Chapter Text
Illya Kuryakin, the newish Director of Innocent and Family Protection, is sitting at his office desk in UNCLE’s New York Headquarters, glasses and game face on, with sheets of A2 paper filled with notes in marker pen strewn all around him. As his afternoon has progressed, the sheets have first covered the entire desk, and some of them have given up the fight altogether and started to seek refuge on the floor.
"Big ideas need bigger paper,” Illya mutters to himself, ironically, of course. It is probably something he has heard Napoleon say before. Looking around him, next to the desk and under it, he dives after the first sheet he started this one-man poster session with hours before.
Revised guidelines for Conduct Towards Innocents
Key objective: Leave Them Better Than You Found Them
Area of Application: UNCLE NorthWest, Section Two, Section Three, Section Six
Executive responsible: Illya Kuryakin, Number Two, Section Six
The "revised" part is his own personal joke, as written guidelines currently do not exist and never have. Waverly, a fine man in many ways, still operated under the assumption that it was sufficiently hands-on to remind agents to be gentlemen, to try to keep the on-duty-romancing to a minimum and not let the Innocents get physically hurt. If he felt particularly proactive, he would comment sarcastically on the track records of his worst offenders. But it’s not the sixties anymore, and both Illya’s immediate supervisor and Napoleon have listened to sense and granted Illya the time to work on this project. “My professional little spoilsport,” Napoleon now proudly calls Illya. At home. When he’s feeling brave.
At the end of the sheet, Illya adds Primary Contacts in Key Sections (Mr. Napoleon Solo, Miss April Dancer, Mr. George Dennell, Mr. Frederick Salmi) and puts that sheet down on a side table. Looking through some of the others, he chooses one paper that he has divided into two columns, the left side labelled During Affair and the right one After Affair.
Because at this part in the process everything is still possible, he adds sexual conduct with Innocents to the During column, then crosses it out. Then he reminds himself that even impossible things are indeed still possible and adds sexual conduct with Innocents to the After column.
Illya is prepared to argue for this flight of fancy of his at some point, as the final stamp of approval for the guidelines lives on Napoleon’s desk. Who is also an outstanding man in most ways that matter, not to mention the love of Illya’s life. Unfortunately, Napoleon also sometimes operates under the misguided notion that it would be highly hypocritical to expect better from current agents than what was demanded of them (him) in his day. He’ll surely come round, but will probably require some gentle nudging.
Your points are all excellent, Illya, of course. It’s just that if we had had those rules, Muriel wouldn’t exist.
Muriel. Illya looks at the clock and realises he should have been in the car seven minutes ago, “Oh, dammit!” he exclaims in Russian and bolts out the door, leaving the rest of the papers lying around for the night.
--
If only three years ago someone had suggested to Illya Kuryakin that the most high-octane part of his Tuesday would be scrambling to get to a ballet class in time, he would have considered that someone to be very unwell and suggested they get their head examined, for both concussion and general madness.
Of course, three years ago he and Napoleon were both still field agents, and their unwedded bliss hadn’t yet been completed (and initially complicated) by the knowledge of Muriel Solo’s existence. On Tuesday evenings, her mother Mimi worked nights at a cabaret bar, and Illya, in his double role as not only Director of IFP, but Muriel’s officially favourite Uncle, was the most natural choice to accompany the child to Tavia Sandor’s dance studio. It was his lifetime membership there that paid for Muriel’s classes, after all.
Usually, it went like this: at around 4.45 pm, Illya would start patting his pockets in his small office and realise that once again, dear Napoleon had the car keys. He doesn’t understand how that keeps happening, as Illya has been the regular driver in their relationship since the days they were just work partners. It’s not like Number One of Section One doesn’t have a personal driver at his disposal whenever he needs one, anyway.
So then, Illya loses precious minutes hunting down Napoleon, who seems to have inherited Waverly’s penchant to go hide in some forgotten corner of the building at the very minute Illya needs to see him without delay. Fortunately, this Tuesday, as Illya is in a bigger hurry than usual, Napoleon has a meeting with the other seven Section Heads and is in his briefing room when Illya bursts through the door.
Seven men, including Illya’s own boss Fred, turn to look at him in puzzlement. Most of them know both Illya and Napoleon from way back and are aware of their close bond. But as few people have the bravery to disturb a meeting like this without warning, Illya’s presence is still highly confusing to them.
The eighth man, Napoleon, raises his eyebrows in amusement, but of course he knows straight away what gives him the pleasure. Illya and he go through this most Tuesdays, after all.
“Oh, Illya! I really thought I gave them to you this time, my friend.” Napoleon is fishing around in his pockets. Having located the keys in his slacks, he yells, “Here, catch!” and throws them into Illya’s hands across the spinning table.
“Thank you, Napoleon! And apologies for disturbing you, gentlemen,” Illya adds before sprinting out the door. General chitchat wasn’t invented for such dire situations, as he is ten minutes late already. Let Napoleon do the explaining. If anything, the current Number One knows how to do that.
--
With both the cabaret and Tavia Sandor’s dance school located in Manhattan, Mimi and Muriel have travelled from Brooklyn via cab and are waiting for Illya just outside Del Floria’s. Mimi has tried to suggest she and Muriel could just use the subway. But their homing devices wouldn’t work underground, so Illya has insisted on cabs.
“Hop on, please.” Illya beckons for Mimi and Muriel to get into the car.
“Uncle Illya, you’re late again,” Muriel states good-naturedly as she climbs into the back seat, already dressed in a pink tutu, with her curly black hair in a bun. “You’re late every week.”
“I know Muriel, I’m sorry.”
“It’s a really important class today. We do a final re-hear-sal.”
“Don’t worry, dear.” Mimi Doolittle sits down next to Illya, wearing a sequinned dress with two feather boas and sparkling silver shoes. “You’re dressed already and probably won’t be that late. Hi, Illya.”
“Hello, Mimi.”
Mimi fastens her seatbelt. “Did he have the car keys again?”
“I’ll let you guess.” Illya checks Muriel’s seat belt is fastened and starts driving towards the club. It had been rather pricey and time-consuming, finding a car with seatbelts in the back as well, so she better wear hers.
Mimi smiles at him. “How can they always be with Napoleon when you are the main driver in your household?”
“I ask myself that very question every Tuesday,” Illya sighs.
“It’s good that the recital is on Saturday already,” Muriel says to no-one in particular, sounding like seven going on seventy in her world-weariness. “Then we only have to concentrate on next month's tournament.”
“I haven’t said that to her.” Illya shoots Mimi a look, because Muriel has emulated his flat affect with a few choice intonations perfectly, and swallowed the r’s in “Saturday” and “tournament”. She doesn’t do that in her natural accent, New Yorker or not. “At her age, she doesn’t need to feel pressure about a judo tournament, even if it is her first.”
“I trust in your ability to keep her level-headed,” Mimi chuckles.
“She does have the overnight bag with her, doesn’t she?”
“Sure does, and her school bag too, and clothes that aren’t a tutu,” Mimi reassures. “Really, the way you have to check everything, Illya, sometimes it’s like it’s two mothers she has.”
“I’m just thorough,” Illya says, but can’t help the little warmness he feels at the implication of Mimi’s words. He can’t quite think of himself as a parent to Muriel. To most of the world, she already has two, he and Napoleon are just close friends that happen to share a home, and the girl knows him as Uncle Illya anyway. But whenever Napoleon or Mimi, sometimes even her fiancé Simon, make comments that acknowledge Illya’s role in this unconventional arrangement of theirs, it does please him more than he wants to admit.
“And aren’t we all glad you are thorough,” Mimi says. She arranges her feather boas better around her shoulders and continues, “Speaking of which, she was asked to write on the topic of a place she likes to visit. It’s in her school bag.” In case you want to check it, she doesn’t need to add. Muriel is probably the only child in her school whose homework is occasionally subjected to pre-censorship, as Illya couldn’t allow anything too sensitive about their home life or jobs reaching the school.
--
“Aren’t you a proper little Cagey Bea, Illya mine,” Napoleon had said recently when Illya had directed Muriel to change a drawing of hers. She was supposed to hand it in for some sort of Family Day exhibition at school. The picture was a far more accurate portrayal of Napoleon than an untrained seven-year-old had any right to pull off. In it, Napoleon was sitting on the couch in shirtsleeves, socked feet lifted to the backrest. Regrettably, Muriel had captured him talking into the communicator with an UNCLE file in hand, the globe logo clearly visible. That had to be scrubbed out, and the communicator replaced with a phone until the image could be handed in.
“How long are you going to find potential security breaches like this funny, Number One?” Illya had asked Napoleon in a long-suffering tone after Muriel and the drawing had left the apartment.
“Probably always and forever, sunflower, sorry about that.” Napoleon had scrunched up his face. “You still look unbelievably sweet when you are frustrated, just as much as you did ten years ago. That doesn’t exactly give me the initiative to behave.”
That had only deepened Illya’s frown, because by now he was a man of forty and not some cuddly toy. For making that face, he was rewarded with some tender kisses, and Napoleon also thanked him for being so considerate of Muriel’s well-being. Illya had snorted and turned away to make some tea. Napoleon’s blatant attempts at redirecting his annoyance were darling in their own way, but of course Illya mostly refused to reward them out of principle. The man didn’t need any further encouragement.
--
Illya drops Mimi off at the Village near his old apartment and hurries to the dance school with Muriel. When Tavia Sandor opened her own academy, UNCLE hadn’t expected her to just take over Mr. Mozart’s old premises, secret passageways and all. But she has stayed there and put every space to use, expanding to children’s classes as well. Apparently, she was not tormented by any bad memories related to the place. The room she and Illya almost had their eardrums blown up in, for example, is now a break room for her staff. Illya knows this because he received a tour of the entire school the day Illya and Napoleon came round to sign Muriel up for the ballet classes.
“It is so admirable, Illya, that you want to contribute to a friend’s child getting a favourable start in life,” Tavia said, still with the same intensity she had held towards Illya when they first met during that bee affair. She leant a little closer to him in the staff room/torture chamber, batting her lashes. “Ballet is so good for teaching discipline and a solid work etiquette. And how are you doing?”
Illya cleared his throat and took a step back. “Very well, thank you. I think Muriel is mostly interested in the tutu, for now. She saw a picture of Anna Pavlova in one my books and decided the attire was worth pursuing.”
“And what are you interested in, these days?” Tavia stepped closer again and put a hand on his elbow. “I am still available for selected clients for very intimate, private lessons.”
“Napoleon must surely wonder where we are,” Illya said and walked briskly to the elevator.
“You’ve still got it, haven’t you?” Napoleon winked at him when a visibly flustered Illya joined him and Muriel by the front desk, where Napoleon had been engaging in some friendly flirting with the reception girl.
“Shut. Up,” Illya had said through gritted teeth, quiet enough for only Napoleon to hear. Napoleon had laughed in his face. Then they thankfully left to go pick out a tutu for Muriel from the dance apparel store adjacent to the studio. He hadn’t seen Tavia since, and she tended to be round more during day lessons anyway.
--
Usually the children’s ballet class meets in Ellias Swan’s old laboratory, but the rehearsal for the recital next Saturday is held in the large room with the grey walls and a small stage. The men usually taking the pretty dance instructors for a spin there have been relocated to the opulent hall, the one with golden furniture and windows that reach all the way up to the ceiling.
Illya enters the stage room with Muriel and like every week, apologises to the teacher as the girl joins a line of similarly tutu-ed young children. The instructor is understanding as usual, and unlikely to be an undercover THRUSH operative, anymore, so Illya leaves them to it and goes to sit in the corridor. If he was the one teaching, he would hate random uncles lurking on edges of rooms, too.
For times like these, Illya carries files with him that are harmless if intercepted but still need to be perused. But he starts with Muriel’s homework assignment, since Mimi had mentioned that it might be of interest to him.
A Place I Like to Visit
By Muriel Solo
A place I like to visit is my dad’s apartment. My dad doesn’t live with me and my mom. He lives in Manhattan with my Uncle Illya. Illya is not my dad’s brother, but he is my dad’s best friend in the whole world.
The apartment has a living room, my dad’s room, lllya’s room, a kitchen and a bathroom. If I sleep there, Uncle Illya gives me his room to sleep in by myself. That is nice of him to do.
My dad and Uncle Illya work together in a big office. That is where they first became best friends a long time ago. Now they work in New York every day. Before, the office sent them all over the world to work.
My dad says they are a cos-mo-po-li-tan household. That means that my dad’s family are from Italy and Ireland, and Uncle Illya was born in Ukraine. Dad and Illya know a lot of different languages. I only know English. I want to learn more languages and travel when I’m an adult.
My dad always tells me stories of the places he’s been. My dad also likes to joke around a lot about everything. Uncle Illya is quiet and always nice to me.
My dad says living with a best friend is great fun if you don’t want a wife, like Bert and Ernie. I also always have a lot of fun when I visit them.
Illya is looking at the text very carefully, calculating whether removing the wife part would be overbearing, and wondering if he should know who Bert and Ernie are. Maybe some couple Mimi is friends with?
Right then, a disgusting perfume smell wafts into the corridor, followed with an artificially sunny “Darling!”.
Illya counts to five in his head. Then he lifts his gaze as slowly as he possibly can.
“Well, if it isn’t you,” Illya says, in a frosty tone. “I do wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but I’ve tried to cut down on spouting blatant lies to random women I meet.”
Angelique smiles at him.