One Miracle at a Time
by Charlie Kirby

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the....eepa..."

"Epoch"

What does that mean?"

"In this case, it means the beginning of a new and important period of time."

"Epoch of be...li...ef... belief," Alex paused and sighed. "But what does it mean, Poppy?"

"What do you think it means?"

"How can something be good and bad at the same time?" He and his maternal grandfather sat in a large armchair, ATale of Two Cities propped up on their laps.

"How about you're having dinner and the main entrée is liver?"

"Yuck."

"And dessert is double layer chocolate cake."

"Cool."

"Then, you could say that dinner was both good and bad, one incident incorporating both good and bad situations. "

"And smart and dumb... like cheating on a test and then getting caught."

"No, that's just laziness and retribution. Keep reading."

In slow careful tones, Alex continued, but Illya found his attention wandering. He hadn't minded being at home with the children at first, working with them on their schooling, but he was getting restless, ready to be back at work, back in the thick of things. He was not a man who could stay idle for long, both a blessing and a curse.

Illya envied Napoleon's and Leon's nearly daily dash from the house to work, the calls in the middle of the night, the pressure, the sense of actually contributing to the household. He felt a small hand on his leg and he glanced over.

">60;C9AB0?" Peter muttered.

"Please what, Peter?"

"5G5=L5?"

"I think it's too close to dinner for a cookie." Alex had fallen silent, his finger tracing the words as he read silently. "What time is it, Alex?"

The boy grinned and consulted his brand new watch, a gift from Santa. "It's almost four thirty... four twenty six." He slid forward and showed his baby brother. "See Peter, the big hand is just past the five."

"'Kay...5G5=L5?"

"5B ?5G5=L5." Illya grimaced and shifted. "Alex, I need you to move for me."

"Can I take this to my room and read?"

"Of course, but be careful with it. Your Grampy gave that book to me a long time ago." Illya leveraged himself to his feet and reached out a hand. Instantly Peter grabbed two fingers and started to tug him towards the kitchen, the main hub of this house. "Not too fast, Peter."

Lisle looked over at them as they entered, then at her grandmother, Yuliya. "I told you if we started cooking, they'd be here. Dad, I don't know who's worse, you or Peter."

"I'm a victim here. He dragged me here against my will."

"Poppy, how come it's dragged and not drug?" Irina looked up from her math, a frown creasing her forehead. "It's dig and dug; how come it's not drag and drug?'

"No idea, Irina. This isn't my crazy language to begin with." Illya lifted Peter up so that he could peer into the pot that his great grandmother stirred.

"What dat?"

"Taste." Lisle dipped a spoon into the broth and blew on it for a moment before offering it to him.

"Mmmm." Peter closed his eyes happily.

"He's Russian," Yuliya proclaimed in thick English.

Irina giggled. "Great gramma, he's just Peter..."

Illya tickled Peter's stomach and he dissolved into laughter. "No, he's a Kuryakin."

There was an odd look in his mother's eyes when he said that, but he dismissed it. "Where's Larysa?"

"She and Genève went shopping this afternoon. She wanted to buy some real American blue jeans before she went home." Lisle took Peter from Illya and hugged him. "I can't believe it's nearly time for you to leave. It's like you just got here."

Illya translated quickly for her and Yuliya laughed and said something in response.

"She said she's like the old fish that everyone wants to see the end of, but can't bear to throw out."

"But fish is yummy..." Irina said, drawing small interlocking circles on the paper. "Poppy, why are circles called circles and not something else?"

"Says the child that hasn't eaten anything since she turned five." Lisle set Peter down on his feet. "Where is Alex?"

"Learning about the glories of the French Revolution."

"Meaning?"

"He's reading Tale of Two Cities "

"He's eight!"

"I read it to Papa when I was seven... well, it was a case of him reading to me, but the intent was pure." That look flashed again on his mother's face, but it was gone almost before it was there.

He looked up from the book he'd been staring at for the last half hour, anxious for the sound of Napoleon's arrival. For a moment, he was afraid he'd imagined it, but then he heard the door to their apartment open and close.

He flipped the covers into place, just in case it was one of the children instead of his partner, but a moment later the door opened and Napoleon walked in, weariness making his shoulders sag. One handed, he began to work his tie loose as he sank to the bed.

"If I ever, ever agree to arbitrate something between Croatia and Russia again, remind me of this moment and hand me your Special."

"They are being difficult?"

"They are being impossible. What is it in the water in that part of the world that makes everyone so stubborn?" Napoleon shrugged off his jacket and rolled his shoulders. He looked hopefully over at Illya, who smirked and jerked his head.

"Turn around." He was careful not to dig his fingers in too sharply at first, but rather worked the muscles to loosen them up. "So what else happened today that you can tell me about?"

"Illya, there's nothing closed to you. You'll be reinstated the moment Medical releases you. Next week, the one after max, and you'll be begging me for a day off."

"I think not..." For several minutes there was nothing except Napoleon's appreciative sounds of pain/pleasure as Illya worked the day's tension from his shoulders and neck.

"What's wrong, Illya?" Napoleon asked when it became apparent Illya wasn't going to say anything.

"Nothing's wrong... well, except for a case of boredom."

"Is it true you started Alex on the French Revolution today?"

"In a manner of speaking, I gave him Two Cities to read."

"Are we going to go through another historic reenactment? Lisle is barely talking to us after that Boston Tea Party fiasco in the tub that one night. I honestly didn't know tea would stain porcelain."

"Tea will stain anything. Look inside my tea cup some time."

Napoleon caught one of Illya's hands. "But that's not what I'm talking about. Something is troubling you."

"Can I hide nothing from you?" Illya stopped and blew out a breath.

"Very little, partner, even if you wanted to. And I would hope that at this stage in our lives you wouldn't want to. So?"

"There is something bothering Mama. She's looking so sad lately."

"Does she regret coming now that she's faced with going back?"

"No, she is Russian; it's where she belongs."

"Homesick?"

"I don't... know. Twice today, when I was talking about Papa, she just looked so sad."

"She and your father were married for a great number of years; it makes sense that she would miss him now that he's dead."

"It seems something else to me."

"Did you ask her?"

Illya rolled his eyes upward and sighed. "You must think me a fool, old friend."

"There are a number of things I think of when I do think of you, but a fool is not one of them." Napoleon rolled his shoulders. "Thanks, that feels better."

"Did you eat dinner?"

"I ate something that resembled food at one point today." Napoleon started to unbutton his shirt. "I'm too tired to eat, Illya."

"Until you wake up at three a.m. with a stomach ache..." Illya got out of bed and pulled on his robe. "You get ready for bed and I'll bring you something."

"I shall dance at your wedding."

"That will be the day."

Illya walked out into the living room and into the kitchen, just a matter of a few steps. He turned on the light over the stove and opened the refrigerator. There was some cold chicken that he had stewed the day before and intended to use for soup. It would work for a sandwich now. He shut the refrigerator door and jumped slightly at the sight of his mother standing there. It was unnerving that she could move so quietly, even at her age.

"Mama, I didn't mean to wake you. I was just getting something for Napoleon." He slipped into Russian easily. It had been nice to have someone here to talk with in his native tongue.

"You didn't, Illyusha. I was having trouble sleeping."

"Mama." He took a deep breath and continued. "Are you anxious about returning home?"

"You still think of Russia as home, little one?"

"Of course, why would you even ask that?" He put two slices of bread into the toaster.

"It's just you've been here so long..."

"But in my heart, I will always be a Soviet. No matter where I live, it's what I am." He returned to cutting up the chicken. "But you are avoiding my question. What is troubling you?"

"We need to talk, Illyusha. We've needed to for a long time. Too much has been unsaid."

"Mama, I don't understand." Illya stopped now and studied his mother closely as she walked to the couch and sat down, staring at the far wall.

He wiped his hands off and followed her, sitting and taking one of her hands in his. "Mama, there's nothing you can say that would make any difference to me."

"I think that there is... Illya." She took a deep breath. "Did you ever wonder why you were so much different than your brothers and sisters?"

"Not really, it's merely a form of genetics and heredity. Besides, Larysa and I..."

"Larysa was a sign from God to me that I had redeemed myself in His eyes."

"Mama, I seriously don't understand." The toast popped up. "Excuse me." He stood and returned to the kitchen to finish fixing the sandwich. He limped to the bedroom door and stuck his head inside. The shower was running and he set the plate down on the bedside table. Illya then returned to the couch and reseated himself. "Napoleon is in the shower; he'll not bother us. Talk to me, please. What is wrong?"

"Is it very hard for you to think of me once as young and foolish?"

"Yes."

"But I was and very much in love."

"With Papa, we've all heard the stories."

"He had blue eyes and he was so handsome in his uniform."

Illya smiled and patted her hand. "Mama, Papa's eyes were brown, deep brown, almost black. I have your eyes."

"No, you have your father's eyes and they weren't brown... they were blue."

The room grew very quiet and Illya replayed the sentence again in his head. "You are telling me that I am, what?"

"I was so scared. He was married, you see, and I knew it could never be. He... he wasn't one of us."

"One of us?"

"A foreigner, not a Soviet."

Illya's fingers curled into the arm of the couch until tendons popped out. "Who am I?"

"I went to him and he was heartbroken. He was leaving and I didn't know what to do. Your papa... he believed it was his fault as we'd been together as well. And he was an honorable man, he married me the next day."

"Then I could be his."

"When they finally let me hold you in the hospital... you were so small at first, they wouldn't let me see you because they feared you wouldn't survive the night. No, I looked into your face and knew you were not Nicholai's. I saw your father, your real father, in you. Your papa didn't care. He had a son and you were his world. Then along came your brothers and sisters, so dark, so like their father that he began to suspect. He began to ask, "Why is Illyusha so smart when Mykita doesn't know to come out of the rain? Then Larysa was born and you two, you could have been twins, and your papa thought he was wrong."

"Then why do you think...?" Illya hated that his voice sounded so reedy.

"A mother knows these things, Illyusha, she just knows, but with Larysa, I knew I could rest. God was telling me I'd repented."

"What happened? Why this sudden change of heart? You could have gone your whole life without telling me this. I wouldn't have cared."

"But I did!"

"Then what changed?"

"Your real father passed away and I could no longer keep the truth to myself. At first, it was easy to forget, I had your brothers and sisters to deal with and you, you were so smart, so gifted, that your place in our world was secure. You would have so much more opportunity than the others."

"Papa did not take it well." Illya's voice had gone flat. He'd shut himself down, a useful ability in his line of work. He'd never expected to use it in this capacity, however.

"No."

"Is that why he demanded I return my ring and not for the 'other' reason."

"Yes, he wanted it to go to someone of pure Kuryakin blood, someone who would continue his line."

"Like Vyetka and Mykyta... stupid, but all Kuryakin."

"Yes." Tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

"And all this time, I thought it was me... and it was you..." Illya remembered the humiliation he had felt , the beating he'd endured at the hands of his brothers, all because...

"I have caused you great shame and pain. I will not ask that you forgive me..."

Several moments passed and Illya struggled, really struggled with his temper. He wanted to rage, to break things, hurt something... someone... but this was his mother, he would never raise a hand to her. "My real father... who is... was he? Did I ever meet him?"

"You did much more than that, Illyusha, without even realizing it. When your father found out about you, he was so proud and very scared. He wanted to take you from the government, but knew he could not. At least not at the time, so he kept in contact with me, sending money, helping out as he could, making sure you received the education you deserved. Until you reached a juncture in your life when it was safe and you were ready. Didn't you ever wonder why you were brought to America? Why your superior fought so hard to bring a Soviet into his ranks?"

"Waverly just wanted to have a more balanced base, to make sure that everyone was represented, even when the Soviets didn't care."

"No, he did it to give his son a measure of freedom that he never would have known under his Soviet masters --"

"No...NO!" This time Illya didn't stop. He grabbed a lamp and threw it, hard enough to make it shatter against the wall.

A moment later, Napoleon, his hair tousled from being toweled dry, appeared in the bedroom door, his face concerned. Larysa, still half asleep, stumbled through the other bedroom door, looking scared.

Napoleon looked from son to mother and then walked to Illya.

"Illya, what's wrong, tovarish?"

"Don't call me that, don't ever call me that again!" And he was gone, moving faster than he should have been able to. He went down the stairs quickly, well, relatively quickly for him and quietly, past the second floor to the first. He didn't know where he was going, especially dressed only in a robe, pajama bottoms, and a tee shirt. Standing there quietly, he heard a muted whimper.

Frowning, he moved softly in that direction and saw a shadow huddled in an armchair. Experience told him it was one of the grandchildren, but it wasn't until he drew closer that he saw it was Inessa with Chewy in her arms. He turned on a light and spoke quietly to keep from startling the child or waking her parents. "Inessa?" She looked over at him and huddled down in the chair even further. "Inessa, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

He sat down in a nearby chair and waited. He didn't have long; within a minute, Inessa apparently decided he was much more comforting than the chair or the puppy and crawled up into his lap. She nestled her head against his chest and one hand clutched his robe, as if she was afraid he'd suddenly disappear. Chewy woofed softly and headed for the kitchen.

"Dream..." she murmured. "Petey gone." She rubbed an eye with the knuckles of one hand.

It took Illya a minute to connect the dots. They were finally separating the two of them at night and she'd had a nightmare. "You had a nightmare that Peter was gone?"

"Uh, huh."

"Wasn't he in his bed when you woke up?"

"Gone here." She patted his chest and then leaned back against it.

Illya winced. She had apparently been paying a little too much attention to a discussion they'd had with her father about a fallen UNCLE agent, a friend of his from Survival School. Leon had gotten a little tipsy and loudly grieved the loss. It had, obviously, not been lost on the children.

"Inessa, Peter will be with you for a long time."

"Gammy gone..."

"Yes, soon, but she has to go back home."

"Why?"

Illya kissed her forehead. "You're too young to understand politics and regulations, it's just something she needs to do."

"Larysa too?"

"Her as well."

"Not Chewy?"

Illya look over to where the puppy was, carrying a well gnawed upon plastic dustpan. "Alas, no. I fear he is here for the duration."

"Poppy stay too?"

"Of course, always." He hugged her tighter. "Why would I want to leave you or Peter? This is my home."

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he suddenly felt a weight being lifted from his lap and he raised his head. Napoleon held the sleeping child in his arms.

"Your mother told me."

"I suspected she would."

"She's wrong, you know." Napoleon started to walk from the living room, pausing midstride. "No matter what she says, she's wrong. I can prove it."

"How? Waverly's gone."

Napoleon hefted the child up and walked to a built-in bookcase. He studied the spines and finally pulled out a photo album. He brought it closer to the lamp, set it down on the table and opened it. Flipping through it, he finally stopped.

"This is a photo that my Aunt Amy snapped just after I joined UNCLE. You look at that and tell me what you see?"

"A rather dashing young man, you, I take it, and Waverly."

"And give him a good look, partner, do you really see yourself in him?"

"No."

"Here." Napoleon handed the sleeping child back to Illya. He walked quickly back to the bookcase and returned a few minutes later with another album and thumbed through it rapidly. He drew out a photo and set it beside the first.

"Now who do you see?"

"Papa. Who should I see?"

"I see you. I see the same look of compassion that I see in your face right now. I see the same sense of determination and stubbornness in the jaw, same ears, same hands, same... lips. Your mother is wrong, Illya. You are very much Nicholai's son. I see none of that in Waverly. He was a great man, but he was not your father."

"Then why would she tell me otherwise?"

"When she was young, she made what she thought was a mistake. She's carried that burden alone for many years, Illya. She's tired now, she's needs help to bear the load."

"But why?" Inessa stirred in his arms and he whispered into her ear and she settled back down.

"Perhaps she did it to ensure you a better life. It provided you with an exceptional education, freedom to travel, to come here. Without that, you never would have been brought into UNCLE." He gestured expansively. "None of this would exist. I, for one, am grateful for the way things turned out."

"Is there any situation you can't sweet talk your way through?"

Illya surrendered the child back to him and clicked off the light, then followed Napoleon up to the second floor. "Hey, if I can get Croatia and Russia to actually sit down at the same table, anything is possible."

They tucked Inessa into bed and Illya paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to their apartment, hesitant.

"She's your mother, Illya. She loves you." Napoleon looked back over his shoulder as Illya remained stationary.

"I know."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"Kuryakins fear nothing."

"That's all I'm saying. That conversation can wait until tomorrow. Let's go to bed, tovarish."