The Man from U.N.C.L.E.: Every Little Absence

Napoleon barely remembered their first goodbye. He hadn't even thought it would be the first among many, or that over the years the goodbyes would come to dwell in his memory and in his heart, as much a part of him as the scent of Illya's skin and the steady beat of his heart.

No, that first farewell was unremarkable for many reasons. They weren't partners at the time, only co-workers, two agents with complementary skills assigned to a mission that left little time for any getting-to-know-you conversations. Napoleon only knew that Illya Kuryakin was a Soviet recently recruited to U.N.C.L.E., that he was young, untried, sullen, and beautiful.

And nothing in that mission—long forgotten, its results resigned to the dust bin of history—had changed his mind about that enigmatic man who nevertheless had amazing instincts and finely honed skills hidden behind a facade of youth and questionable manners. Any transitory interest Napoleon had felt had been lost as soon as they'd gone their separate ways. There probably wasn't even a handshake to define the moment; at most, a nod, a faint smile, then they'd left to different and new assignments, months passing before they'd meet again.

There shouldn't have been anything noteworthy about the second goodbye, either—their profession precluded anything but the most superficial of connections. Except that this was the first time that Illya saved Napoleon's life, and for that, Napoleon felt impelled to make an effort to breach that Slavic reserve and express his most sincere thanks, even if Illya's actions had been only been in service of the mission.

It had not gone well, not at first. Napoleon had approached him like he would anyone, with a smile and an extended hand, and while the hand was accepted, the smile was not returned.

"That was some quick thinking back there, thank you," he said. "I thought the Irish accent was a nice touch."

"You shouldn't have taken an unnecessary risk," was the harsh reply as his hand was released. "You endangered the entire mission."

Startled by the hostility, Napoleon shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. This kind of attitude from a subordinate agent was unusual, to say the least. Agents assigned to Napoleon's missions were usually less confrontational and more eager to make themselves notable in some way, since it was common knowledge that Napoleon was on the fast track to senior status.

"It was a calculated risk," he said evenly. "And one that paid off, if you hadn't noticed. The mission was a success."

One blond eyebrow arched upward. "Through no effort of yours. Had I not been concerned with making sure you weren't sent to rot in an island penal colony, the blueprints might have been in friendly hands that much sooner."

"I see." Napoleon rubbed his chin, both annoyed and intrigued by this forthright judgment of his job performance. "Well, I can't disagree there. However, there was one aspect of the situation of which you were unaware. The president's daughter wasn't being held captive anywhere, she'd eloped with her bodyguard. Without her cooperation, we never would have had access to the blueprints in the first place. All I did was improvise and now I believe they are enjoying their honeymoon in Gstaad, which should be lovely this time of year."

"Really?" Blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "So the antics that nearly got you killed were merely a diversion for the president's daughter to run away?"

"They promised to name their firstborn after me," Napoleon said with a chuckle, "poor kid."

"You are sentimental." The words were condemning, but something about the delivery made Napoleon take notice. This time, there was a hint of amusement, even approval, and that's when Napoleon's opinion about this man began to change.

"I can be, if the occasion calls for it," he replied, "but nothing you need to worry about, I promise."

And then it was time to part once more, but when the opportunity came almost a year later for Napoleon to compose a list of agents to work beside him full time, the last name added to that list was Illya Kuryakin.

The early afternoon heat roiling up from the tarmac at Embakasi Airport burned through the soles of Napoleon's shoes as he gathered up the straps of his green khaki duffel bag. He'd come in on an aid transport and there was no one to greet him, nor was he expecting anyone. His mission in Kenya was scheduled to be brief, and in less than twelve hours, he expected to be back at the airport and flying on to Johannesburg.

But for all the heat and the flies and the odors and the aggressive street vendors tugging at his clothing as he trudged through the narrow alleys of Nairobi, Napoleon was glad to be where he was, because in a small apartment overlooking a deadly THRUSH installation, in his third week of observation, Illya was waiting for him.

Three years into their partnership and nothing was as it had been at the beginning. Those early months had been hard on them both as they adjusted to two completely different approaches to the work. But as the weeks went by and the successful missions began to pile up, they'd adapted, both to match each other's strengths and understand their own weaknesses. By the end of that first year, so strong was their working partnership that Mr. Waverly declared it permanent and made them the premier team in an agency replete with first tier operatives.

The friendship didn't advance as quickly as the partnership, not at first. But as they'd come to trust each other in the field, they eventually found that they could trust each other with more personal things. Long nights spent together on stakeouts, longer flights with nothing to do, they began to entwine their memories together and meet each other on more common ground. For Napoleon, quite often that meant a beautiful woman was involved, and Illya took those incidents in stride, ultimately supporting and guiding Napoleon through emotional waters churned up by the likes of Clara Valdar. In fact, Napoleon could look back at that one mission as the turning point of his relationship with Illya, as his partner had treated the incident with such a stunningly intuitive balance of sympathy and scorn that Napoleon had been able to put his heartache behind him far sooner than he'd imagined.

After that, it was easy to default to spending down time in each other's company when neither of them had a romance to attend to. Illya never spoke of his lovers, though Napoleon knew he had them, and even when in the throes of a new love himself, there was always the warm knowledge in the back of Napoleon's mind that whatever happened, he had one constant in his life—an acerbic, strong-willed Russian with an arid sense of humor and the heart of a poet.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes as he ascended the dirt-encrusted wooden stairs leading to a rooftop apartment, Napoleon only knew that it'd been three weeks since they'd parted at U.N.C.L.E.'s New York HQ and he was looking forward to seeing his partner. In the duffel, along with certain innocuous looking objects that raised no eyebrows of indifferent customs agents, yet would ultimately aid the agents in their goal of thwarting another THRUSH plot, were several books, a small sketchpad, soft-leaded pencils, and a round tin of pastel sticks. Deep in an inside pocket were also a package of hard butterscotch candies and a flask of rum.

There was no door to the apartment, only a sheet of opaque plastic nailed above the door's frame. Illya knew he was coming but didn't know his exact arrival time, so to avoid startling his partner and announcing that arrival to the entire neighborhood by pounding on the wall, Napoleon whistled the first eight bars of "Poor Wandering One" and waited.

He heard a shuffling noise coming from inside, then the plastic was lifted to the side of the door opening. Napoleon's face split into a wide grin as he beheld his suntanned partner, who was dressed in a white cotton shirt, thin gray trousers, and a surprisingly welcoming smile.

"I thought it more appropriate than Pinafore, don't you?" Napoleon held up the duffel by its straps. "Besides, I come bearing gifts, my Russian music critic. Can I come inside?"

"Of course." Illya stepped aside, allowing Napoleon to enter the small apartment that consisted of one room with a cooking area set in an alcove. The entire far wall was missing, opening onto a covered porch that contained a mattress and a high-powered telescope. "Welcome to the Nairobi Hilton, I do hope you'll remember to tip the doorman."

"Lovely accommodations, as usual," Napoleon commented. He placed the duffel on the tile floor and bent down to peer through the telescope. "I understand you've made progress."

"I have." Illya knelt down beside the duffel and unzipped it. "I've identified three major THRUSH operatives who've visited within the last twenty-four—ah, there they are." He pulled out the bag of butterscotch candies and opened it, pulling two out and setting them aside. "As I was saying, three high-ranking agents have been seen going in and out of the market on the corner which, as we suspected, is only one of the entrances to the underground installation. Yes, excellent, thank you."

Napoleon nodded as Illya held up the sketchpad and pastels. "You're welcome. Is there any water?"

Illya indicated a tall, thick ewer covered with cheesecloth. "There, but drink sparingly. The well is three blocks away and it must be purified first. How long can you stay?"

"Only a few hours, I'm afraid. Long enough to take your report, get a look at the facility, that's about it. Mr. Waverly wants me at the council talks in South Africa by tomorrow afternoon. How much longer do you think you'll be here?"

Tossing one of the candies to Napoleon, Illya shrugged. "Another week or so. By that time, they should have all the parts of the weapon assembled and we will be able to move in and destroy the facility."

"Very good." Napoleon unwrapped the candy and paused before popping it into his mouth. "Back in New York by the fifth, right?"

"I certainly hope so, as I have no intention of missing the concert at Lincoln Center. You?"

"Oh, I'll be there," Napoleon said with a wink. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Nine hours later, Napoleon stood up from his cramped position on the mattress after taking one last look through the telescope at the entrance to the THRUSH stronghold. He heard a soft sigh from Illya, and realized his regret was mirrored by his partner's. He disliked leaving Illya here by himself, not just for Illya's sake, but his own. The mission to Johannesburg promised to be a difficult one and he would've preferred to have his partner beside him, but the choice wasn't his to make. Nor was it his choice to leave an agent of Illya's caliber on such a deadly dull assignment, but as always, they did what they were told.

A stifling, sticky fog had descended over the streets of Nairobi, the thick air clinging to the back of Napoleon's throat as he gathered his things. "I don't suppose you could convince our feathered friends to speed up their time line so that you could join me at the conference?"

Illya stood up and brushed his hands over the seat of his trousers. "I'd love to, but I simply have nothing to wear. Are you expecting trouble?"

"Not really, but as soon as I anticipate a smooth ride, the weather always changes." Hefting the straps of the duffel over his shoulder, Napoleon turned to face Illya and held out his hand. "Dinner at Antoine's before the concert?"

Illya tilted his head in consideration as they shook. "For a Prokofiev retrospective?"

"See you there." Napoleon turned to leave, then paused, turning back to Illya. "Take care of yourself."

It was a phrase they'd said to each other occasionally over the years, a throwaway sentence, a social nicety and not much more. They'd said it when one of them was leaving on holiday or when one of them was heading into a dire situation. But something about this farewell was different, and it wasn't until Napoleon was thirty thousand feet above Mozambique that he realized that the words no longer represented just a cliché for him.

Somehow, over the course of the years and the missions, the losses and the victories, they'd become something so much more than co-workers, something far beyond friends. There was no one in his life he trusted more deeply, and no one he'd rather spend time with, and he would have been content with nothing more, had he not seen his changing feelings reflected in Illya's eyes during rare, unguarded moments.

Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

The sky was purple when it started to snow, a trick of light and atmosphere that bathed Illya's pale face in lavender hues as his long, blond lashes became edged in delicate white.

"If you are still capable of flirting, even with me, you must not be injured too badly." Illya stopped scanning the sky and bent over him, adjusting the blood-soaked bandage beneath the flap of Napoleon's snow camouflage jacket. "It will be dark in a few minutes, the plane should arrive soon. You'll be sipping schnapps by a fire in no time."

"But you won't be there," Napoleon said with a pout. He knew he wasn't being reasonable, but he didn't care. This was supposed to be a quick mission, an easy mission, a mission that would end with the two of them on a private jet, the destination known only to him and the pilot.

But things had not gone as planned. No, things had been changed by a traitor in their group who'd led them into an ambush. That traitor was now dead, along with two other men, and they had more wounded than their small group could handle. Still the mission had to go on, and that meant a different plan, one that Napoleon didn't like but had no choice in accepting. It was Illya who'd made arrangements to have the wounded picked up at an abandoned airfield, and once they'd been delivered, he and the remaining three men in the team would continue the hike across the border, to meet up with the other freedom fighters and work to avert a civil war.

"I shall strive to be as quick and efficient as possible," Illya said. A corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry grin. "My curiosity regarding this surprise of yours is a far better motivator than Mr. Waverly's scant praise when we manage to not get killed."

Napoleon had a passably witty reply on the tip of his tongue, but a wave of pain washed over him. His eyes squeezed shut and only Illya's hand on his shoulder allowed him to ride it out with some dignity. He could feel a flush of sticky warmth in his side but chose not to mention it, instead looking back up at a worried Illya with an apologetic grimace.

"My little surprise is going to have to be postponed, but only temporarily, I promise."

Illya nodded, then looked over his shoulder to where the men were gathered on the other side of the small wooded area they were using for shelter, talking quietly as they tended to the wounded. He knelt down on one knee beside Napoleon and placed his gloved hand on his knee, and with his eyes on Napoleon's, he seemed to come to some kind of decision.

"This is about Vienna." It was a statement so sure that Napoleon couldn't think of a suitably vague response to distract Illya from the truth.

"Ah, yes, Vienna." Napoleon's eyes closed briefly, then reopened them as he tilted his head to one side. "Vienna, certainly. Also Istanbul, Caracas, that leaky raft in the middle of the Pacific, a ratty room we shared for a few hours in Nairobi, your purloined third floor walk-up in Brooklyn that smelled like onions and, oh yes, the rice paddy in Thailand, a personal favorite of mine. And a hundred other memories I'll tell you about when we have the time."

"We have had our adventures," Illya agreed, his cool, prosaic tone contrasting with the warm glow in his eyes. "But in Vienna, that is where we—"

"Where you kissed me," Napoleon interrupted, rubbing a hand across his jaw, "and then hit me. I think I'm still bruised."

"Yes, well," Illya dropped his head, but not before Napoleon glimpsed a knowing smile, "you needed kissing, you were going on and on about all the beautiful women you'd seen on the street and it was simply the most expedient way to end the conversation."

Napoleon gritted his teeth, then forced himself to relax. "And the punch on the jaw?"

Illya's head snapped up. "You know as well as I do that Fermin was coming through the door at any moment. He could hardly expect to find a generalissimo of your purported stature to be standing there like a lovestruck teenager. I was only trying to help you get into character, especially since it was my role to be insubordinate and easily led down the path of betrayal."

"Remind me not to ask you for a job reference. In our line of work, that assessment wouldn't get me very far. And by the way, may I point out that you, Mr. Solo, are very good at misdirection—wait, do you hear that?"

Illya stood up and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, scanning the darkening horizon and seconds later, Napoleon heard the low drone of an airplane engine. Part of him was relieved—he figured he had just enough energy to get to the airfield before blood loss and exhaustion would make him a liability to his team. But a much larger part of him was concerned about the possible success of a now seriously compromised mission, and the fact his partner was again going into an unstable situation with the odds against him.

Yet there was nothing he could do about it—the mission had to go on and he couldn't be a part of it. With Illya's help, he staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on Illya's supporting arm as they began a slow, painful descent down toward the little valley where the airstrip was located. It was almost completely dark by the time he and the other wounded men were loaded into the small aircraft, and the tightening deadline meant that any kind of protracted farewell was impossible. In the end, all they had time to share was a brief touch, a shared glance full of regret and promises, and inadequate words of farewell and good luck and be safe.

Let's not unman each other—part at once;

All farewells should be sudden, when forever,

Else they make an eternity of moments,

And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.

—Lord Byron

The room was cold, anonymous, functional. It could've been a room in any of a dozen facilities, with no windows and only harsh, artificial light that leached away any color into industrial gray, so different from the lush, equatorial climate he'd just been forced to leave. Napoleon surveyed his surroundings, hands in his pockets, lips pursed as he whistled a silent tune, and all the while, a clock was ticking in his head. One hour, that's all he'd give them. It was all he could afford.

This attempt at intimidation was nothing less than he'd expected. Not even someone of his rank in the organization was immune to protocol, especially someone who was about to receive a rebuke at the very least, or banishment to an U.N.C.L.E. facility for retraining if his judges, whoever they turned out to be, were so inclined.

Strolling further into the room, he noted its layout. One chair—metal, no arms—facing a long table. Behind that table were three upholstered chairs and on it were a silver pitcher of ice water and three tumblers. Despite the harsh confines of the gray room and the bleach-tinged, circulated air, he could tell at a glance the pitcher was sterling and the tumblers fine lead crystal. Even though this U.N.C.L.E. installation was located deep beneath the dunes that surrounded Morocco, the finer things had not been neglected.

There were two other people in the room with him, a male and female guard, who did not respond to either his smiles or his attempts at casual conversation, no matter what language he used. They bracketed the door he'd just come through, and had been his companions since he'd surrendered to U.N.C.L.E. custody early that morning. Had he wanted to, he could've taken both of them out—they were young, and although they were both armed, it wouldn't have been difficult. The strap on the female guard's rifle wasn't properly in line with her body and it could easily have been used as a weapon against her. The male guard was arrogant and openly smug, which in turn relieved Napoleon's mind. U.N.C.L.E. management may have been upset with his recent actions, but if they had such obviously untrained guards assigned to him, then they weren't expecting things to turn ugly. It was a good sign that his superiors understood that the guards were for show, not to actually stop Napoleon from escaping. That eased his mind a bit—when he did escape, he'd probably be able to do so without hurting anyone.

A door hidden in the wall slid open and four figures emerged. Napoleon knew all of them, but he was careful to hide his surprise when the second to last one through was Alexander Waverly, somehow managing to look utterly comfortable and proper in his tweed suit, despite temperatures above one hundred degrees outside.

The last person to enter the room was a young woman carrying a set of folders, setting one of each on the table in front of the chairs as Waverly and the others took their seats. The woman on Waverly's right was Hana Furukawa, deputy director of the European region, and an old friend that Napoleon trusted to be fair. To Waverly's left was Desmond de la Barre, Napoleon's equal in the Asian region and a longtime critic of Napoleon's less than faithful approach to procedure.

So he had two out of three allies currently facing him, yet he knew they were prepared to mete out U.N.C.L.E.'s particular kind of justice, regardless of any personal considerations. And in the end it wouldn't matter at all, because he had a plane to catch and a partner to find.

"Mr. Solo," Waverly intoned, "we are gathered here to discuss your recent activities regarding the installation of President Docher. Or should we say, your recent failure to bring the mission to a successful conclusion. Your actions have resulted in the loss of Docher as an ally as well damages that we are still assessing, plus there are questions being asked at the U.N. as well as all major global seats of power. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Napoleon sat down on the hard metal chair, adjusting his cuffs as he considered his reply. He would tell them the truth, simply because he had nothing more to lose.

"President Docher was planning on purging the opposition once he'd taken control of the military. The stabilization so prized by the world's governments would have been at the expense of thousands of innocent lives."

"That is an outrageous accusation." Waverly leaned back in his chair, exchanging alarmed glances with Furukawa and de la Barre. "Do you have proof of this?"

"I don't. My partner, the one you abandoned in hostile territory, has the proof."

De la Barre leaned forward. "Don't you mean 'had,' Napoleon? We've received reports that Kuryakin is dead."

Napoleon dismissed him with a look and turned to Waverly. "With all due respect, by forcing me to attend this hearing instead of allowing me to try and undo the damage we've done, precious time has been lost."

Waverly scowled at him. "You realize that your accusations must be verified. Not even you, Number One, can overthrow a government."

Napoleon smiled impartially at them all. "I won't have to. I have no doubt that given the current situation, the U.N. will be sending in troops by the end of the year. That will be all the verification you'll require, I assume. Meanwhile, THRUSH will move in during the confusion and what's left of that country—and its strategic placement in the region—will be forfeit. We've practically handed it to them on a silver platter."

"What would you have us do, Napoleon?" Furukawa shook her head. "If what you say is true, we'll need to move as quickly as possible to ascertain Docher's whereabouts and get to the bottom of this. But at this point, you are severely compromised. We'll have you brief another insertion team as soon as possible."

There was more posturing, mostly by de la Barre, with veiled threats and accusations of insubordination thrown at Napoleon without any real substance behind them. The hearing was adjourned but Waverly remained behind, indicating with a tilt of his head that he wished to speak with Napoleon in private. Taking out his pipe and a bag of tobacco from his pockets, he began to fill the bowl. His eyes on his task, he spoke in low, measured tones.

"I am under no illusions regarding your abilities, Mr. Solo, nor your resolve when you have a specific goal in mind. However, I must warn you that any actions taken on your part to try and retrieve Mr. Kuryakin, either dead or alive, will not be looked upon with any approbation on my part. I understand you may be inclined to attempt to act on your own but unlike similar circumstances in the past, I cannot allow such a complication to confuse an already difficult and dare I say delicate situation."

Waverly looked up then, eyes stern. "Therefore I regret to inform you that I have discovered your plan to fly back to Mr. Kuryakin's last known whereabouts in a misguided attempt to find him. Needless to say, your associate in this endeavor has been placed under house arrest until the matter is resolved. In the meantime, arrangements have been made for you to return to New York, where we shall have further discussions regarding your recent behavior. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon bit his bottom lip, his expression a portrait of dismay. He'd slightly underestimated Waverly, a mistake he rarely made. "Understood, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'm expected at a debriefing."

Twenty minutes later, Napoleon was walking free in the streets of Casablanca, leaving behind two guards with sore heads, a temporarily disabled communications system, and a note addressed to Alexander Waverly, expressing his not-so-sincere regret that the plan Waverly had thought he'd been so clever to discover had been nothing but a distraction.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

In the end, two weeks later, there was no private villa overlooking the Aegean Sea. No opulent suite at the Georges V, no modern penthouse in a Tokyo skyscraper, no wide, pink-sanded beach. Instead there was just Napoleon, pressing the button on the stoop of Illya's brownstone, a paper-wrapped bottle of wine cradled in his arm.

And there was no slow seduction, no flirty banter to ease their way into intimacy, although Illya would later argue that they had quite possibly shared the slowest courtship in history. Instead, Illya greeted him at the door of his apartment, wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt, barefooted, blond hair tousled, his expression so serious that Napoleon's courage began to falter.

But he quickly regained his lost ground when Illya closed the door behind him, took the bottle and set it aside, then pushed Napoleon against the wall. There was a brief moment when their eyes met, a moment of crystal clear communication beyond the need for words, and then Illya's mouth was on his. It took only seconds for Napoleon to find the hem of Illya's t-shirt and pull it off over his head, revealing smooth, pale skin to his hands and mouth. Illya's own hands were busy stripping off Napoleon's jacket, letting it land at their feet as he began to work loose the buttons of Napoleon's shirt. Hands entwined, lips barely parting to take a breath, they let their bodies speak for them, now that the world could no longer come between them.

For two men with a considerable amount of romantic experience between them, there was a lot to learn about pleasing each other, and they took the night to begin what they knew to be a lifelong education. Napoleon learned that after making love, Illya wasn't a cuddler, but he insisted that some part of their bodies touched, as if to make sure that the connection between them wasn't severed, not even in sleep. He found that Illya had a charming habit of sighing when his neck was kissed in just the right place, and gathering those sighs became an obsession almost immediately.

Napoleon wasn't shy about giving up his secrets, either. Illya's lips tracing a path from Napoleon's hairline to the base of his spine was another addiction, as was waking to find Illya kissing his inner thigh, a precursor of more intimate caresses. Often reserved in public, in private Illya was a giving, expressive, and demanding lover, which took nothing away from his intense approach to the improbable balance of charged eroticism and gentle romance that ruled their first hours together.

Around midnight, their bodies sated and the atmosphere heavy with contentment, they finally opened the wine Napoleon had brought and shared it along with olives, thick slices of buttered dark rye bread, and slivers of hard cheese that Illya provided. As both men lounged naked on Illya's bed without a blush between them, Napoleon knew that this one last gamble for happiness, this final risk for love that had been years in the planning, had paid off.

But there was always that one, dark cloud in their lives, and as Napoleon rolled on to his back, balancing his glass on his chest, his thoughts took a downward turn.

"You are looking pensive, and unless the wine is great disappointment to you, I'd like to know why."

Such was the trust between them that there was no trepidation in Illya's question, no subliminal worry communicated that Napoleon was thinking that this night had been a mistake.

"This is perfect," Napoleon replied. He stared up at the ceiling, choosing his words. "Here, in this room, I have all that I need. But you're scheduled to leave for Canberra on Tuesday. I won't see you again until we meet up in Manila." He turned his head to look at Illya, impossibly beautiful as he sat there on the bed, more beautiful than the day they'd met, despite the years and the scars. "We have too many farewells between us, Illya."

Illya nodded. "True. And they will only get more difficult. Yet, in a way, they are a gift."

"A gift?" Napoleon rolled on to his side, tipping his glass to take a sip of wine. "Somehow, I can't see it that way, not after this."

Illya waved his hand, indicating the two of them, the room where they'd spent hours making love, the world in general. "From now on, when you go out there, you will go with my words to keep you warm until we meet again." Reaching across the bed, he rubbed his thumb against Napoleon's cheek. "There will be no more partings between us, Napoleon. Only small spans of time where you will have to remember my words instead of hear them. There is no sadness in that, only the anticipation of meeting again."

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," Napoleon mused. He glanced at Illya, eyes bright with amusement. "I think that makes me Juliet."

"Yes, well," Napoleon drained his wine, then set the glass on the nightstand, "far be it from me to argue with a Shakespeare-quoting communist. Especially when he's right."

Three days later, the two men shared a business-like farewell at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. A brief handshake, a review of the rendezvous point in Manila, a passing joke about avoiding exotic food—it was like a hundred public goodbyes before it, only this time, there was the promise of a private reunion to ease the journey.

Never part without loving words to think of during your absence. It may be that you will not meet again in this life.

Every Little Absence

by Veronica