Man from U.N.C.L.E. Section VII

CELEBRATING NEW YEARS EVE

ACT I

"He said he'd be home," April rang the bell again.

"Let's go—we don't want to be late," pushed her escort.

"It'll just take a sec—" insisted the comely agent. " I can't start a whole new decade without a lucky kiss from him. Besides, he'll want to tease me about this dress." She pulled out her keys and opened the door. Her date stared, wondering again about the true nature of April's relationship with her 'business associate.'

April knew her easy access to Mark's apartment looked suspicious to petty minds, but she didn't care. Their partnership had lasted longer than some marriages she knew. It was less than boy/girl, and more than brother/sister. They had developed that instinctive connection, a mutual mental shorthand, always an advantage in the field.

"Mark, are you decent? I'm barging in," she sang cheerfully. "Happy New—"

She nearly tripped over his body in the hall. Slate lay twitching and drenched in cold sweat. She dropped to her knees and checked his pulse. There was no recognition in his wide, glassy eyes.

"Get in here !" she hollered. "Hurry!" April could transform from kitten to tigress instantly. "Don't just stand there, help me get him to bed."

Her date stared down at the convulsing body. "God, is he contagious?"

"No. His malaria flares up sometimes. We've been through this before. Give me a hand!"

"Bossy little bitch-beauty," he clicked his tongue.

They hauled Mark into his room and April fished through the bathroom cabinet for quinine tablets.

"Great. Give him some aspirin and we can still make cocktails—"

April ignored him. She lifted Slate's head up and slid her arm under his neck for support. "C'mon, Luv, take your meds," she coaxed. His teeth chattered so violently she was afraid he would crunch the capsules before he could swallow. He choked on the water, sputtering it all over the blanket and her. She cradled his body tightly while he shook and sweated through her slinky, ivory-beaded gown.

She saw her date steal another glance at his watch, and sigh deeply. "I hate to hold you up. Why don't you just go ahead, and I'll meet you when (-when Hell freezes over—she muttered to herself) when I can get him medical help."

His disappointed expression told April all she needed to know. He had wanted to make the grand entrance, with her on his arm , as his trophy. When he finally left, April did not notice.

Mark consumed her attention. He was still shaking and clammy, eyes open but not comprehending, despite the blankets his partner had piled over him.

"Oh, rats…" April sighed softly. She whipped the constricting party gown off over her head, and wrapped herself in the woolly robe he kept on a hook in the closet. She slipped under the sheets beside him, and hugged his trembling body against her until the quinine took effect. His body began to relax, uncurl; his eyelids closed quietly; his breathing slowed and deepened.

She combed the soaking hair out of his eyes with her fingertips, and checked his feverish forehead with her lips. It felt more natural, and she sighed in relief. "Oh, Mark..." she murmured tenderly, thinking how she would have to edit the account of her holiday evening.

April heard chimes in the distance, and cheers, and softly began to sing. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot…"

ACT II

"C'mon, you've never been to a party like this," Napoleon Solo tried to stir up enthusiasm in his friend.

"And what makes this particular party different from your usual orgies?" questioned Kuryakin.

"So what big plans do you have for New Year's Eve? Curling up with an enthralling Sanskrit transcript? Come with me, and bring your guitar," Solo coaxed.

"I am not going to stand in the snow and serenade your sweetie under her balcony," grumped the Russian. But when Solo was this insistent, Illya discovered it was usually just easier to go along. At least it would give him something to crab about later.

When he picked Illya up, Solo was elegantly outfitted in top hat and tails, complete with cape and cane.

"You didn't mention this was formal," Illya fumed. "Am I invited along to act as your foil?"

"It's just a costume. Shove those boxes out of the way and get in ." When they drove out of the city and past the classic night spots that Napoleon usually favored, Kuryakin's curiosity overcame his holiday humbug.

"Private party?"

"Eh, let's say exclusive." Solo kept his eyes straight on the dark road ahead. "You should feel honored. I've been invited for some years now, and this is the first time I've brought a guest."

The car pulled onto a gravel lot behind a large block building. There were no signs, no lights, no raucous revelers. "Exclusive indeed," thought Kuryakin.

Solo rapped with his cane three times on the heavy metal door, heard the rusty bolts clank back. When the agents entered, several blondes surrounded Solo at once, all begging to be held. And all barely three feet tall.

"Hamilton Home was established for orphans in 1852," explained Hester Wylie, the tall, dignified matron. "I fear some of our equipment dates back to the original. But with benefactors like Mr. Solo, and all his contacts, we've been blessed with a new furnace, playground equipment, and added to our staff. Of course, what the children remember are his New Year's Eve parties…."

She led Illya into a large lighted room where Solo was blowing up balloons and floating them to tight packs of children. Solo took over the tour and introduced his surprised partner around. "Illya, meet Samantha. She sings like an angel. And this is Logan, our first baseman. Jeremy here is a fellow scientist—you should see his ant farm. Janine sends me poetry…"and as Napoleon continued, it struck Illya that Solo knew all these children personally.

Aides were spreading a long table with glorious goodies. "Music, Maestro," Solo called, and several children strayed over to Illya, fascinated by his fingers dancing across the strings.

"And now…" Mrs. Wylie introduced with a flourish," The Magnificent Solo!"

Napoleon swooped his cape, gave a grand low bow, and made magic. He juggled; he produced flowers from thin air; he made objects disappear with a mere wave of his wand. His young audience, eyes shining, gasped and giggled and clapped wildly with delight.

"We're grateful to all our patrons, of course," whispered Mrs. Wylie, "but Mr. Solo makes memories for them."

And the children made memories for the UNCLE agents, too, with pajama-flannelled farewells and cookie-crumbed kisses.

"You were right, as usual," Illya remarked as they headed back to the city. "A most unique evening. Thank you for including me."

Napoleon shrugged. "Some things are just too good not to share."

"And you accuse me of hiding my heart…" Kuryakin scoffed.

"Ahem. Like a good CEA, I'm just...ah...recruiting ...on an elementary level."

"Of course." Illya let the matter drop, but he was smiling silently in the dark. "Happy New Year, Magnificent Solo," he yawned.

ACT III

"Wake up, Mother," whispered Louisa Waverly Webster. "All the young'uns are bedded down. It's your turn."

"Alex…" she murmured.

"Here, M'dear," he yawned and helped her up from the loveseat in front of the fire. "Come along."

It had been so warm and cozy and the medication made her so sleepy. Or was it the sherry? Never mind. 1970 would arrive whether she witnessed it personally or not.

Alexander Waverly had held her hand until they fell asleep on each other's shoulders. Louisa had taken some sweet photos, careful not to disturb them.

Louisa knew her father as an imposing, dignified, gentleman with a special but undefined occupation. She grew up knowing he had some heavy responsibility, that lives depended on his directives.

But it was clearly understood that her mother ruled the home. Ellen Susan Gardiner devoted herself to fashioning a little island of peace and safety for her husband. She directed an orderly, gracious household that could be depended upon to function without fuss or distraction. A crisis was simply not permitted: all matters were handled with calm dispatch, whether the visitors were plumbers or princes, puppies or pox, pugilists or plagiarists.

For a year now, Louisa and her brother had been watching the spine of their home and childhood drift gently away from them. Dr. Dennis Gardiner Waverly had been treating his mother for congestive heart failure. They agreed it was a dignified way to leave her life: their parents were not dramatic people.

The Waverlys had not been demonstrative parents, but Dennis and Louisa understood that they were cherished, and expected to cultivate their gifts and privileges into service for others.

"What is he going to do?" Louisa fretted.

"He'll carry on," Dennis assured her. "And Mother has been training the staff for years to operate in her style: handle everything domestically so all he needs to do is stuff his pipe and read his Milton."

Once tucked away for the evening, both Waverlys shared the same sweet dream, of a New Year's Eve ball 45 years ago…

A dapper young major bowing to his host's daughter, the elegant Miss Ellen Gardiner. She had not only danced into his heart, but had the audacity to beat him at chess.

"Miss Gardiner, I need your sound advice. I am in need of an addition to my household."

"In what capacity, Major Waverly?"

"Oh, a capable soul to manage a modest home; an agreeable companion, in public and private; to raise respectable children.."

"You wish me to recommend a wife for you," Miss Gardiner clarified.

"As I am newly posted to the area, and you are acquainted with the local families…"

"Indeed, as I am well-acquainted with the local families, I could recommend to you no one better than myself."

The major smiled. "Well played, Ellen. I knew I could trust you to provide the perfect solution."

"Always trust me, Alex." She gave him her hand solemnly, and quoted " the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her…she will do him good all the days of her life."

"Psalms?" he inquired.

She smiled and shook her head. "It's Proverbs. 31. Trust me, Alex."

And he always had.

finis

Uh-oh...UNCLE's on the internet...see "Precedent" at the Map Room to see why IK's miffed at me....

Mythbusters


I was unaware of his scowl. I was asleep in my bed, in my room, in Toledo. He was as stealthy as his reputation, and I would never had known of his presence looming over me, until he decided to make himself known.

“Ms. Light...”

Ooooh, That Voice. Surely it was part of my dream. I curled into my pillow and smiled.

“Ahem. Rose Light.” Now the voice was cold and demanding.

His partner was becoming impatient. “Like this,” Solo said as he pushed the blond out of the way. He leaned over and his words tickled my ear. “Rose...Rose, it’s spring...time to bloom...”

I brushed the vibration away like a mosquito.

The men looked at each other, gave twin shrugs and shook me awake.

“Oomm...um-ah...huh?...” I am not at my most articulate before my tea. “Wait...what, who?...Hey!” I bolted up defensively, clutching at my flannel sheets and pouffy rose print comforter.

“Agents Solo and Kuryakin,” Napoleon crooned, reached for my hand to kiss it. What the heck. I let him.

The Russian crowded Solo over and glared at me menacingly. “I am here to discuss your authorship.”

“Not me,” Napoleon piped up. “He promised me coffee.”

“I—I don’t understand--”

“Premium coffee,” Solo explained. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts on Alexis Road.”

“Later...” hissed his friend. “Now, about your literary aspirations....”

“My fanfic?”

“Wait—Napoleon, did you search the whole house? Are you certain she’s alone?”

“She is unalterably, significantly, utterly, indubitably and inconsolably alone.” He liked to report thoroughly, since he would not be doing the typing-up.

Illya hmfed. “Well, that could explain some things...”

“I need tea...” I pleaded.

“Your fiction...and it is fiction...is becoming much too personal. I am referring, specifically, to the
increasingly indiscreet ...ah...intimacies you publish.”

I had ceased yawning and was working at comprehending his displeasure. “But I always paint you in an honorable light. “

“Ah...”

“Almost always. I allow you to slip off the reins of your culture and stoic nature. I would think you’d appreciate the opportunity.” I assumed Kuryakin had not spoken to many fanfic writers. The first rule is, never give a writer a chance to discuss or defend her work. She will engage you in a dramatic reading of her stories, all her stories, chapter and verse, plus inventory all her interpretations of plot and character.

“I preferred your earlier stories,” he admitted. “You staged The Big Kiss and then tiptoed discreetly out of the room and shut the door. The next paragraph, I was alone in an airplane or an elevator or an office or a cell.”

“I was pretty inhibited in the beginning,” I confessed. “If you knew how long I lingered over the keyboard, trying to justify to myself that I could type you and “naked" in the same sentence...”

“And now you are inventing cutesy little expressions like...” he hesitated, “ ‘the secretaries all dreamed of enjoying a Russian rump in the afternoon,’ ” he nearly choked on the indignity.

“Oh, No! That’s clearly a misprint. It’s a ‘Russian romp. R-o-m-p. Romp.”

Solo, who standing behind his partner, let his gaze slide southward. “No, I think he’s right; it's rump."

“Fine.” Illya snapped. “You are the not the one with ‘USDA Prime” stamped across your backside.”

“That was April imagining your tattoo.” Somehow my explanation did not mollify him.

“I am weary of being objectified by a bunch of ...senior swingers and horny housewives and wretched, rejected romance writers.”

“Not me,” Solo reminded us he was in the room. “I’m the Energizer Bunny. You’ve always portrayed me fairly, my fair lady. You even credited me with depth I didn’t realize I had.”

“Was it better when we were teenagers?” I shot back. “Giggling little girls with no experience, limited imaginations and misspelled vocabulary? We wrote then, too, yknow. Look,” I softened, “we LOLs (little old ladies) find your endowments...engaging and endearing.”

Now we were both blushing as red as the Soviet flag.

“Who’s for decaff?” the dark haired spy asked, taking orders for the Dunkin drive-thru.

“Oh, give me a minute,” I groused. “At least let me get dressed.”

“Sorry, Dear, you can’t tag along on this mission,” he lay me back down and tucked the blanket decisively under my chinny chin chin. “Too dangerous.”

“What!!” I began to sputter reasons at them.

Solo insisted. “I’m driving, and I can’t trust you in the backseat with this one,” he pointed at his partner. “I’ve read your stuff, too.” He redirected his attention to Illya. “Chocolate frosted? Cinnamon twist? Or vanilla cream-filled?” his pen poised over the paper.

I imagined them covered in billows of soft sweet whipped cream. My tummy growled. I grabbed for a spoon....but settled for my pen.

finis

Making the Bed

He approached the threshold of his bedroom and surveyed the shambles. The sheets were stripped off and lay in a rumpled puddle across the carpet. Pillows were scattered like meadow blossoms. One panel of the curtains drooped like a surrendered flag. The mattress had slid halfway off the frame. He supposed he should be glad the frame had not been bent. This time. A pair of panties acted as a shade for an overturned table lamp. When she had teased him about installing a trapeze, he took it as a personal challenge. A night like that was Passionate Adventure. The morning after was a singular chore.

Doing the Dishes

He had one of those infinitesimal city kitchens, a crushed corner against one wall. A single swipe of the rag and the counter was clear. Joanna rinsed a pair of glasses and tipped them over onto a towel to dry.
Gummy cartons of their dinner delivery were tossed into the rubbish. Dinner at his place did not mean time wasted cooking. “Jo...?” he called drowsily from down the short hall. Nor did it mean time wasted cleaning up.

Tidying Up

It was another reason he rarely brought women to his place. They tended to take one glance around the shabby flat and immediately begin to plump pillows and brush crumbs from naked surfaces and rearrange his journals. He did not want his journals organized by date, nor by alphabet, nor by cover story. He had his system, and it suited Him. And that was the point. The luxury of having these few and dusty rooms left to his own devices. He reveled in the new freedom of pleasing only himself. It stemmed, he supposed, from a latent rebellion against the strict standards imposed by the state orphanage, and the military.

Laundry

The simplest of all chores. No sorting. Black, black, and black.

Grocery Shopping

Why? He disliked cooking unless it was chemistry, and he was so often traveling that fresh food went sour/stale/moldy. There was an adequate commissary at work. There was a cityful of diverse take-out and delivery. And there were plenty of offers for home-cooked meals.

finis