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It’s the weekly meeting of Section Two Agents with Mr. Waverly, and of course Napoleon, currently not on assignment, is present and paying attention. Mostly present, mostly paying attention. His stomach starts fluttering every now and then, and in those moments, he glances at his watch.
Now Illya surely must have landed, even if the plane from California was late. Now he must have picked up his baggage. Is he in a cab now? They have their own meeting with Waverly after this, so he must soon be in the building –
Illya steps through the door during Waverly’s wrap-up words, looking tired, pale and also younger than he did when Napoleon first met him. Illya nods at the polite soundless greetings of the other agents but doesn’t take a seat himself. It’s his Illya all right, even if he looks a little wrong. Napoleon forces himself to tear his eyes away, tuning back into Waverly designating tasks among the section.
“So, Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate, you take on the ESP machine. Mr. Han guards the visiting Kenian heiress, and Mr. Jensen, you liaison with CIA and try to decipher if there’s any truth to this mind control business. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to be discreet, just in case there is. Thank you, gentlemen and Miss Dancer, you are dismissed. And of course,” a nod towards Illya by the door, “Welcome back home, Mr. Kuryakin.” A nod back from Illya.
As the meeting disbands, Napoleon rises from his chair but can still do little else than stare at Illya. Agents walk past Illya, his colleagues bestowing him with happy-you’re-still-alive slaps on the back. April Dancer gives Illya a little smile and leaves the room as well. Now it’s just the three of them, and Illya looks up to meet Napoleon’s eyes. Mr. Waverly is still seated, finishing his handwritten meeting notes.
“Mr. Solo, you are allowed to go greet Mr. Kuryakin even with me still present," Waverly says, not looking up. "It has been a difficult couple of weeks for you both, which I do appreciate.”
Not needing to be told twice, Napoleon rushes over to Illya and crushes him against his own chest, burying his face into Illya’s hair. Or what’s left of it.
“It’s all right,” Illya reassures him. “I’m unharmed, Napoleon.”
Napoleon brings a hand up to the back of Illya’s neck, fingers ghosting over the cropped hairs there. “She sent your hair to us by courier. To me. What were we supposed to think about that, Illya?”
Illya wraps his arms around Napoleon and lets out a sigh.
Waverly coughs twice. “Gentlemen, my notes are now finished. I shall give you some privacy to reassemble yourselves,” he says, with a gentleness in his voice he uses very sparingly. “We can continue with our private briefing in five minutes, in my office.”
When Waverly passes them on his way out of the door, he pats Napoleon on the shoulder, says, “There, there, Mr. Solo,” and leaves them alone.
“Maybe that is his way of apologising for not letting you go look for me this time,” Illya mumbles against Napoleon’s cheek.
“I thought you were dead,” Napoleon replies. “Blond hair fell out of the envelope, and I could only think, he would never give up his hair without a fight.”
Illya snorts without mirth. “I did protest it rather firmly, but then decided losing my best physical feature was preferential to lashings, or worse.” He pulls back a little, probably so he can look at Napoleon’s face. Napoleon looks at the floor. “When she was cutting it, I made sure to wail and beg for mercy as loud as my lungs could manage. It worked, because she then deemed me sufficiently punished, based on my reactions. Then it was just a matter of two weeks of being grounded.”
Napoleon still doesn’t look at Illya.
Illya starts drawing circles on Napoleon’s back through his jacket. “You’re blaming yourself, aren’t you?”
Napoleon shrugs, even though it is a bit awkward when he is still embracing Illya. “I should have made sure Mother Fear was really dead, that time in Switzerland.”
“We both should have. Although I could have sworn she was crushed by that waterwheel after the cake exploded.”
“You were pretty injured, and still managed to finish that affair,” Napoleon points out. A certain amount of physical hurt is a given in the job, but the angry wounds on Illya's back left behind by Mother Fear’s whips had been among the most harrowing. “I don’t think that one was on you.”
“Napoleon, you mustn’t fret. Mother Fear was but a shadow of herself. I believe she was almost relieved she wasn’t required to manhandle me further, given my theatrics.”
“But it was necessary to hold you captive for fourteen days,” Napoleon says, voice bitter.
"Look at me," Illya insists, and Napoleon finally does. The warmth in Illya's usually cool blue eyes makes Napoleon feel even more rotten. It's Illya who has had the hard mission, not Napoleon, yet it is Illya who is currently comforting him. And Napoleon still isn't used to the hair, which will serve as a reminder of his inaction far longer than any black eye or bruised knee would.
One of Illya's hobbies is guessing what Napoleon is thinking, usually accurately, so he shakes his head, as if to chastise Napoleon for the self-inflicted guilt trip. "She was hardly her old self, but she had managed to convince some armed thugs that her new school would take off at any moment. They took my gun and snapped the communicator in two.”
Napoleon lets go of Illya, and walks to a window to look at the New York cityscape. “I thought I would go crazy, lose my mind for good. Days and days of not knowing if you’re dead, most likely you were, but hoping, just hoping it wasn’t true. And Waverly not allowing me to leave, saying that going on a wild goose chase would not help you at all –”
“And he was right about that,” Illya interrupts, joining Napoleon at the window. He takes Napoleon by the hand, something he very rarely does in the office. But then again, this is not your average post-affair chat, given Napoleon’s moodiness. “You could have spent years looking in all the wrong places. But it’s all good now.”
Napoleon squeezes Illya’s hand, not too hard. “How did you outwit the guards, spitfire?”
“Pardon?”
“You enjoyed Mother Fear’s hospitality at that abandoned rural school for thirteen days, if my calculations are correct.”
Illya sports his wry little grin. “I didn’t fancy finding out if I would be let go after two weeks or disposed of permanently. It turned out one of the necessities Mother Fear now lacked was funding. I found out none of the guards had been paid for months. Directing their ire towards the schoolmistress was child’s play, in the end.”
“And so the inimitable Illya Kuryakin saved himself,” Napoleon marvels, and feels himself smile for the first time since Illya entered the room. His nerves have now calmed down enough that he can give Illya a peck on the cheek. “I sometimes wonder if you do enjoy it, causing general discord and chaos.”
Illya slips his thumb inside Napoleon’s jacket sleeve, moving it back and forth across Napoleon’s wrist. “I know how you hate feeling helpless. But weren’t my resourcefulness and urge to survive, no matter what, among the reasons you fell for me? Napoleon, sometimes the best you can do is to wait it out, trust me to resurface, and not lose hope.”
“That’s the sort of optimism I’ve come to expect from myself rather than you, Illya mine”, Napoleon says, feeling almost upbeat. Illya is back at his side, this time no thanks to Napoleon and shorn like a prize lamb, but he is here.
“Well, my hair will be shorter than yours for a while, so I suppose it’s opposite month anyhow.” Illya scratches at his neck. “This itches.”
“I can scratch it for you if your hand gets tired,” Napoleon offers gallantly. He runs a hand through his own hair in sympathy. “I’m not trying to be rude, but you do look like a child who was attended to with a gardening tool.”
Illya chuckles, something Napoleon wasn’t yet expecting from him. “That is pretty close to how my hair was kept subdued for the better part of the thirties, actually.”
"Ah, the practicality of Soviet grandmothers." Napoleon gives Illya another quick kiss on his temple, and Illya’s eyes are smiling again. “I’ll promise I’ll never tease you about needing a haircut ever again, Illya.”
“I shall request that in writing later.”
“In three copies, if you so require.”
Illya taps his watch. “Waverly.” Napoleon nods.
They leave the briefing room and walk down the corridor side by side, the backs of their hands brushing against one another every now and then.