Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Napoleon said nothing, remembering that particular nightmare and how he had attempted to explain to her what it meant to have a partner. And how many times since then those words had been put to the test. But Illya wasn't just a partner any longer; the line had been crossed, the line that Napoleon had run from all his life. I called him family.

  He laughed silently, ignoring her amused look. Somewhere out there was a man he was related to, a man he didn't know and who was his father, but who wasn't remotely a part of his family. Across the tent from him now was a man who he wasn't related to, didn't see eye-to-eye with, and one he rarely understood, but there was no doubt in his mind that Illya was family.

  Maybe Illya wouldn't say it like that, not in those words, but he would say that Napoleon had a piece of his soul. And Illya had come after him alone, tracking him down in Los Angeles last May, allowing himself to be captured in order to get to Napoleon. They had been held in a stinking warehouse office, and Napoleon had been sick—pneumonia the doctors had called it when he finally got to a hospital—but Illya had patiently tended him, holding him upright to sleep, treating him with a tenderness he hadn't known the Russian was capable of. It was as if the 'Ilyusha' who appeared at the Grahams' home had suddenly extended his family by one.

  And when did I count him family? When Illya had been kidnaped, a year and half before, gone for several months and presumed dead. Napoleon thought back to the long, difficult days after Illya had been returned to them, the hours he had spent by his partner's bedside as the younger agent fought to get back into the game, pain-free and nightmare-free. The payoffs of those hours invested had been returned to him triple over the last year. But he hadn't done it for U.N.C.L.E. He'd done it to see a smile once again on a brother's face.

  He felt the tear roll down his cheek but did nothing. April wouldn't care. She knew how he felt.

  He let the thought turn over in his mind a few times, remembering the handful of cases he had spent with her. Their few unofficial 'dates', for lunch or dinner, supposedly to talk about one assignment or another. Her silent tears when Mark had disappeared the week before.

  What a world we live in... What do I have to offer her?

  April kissed his cheek as he stared up at the tent ceiling. Her lips trailed softly across the smooth skin beneath his eyes, then moved up to pause on the furrow between his brows. One manicured nail gently turned his face to look at her. "Napoleon Solo, right at this moment, I may not be dressed in an evening gown with pearls around my neck, I may need a shower desperately and I haven't washed my hair in three days—but I figure you're in the same boat as far as that goes. I also figured that one day I would see the real Napoleon Solo again, all dirty and grubby with tears in his eyes, and I wanted our first time together to be with that man and not the sophisticated, well-groomed playboy."

  She drew away to meet his deep brown eyes staring back at her wordlessly, then wiggled out of her clothes. Her fingers traveled his ribs to his waist, caught the top of the longjohns, hooked the waistband, and slid the thermal underwear down off his suddenly motionless body. "That's the man I fell in love with.

  I don't want to lose my chance. Who knows when I'll be able to see you like this again." Her hands drifted up from his feet, up the sides of his legs, tickling the short curly hair that dusted his body, skimming his hips and thighs, and then splaying across his stomach before she lay back beside him, her breasts warm on his chest. "Now, Napoleon. This needs to be quick and sweet. Before he wakes up..."

  He needed no further invitation. He took a lungful of air and captured her mouth, careful of his day's growth of beard. The kiss was soft at first, then grew more demanding as she responded with undeniable passion. His hands roamed her naked body, caressing her, fingertips seeking spots no longer denied him. He shifted beneath her, straightening the twisted sleeping bag, and then settling her gently into place. She melted around him, touching him, guiding his hands, the soft sounds from her throat setting his pulse racing.

  Napoleon rolled them both over again until she was beneath him, protected in the shelter of his arms. He stared down at her, lost in the sensations and heat of entering her, his hands gently cradling her face. Mindful of what she had said, he abandoned his usual words and stock phrases, laid aside his experience and techniques, and he took her slowly, taking his time, feeling her lithe body cling to him, move with him.

  Lovemaking. The feeling was a smooth warm oil flowing over them both, seeping through the misgivings and fears he had for the word. The difference was noticeable immediately. Not mere sex, but loving, it was something that frightened him, the Chief Enforcement Agent of the United Network Command, and yet... was... intoxicating. April Dancer in his arms, he within her, wanting her, wanting this... and wanting the feeling this time, too.

  He felt her body quake, heard the sudden intake of air as she arched upwards to meet him one more time, then he was over the edge himself, the sweet pain released as he collapsed on his side taking her with him in a maze of arms and legs. He held her in sweating arms close to his heart, his face pressed into her hair, and whispered her name.

  April held him, her hands caressing his body while he shook from exhaustion and from the emotional release. She tilted her head up, pushing upward to meet his lips, her mouth echoing the passion for him that still burned softly within her. They took their time now that their initial urgency was over, his hands exploring her body, her hands memorizing his feel beneath her fingers, the skin, the curling hairs, the warm dampness between their legs.

  They drifted, laying side by side in breathless indolence as they waited for the rush of adrenaline to subside and their heart rates to return to normal. They stared at the shadows on the tent ceiling, sated, their fingers linked in sudden inexplicable shyness as their heads touched on the pillow.

  When they shifted at last, reluctantly moving from the cocoon of blankets to dress leisurely, their eyes glimpsed in the meager light what their hands had touched earlier. They traded soft smiles and looks as they ate a light meal but neither knew what to say.

  April crawled over the rumpled bedding to check Illya, frowning in concern when the thermometer registered that his body temperature had dropped half a degree. They lifted him back to the double sleeping bag and fell asleep surrounding him and putting their renewed body heat to good use.

  * * * * *

  Napoleon woke an hour later with a sharp jab to his ribs. "Wha-a-t?"

  Two angry blue eyes glared at him. "What the hell am I doing here?"

  "Feeling better?" Napoleon murmured, his eyes struggling to stay open and focus.

  "What?" Illya snapped. "Let go of me or I'll break more than a few ribs." He squirmed in the tight confines, struggling to get his hands out from beneath the sleeping bag. He got them as far as his face, then stopped to sniff them. "Who put perfume on me? What's going on here?"

  "Ouch. Quit kicking." Napoleon tried to roll on his back, but the sleeping bag, which had been roomy enough for two, was crowded with three.

  Illya's movements became more violent and April gasped as he caught her with an elbow. He froze suddenly, sniffing the air. "Sex. I smell sex—What happened? Hey! April Dancer, what are you doing?? Napoleon, she's pulling down my pants— Ow!"

  Napoleon clamped his arms around his partner, holding him immobile. "She's just taking your temperature. Lie still for a minute."

  Illya wrenched away, one arm swiftly reaching back inside the sleeping bag to withdraw the offensive thermometer, then his arms and legs windmilled dangerously and he clawed his way out of the sleeping bag in a second, leaving behind his now-bruised companions. "You two are sick! What did you do to me?" He started shivering, looking around the tent as he tried to figure out where he was, his arms wrapped around the thermal undershirt.

  "He has a good nose," April whispered to Napoleon. "You didn't warn me about that."

  "He has good hearing, too," Illya growled pulling on a discarded shirt. "Explain, Napoleon. Make it good."


  Rubbing his aching chest where a knee had dug in, Napoleon grumbled, "You fell into the bay. We fished you out and kept you alive, you ungrateful Slav. We should have thrown you back in."

  April emerged from the sleeping bag, holding the rectal thermometer hidden in the palm of her hand, her voice quiet and reasonable. "Illya, you had hypothermia. We used our own body heat to restore your temperature. You were ten degrees below what you should have been. You should not be up yet. You need to rest."

  They watched as he glanced around the tent trying to make some sense of it all, taking in the fur parkas and winter gear hanging about the interior, his own still wet from his accidental swim. "What about the sex?" he asked, still non-committal about the situation.

  Napoleon grinned. "It was great." He ducked as a boot flew through the air at him.

  "I see what you mean by cranky," April said, laughing, then ducked herself as the mate to it was launched at her.

  "It'll only get worse. We have to feed him soon or he may injure someone." Napoleon pulled the blankets over his head, excusing himself from the conversation.

  "Illya, that," April said, pointing to the third sleeping bag, "is where you were at the time. Alone. We didn't do anything to you."

  "You and... Napoleon? Napoleon? April, I thought you had better taste," Illya moaned.

  "She tastes great," came a muffled retort from the blankets.

  Illya sat hunched over, his face in his hands, "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear it. I don't want—"

  It took him awhile to process all the information as April reconstructed the discovery of the something, possibly a submarine tethered below the iceberg, seen on Napoleon's underwater camera. She also mentioned his icy submersion, their race across the sinking ice floes, Mark's departure for supplies, and their battle to keep him alive.

  "And now, I really do need to take your temperature again," April said sternly. "Please?"

  Lacking the strength to fight any longer, Illya lay back down on the sleeping bag, closed his eyes in frustration, and let her reinsert the thermometer and check him over. He was asleep by the time she withdrew it three minutes later, the light fever and his burst of activity exhausting him.

  April paged through the first aid manual, looking for further instructions. "It'll take awhile for his temperature to stabilize. It's a bit high now, but it says here that if we keep him quiet and warm, it should regulate itself soon."

  They unzipped one side of the sleeping bag and rolled Illya back to Napoleon, April crawling in behind him and zipping it back up. Napoleon drew his partner close, his heart double-beating again as he realized how close it had been this time. He looked down at one reddened hand resting against his chest, unable to believe there was no frostbite or permanent damage to the long fingers. They would strum guitar strings, tap on keyboards, dismantle bombs, or even pull the trigger of his gun. He shuddered and rested his forehead for an instant against his partner's.

  He looked up, suddenly conscious of April smiling at him, and he shocked himself by blushing. He cleared his throat, but she interrupted before he could say anything.

  "Don't explain. I understand; I have a partner, too." Her hand reached across and brushed the lock of hair from his eyes. "I love you like this, your hair every which way, your beard growing, wearing a pair of longjohns..."

  "And here all this time I thought good grooming and deodorant were important."

  "I have nothing against them. As long as they aren't masks you hide behind."

  He nodded, a tired smile on his lips. They lay in silence for a while, Illya between them, sleeping in their arms, his breathing raspy but regular. But he ceased to exist as they gazed at each other.

  "We shouldn't have done it," Napoleon said quietly.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm your supervisor, for one thing."

  She shrugged, resting her chin on top of Illya's head. "So?"

  He smiled at her stubborn charm. "And I'm not sure if we both understand what it meant. I'm not ready to—"

  "To what? Settle down? I didn't ask you to leave your job."

  "I know you didn't..." Napoleon closed his eyes, uncertain of how to put it all into words. "One day... One day I want... things that neither of us are willing to give up right now. I don't even know how to say it."

  "You want—What? A wife? A family?"

  He shrugged uncomfortably. "And I'm not ready to give up U.N.C.L.E. to do that. You're not ready to give up U.N.C.L.E."

  "Who said we'd have to? Other couples have done it. My parents were both in the army."

  "My parents were undercover agents—" The words choked off in his throat.

  "Really? I didn't know that. With what group?"

  He told her the scraps of information he had. "I will not have any child of mine left behind. I don't understand why they couldn't have taken me with them. They lived as a married couple—ordinary people going about their lives. Would it have been so difficult to include their own child in that?"

  "It would have been hell." Illya's voice startled him.

  "Why do you say that?" April asked, hearing the pain in his voice.

  Illya pushed himself away from his partner, to lie on his back between them. He spoke softly, his throat still raw. "I was the child who was taken undercover with his father. It took me years afterward to figure out what was real and what wasn't. It took longer yet to understand that some of the things that happened to me should not have happened to a little child. Believe me, Napoleon, you were better off. You were left with your grandparents who loved you, not taught how to kill people or left for weeks with men in underground rooms, men who—" Illya was shivering too hard to continue.

  "Don't. Don't say it," Napoleon whispered.

  "Why? It s-s-still happened."

  "Just don't say it."

  Illya struggled to calm himself, to get the shivering under control. "So, you two had sex today. What if you got her pregnant, Napoleon?" he persisted. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm on the Pill," April said quickly.

  "But if it didn't work? Hypothetically—what would you do? This was your father's decision."

  Napoleon wanted to be a million miles away. "I really don't think this is the time and place to talk about it. Just over that rise is an iceberg that probably has a submarine beneath that has enough firepower to start World War Three."

  "There's nothing we can do about it right now," Illya said. One hand moved shakily to rest on his forehead. "I feel lousy."

  "Just rest."

  He nodded wearily, then turned back on his side, allowing his partner to draw him closer. Napoleon waited until Illya was asleep again before looking across at April. "Are you sure—?"

  "Positive. I took it right on schedule. The day I get pregnant is the day I want to get pregnant." Her hand moved from stroking Illya's forehead, to stroking Napoleon's. "Don't make your decisions all at once. I'm not in any hurry. I like where I'm at right now. I like being Mark's partner. I like fighting for women's rights in U.N.C.L.E. I like the business. I figure we can have this discussion again in seven or eight years, when I'm old and gray and ready to think about other things, like family and babies. Women leave the field earlier than men do, after all."

  Napoleon stayed silent and wondered how they would sort out the next few days. The fear that everything would revert to 'normal' became tangible. Yet, that's what he wanted at the same time.

  Frustrated, he reached beyond his partner to her, pulling her closer, pulling them both closer. Her eyes shut and a tear escaped, running down her cheek. His hand moved from Illya's shoulder to wipe the dampness from her face. "Why don't you get some rest? It's going to be busy when Mark gets back." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, the hypnotic motion lulling her to sleep.

  An hour later, the faint sound of the snowmobile woke them. "Mark made it..." April whispered, her eyes blinking awake as she crawled from the sleeping bag. "Napoleon?"

  He was dressing quickly, gun in one hand. H
e stopped and their lips met, kissing one last time before their private world was invaded. "Yes, April?" he answered as they broke for air, hearing the snowmobile shut off outside their shelter.

  "Good thing Illya fell in Baffin Bay."

  He smiled, the grin spreading wide across his face as he checked his redesigned Walther. "April?"

  "Yes, Napoleon?"

  "Would you believe I pushed him?"

  Chapter Eleven

  August 1960

  Ward's Island, Toronto, Ontario

  They stood on the edge of the wharf leaning on the wooden railing, looking back at the city. Toronto rose up, gray buildings towering along the waterfront that separated the mainland from the small island. The two visitors had abandoned their suit jackets in the house and had rolled up the sleeves of their white shirts, as the oppressive heat of the summer day had not eased, even in the evening dusk. The lake only offered them a faint breeze to combat the humidity, and they accepted it gladly, for they were celebrating.

  Alexander Waverly lifted his glass, the icecubes clacking against the sides. "I approve."

  "I agree," Claude Renault said, his dark eyes crinkled into a smile."A place of your own. Finally."

  "I am only leasing it, but I signed a three-year agreement." Antonio Solo looked out across the water in the opposite direction from the skyline, his eyes seeing some other shore, thousands of miles and a lifetime away.

  It was at times like this when Alexander most saw the resemblance between father and son, although they were strangers. They had never really met. Not in any way that mattered.

  "So tell us about the university. What name will you use there?" Claude asked.

  Antonio shrugged, as though it didn't matter either way. "Solo. My degrees are all in that name. They have listed me by that name." Antonio looked over to the Montreal native. "My thanks, Claude. They never would have considered me without your recommendation."