By YumYum
(once upon a time there was a script written concerning a circus and clowns as an episode.  This was my take on it.)

Published in Collected by YumYum Zine

 

Napoleon was leaning against the wall next to the water cooler engaging the latest addition to the secretarial staff in conversation.  “I thought dinner, a little dancing, and then….who knows.”

 

The young lady in question, a petite red head responded by looking pointedly over his right shoulder.

 

“I am sorry to interrupt, Napoleon, but our appearance has been requested by Mr. Waverly.”   The soft Russian voice did not sound sorry at all.

 

With a growl of frustration, and an apologetic glance at the young lady, Napoleon fell into step with his partner heading toward their superior’s office.

 

“Another assignment?”  Napoleon questioned.  “We just got back from the last one.”

 

Illya spared an uncertain glance to his partner. “I am not sure.  The request was rather strangely worded.”

 

By that time they had reached Alexander Waverly’s door and walked in. 

 

Waverly looked up from the pile of papers in front of him. “Come in.  Come in.  Have a seat, gentlemen,” his tone jovial.

 

Napoleon and Illya exchanged shocked looks at each other before sitting in their usual chairs at the round conference table.

 

“It has been brought to my attention that the two of you have been rather overworked,” Waverly commenced solemnly, though there was a slight twinkle in his eyes.

 

“No more than usual, sir,” Napoleon said smoothly.

 

“Be that as it may, gentlemen.  The medical section assessment suggested that a little time away is in order.”

 

“Just how little time away…,sir?”  Illya queried.  Something about this did not feel right.

 

“Eight weeks,” Waverly answered.

 

“Eight weeks!”  Napoleon exclaimed in surprise, even when they were wounded they were never out of commission that long.

 

“Just enough time to go back to school.”  Waverly sent a file turning toward the two men.

 

The two agents exchanged startled gazes.  Illya was the first to pick up the file and open it.  “Clown College!”  He looked at his boss, his mouth open in shock the folder hanging loosely in his hands.

 

“Here, let me see that,” Napoleon said sharply as he grabbed the folder from Illya’s limp fingers.

 

Waverly leaned back in his chair, patting the tobacco he’d filled his pipe with into place. “I don’t want to hear any objections from either of you.  Medical has made its decision, and I stand by it.  Everything you will need is in that folder.  Now off with you.  That’s an order.”

 

The two men got up out of their seats, each in a state of shock.  Napoleon turned back to ask one last question.  “What if something important comes up?”

 

“If we need you, we’ll call you.”  Waverly dismissed them abruptly.

 

Once outside Napoleon, who had the folder still in his hand, turned to Illya. “This is madness.”

 

Illya nodded his head in agreement.

 
 

So that was how twenty-four hours later the two agents found themselves in Venice, Florida, outside of Tampa, attending the Ringling Brothers Clown College, along with twenty-eight other participants. 

 

Sitting together at the back of the tent, the two agents listened as Kenneth Field informed every one of what to expect.  “You will learn make up, juggling, and the fine art of falling down.”   Someone at the front giggled.

 

Napoleon leaned over to mutter in Illya’s ear.  “I already know how to fall down.”

 

Illya snickered, earning him a sharp look from a nearby young lady.

 

“You will design a character that is especially you.  Make up, clothing, the works.  You will work out a routine and at the end of eight weeks you will be full-fledged clowns,” Fields announced.

 

A hand was raised from the front row.  “Mr. Fields, just how many different types of clowns are there?”

 

“That’s a very good question.  If you will refer to your folders there is a list, a rundown of the types, with makeup and costume suggestions for each.  As a brief rundown, however, there are four different types of clowns – the Whiteface, the August, the Tramp/Hobo, and the Character.  The Whiteface clown is broken down into three categories.  There is your classic European whitefaced clown, commonly called the Pierott clown.  He or she is considered an elegant clown, artistic, colorful, bright, and cheerful.  Its performance is highly artistic and skillful, but with a comedic or dramatic flair.”

 

Napoleon leaned close to Illya and whispered, “That could be you except for the bright and cheerful.”

 

“Then there is the straight whiteface clown.  This clown is much like the European clown, only more so.  In any skit he is the one in charge, setting up the routine, throwing rather than taking the pie, slap, or kick.”

 

“That would appear to be the one for you,” Illya whispered back to Napoleon with a smirk.  It earned him a snarl from Napoleon and a glare from the person seated in front of them.

 

“The last is the Grotesque Whiteface, a more traditional clown.  He is more comical than the straight whiteface, but a bit more reserved than the Auguste.  The Auguste is the most comical of clowns.  He/she is impish, gregarious, and thrives on slapstick.  Actions are usually big, clumsy, and awkward.  He is usually the brunt of the joke, though he can also be the instigator.”

 

“I take it back, Napoleon.  That one sounds more like you,” Illya whispered, careful not to earn another glare.

 

“Then there is the Tramp or Hobo.  This classic clown was epitomized by Emmett Kelly, and Otto Griebling.  He is usually a forlorn and downtrodden character who has nothing and knows he will never have anything.  Red Skelton’s portrayal of the character Freddie the Freeloader is a good example.”

 

Napoleon grew thoughtful.  There were times when that description could describe his partner.

 

“Lastly we come to the Character clown.  Usually an identifiable character or occupation.  A fireman, doctor, nurse, cowboy, the list goes on and on.   Charlie Chaplin would be considered the epitome of a character clown.  When working up your clown’s character – try to remember originality is important.  It takes practice, hard work, and determination to be a good clown.”

 

“Sounds a lot like preparation for being a spy,” Napoleon muttered aside.

 

“Without further ado, let’s go to the next phase.  Developing your character.  Follow me,” Kenneth Fields finished off, leading the way to another area.

 

Napoleon and Illya got up with the rest of the students and followed Kenneth into another tent.  This one was filled with makeup tables, wigs, and clothing.  Handing each student a drawing pad, he encouraged them to look around and decide just how they wanted their character to look.  “When you have decided how you want your character to look, I’ll turn you over to our makeup artist, who will teach you everything you need to know about the types of makeup and how to apply it.”

 

“Mr. Fields, how long do we have to decide on a character?” someone asked.

 

“Oh, I think you all should have something ready by the end of the week,” Fields replied.

 

Checking out the costumes, Napoleon remarked to his partner, “You could probably show them a thing or two.”

 

After looking around, Illya found himself a quiet corner, opened his pad, and started sketching.  Napoleon, totally frustrated, came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.  With a few strokes, Illya had managed to convey a unique and original character.  The face was of course white, with black lids and lips and a small tear in one corner.  The clothing was simple and typically Illya-basic black.  “I didn’t know you could draw,” Napoleon said with amazement.

 

“There is a lot about me you do not know,” Illya replied absently as he put a few final touches to his drawing.

 

“Could you do one for me?  I was never very good at that sort of thing,” Napoleon asked.

 

“Sure.  What did you have in mind?”

 

With a sigh Napoleon said, “If I knew that I wouldn’t have asked you to do it for me.”

 

“It’s never stopped you before,” Illya said with a smirk, folding the paper for a fresh sheet.  In a few strokes he created yet another character, white face and bald.

 

“Il – lya!”  Napoleon growled.

 

With a chuckle Illya turned the sheet to start again.

 

A pixie like girl came close and addressed Napoleon.  “Excuse me…but I couldn’t help but wonder.  I don’t want to offend you or anything.  But you don’t seem the type to be here.  You just don’t look like clown material.”

 

Without looking up from his drawing, Illya answered for him.  “Napoleon will go anywhere, if there is a chance to meet girls.”  Napoleon nudged him with his elbow.  “Actually he is here humoring me.”  He tuned his pad around to display the character he’d created for Napoleon.  The whiteface was simply done; the head topped with a top hat, and the body in a rather shabby looking tuxedo.

 

Napoleon grinned his approval.

 

“That’s really good!” exclaimed the girl.  “What do you plan to call him?” she turned to ask Napoleon.

 

Napoleon in turn, turned to Illya.

 

“Code names are your area of expertise,” Illya responded.

 

By the end of the second week, they had graduated to doing makeup.

 

The makeup lady had started her lecture with, “There are several different types of makeup.  There is water-based, Halloween, cream-based, and greasepaint.   The choice of most clowns is greasepaint.  Greasepaint is impervious to all but the heaviest of soakings, holds to your face and retains its color well.”  Groans could be heard from various people in the class. 

 

“If you will refer to your information sheets, you will find a few helpful tips.  One.  Apply makeup only thick enough to cover your skin.  If you apply it too heavily it can flake off.  Two.  Powder your makeup with baby powder or talc.  This helps set it and prevents it from running.  Do not use powder with cornstarch, unless you want a yellow face.”  This statement was greeted with laughter.  “Three.  Do not apply colored makeup to your upper lip.  This should be left white or flesh to provide some definition between your nose and mouth from far away.  Okay now let’s get to it.”

 

Illya, of course, was enlisted by the teacher to help once his knowledge of makeup became evident.  He was currently working on applying makeup to Napoleon’s face.

 

“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”  Napoleon asked, his eyes closed while Illya worked on him.  “Maybe Waverly was right.  Maybe we did need to get away.”

 

“Napoleon, will you please keep quiet.  I can’t do this properly with your mouth moving.”

 

By the end of the third week, their routine was in the process of being worked out.  Each group was to show what routine they had worked out so far in front of the rest of the students.  Illya was dressed all in black, wearing it like a second skin.  The wig atop his head was also black.  Napoleon had on a dusty old tuxedo and top hat.  He sported glasses and a handlebar mustache. The only thing was…their act – it wasn’t funny.  Napoleon could do the rolling and the tumbling, but he couldn’t do funny – at least not intentionally.

 

“Come on, Napoleon,” Illya hissed. “You’ve got to do better than that.”

 

“I know,” Napoleon moaned.  “It’s just that I find it inhibiting to perform in front of a crowd.”

 

“Since when?”  Illya asked wickedly.  This earned him a slap in the back of the head by his partner.  Suddenly there was laughter.  The two men didn’t notice.

 

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”  Napoleon asked sharply, advancing menacingly on his partner.

 

Illya backed away slowly. “Oh just that I’ve heard…”

 

“And what have you heard,” Napoleon demanded to know, his eyes flashing angrily.

 

“Ah, well…”  Illya said as he retreated further. “It was all over the office.”

 

“What was all over the office?”  Napoleon roared.

 

Illya turned and ran, his eyes alight with mischief.

 

Laughter resounded throughout the tent, but neither man noticed. 

 

Illya hid behind the center post that held up the tent, peeking around with a wicked smile, unaware that he was unintentionally making his partner angrier.  Napoleon rounded on him ready to do damage.  They circled each other until Illya found a ladder leading up to a platform and climbed it briskly.  Napoleon with his large shoes followed slower.  Illya backed away. “Now, Napoleon, do not do anything you will regret.”  He wasn’t really worried.  After all there were witnesses, what could Solo do?

 

“What makes you think I’m going to regret it?”  Napoleon growled.

 

Illya had reached the end of the platform.  There was only one thing to do.  He did a back flip and landing gracefully on the ground.

 

Napoleon rushed to the edge, frightened by what he might find – a smashed body below.

 

Illya looked up at him grinning.

 

Tremendous applause broke out, as well as stomping of feet and catcalls.  The two agents froze in astonishment.  Mr. Fields, still chuckling, came up to them.  “I think you have finally got it.”

 

 

They were in the process of removing their makeup when a familiar beeping sounded.  Napoleon looked around, found a quiet out of the way spot and opened his pen.   “Solo here.”

 

“Ah, Mr. Solo,” Waverly’s voice echoed.  “Sorry to interrupt you…but we have something rather urgent that has come up.”

 

Illya had edged close so he too could hear what was said.  “And what would that be,” he muttered.

 

Waverly responded almost as if he had heard the remark.  “You both are to catch the next flight for France.  Your tickets should be waiting for you at the counter.”

 

“Yes, sir.  What are we to do when we get there?”  Napoleon asked.

 

“You will be met by the manager of the Cirque du Soleil.  He’ll brief you.  Report in when you arrive.  Waverly out.”  The channel went dead.

 

“He did say Cirque du Soleil?”  Illya asked.

 

Napoleon stared at his communicator; obviously there was more to their clown lessons then met the eye.  “Ahum, the old fox!”

 

 

The end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Because I Miss You Affair

YumYumPM

Originally written for Kuryakin Files 23

revised

 

Napoleon Solo was whistling as he descended down the stairs to Del Floria’s Tailor Shop.  Two weeks away from grey steel corridors had a way of rejuvenating a man. Winking as he tossed a salute to the man behind the counter and entered the dressing cubicle, turning the hanger that took him into UNCLE headquarters.

 

“How was your vacation, Napoleon?”  The dark-haired beauty at the receptionist desk smiled as she leaned forward to ask conspiratorially.

 

“Absolutely wonderful, my dear,” the suave agent replied as he took her hand to bestow a kiss on it.  Two weeks in the Bahamas had left the agent well rested and tan. Wine, women, beaches, women, restaurants, women - what more could a man ask for?

 

“Is Illya in yet?” Napoleon asked.  One of the perks was being able to gloat about the fun he had while his partner had to work.

 

“Mr. Waverly asked to see you as soon as you got here,” she said as she took her hand back.  She hoped he didn’t notice that she hadn’t answered his question. 

 

“Can it possibly wait till I get a cup of coffee?” Napoleon asked with a frown as he leaning over for her to fasten his badge to his jacket.

 

“I’m afraid not,” she apologized, her hand lingering just a moment longer than was necessary on his lapel before handing him a stack of messages that had accumulated while he was gone.

 

Solo gave her a roguish smile before he entered the main corridor heading straight for the elevator that would take him to Mr. Waverly’s office.  He absentmindedly read his messages.  Jessica, Amanda, Monique, Susan.  Putting them away in a pocket, he stopped at the door to straighten his tie before continuing into the office and headed for his usual chair.  He assumed that his partner would already be waiting for him and he’d have a chance to regal him with how much he’d enjoyed his time away for the steel walled world they worked in.

 

He was somewhat surprised to find his partner not only not there, but another man seated in Illya’s usual chair.  He glanced at the man, noting that he was tall and thin, and his hair cut in a crew cut so short you couldn’t tell what color it actually was in stark contrast to Illya’s own long blond locks.

 

Napoleon was halfway seated when Alexander Waverly announced with an absentminded wave of his hand toward the other man seated at the round table. “Mr. Solo, I would like you to meet your new partner, Jack Standish.”  .

 

“New partner?  What’s the matter with my old one?”  Caught by surprised, Napoleon poised just above the seat of his chair.

 

“I’m sorry to say Mr. Kuryakin is no longer with us,” Waverly’s reply was blunt and he was avoiding eye contact.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry, sir.  Perhaps I didn’t hear you correctly,” Napoleon was beginning to develop a sense of alarm “You can’t possibly mean…?”

 

“No, No nothing like that.”  Waverly waved his pipe contritely, finally making eye contact.  “Mr. Kuryakin was recalled by his government.”

 

“When?” Napoleon was feeling as if he’d been pole axed.  Recalled?  There was no sign of any such action taking place when he left.  In point of fact they’d never actually discussed what would happen should his government recall Illya; indeed Napoleon had assumed after all this time that it would never happen. The two men had worked together a long time and to suddenly come back to find Illya gone was mind-boggling.

 

Waverly at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable.  “Three days ago.”

 

“And you let him go?”  Napoleon asked with a certain amount of outrage.  After all, Illya wasn’t just any agent, he was one of the best UNCLE had.  His knowledge of languages alone made him a valuable asset, not to mention his abilities in the lab and his remarkable talent with disguises.  Plus he was a darn good pick-pocket.

 

“We had no choice,” Mr. Waverly stated firmly his tone leaving no doubt that the subject was closed.  He had no intention of discussing this especially in front of another agent.   The orders had arrived and stated in no uncertain terms that one Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was to return to the Soviet Union without delay.  “That will be enough about Mr. Kuryakin. You and Mr. Standish have an assignment.”  He then proceeded to outline the assignment as Napoleon tried to reign in his emotions.  However, he had difficulty concentrating on what his superior was saying. He was also having trouble understanding the reason why his partner and best friend had been recalled not to mention why nobody had thought enough to notify him of the fact.  Wasn’t he Chief Enforcement Agent after all?

 

“That will be all, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly finished as he closed the folder, sending it around to stop in front of his chief enforcement agent.  He watched with concern as Solo picked up the folder and both agents got up to leave.  Damnable business this, he thought.  He hoped the feelers he had sent out to find what was behind the recall would turn up something soon.  He’d always felt that agents who worked as closely as those two did should not be friends.  He shook his head with disapproval before turning back to other matters.

 

Jack Standish followed his new partner out of the room.  He’d been watching Solo and was rather surprised that he had shown such concern about Kuryakin’s recall.  He’d heard the Russian was good, but he was smugly confident that soon Solo would see the he was a far better partner than the Russian had ever been and forget all about Kuryakin. Standish looked to the senior agent and said with faked sympathy. “Sorry to hear about Kuryakin, Solo, but I’m sure you’ll find me an excellent replacement.”

 

With a look of thinly disguised disgust Napoleon headed for his office with the unfortunate Standish in tow.  It was bad enough that Illya was gone, but this guy seemed to have a high opinion of himself.  It didn’t help matters that he stood four inches taller than Solo and had the irritating misfortune to talk through his nose.  Had he cared to check, Napoleon would have learned that Standish had just transferred in from the west coast and was highly experienced.  Not that it would have mattered.

 

Solo kept walking as Standish started to enter Kuryakin’s office.  He stopped surprised to find a work crew in the process of cleaning it out.

 

“Hold on here,” Solo ordered as he saw what was happening.  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

 

The two workmen looked at each other before turning toward Standish to take their cue from him.  

 

“Mr. Waverly ordered Kuryakin’s things removed.  This is now my office,” Standish said matter-of-factly.

 

“I don’t give a damn what Waverly ordered,” Napoleon countered angrily.  “Nobody clears this office but me.” 

 

The workmen shrugged.  It made no difference to them who cleared the space out just so long as it was cleared. 

 

Napoleon hesitated before entering the room.  He was still having difficulty accepting the fact Illya was gone, and once he entered it would make the fact final.

 

“Would you like some help?”  Standish offered.

 

Napoleon looked at him in surprise, having already forgotten he was there.  “No….no, I’d rather do this alone.”  He waited for the men to leave before moving to the desk to empty it of any personal items that might have been left behind.  As he sat down his eye caught sight of an envelope addressed to him in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  He was hesitant to open it.  Picking up a letter opener he slit the envelope and slowly removed the letter within.

 

Napoleon,

 

I’m truly sorry not to have had a chance to say goodbye, but it is undoubtedly for the best.

You know that I’ve enjoyed our years working together and how much I value our friendship.

 

Farewell my friend,

Illya N. Kuryakin

 

Napoleon crumpled the letter in his hand more than a little angry with his partner.  “Damn you, Illya,” he muttered.  “How could you let them do this to you…to us.” He’d only been away for two weeks and look what happened; Illya obviously couldn’t be trusted on his own. Appreciation for the way the Russian agent’s devious mind worked made working with anyone else unacceptable. 

 

Since they’d never discussed this possibility, somehow Napoleon had the idea that he’d never see his partner again, at least not alive. The suddenness of the summons would have been disquieting at anytime, but why now?   He considered all the possible reasons that his partner might be recalled for, but nothing serious came to mind.  For some reason this reminded him of the time his friend had been left to die on an island during The Concrete Overcoat Affair if not for a last minute rescue on his part and his chest tightened.  A last minute rescue!   It was minutes before he was aware of a knock at the door.

 

Mandy Stevenson paused outside the doorway before knocking.  She looked in to see Napoleon sitting, looking so alone and lost that her heart went out to him.  “Hi, Napoleon,” she said softly as she entered the room.  “I’m really sorry about Illya.” 

 

Napoleon cleared his throat.  “Thanks, Mandy.”  Geez, everyone knows but me.  Great.

 

“I thought you might want to see this...” she continued sympathetically as she hesitantly passed him a folder containing a copy of Illya’s recall orders.  Even though she worked in translations, she knew enough about their partnership to know that Napoleon would want whatever information there was on this.  Besides hadn’t Napoleon gone out of his way to let her have her own little bit of adventure?  He hadn’t had to do that.

 

Without saying a word Napoleon took it and just sat there staring at the folder.  “If there is anything I can do?”  she asked timidly before preparing to leave.

 

“Mandy,” he called to her causing her to turn back.  “Does anyone have any idea what’s behind this?”  He went through the folder as he spoke.

 

Mandy shook her head.  “It came as a complete surprise.  I don’t think even Illya was expecting it.  One minute he was here.”  She waved her hand around the office.  “Then poof he was gone.”

 

“Why didn’t anyone get in touch with me?”  Napoleon asked angrily.

 

Mandy bit her lip before replying, “Illya asked us not to.  He said he didn’t want to spoil your vacation.”

 

Napoleon leaned back in astonishment. Not spoil his vacation?  He was the chief enforcement agent.  Hadn’t Illya even realized what coming back to this could possibly….no of course not?  Shaking his head, he gave Mandy a rueful smile.  “Thanks,” he said.

 

He was sitting there reading its contents when Standish returned.  “Might I have my desk now?” the agent asked peevishly as he stood in front of the desk.

 

Napoleon pulled himself together and got out of the chair.  “Sure.  It’s all yours.”  He left the room holding two folders in one hand and the crumpled letter in the other.

 

“Solo, don’t you think we should discuss the mission?” Standish called after him.

 

Stopping and turning to face the man who could never replace Illya, he snapped, “Not now.”  And finished with thinking, not ever.  When he made it to his own office he took a deep breath and again opened the folder with Illya’s orders in it.  Coming to terms with this was harder than he expected.  He glanced down at the crumbled piece of paper he still held and carefully flattened it. 

 

He stared at the folder for several minutes before putting the letter carefully away in his desk drawer.  He opened the second folder that held the briefing that he should have been listening to while in Waverly’s office.  As he read the contents, his attitude took a turn for the better, and a slow smile passed over his face.  He reopened the folder with Illya’s travel orders in it and couldn’t help but notice that his new assignment would take him fairly close to the location where Illya had been ordered to when recalled. 

 

Standish arrived at Solo’s office twenty minutes later, having picked up their plane tickets.  “We leave in two hours, are you ready?”

 

Napoleon gave him a huge smile as he got up from behind his desk.  “I’ll be right with you; I just have a few little things to take care of.”  Had Standish any sense he would have been scared.

 

 

Napoleon pulled up the collar of his dark trench coat as he stepped off the train at Vilnius in Lithuania.  Turning right he headed through the Old Town, painfully aware of its dilapidated condition.  Burned out windows, crumbling shutters, and cracked plaster cried out for millions of dollars’ worth of restoration.  Mandy had been as good as her word and he had no trouble at all in finding the building where Illya was presently located.  He had ducked through archways and into courtyards before finally making his way to the former KGB prison.  He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it.  The fact that it was now a museum was slightly ironic, as well as the fact that Illya was now in charge of it.

 

Upon entering the building he went to the receptionist, a rather mousy young woman, and asked in halting Russian, “Vi gavaritye pa angliski?”  He had never bothered to learn more than rudimentary Russian, seeing as when he had Illya for a partner he hadn’t needed to.

 

“Da.  How may I help you?”  she asked in stilted English.

 

Before he could answer that, a blond-haired man dressed in a rather stiff uniform stepped out of the office behind her.  He wasn’t paying any attention as he dropped the folder he was carrying on her desk and turned away.

 

Napoleon stood there rocking back and forth on his heels and toes.  “Hi there.”

 

Illya stopped dead in his tracks and turned around at the sound of the familiar voice, his face split into a grin.  “Napoleon!  Come in, come in,” he said as he ushered Napoleon into his office. 

 

Napoleon looked around, taking in the bare walls and the 40-watt light bulb that hung down from the ceiling.  He appeared completely fascinated by the light and turned to cast a questioning eye at the slight blond.

 

Illya looked at him with amusement.  Being under scrutiny was a way of life here.  “You get used to it after a while,” he said with a shrug.  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

 

“Not nearly as surprised as I was when I got back from vacation and found you were gone,” Solo replied, his voice held some of the bitterness he was feeling. “You realize of course that I’d been thinking the worst and here I find you some sort of desk jockey.”

 

“You didn’t know?”  Illya waved him toward a chair.

 

Napoleon took off his jacket and sat down in an uncomfortable chair before continuing sarcastically, “Evidently no one felt it was important enough to inform me.  I found out when I was introduced to my new partner.”

 

Illya cocked an eyebrow at him.  “So soon?” he murmured.  “Where is he, or is it a she?”

 

“He is back at the hotel in Helsinki suffering from a severe hangover,” Napoleon replied rather smugly.  “He evidently hasn’t had experience drinking Vodka. So how is life treating you, Tovarish?”

 

“Not bad,” Illya said shortly.  “Why have you come here, Napoleon?”

 

“Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d buy you lunch.”

 

Once they were outside in the cold air, both men pulled their coats tighter around them as they set off down the road.  “Where are we going?”  Napoleon asked.

 

Illya gave the American a sideways glance.  “I thought we might go up to Castle Hill.  There is a tower with a magnificent view of beautiful Vilnius.”

 

Napoleon snickered.  “Just what I always wanted to see.”

 

Illya’s eyes crinkled with amusement as the two men continued their walk and, as they arrived at the top of the tower, Illya inquired somewhat hesitantly, “Should I ask again why you are here?”

 

“Probably not.  In all truthfulness I’m not quite sure myself.”  Napoleon stared intently at the blond Russian. “How are you….really?”

 

“Bored,” Illya said with a shrug as he turned away to take in the view below.

 

“Okay, who did you piss off to get sent here?” Napoleon asked wryly as he wondered how Illya could be so acceptant of this.  There were many things he’d missed about his partner; his caustic wit, his strange sense of humor, his intelligence…his wallet.   He even missed the bantering and the bickering, and the feeling of being able to count on him in a pinch.

 

“I wish I knew,” Illya replied with a brittle laugh.  “Will you be able to stay long?”

 

Napoleon shook his head.  “No, I need to head back soon and collect what’s-his-name.”

 

“What’s-his-name?  Hardly professional of you not to remember,” Illya stated as he let out a chuckle.

 

“He’s not very memorable though he seems to think he is.”

 

Despite the coldness of the weather, the two men walked slowly back down toward the train station.  They stopped at a tavern to eat and talked for quite a while of inconsequential matters before going their separate ways - Illya back to his boring office job and Napoleon to catch a train.

 

mfu

 

One month later Solo had managed to through three more partners.  No one seemed able to live up to Solo’s standard of excellence.  Waverly had finally given in and now Napoleon was truly a solo agent.  But, that was no reason to cut his senior agent any slack.

 

“It’s absolutely imperative that we get those plans back, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly ordered in his usual brusque way.

 

Napoleon leaned forward in his chair and considered his options before playing his ace. “I’ll need Illya.”  He’d gone over all the information they had and found several instances where Illya’s expertise could prove invaluable. 

 

The old man sighed heavily.  They’d had this conversation before. “You know perfectly well, Mr. Solo, that Mr. Kuryakin is unavailable.”

 

“Yes.”  Solo nodded his agreement.  “However, I can’t do this without him.” This was not strictly true, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do this alone, but why bother.  Working with the Russian he’d gotten used to not having to second-guess him.  Illya knew exactly how he thought and acted accordingly, no explanations were ever necessary.  Their mission successes were a testimony to that.

 

Waverly had never liked being cornered and he scowled as he said abruptly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Solo, with great difficulty, kept the smile of victory off of his face.

 

Twenty-four hours later Napoleon Solo was standing by watching as passengers disembarked at Kennedy airport.  He relaxed visibly when he spotted a certain blond-haired Russian dressed in black walking toward him.  As Illya stopped in front of him, Napoleon said matter-of-factly, “It took you long enough.”

 

“It’s good to see you too.  Now can someone please tell me why I am here?”  Illya demanded sternly, though the corners of his mouth threatened to curl up in a smile.

 

“Not now.  We have another plane to catch and I have everything we’ll need right here,” Napoleon responded as he tapped the inside pocket of his jacket.  “Shall we?”

 

“Shouldn’t I be debriefed?  I can’t see my returning as if nothing’s happened.”

 

“Sorry, there’s no time.  Waverly said this was imperative, and you know what that means.”

 

“He wants it done yesterday.”  Ever the pragmatist Illya simply shrugged and again picked up his suitcase to follow his partner.  His eyebrows went up as he noted their destination.  However, Napoleon still refused to fill him in.  Every time Illya would go to broach the subject, Napoleon would bring a finger to his lips as he smiled and shook his head.

 

They arrived at their destination and checked into their room.  Once the bellhop left, the two men worked with their usual efficiency checking out the room for listening devices and any other surprises that might be in store for them.  This is what Napoleon had been missing, someone who knew how he thought, someone dependable that he could trust to watch his back.

 

“Some things never change,” Illya remarked as he unpacked his suitcase upon one of the two double beds in the room.

 

“The budget, my dear Kuryakin, you must always remember the budget,” Napoleon said sardonically as he went over to the bar to fix them each a drink.

 

“Ah,” Kuryakin nodded with understanding.  “Can I now know why I was sent for?”  Illya asked as he took his drink.

 

“All in good time, my friend.  All in good time.  How much were you told?”  Napoleon asked as he settled in the one comfortable chair in the room and put his feet up on the nearby table.

 

Illya went over to the window and looked down to the beach below. The view was enticing and he couldn’t help but wish that they were here for something other than an assignment. “Merely that some important plans are missing.   Ah, the beautiful Cayman Islands,” he muttered wistfully as he paused before continuing.  “This would seem to be an unusual place to find them.”

 

Napoleon cleared his throat. “I suppose it would be…if they were actually missing.”

 

Illya narrowed his eyes and turned his scathing gaze on him.  “And just what does that mean?”

 

“It means, my friend,” Napoleon said as he finished his drink. “That we will enjoy ourselves for…oh say, seventy-two hours, before we produce the plans, saving the world yet again,”  he finished as he got up to refresh his drink.

 

Illya turned his head, following Napoleon with his gaze.  “Do we know where the plans are?”

 

Napoleon saluted Illya with his glass.  “Actually, we do.”

 

Illya pondered that before asking. “We do?  How do we know this? 

 

“We know because I’ve already found them.”

 

“You what!  You can’t be serious,” Illya said in shocked surprise.  Then as he thought about it further. “Then why did you need me?”

 

Staring down into his drink, Napoleon considered his reply.  “I didn’t ‘need’ you.  It was just the only way I could think of to get you back.  I figured we could enjoy ourselves and then after a few days I’ll return them.”

 

Illya shook his head with annoyance. “Then what?  They’ll only send me back, you know.”

 

“Well, I have a couple of other operations in the works that will definitely require your special skills,” Napoleon said serenely as he sipped his drink.

 

Illya looked at him with disbelief.  “For what purpose?  Besides…someone will surely catch on and then where will you be?”

 

“I guess I’ll just cross that bridge when I get to it.”  Napoleon shrugged, then leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the coffee table looking unconcerned. “By then it will have accomplished its purpose.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“To buy you time.”

 

“To do what?”

 

Napoleon dropped the bombshell. “To become an American, British, or Canadian citizen.  Whichever you prefer.” 

 

There was shocked silence for a time.  Illya looked at his partner as if he was crazy.  He would in all probability never be allowed to enter Russia again. “Do you realize what you are asking?”

 

Napoleon looked at his friend before saying softly, “I think I do.  But it’s the only way.  It wouldn’t change who you are.  Nothing could do that.”

 

“I might never be allowed to go back,” Illya said.  There was always the possibility they might shoot him on sight.  Defectors were discouraged rather harshly.

 

“No…at least not legally,” Napoleon couldn’t resist adding with a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can you honestly say you want to go back…to a desk?”

 

Illya’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  He should have known better than to argue with Napoleon.  Freedom, freedom to go where he wanted, to do what he wanted, to work once again with his partner.  He glanced at the dark-haired American before quietly replying.  “No.”  Taking the time to think this over and get used to the idea he brought up, “This could take years.”

 

“Not if we get Mr. Waverly to pull strings.”  Napoleon appeared to have it all planned out.

 

“And why would he do that?”  Illya wanted to know.

 

“Illya, I’m surprised.  You’re a very important agent; a lot of effort on my part has gone into training you.  Thanks to me you are now the best, after me of course.”  Napoleon positively radiated confidence.

 

“Napoleon, you know perfectly well I was already trained when you got me,” Illya stated letting the humor of the situation show in his eyes.

 

The smile on Napoleon’s face said that it would all be worth it.  Illya looked intently into his partner’s eyes.  “Tell me, Napoleon.  Why did you go to all this trouble?”

 

Looking back into the questioning blue eyes Napoleon said with complete sincerity.  “Because I missed you.”

 

The End.