in a whisper under the droning of committee members.
Then there was the fact he was hungry. With only the best of intentions he'd tried to make breakfast for the two young men, which had turned out to be a complete and utter disaster. It always looked so easy when he watched at home, but he was beginning to appreciate the skill involved. Now, if they'd had some pork chops, maybe things would have gone better.
He turned and walked up the steps to City Hall, hands deep in his pockets, head down. Last night, although it had not gone as expected, had been a success. Certain assumptions had been disproved, others solidified. That part of his job was going well, at least.
The parade commission was already assembled when Vince entered the conference room. A quick look around told him Professor Karenin hadn't arrived. He pasted on a smile and greeted the other members, flirting with the women as he worked the room.
Finally, the chairman cleared his throat. "Please, please, let's everyone take a seat at the conference table. We won't wait any longer for Professor Karenin, we'll just catch him up when he shows."
Everyone took a seat, Vince making sure he kept the vacant one next to him as he sat down. The meeting had been underway for a while when the door opened and admitted the missing member. The blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses scanned the room and saw the only empty seat was next to a smiling Vince Deal. Karenin sighed and made his way to the table, a briefcase in his hand.
"I apologize for being late, ladies and gentlemen," Karenin said diffidently. "I had a meeting with one of my students that went a bit long." He sat down and placed the briefcase on the floor beside his chair.
"No problem, Nicky!" Vince slapped him on the back, much to the professor's annoyance. Vince motioned to the chairman. "You continue on, let me get the professor up to speed here." He pulled his chair closer to Karenin's and started speaking in low tones as the meeting went on around them.
"So, Nicky," Vince said softly, his dark eyes alight with mischief. "How's that student of yours doing?"
The eyes that looked back were annoyed as Karenin replied in an angry whisper. "I'm not at all happy with his progress, I'm afraid. It would seem he stayed out a bit too late last night and as a result has a very sore head." The professor leaned back slightly and crossed his arms over his chest.
Vince bit his lip and glanced around at the others; they were all deep in conversation. "Well, I'm sure it's not too bad if he's up and about today. And, hopefully," he added meaningfully, "he has someone at home to make him feel better."
Karenin's gaze softened. "I'm sure he does but that does not excuse his choosing to ignore his assignment. If he hadn't managed to give me a call last night and tell me he would be staying with friends he would have more than a headache to worry about at this point."
"Ah, understood." Deal took another surreptitious glance around the table. "You, ah, sure you're going to be able to get me out of this grand marshal thing this year?"
"Yes. There's going to be a Braddock's Way convention in Omaha that weekend. Good syndication numbers there, you know." The blue eyes were guileless.
Vince stared at the professor.
"You are an evil man, Karenin."
"Open Channel A."
"Hi."
"Hi there."
"I got into the agency."
"Really? Without getting conked on the head? How did that occur?"
"Pitched myself to R.J. as a celebrity spokesman. She bought it on the spot."
"If you keep that up, I am going to get you a 'return of' movie deal."
"Very funny."
"Did you learn anything useful?"
"Ellison and I downloaded some files from the restricted computers. We'll see what turns up."
"Excellent. I'm off to meet Mr. Sandburg now. Close Channel A."
"Mr. Sandburg, you're late." Stern blue eyes watched as Blair Sandburg flung himself into the chair facing the professor's desk.
"Oh man, I know, I'm sorry, Dr. Karenin. Lots of stuff going on at the precinct today. You wanna hear about it?" Blair dumped his overloaded backpack on the floor next to his chair and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
Dr. Karenin steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, watching as the younger man grabbed a hair band from his breast pocket and quickly pulled his long curls into a ponytail. "Not this time, I'm afraid. I have a staff meeting in a few hours so we will have to stay on task. Where did we leave off last time?"
They spent the next twenty minutes or so reviewing Blair's latest findings, both absorbed in the research until a trilling from Blair's backpack interrupted them.
Blair grimaced apologetically and made a tentative reach for the cell phone. Karenin shrugged and leaned back, his raised eyebrow signifying his annoyance. The younger man swallowed and pulled out the phone to check the caller I.D.
"Oh, man, I gotta take this—it's the PD."
Karenin waved his hand and picked up a report, pretending to become interested in it while listening intently to Blair's side of the conversation.
"Sandburg. Jeez, man, I can't talk right now... Jim, c'mon, you gotta calm down! Calling Vince an overstuffed, toupéed relic from the decade of ugly is really counterproductive here! Yeah, yeah, I know you think he's a pain in the ass but his heart is in the right place... no, I didn't say you were overreacting, it's just that—"
Blair stood up and began pacing, unaware of the wide-eyed, pink-cheeked professor watching his every move over the top of the papers he held.
"Jim, will you relax? Do some deep-breathing exercises or something—what? What did I say? Man, you are one grumpy vaquero today, buddy—"
Karenin cleared his throat and glared at Blair, then pointedly glanced at his watch.
"Uh, Jim, I gotta go. I'll catch up with you at home, ok? No, I won't let Vince near the food processor anymore—I think he broke it anyway—" Karenin watched as Blair flinched and held the phone away from his ear.
"Yeah, I'll pick up some Salvadoran food on the way home. Play nice with the old dude, ok? That could be you some day..." Blair snorted with laughter. "Uh, Jim, man, that's not physically possible... yeah, you too. Bye." He turned off the phone and returned it to his backpack.
"I'm really sorry about that. My friend's kinda having a bad day with this weird old actor guy that hangs around the precinct sometimes—"
Karenin raised a hand, softening his words with a smile. "Mr. Sandburg, please. You can tell me some other time but right now we're behind and I have that meeting to attend?"
Blair nodded and retook his seat. "Right, ok. So my hypothesis is that there is a connection between heightened sensory perception and the metaphysical..."
The meeting progressed until a light knock at the door announced Karenin's secretary.
"Doctor, it's time to leave for your four o'clock."
Karenin nodded and stood up, gathering papers and placing them in his briefcase. Blair also stood, grabbing his backpack.
"All right, Mr. Sandburg, your link between enhanced senses and the paranormal is intriguing but your research is insufficient. I don't know that it would be appropriate to include it at this time."
Blair nodded. "I know. I doubt I'll have another chance to investigate it before I publish but it was pretty cool." He grinned and Karenin found himself smiling in return.
"I'm sure." Karenin held out his hand and they shook, quickly making plans for their next appointment. Blair left and Karenin closed his briefcase and turned off his computer. Just as he was reaching the door he paused as a thought struck him. He returned to his desk and pulled out a phone directory and opened it, swiftly finding what he was looking for. He picked up the phone and dialed.
"Yes, hello. Do you carry food processors?"
"Open Channel A."
"Hello."
"I can't stand this!"
"What, tovarishch?"
"Having to pretend to be a harmless and scared old coot!"
A startled chortle of laughter filtered over the communications channel. "But you are a 'harmless old coot.'"
"You just wait until I get you alone. I'll show you 'old.'"
"I shall look forward to it."
"But that's beside the point—Ellison's condescending attitude really chaps my hide!"
"Hmmmm, yes, I suppose it would."
"What'd'ya mean by that? It's your fault I have to act this way."
"Consider it repayment for choosing such a horrible name as Karenin for a Russian college professor."
"Repayment?!? I've been doing Deal since 1974, damn it! You've only had to put up with Karenin for a few years!"
"I merely had the foresight to balance out your karma, lyubovnik."
A moment of silence passed.
"You've been advising Blair too long. Karma my—"
"Napoleon!"
"Yes, Illya?"
"We have work to do."
"Oh, really? Could've fooled me. Thought I was just a harmless old coot. Everybody knows harmless old coots don't do work."
A loving sigh drifted across the comm channel. "Just ignore his jibes and get back to the loft. Did you not say the group of you are scheming tonight?"
"Ha! Like Ellison will listen to a word I say."
"Napoleon."
Solo heaved a great put-upon sigh. "All right, all right."
"Oh, and Napoleon?"
"What now?"
"Blair is bringing Salvadoran food tonight. Be careful you don't have anything too spicy that will cause you problems."
Napoleon smiled. "I will, Illyuska. Close Channel A."
The figure in black shivered slightly as the night breeze took on a cool edge. His eyes were riveted on the lights in the apartment on the third floor, the windows there framed by a small balcony. Occasionally he would see shadows move behind the drawn blinds, his heart pounding just a little harder whenever he thought he recognized one in particular.
The cold bothered him more now than it used to. Assignments like this used to be his bread and butter; the elements were only something to work around, not bemoan. But now, he liked his comforts: warm fires, good food, a state of the art sound system.
Then there were the intangible luxuries, the ones that meant something. The reward of Napoleon's smile when something forbidden appeared on the dinner table. The ability to openly share sorrow when the news came of another old comrade passing away. The countless games of Botticelli that always had the winner demanding the same sweet concession from the loser. Smiling at his imagery, he pulled the black jacket tighter, wishing he had his gloves but knowing they would look absurd in May, even in the Pacific Northwest.
Yes, he had gotten soft. Decadent, even. Retirement was good; no, it was wonderful, because he wasn't alone.
Except tonight.
A faint burst of laughter drifted down to him and he sighed. He didn't begrudge what he was doing; he trusted Ellison to keep his partner safe. This wasn't about protection, although, he thought ruefully, there was a bit of that, too.
No, this was about saying goodnight.
Patiently he waited, sitting deep inside the doorway of the apartment building across from the loft. The street was quiet with not a lot of traffic or pedestrians to distract him. The night was clear, and when he found his attention drifting he amused himself by picking out constellations and naming them in four different languages.
A noise from the building across from him had him standing, leaning deeper into the darkness to avoid being seen.
Ah, the Australian inspector was finally leaving. Things should begin to slow down now, thankfully. Waiting at home for him was a glass of cognac and a soft bed. Unfortunately, he knew he would not sleep well in that bed until this operation was concluded.
He watched her walk to her car, scanning the surroundings for danger out of habit. As she drove off he returned his attention to the window, now slightly dimmer as lights in the loft were methodically extinguished.
A slight twitching of the blinds gave him his signal. He stepped onto the sidewalk, making sure he was bathed in the light of the streetlamp. Almost holding his breath, he stared at the blinds, needing only one thing to end his day.
Finally, the blind was swept away from one of the french doors. There, illuminated from behind, was Napoleon, his hand pressed against the glass in a gesture of subdued longing. Illya raised his hand in response, then quickly stepped back into the shadows when the outline of Jim Ellison suddenly insinuated itself between Napoleon and the door. The blind was dropped quickly and the figures moved away.
But it was enough. Illya smiled as he imagined the scolding Napoleon was now receiving at the hands of the detective.
Ah well, he chuckled to himself as he reached his black four by four and climbed in, it was worth it.
And Napoleon would be the first to admit it.
"Open Channel A."
"Hi."
"Hi there."
"You know, that Captain Banks is really a light touch."
"Oh? What has brought you to that conclusion?"
"Ellison and I were in a bit of a ruckus this afternoon, and when he brought me back to the station, Captain Banks actually tried to cajole 'Vince' out of his funk with some of his special coffee."
"My God, Napoleon, the world is going to come to an end! You were wrong about a person's character!"
"Oh, shut up."
"No, really, Napoleon, I must mark this on my calendar."
"Ha. Ha."
"There, now that it is written down Napoleon Solo was wrong at least once in his life, I should like you to define 'a bit.'"
"Ah, well..."
"Yes, that is what I imagined. Really, Napoleon, you must be more careful."
Napoleon smiled, rolled his eyes and, in his most put-upon voice, chorused "Yes, Illya."
The sun glinted dully off the black hood of the four by four. The blond man behind the dark glasses sighed and did another visual sweep of the front of Hydra Protection Agency.
A man not easily angered, Illya nonetheless felt annoyed that a group of people would train to protect the population then promptly go out and exploit it. He had seen countless variations over the years and yet it never ceased to bring out the side of him Napoleon playfully—and respectfully—called "the wolfhound."
The fact that not only his partner was at risk but also two men he privately considered friends simply fed the flames of his ire. And yet here he was, relegated to surveillance while Napoleon had all the fun across town.
Illya smiled to himself. His partner, bumbling façade and all, was having a great time. All Napoleon's grumbling about Jim Ellison and his reluctance to renew the Vince Deal persona could not erase the fact that he was enjoying being hip deep in a case again.
Illya ejected the finished CD and replaced it with the Ferriante. Spanish guitar was a particular favorite of his and he was glad once again that Napoleon talked him into upgrading the sound system in the new Jeep. As the melodious sound began to fill the cab of the truck, he sat up abruptly.
Coming out of the agency was the blond woman, R.J. Shannon. Illya watched as she trotted over to her Lexus. Even from his vantage point across the street he could see she was highly agitated. He reached reflexively into his jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around the communicator there, but hesitated before pulling it out. On this operation, all communications had to originate with Napoleon. It simply wouldn't do to have Vince Deal's ball point pen whistling at an inopportune time.
Illya watched as Shannon drove away, feeling helpless. Unable to contact Napoleon, he knew he must bide his time and stick with his assignment.
He shifted in his seat and settled back in to wait.
"Open Channel A!"
"What's wrong?"
"Shannon and Bentley have Blair and Megan. I'm tailing."
"Understood. Leave the channel open this time."
Illya tossed the communicator onto the seat beside him and started the engine. A quick glance in the rearview mirror and he pulled out, simultaneously leaning over to switch on the special U.N.C.L.E. GPS system to begin tracking his partner.
The small screen between the seats blinked on and he quickly oriented himself. Napoleon was currently just coming away from the false apartment used for the undercover operation and was heading into an area of light manufacturing and warehouses in a hilly part of town near the waterfront.
Oh dear. It also seemed he was going at a rather high rate of speed.
Eight minutes later Illya knew he was close. He was following Napoleon's signal doggedly, all his questions about the safety of the two young people resting on finding his partner. In the back of his mind he tucked away the fear that Napoleon had commandeered a police vehicle or some such nonsense. Hopefully it hadn't happened that way; the best scenario he could imagine was that Napoleon had managed to call him before taking off with a quite probably enraged Ellison driving. That thought had Illya accelerating just a bit more.
It was an idle hope.
Illya pulled to a stop on a street that intersected the one he knew Napoleon was traveling on. In a matter of seconds he should see his partner coming from his right to his left. Luckily there was no one behind him, so Illya waited.
Twenty seconds later, eyes intent on the road, he saw a black car moving towards him at a high rate of speed. His pulse began to race as adrenaline hit his system, but he waited calmly. Eyes narrowed behind the sunglasses, he watched the black car approach. In it he could see the two ex-FBI agents, the woman turned around and staring behind her as Bentley crouched over the steering wheel.
Straining forward, Illya saw the flashing lights from the cab of Ellison's truck coming behind the black car and a small amount of tension left his body. Although he couldn't make out the person sitting next to Ellison he assumed it was Napoleon.
That assumption was shattered when the black car flew past him. Illya had not been able to see, but there was apparently a car wedged between the fleeing criminals and Ellison's Ford. A tan colored sedan was right on the tail of the black car, weaving and swaying in its attempt to stick close. The momentary relief Illya felt when he saw the flashing red light from the dashboard was blown away when he recognized the grim faced driver.
A string of Russian expletives turned the air in the Jeep blue as Illya savagely put the truck back in gear and pulled out after the Ford, his mind automatically registering it was a terrified Blair in the truck next to Ellison.
He turned left in pursuit. Just as he finished the turn he was astonished to see the Ford pull even with Napoleon's car, Blair's arm waving frantically at Napoleon to veer off.
Oh, you tell him, young man, Illya thought heatedly. And to his surprise Napoleon did just that, turning down a side street and leaving the chase to Ellison.
Which is what Illya intended to do. Knowing Blair was safe—or relatively, given Ellison's driving history—Illya decided to track down his errant partner. He turned down the same street that Napoleon had but to his consternation the beige sedan was nowhere in sight.
God, Napoleon, where are you now?
On a hunch Illya made another left turn into an alley—right into a flock of plastic pink flamingoes that littered the ground.
Oh well, Illya thought as he stepped on the gas—at least I know Napoleon's been here.
He proceeded down the alley, then slammed on the brakes.
At the end of the street the nose of the black car was wedged deep into a television repair shop, Bentley and Shannon already being placed in custody by an obviously furious Jim Ellison. Beside the beige sedan stood Blair and a very unrepentant-looking Napoleon.
His hands shaking, Illya pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. He watched as more squad cars joined the scene, the end of the block quickly clogging with personnel and emergency vehicles.
In the middle of it all stood Napoleon, center of attention and actually looking a bit uncomfortable with it all. Illya removed his sunglasses and watched for a bit, then opened the door, climbed out of the Jeep and leaned against the hood.
And waited.
Within a few minutes, Napoleon broke off a conversation and raised his head, searching the growing crowd of onlookers. As if drawn by a thread, brown eyes finally connected with blue.
For a breath, they stared at each other. Then Illya nodded and raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute before climbing back into the Jeep and driving away.
"Open Channel A, please."
"Hi."
"Hi there. How are you feeling?"
"Pooped."
A startled laugh from the man at the other end of the comm channel made the older man smile. "Ready to be home."
"Are you all in one piece still?"
"What, you thought I wouldn't be?"
Silence was his only answer.
"Oh, really, you'd think I wasn't a secret agent and hadn't taken care of myself for years and years already."
Illya coughed.
"Oh, all right, I see your point."
"Thank you. Are you ready to leave now?"
"Yes, more than ready now."
"Four Seasons, room 1121. I'll be there after I've run a little errand."
"Understood. Close Channel A."
The lean, fair-haired figure pulled away from the wall of the alley and watched with a narrowed gaze as Vince Deal emerged from the precinct across the street. Although it was almost dark, the blue eyes had no problem following Deal as he stepped to the curb, looked both ways and crossed, angling slightly away from his silent observer. When Deal reached the other side he continued up the street and the man from the alley pursued him quietly, blending in with the other pedestrians but drawing closer with each step.
Deal walked on, his stride purposeful, as he made his way up the street towards the Four Seasons Cascade, the city's most famous and expensive hotel. He smiled benignly at the occasional second glance he received, inured to it now after years of second rate celebrity.
Stopping at the light across from the impressive façade of the hotel, Deal showed no surprise when his pursuer came up behind him.
"Enjoy your car chase, Napoleon?" came the soft voice.
Napoleon Solo lifted his shoulders in an infinitesimal shrug. "You never let me drive. How could I pass up an opportunity like that?"
The light changed and they moved with the crowd across the street. Before the blond man moved away in the opposite direction he slipped something in Napoleon's pocket. Napoleon slid his eyes after the man before making his way to the lobby of the ornate hotel. Stopping briefly to sign an autograph for a middle-aged woman in a cheap Chanel knock-off, he entered the first available elevator and pressed the button for the eleventh floor.
Forty-five minutes later Napoleon emerged from the shower, clad in his favorite deep brown velour robe. He helped himself to the honor bar, breaking open the small bottle of Chivas and pouring it over a glass of ice. Moving to the window, he cradled the drink in his hand, sipping occasionally, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Before he was halfway through his drink the door opened and the fair-haired man slipped in. Napoleon didn't turn from the view, but his stomach tightened in anticipation. Behind him he heard the man lay the keycard on the bureau before coming up and gently removing the glass from his hand and setting it on the table.
Dark eyes met ice blue.
"Hi."
"Hi there."
The two forms came together in a smooth embrace, no less fervent for the many years of practice behind it. Napoleon pulled the blond head close with a strong hand to the back of the neck, pausing for a brief, heartfelt smile before claiming the soft mouth.
They both sighed happily as the connection was remade, days of longing replaced with cherished renewal. The kiss grew in intensity, both of them trying to express what the other already knew.
Finally, Napoleon pulled away, caressing the high forehead before leaning in to nuzzle an ear. "You owe me fifty bucks, tovarishch." He gave the earlobe a tug with his teeth and leaned back, a smug smile on his face as he watched his lover frown.
"You're sure?"
Napoleon nodded. "Positive. When they went to the grocery store I made certain. Separate bedrooms, no shared underwear drawers, no bills addressed to them both." He grinned and rubbed his nose against his lover's. "I, ah, slept on the couch, in case you were wondering."
The blue eyes filled with merriment, the only reflection of his amusement. "I had no doubts, Napoleon. Neither is quite your type and both are too young. In that case, I withdraw my initial assessment of them." Illya frowned. "You could explain Ellison's constant display of territoriality as part of his biological makeup but I suppose if they aren't lovers by now they probably never will be."
Napoleon shook his head. "I disagree. There's definitely something between them that goes deeper than friendship, but as we speculated I think that disaster with Barnes last year made them both a little gun-shy. Although, come to think of it, I believe one of them may be catching on. Anyway," he pulled his lover closer, "I'd rather not discuss someone's else's love life when I have some catching up to do in my own." He maneuvered the smaller man over to the king-sized bed and playfully tossed him on it before joining him, their mouths seeking each other out as they began to let loose the need they had for each other.
Before long, clothes and robe were shed as the lovers reveled in the feel of skin on beloved skin. After so many years of knowing each other's bodies, they quickly brought each other to satisfying, blissful completion, resting finally with the fair head pillowed on the still-broad shoulder of his lover.
Napoleon stroked his fingers through Illya's hair, the once almost-white-blond now burnished to a dark gold threaded with silver. They dozed lightly, enjoying the rightness of being in each other's arms after their latest mission.
Napoleon roused first, pushing his lover gently aside to sit up and stretch. He smiled as long fingers caressed his ribcage, then grasped his forearm for leverage. Napoleon wrapped his arm around the pale shoulders and they shared a smile.
"So," Napoleon murmured, "let me guess. You're hungry."
The fair head nodded. "Of course. By the way, we should contact Sir John right away. No doubt he will want us back in New York to complete the wrap-up on Hydra as soon as possible. We are also due for weapons requalification, I'm afraid." He wrinkled his nose. "But in the meantime, we have reservations at the Metropolitan this evening and you, my dear 'Vince', are paying."
"My dear Illya Kuryakin, oh great agent to washed up TV actors, with that so-called 'new contract' for Braddock's Way you finagled for me you should be taking me out to dinner on your percentage—ow!"
Nimble fingers pinched at his ribs before Illya rolled off the bed and moved towards the bathroom. "Yes, explaining to Sir John that we may have to resume the Braddock affair should prove amusing."
Napoleon Solo looked up with a start. "Uh, may I be first to cry out a resounding 'no way in hell' to that suggestion? I like our life the way it is, thank you very much. Semi-retirement suits us just fine."
Illya leaned over the edge of the bed and shared a warm kiss with Napoleon. "Don't worry, Polya," he said softly. "I have no desire to share you with panting females again, no matter what their age—or ours. Contract negotiations will fall through, I promise you." He tried to pull back but was held by Napoleon's hand on the nape of his neck. They exchanged another affectionate kiss before breaking away.
"Open Channel D. Solo here."
"Go ahead, Mr. Solo."
"Sir, we've brought down Hydra. Request permission to take a few days off before returning to U.N.C.L.E. New York to wrap up."
"Permission granted, Mr. Solo. You and Mr. Kuryakin enjoy the time off."
"Thank you, sir."
"Close Channel D."
The two well-dressed older men were led to a secluded banquette in the upscale restaurant off the lobby of the Four Seasons. If the other diners recognized the dark-haired one they didn't show it, being too used to celebrities and sports stars in their midst to make a fuss.
Menus were perused, dinner choices made, wine debated amiably before they settled on a 1996 Mt. Veeder. Their waiter delivered the drinks—martini, dry with a twist of lemon for one, Belvedere on the rocks with a lime twist for the other—before they settled in and shared an affectionate glance.
Napoleon took an appreciative sip of his martini. "Hmm, I think it was a stroke of genius when I came up with this little tradition of ours. Where was it, Geneva?"
Illya raised an eyebrow as he unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. "As usual, your memory has rearranged some pertinent facts. I suggested we stay an extra night at the Ambassador in Paris after that nerve gas mission. A suggestion to which you readily agreed, I might add, only after I told you I would pay."
Napoleon nodded. "Very true. But I do believe I made up for it a few months later when we vacationed in Bali." Their eyes met across the softly lit table as they briefly became lost together in the recollection.
The moment was broken when the waiter delivered their salads. Conversation became general then, the discussion ranging from renewing their symphony season tickets to whose turn it was to vacuum the living room.
After fruit, cheese and port had been served, Napoleon leaned back and took an appreciative sip. "So, now that we have that whole vacuuming thing settled, and it doesn't look like I'm going to win on getting a flamingo for the yard, let's talk about our subjects."
Illya's long fingers picked through the fruit, finally finding a wedge of kiwi that looked tempting. He took a bite and nodded.
"Yes. As we anticipated, Mr. Sandburg did want to incorporate his findings on the paranormal versus sentinel abilities but I dissuaded him. There are enough controversial findings in the dissertation as it is, let alone adding one that crosses over into the territory of the X-Files." Illya smiled slightly, tipping his glass of port in Napoleon's direction. "Despite your fascination with that program, we cannot allow such things to be made public."
Napoleon waggled an admonitory finger. "Ah, ah, my dear Illya, let's remember that you are the one that makes sure we have no social engagements on Sunday night, not me."
Illya looked away, a slight stain of pink on his cheeks. "Yes, well, it can be amusing at times, although I find those three conspiracy theorists somewhat annoying." He cleared his throat and looked back at Napoleon. "Back to the subject at hand. I believe I can persuade Mr. Sandburg that this fall would be an appropriate time for publication."
Napoleon nodded. "Yes, that should give us enough time to have our controls in place. Pity about those two, though."
Illya tipped his head and looked at him quizzically. "What's that, Polya?"
A soft smile came to Napoleon's lips. "That they're not lovers. I have a feeling once the dissertation is released their relationship is going to be irrevocably changed and probably not for the better. I just think it's a shame they won't be dealing with the fallout together."
"Napoleon," Illya chided gently. "Always the romantic. Their relationship is none of our business beyond the assignment."
Napoleon gave him a look of patented disbelief. "Nice try, you crazy Russian. You go right ahead and try to convince me you haven't become quite fond of our two subjects. Who was it last year that dragged out my favorite Colonel Donyev slash Ivan the Janitor disguise to hang out at the hospital after the fountain disaster, despite having already been there as Karenin?" The dark eyes were bright as he observed the discomfiture of his partner. "And who is it that has been running a constant, need I say acerbic, commentary on Ellison's love life almost since the day we started this assignment? Then there was the time you wanted to go to, what was it, Peru? If we hadn't been needed on that Caracas affair—"
Illya waved his hand in surrender. "All right, all right, you've made your point. I admit I've become somewhat attached to them and entirely against my better judgement. After we steer them through the publication I will be sorry to see them move on."
Napoleon bit his lower lip. "I know, tovarishch, I know. Much as I hate to say it, I even like Ellison, despite his strutting alpha male displays and wiseass mouth. In my day we believed in the old adage you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, something he has yet to learn. And you know I've had a soft spot for Blair all along."
They both sighed and shared a smile. "A bit like watching your children getting ready to leave the nest, isn't it?" Illya asked whimsically.
A sweet, melancholy moment of quiet stretched between them, both of them comfortable with it and each other. The waiter came and refreshed their coffee, then removed the remaining plates.
"I'll take the check, please," Napoleon said to the waiter before he moved away, then raised an eyebrow at Illya's shocked expression.
"Why, Napoleon, what a pleasant surprise! Hmm, it is about time for you to receive your residuals, isn't it?"
Napoleon winked at him. "Now, now, you know that after I pay my ex-wives there's hardly any left. I simply wish to show my appreciation towards my agent this evening. Without him, I'd be relegated to playing cameos in some second rate cop show filmed in Vancouver or some other godforsaken place."
Illya smiled and took a sip of coffee. "Speaking of your ex-wives, let's try and visit them when we are on the east coast. If I remember correctly, April's Niece may be ready to foal about then."
"Good idea, Illyuska, as always. Oh, by the way," he paused as the waiter brought the leather case holding the bill. "Hold on—ouch, this gets more expensive every time. Educating your taste is going to bankrupt me someday." He slipped a credit card out of his wallet and set it in the plastic sleeve. After setting it aside he leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.
"Before we adjourn for the second half of the festivities tonight—and yes, I haven't forgotten my promise to make you pay for certain remarks regarding my age—where did you go after you slipped me the key?"
Illya leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, a devilish light in his eyes. "Cleaning up after you, as usual. It would seem you broke an appliance during your stay at the loft and I felt compelled to replace it."
Napoleon frowned. "I did?" He shook his head. "I don't recall breaking anything. The only thing I used was a blender to mix the pancake batter."
Illya's eyes drifted shut. "Oh, Polya, tell me you didn't try to fix them pancakes."
Napoleon looked affronted. "Hey, they weren't so bad. Blair liked them so much he grabbed one to eat on the way. You know, come to think of it, before that I used the food processor to chop some veggies for omelets but all I got was vegetable mush. I think the setting was wrong so I took a screwdriver and adjusted it. But they were out of red peppers by then so I went with the pancakes."
"You... went with the pancakes." Illya brushed a weary hand across his forehead. "Napoleon, we are still finding batter in the most unusual places in the kitchen. I beg you, leave the cooking to me? Except for your minestrone. You may still make that."
Napoleon bowed mockingly. "Why, thank you. You are so very good to me. Ah, here we go." He signed the bill and replaced the credit card in his wallet. He was about to stand up when he caught a glimpse of Illya's face. The blue eyes were focused intently on the small candleflame in the middle of the table, a frown marring the smooth forehead.
"Illya!" he said softly.
Illya blinked and refocused on the face of his concerned partner.
"Oh, sorry, Napoleon. I just had a thought..."
"Yes?"
Slightly amused blue eyes met dark brown. "When we return home, I'd better go over the research regarding Ellison's olfactory abilities." Illya stood up and dropped his napkin on the chair.
Napoleon also rose. "Why?" he asked, a fond smile quirking his lips.
Illya smiled and laid a hand on Napoleon's shoulder.
"I think I may have made a tactical error."
Napoleon inclined his head, eyes twinkling. "No! You?"
The blond head nodded. "It has been known to happen."
Napoleon slapped his pockets, pretending to look for a pen. "Wait a minute, gotta write this down."
"Napoleon..." The word was said softly, dangerously, even as Illya was trying not to laugh.
Napoleon shook his head sadly. "Then I'm afraid we'll have to discuss this tactical error in private and decide on an appropriate course of action."
"Spoken like a true general, Napoleon. Lead on."
"Oh, I intend to, Illyuska." He began to turn away but was halted when the hand on his shoulder tightened.
"Not so fast, Napoleon. Sometimes I get to lead, too."
Napoleon leaned close. "My dear friend—I'm counting on it."
"I'm tellin' you, Jim, Magnum had 'em all beat."
"Oh come on, Chief, Magnum?"
"Magnum was cool—I mean, the guy got to live in Hawaii! He had instant access to a helicopter and an ace pilot, he drove a Ferrari, he had a butler to torment and got to spend most days at the beach. I'd kill to have a job like that!"
"He was a leech, Sandburg."
"You're just jealous 'cuz he could surf year round." Blair took a drink of the pop he was carrying as they neared the entrance to their building.
"Yup, that's it, Sandburg, I've got surf envy."
A devilish smile appeared on Jim's face as Blair sputtered and coughed while trying not to laugh. A large hand gently pounded Blair's back, subsiding to rubbing his shoulders as the coughing fit ended. "You ok there, buddy?"
"No, Jim, I'm dying here—you're evil! You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"Yeah, my goal in life is to make you choke to death on your Dr. Pepper."
"Oh, ha, ha. You're so amusing. Good thing you don't have a comedy show, folks'd die of boredom."
Jim just smiled again and clapped Blair on the back before reaching forward to open the door. He bowed and swept his hand forward. "Women and walking wounded first."
Blair glared mockingly and lightly punched Jim on the shoulder before heading into the building, taking the stairs two at a time as Jim followed more slowly.
"Hey Jim! Take a look at this." Blair stooped down to pick up a box near their door.
"Now what, Sandburg? Neighbor's cat leave you a present again? I keep telling you not to feed it."
"Oh yeah, like you've never slipped it a piece of chicken. No, it's a real present. And the tag on top has our names on it." Blair chortled and looked up from the box in his arms to Jim. "It's from Vince Deal."
"In that case, we'd better take it down to the precinct to X-ray it and make sure it's not gonna blow us up." Jim hid a smile as he turned to unlock the door.
"That's way harsh, man, he was just trying to help."
"Lemme tell ya, Chief, if I'm gonna get more of that kind of help, I'll just turn in my badge right now."
Blair laughed and brushed past his friend into the apartment, setting the package on the kitchen counter and tearing into the Rocky and Bullwinkle wrapping paper. He held up a scrap showing Bullwinkle. "Hey, look, Jim, it's you—balding pate and all!"
"Watch it, Squvirrel, ve haf vays of making you pay."
"Man, that is the worst Russian accent I've ever heard. You should talk to that Ivan guy down at the station if you wanna perfect it."
"Gee, thanks, I'll sign up for lessons on Monday. So? What is it?"
"A food processor."
"A what?"
"A food processor. You know, you put vegetables in, press the button, out comes great homemade salsa—"
"I know what it is, Tesla, I just want to know why Vince got us a food processor."
"Well, you're the one who was complaining that he broke it yesterday."
"Yeah, but I didn't say anything about it to him. Did you?"
"Nope."
"Hunh."
The two men stared at it for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Jim was the first to move, gathering up the empty pop bottle and the shredded wrapping paper Blair had strewn all over the counter, and Blair started to unbox the food processor so he could put it away.
Jim's nose twitched as he caught the hint of a familiar scent on the paper. He brought it up to his face, closing his eyes as he concentrated on trying to place the smell.
Blair moved closer and laid a hand on his friend's arm. "What is it, Jim?"
Jim shook his head and opened his eyes. "The paper smells like someone familiar, but it's not Vince."
"Really? Who else would it be?"
"I don't know, Chief, it smells like... Hunh. It smells like your advisor."
"How do you know what my advisor smells like? You haven't met Professor Karenin."
"Um, I have, actually, at the hospital, last year. We met out in the hallway."
"Oh. Uh, ok."
"Plus his scent is on your papers after you've been meeting with him."
"Wow! You can smell someone I've met with if they've held something of mine for any length of time? Cool!"
"Uh, yeah, neato, Chief."
Blair slapped Jim's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Told ya that the sensory memory would become second nature."
"Yes, you're very smart."
They grinned and looked at each other, saying in unison: "'Now shut up!'"
"Well, I guess that's how we're gonna spend the evening, Chief. Why don't you make that salsa with the brand new food processor and I'll find the Princess Bride tape and run out to get chips. We can figure out why it smells like Karenin later. Sound like a plan?"
"Sounds like a plan. Make sure you get the baked chips."
Jim smiled and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, Sandburg."
Never fear, dear readers, we intend to wrap up the unanswered questions in the sequel! There will be more Jim/Blair in it, too, promise. :) And no, neither Napoleon nor Illya is Blair's father.
Thanks to Veronica, who says things like "no, that's not a warped idea at all and, oh, by the way, here's this fabulous scene I wrote in half an hour to start the ball rolling." You're the best, lady! ~A
Sigh—well, guess I can't pin this one on Aithine like I did the Lads. Hoist on my own petard, as it were. I mean, one day I send her a URL for an MfU story and the next thing I know we're ordering tapes and I'm hearing my VCR turn on at 4:00 a.m.—and look where it got me! So come to think of it—this is all her fault! And I love her for it. ~Veronica
(Awwww. Ditto. ~A)
Feedback: email.