The Twelve Days
by Glenna Meredith

Day 1

"So, what are you doing there, Illya?"

The blond head was bent low over some indiscernible objects on his desk. Napoleon Solo, being naturally inquisitive and otherwise nosey when it came to his partner's activities, wanted a better look at whatever was occupying the crafty Russian.

"Oh, ummm... it is nothing, my friend. I am just... Is that your communicator?"

Illya quickly covered the mysterious project with a piece of fabric that was lying too close at hand. Napoleon did not hear the whistle of a communicator.

"No, Illya. Should I ask why you're being so evasive about whatever it is you're doing there?"

The look on Illya's face could have served as a definition of innocent in Webster's. How a man capable of profound destruction could take on an affect like a member of the Vienna Boy's Choir was beyond the worldly wise American. He both admired and envied the ease of it.

"Okay, Illya. You're up to something, but I guess I don't need to know... yet. In the meantime, we do have a meeting with Mr. Waverly in...'

Napoleon adjusted his arm so he could see his watch...

"...five minutes. We ought to just make it if you can tear yourself away from whatever it is you're doing."

Illya reached for his coat, slipping into it as easily as water sliding over a rock. He seemed to have adopted an economy of movement that served him well in every task.

"Very well, Napoleon. If you don't mind, I will meet you there momentarily. I have a few things here to .. straighten."

Aha! Napoleon spotted another look this time. It was that strange twinkle in his partner's eye that indicated a secret; like the glee before a major explosion in a Thrush satrapy.

"Hmmm... okay, Illya. Whatever you say. Just, don't be late."

Napoleon turned on his heel and exited the office, shaking his head involuntarily as he tried to not obsess over Illya's little secret.

As the door closed behind him, Illya smiled like the Cheshire that he was. All mischief and riddles this one.

"Soon, my friend."

Day 2

Napoleon took a quick look up and down the hallway before opening the door to his and Illya's office. As far as he knew, the Russian was downstairs in the labs doing a consultation with a new chemist. That ought to keep him busy for a little while, at least.

The curiosity of a suicidal cat was rampaging through the American's brain, and the idea that Illya had something secret stashed was more than the normally suave agent could handle. It was getting close to Christmas, after all. Even if Illya tried to dissuade people from buying him gifts, and even if he pretended to not enjoy the holidays, Napoleon knew better. His partner was like a little kid when it came to presents and surprises. Sometimes reticent about overt displays of affection, the Russian was, nonetheless, a sentimental man who appreciated the warmth of seasonal expressions of friendship.

"Now, where is that...?"

He didn't hear the door open behind him.

"Where is what, Napoleon?"

Just like he had been shot, Napoleon flinched with a suddenness that he thought might have displaced his spine.

"Hey, Illya! Buddy... I thought you were... in the labs..."

Illya smiled, knowingly. Still the Cheshire, still full of mischief. Only this time he had caught Alice unawares, and that was even more fun than simply having a secret.

"Oh, yes that went quite well. So, what is it you're looking for, Napoleon? Perhaps I can help."

There it was again, the same as yesterday. He was smiling behind that concerned expression.

Just what was it that Illya was hiding?

"Oh, nooo...nothing really. I thought I might have misplaced a cufflink, but I see that... Yep! Here it is, right where it's supposed to be."

The effort failed. Illya saw through the ruse, naturally, and Napoleon felt himself blushing slightly at his meager attempt at lying through his teeth.

"I um... I was thinking we could grab dinner tonight at Luigi's. We haven't had a nice casual evening like that for... days."

Illya smiled. It was the knowing smile. It was the smile that told Napoleon that his efforts were appreciated, but there would be no spilling of secrets for the time being.

"Dinner sounds very nice, Napoleon. Perhaps we can make it an early evening, however. There are some things that need my attention.'

The blond looked at his watch, and in a perfect imitation of his partner, snapped his fingers as though the idea he'd been waiting on all day had finally arrived.

"In fact, I should go back downstairs and check on something in the labs. I believe there is just enough time for that before we need to head over to Luigi's."

Napoleon looked into those blue eyes and wondered, ever so briefly, how those same eyes could convey a resolute threat of bodily harm and also the guileless charm of an innocent youth. There they were, right now, looking back at him. Whatever was in the labs, it must be what Illya had been working on the day before.

"That sounds just fine, Illya. You just do that, and... I'll go and see what kind of important business needs tackling here in headquarters. You just go and play in the lab and I'll see you for dinner. Yes, that will be just fine."

Illya wanted to howl with laughter. Who knew that Napoleon Solo could be so flummoxed by a little mystery? Well, the game was on now, and the advantage, so far, belonged to the Russian.

Day 3

"Da da da da dum dee da dum, la la la la la, fa la la la."

Illya Kuryakin had a nice voice. He didn't know many Christmas carols, however, and the ones he thought he knew never came out quite right. It was his propensity for singing in Russian when he forgot the words, making up unintelligible verses that were punctuated with lots of da la la la la's. It charmed the secretaries immensely, and brought an uncharacteristic scowl to his partner's handsome features.

"If I sang like that everyone would ask me to be quiet. With you, they just ask for more."

Illya grinned impishly. He found his reply impossible to repress.

"But Napoleon, you do sing like that. Always. It is not, I fear, your gift."

Napoleon screwed up his face at that, acknowledging silently that it was true. It was also a distraction, because his goal today, as for the past two days, was to try and uncover the mystery that Illya had generated with his secret project.

"So, tovarisch, are you going to tell me what it is you're hiding from me?'

Napoleon sidled up to his partner, bumping his shoulder in a genial, gosh it's good to be friends sort of way.

"I have been especially nice this year, you know. Perhaps we should just have an early Christmas this year. What do you say?"

The day had been very pleasant so far. Illya was just on the verge of an uncharacteristic giddiness from his partner's obvious ploy. The only thing that could mar it would be...a ringing phone.

"Oh no... Do you think it is for us?"

Indeed the call was for both of them. By the end of the day the two agents were settled into the UNCLE jet, and thoughts of gifts and secrets were set aside to study the details of this short mission in Nova Scotia. Not exactly where Napoleon wanted to be in December; he thought New York was close enough to the North Pole.

"Napoleon, I am quite certain that we will not be long taking care of this little problem. Mr. Waverly made it sound as though it is a mere trifle amidst the world's troubles. I am going to make quick work of it, especially in light of what I need to accomplish still... before Christmas."

Illya slid his glance sideways to get a look at his partner's response. The Russian was beginning to actually believe that this season was the hap-happiest time of the year. Even sitting here on their way to disengage a troublesome detail at a secret meeting between two world leaders, he found himself contemplating the joys of withholding pertinent information from Napoleon.

Napoleon, for his part, simply smiled. Two could play this game, and even though he might have been sitting on the sidelines for the first few minutes, he was ready now to get in on the action.

"Yes, I wholeheartedly agree with you, my friend. I also have some things that need attention... before the big day, that is. Unless we run into Santa Claus up in this frozen piece of North America, I'm guessing the big guy still needs me to finish his gift list."

As Illya stuffed some explosives into a backpack, he nodded his head appreciatively. So now, it seemed, they were in a competition to see who could create the biggest Christmas surprise.

"Am I to take it then, Napoleon, that we are officially on?"

Napoleon's smile was so wide it threatened to spill out over his ears.

"Out of the goodness of my heart and my undying friendship, I will join this challenge to give the best gift to my friend. It is the season of giving, after all."

Illya shook his head while he chuckled over Napoleon's need to compete. Even in this, he wouldn't be satisfied unless he was the better man. It was, Illya supposed, what drove the American to risk everything in pursuit of saving the world.

With only the vaguest wisp of sarcasm, Illya replied...

"Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness."

Napoleon pounded his chest with a closed fist, lowering his head as though...

"Illya, you wound me. I really intend to give you the best gift you have ever had. I want this to be the best Christmas..."

"And God bless us everyone?"

Napoleon smiled again, and nodded his head.

"Yes, exactly. So, Tiny Tim, you work on your little project and I shall attend to my own. Let's just see what happens on the big day."

Before the day was over, however, the Grinch showed up.

Day 4

"Illya. Illya?"

It was dark, with just a hint of dawn crawling over the top of a dirty curtain on an equally filthy window. Napoleon looked around the room he was in, hoping to see his partner among the tumble of chairs and ragged looking boxes. His head hurt.

What had happened last night? The flight seemed fine, and the assignment shouldn't have attracted attention. Perhaps they had been mistaken about that, because judging by the surroundings and the lack of a jet, someone had definitely taken an interest in Illya and himself.

A groan came from a far corner, and Napoleon recognized it as belonging to a Russian; probably an irate one at that, judging by how much agony was in that groan.

"Hey, Illya. Are you all right?"

Napoleon was making his way towards the voice in the ill let room when he tripped over something. Someone.

"Jerry? Illya, it's Jerry. They got all three of us, it seems."

Napoleon edged over towards Illya, past the still prone pilot. Illya was gingerly touching his head, a grimace of pain on his face. Napoleon tried to inspect the scalp beneath the shaggy blond hair.

"Eww, yuck...yeah, there's blood. Something did crack, it seems."

Illya batted the hands away, pulled out a handkerchief and tied it around his head, like a headband.

Napoleon chuckled. Just a little.

"What?"

Of course it had to hurt, but Illya would live. He looked funny, though.

"Oh, nothing, really... well, it's just that you remind me of that affair in Oklahoma. The Indian thing."

The grin would not subside, and Illya smiled, finally, at the memory of that particular disguise. What he did for the world...

"How's Jerry? How did we get here? I don't remember anything."

Napoleon was back to maneuvering around the room, trying to find a way out other than going through that window. He hadn't looked out of it yet...

"Oh, no... This is not good."

Illya was at his side, stretching slightly to see past Napoleon through the dirty glass.

"Where are we? How did we get here?"

"I think we've already asked that question, tovarisch. I guess we're going to have to put a hold on those Christmas gifts. We seem to have run into something inconvenient."

Definitely inconvenient.

As the two agents waited for Jerry to wake up from his nap, they wondered just how long it would take to get some answers to why and how they had ended up here.

Day 5

The day held no more promise than the one that had just passed. The pilot, Jerry, had been out for hours. Whatever he was dosed with got into his system and stayed there.

Napoleon and Illya spent the day roaming their cell like caged animals. The communicators were gone, as were their weapons and some obvious tools that were known to Thrush. Both agents had decided it was indeed their frequent enemy that had brought them here. The mystery now was in their solitude.

Sleep would not settle easily on Napoleon. Illya, he knew, had been asleep several times, waking only to respond to noises. Jerry, who had finally awakened at around three o'clock, dropped back off by eight. There had been no food delivered, and water was limited to a jug that Illya had discovered near the door. Taking a chance on it, he gave in to thirst and swallowed some, was relieved that it was simply water.

Napoleon figured it was past midnight now, his internal clock ticking off the hours since sunset, which must have been around four thirty. This was some situation; Hi-jacked and then left without any guards, without food or... a clue.

"Why aren't you sleeping Napoleon?"

The Russian burr was thicker than usual. Lack of sleep and food might have been contributing to that.

"I don't know, I'm just not sleepy. This is a peculiar situation, don't you think? I mean, they take us off our jet in a manner we still haven't quite figured out, and then leave us here without any food or... it's just strange. Especially for Thrush. They usually want to sit around and gloat over their accomplishments."

Illya yawned and stretched out from the position he'd been in. The floor didn't offer much in comfort, but the Russian had learned to sleep whenever he could.

"They brought us down with some type of radar interference. We did land, but they were waiting for us. We both ended up with bumps on our heads and injected with something. I found a needle mark on my arm, and I am beginning to remember some of the events. Aren't you?"

Napoleon stared into the darkness, looking for that spark of blond hair that always managed to catch a ray of light.

"They knew about us before we ever got on the jet? How? We only just found out about this mission right before we left."

"I have no idea. But I believe we have stayed here quite long enough. I am ready to leave, now that I have had my beauty sleep."

Napoleon knew that Illya was grinning. He was ready as well.

"Wake up Jerry!"

The befuddled pilot was still groggy. Unlike the two agents, this man was unaccustomed to having his system plied with serums and sedatives.

"Right... where are we?"

Illya started to answer when he heard something moving outside the cell door. As odd as this room was, it still had the obligatory bars that separated the prisoners from the hallway on the other side. What Illya saw amused him.

"How odd."

"What is it Illya?"

"Pheasants. Five pheasants."

Napoleon joined Illya at the cell door, equally intrigued by the birds. Illya seemed particularly taken with them, and there was enough moonlight filtering through a window to illuminate them.

"These are Common Pheasants. They are natives of Georgia... quite beautiful I think."

"Georgia? How do you know that?"

Illya turned his gaze back to his partner, a smirk on his face that was immediately recognized by the American.

"The Soviet state of Georgia. What is it they are sitting on?"

Napoleon craned his neck to try and see what Illya was talking about. There, just waiting for a talented pair of UNCLE agents, was a small pile of rags. Next to that: a kerosene can.

"Our little ring neck pheasants may have just gotten us out of here."

Within minutes, one of the chairs had been broken apart to use as a hook for retrieving the rags and kerosene. The pheasants were appropriately alarmed at the activity, quickly giving up their perches on the rag pile.

Once the supplies were pulled close enough, Illya set to work assembling their escape. He pulled out the little incendiary that was hidden in a bottom molar and prepared to blow the cell door.

"Jerry, get over here and duck."

Without his watch for ignition, Illya had to use his nails to provide some friction on his incendiary. It set the kerosene saturated rags on fire, which in turn started to burn the wood frame. It wasn't the best way to make an escape, but between the three of them, the men managed to utilize the assorted chairs to break down the door and then ran in the only clear direction they saw.

The entire operation had taken less than an hour, and now as they lay on the snow covered ground, watching the little building burn, the three men reveled in their good fortune and skill.

"Illya, if you hadn't been watching those birds, we might still be sitting in there waiting for a plan. I wonder what happened to them."

Illya continued to watch the blaze. Jerry was completely alert now, the effects of the drugs seemingly gone for good.

"Do you guys do this kind of thing often?"

Napoleon chuckled, caught the look on Illya's face that mirrored his own reaction.

"Yeah, Jerry. It seems to be something we do quite a lot. I think, gentlemen, that we should depart this place and try to find some civilization. Mr. Waverly will be wondering what happened to us."

Almost reluctantly, they took a last look at the burning building and headed for what looked like a settlement of some sort. The day would be spent connecting with headquarters and arranging a pick up. Maybe someone back in New York would be able to tell them what this was all about.

Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow they would be home.

Day 6

The settlement turned out to be a little village on the outskirts of Sydney. The population of that city had roots in many different countries of the world, one of which suited the purposes of the UNCLE men perfectly.

It was just about daybreak when they had walked into the center of what appeared to be a little neighborhood; full of modest homes set around a commons, the first thing that struck the three hungry men was the aroma wafting from what must have been a bakery.

"Do you smell that?"

"I'm so hungry I might faint."

"Neither of you will faint, but I assure you that I am going to have some of that cake."

Napoleon looked at his partner quizzically. How did he know it was cake?

"Illya, you seem to have the advantage. What is it we're smelling?"

The sun was glinting off of a few shop windows that faced the east. Barely discernible on one of them was written ___.

"Pekarnya. It is a Ukrainian bakery. And that aroma is Poppy Seed Cake."

Illya was almost giddy from the discovery. Here, at least, he would find people who might help them. More importantly, they would probably feed them.

After a pleasant night's sleep in the home of a sympathetic countryman, Illya was confident that this day would be much the same as the one previous. Their great good fortune of walking into a Ukrainian community on the outskirts of Sydney had been very welcome to the cold and weary men; the food was plentiful and their hosts very agreeable.

Napoleon's communication with headquarters had netted them a ride home later today. A helicopter would pick them up at noon, after which they could catch a plane back to New York from the airport in Halifax.

Jerry Jenks, their pilot and traveling companion, had been enchanted by a young woman who worked in the bakery, which left Illya and Napoleon to spend the rest of the day speculating about their recent adventure, cross checking information with headquarters and each other.

The only thing they had at the end of their day had been a lack of answers and a recurring appetite. Illya immersed himself in the Ukrainian atmosphere, and swore he hadn't eaten so well since leaving Paris. Napoleon decided it was probably true.

Now, today, as they waited for their ride, Illya was conversing with the owner of a charming little store. They were talking so fast that Napoleon had no chance of catching any of it, but when the woman behind the counter handed Illya an unusual item, it caught the American's eye immediately.

He sauntered over to where his friend was standing, intrigued by what he now held in his hand.

"What is that Illya? It looks like an egg."

Illya held it up for Napoleon to see, cradling the brightly painted egg in his hand. The expression on the Russian's face was childlike; it was as though what he held was magical.

"This is a pysanka. This is a Ukrainian art form, something I have not seen since... since I was a child."

The smile seemed to fade a little as he spoke the words. Illya's expression softened into something wistful. Napoleon had to wonder what this was bringing up for his friend; how many memories, both good and bad, were attached to this pysanka.

The woman continued on, in English for Napoleon's sake, and told of the history of this particular egg. Many of the actual Ukrainian pysanka were destroyed, first by the Soviets and then during the war. Since the pysanka were part of the Easter tradition, they had become subject to the government's continuing efforts to remove all traces of religion. The art form continued however, sometimes in secret. Once immigrants arrived here, in Nova Scotia, they resumed the practice of the pysanka, which accounted for the abundance here in this little community.

"I should very much like to buy some of these. I believe that when our transportation arrives, the pilot will have some cash for me..."

The woman touched Illya's cheek, said something to him in a soft voice; something that Napoleon didn't understand. Whatever it was prompted Illya to take that same hand and kiss it, covering it with his own and whispering into her ear.

Napoleon felt like an intruder. The woman was old enough to be Illya's mother, so... Oh. Of course. He felt himself choke up, just a little.

An hour later their helicopter arrived and landed just on the outskirts of the little settlement. The three men who had started out together on the UNCLE jet boarded their ferry to the airport. They had thanked the gracious couple in whose home they had spent the night, whose food they had devoured thankfully. Jerry had an address and a pleasant memory, and Napoleon was thinking ahead to their meeting with Mr. Waverly.

When Illya sat down, he held a package.

Day 7

It was a matter of the flight to Halifax by helicopter and then a plane ride back to New York City, and the day was pretty much done for the hapless travelers. The mission was taken over by a second team of agents who, as it turned out, had been in position and waiting for the distraction of the duo who were hi-jacked. Learning that had taken a little steam out of Napoleon's engine, but he understood. Sort of.

Only slightly more disturbing than being a decoy was the fact that he and Illya were slated to head out again this morning for another assignment. Mr. Waverly had assured them that this time there were no surprises like the one in Nova Scotia.

Napoleon and Illya were traveling by taxicab to the airport in anticipation of boarding an early flight for...

"Tulsa?"

The Russian was unfamiliar with the city made rich by the oil strikes in the early part of the century and generally considered the Oil Capitol of America.

"Oklahoma, Illya. Home of Will Rogers and tornados."

That was not a welcome piece of information.

"I am very glad then, that it is not tornado season. I suppose the threat that we are investigating would be very disagreeable to all of the rich oil men who live there."

Napoleon was studying a photograph from the file on this affair. The actual task for them was to be one of retrieval.

The weather in New York had been moderate for December. Heading into Tulsa Municipal Airport, Illya could see snow blanketing the ground below. Mounds of it were heaped along the sides of the runway, making him wonder if he had really traveled south or if the plane had taken a wrong turn.

"I hope we can get this done quickly, Napoleon. I do not relish another day spent trudging through snow and cold."

Napoleon observed the other passengers as he and Illya waited for them all to deplane. The cold gust of air that blew into the aircraft made every one of them shiver as coats were pulled on and preparations were made to brave the tarmac that stood between them and the warmth of the terminal.

This was to be a one day turnaround operation. The two agents had nothing to retrieve from baggage, so they went to the outside curb and hailed a taxi. The pavement was glistening from the ice storm of the night before, with little evidence of the salting that had been performed to help alleviate the slick conditions.

As the two slid into the back seat of the cab, Napoleon double checked the destination.

"Uh, Swan Lake. Hopefully it's not frozen over yet."

The cab driver turned around and smiled, his expression not betraying any worry over the roads or the blizzard like conditions.

"Swan Lake, you say? Not a problem. Just sit back gentlemen, and enjoy the ride."

Illya cut a sidelong look at his partner, curious about a place named after a Russian ballet.

"I am still wondering if this is some sort of joke. What type of place is actually named Swan Lake? Unless, of course, it really is Swan Lake."

Napoleon shrugged, not being at all familiar with this city.

"I don't have a clue, Illya. It's where we've been told to pick up our... um... product. Hopefully this lake has a place to wait without standing in the snow."

Considering the road conditions and the continuing snow, the ride was not long, not did it turn out to be hazardous. The cab pulled onto a boulevard that was lined by homes that rivaled anything either man had seen in the world. These were the homes of oil barons, and when they were built in the early part of the century, no expenses were spared. A few turns and the driver brought his vehicle to a stop in the middle of a neighborhood that was built around a lake.

"Swan Lake, gentlemen. Now, do you have an address, or will you be getting out here?"

Napoleon looked at Illya, who in turn was staring out the window at the lake. It was not as grand as one would have assumed, being named, as it was, after such a great piece of music. Unless, of course, there were actually swans...

"Do you see that, Napoleon? There are swans on the shore.'

He directed his next question to the cab driver.

"Are there actually swans living on the water here?"

"Sure. It's Swan Lake. There used to be an amusement park here, but it closed, and all of these houses and apartments were built around the lake... it's a nice neighborhood. And it has swans."

That last he said with a wink.

Napoleon spotted someone walking towards them; a pair of small dogs on leashes was keeping him busy as they pulled against the restraints. Beneath his arm he held a newspaper, which he dropped as he drew near to the taxi.

Illya was out of the car in a smooth, unhurried movement that did not betray his intention to make contact with the approaching dog walker. The blond bent down and retrieved the paper, deftly removing the packet that was inside of the folds and slipping it into his trench coat pocket.

The man thanked him and continued on his walk, the dogs anxious to return home and get out of the slush through which they were struggling to walk. Illya returned to the cab, grateful to be in out of the chill air.

"Okay, well, I guess now that we've seen Swan Lake we can go home."

The cab driver knew better than to ask too many questions. His job was simply to provide transportation to visiting agents.

"Back to the airport then?"

With just a hint of weariness, Napoleon and Illya both said 'yes' at the same time.

"I have a sudden desire to see the Nutcracker."

Napoleon had to laugh. Just the suggestion of something Russian...

"You just spent a day among your Ukrainian cousins. Are you feeling a little homesick, tovarisch?"

Illya turned to his friend, not completely sure how to answer. He did feel a little homesick sometimes. But not to be back home so much as to soak up the smells and tastes of the food, and the companionship of his ex-patriot countrymen.

"Perhaps. Mainly, I just prefer the Nutcracker to Swan Lake, and an evening of music would be enjoyable. You are the one always saying to me that it is Christmas, after all."

Napoleon let his mouth form a smile that acknowledged what Illya said was true.

"I think I agree with you. Nutcracker it is then Illya. Just think, you may not have considered a night at the ballet if we hadn't come here to Tulsa, to a place called Swan Lake."

The ride to the airport was quick, and the return flight nearly a miracle, considering the weather and the probability of being headed back to New York in the same day.

The first thing Napoleon was planning to do when he got back to headquarters was start checking on performances of a certain ballet.

Day 8

It felt good to spend the day at headquarters. After the misadventures of Nova Scotia and the freezing, rushed trip down to Oklahoma, the placid grey walls of UNCLE New York were calming for Illya and Napoleon. Sometimes, it was very good to be home.

Now that each man had a good night's rest and could focus, Napoleon decided to re-visit their challenge from a few days ago.

"So, are we still on target for a Christmas present throw down?"

Illya lifted his head from the report he was typing, a question mark easily readable in his expression.

"If we throw the presents, it is possible they could break, is it not?"

Napoleon had a ready smile for his slang challenged partner.

"I guess you're unfamiliar with that term.'

Illya peered over the top of his glasses, indicating curiosity.

"A throw down is a challenge. Much like throwing the gauntlet. I'm sure you know about that."

"Oh, yes. A throw down... hmmm..."

Illya was sitting at his desk, his feet propped up and his tie loosened. He had his hands clasped behind his head, and the expression on his face was pensive. As was normal, a slight pout sat on the full lips, and a gleam of concentration intensified the color of the blue eyes. Had a secretary walked in on him in that state of decoration, she might have let a small sigh escape.

Napoleon, upon entering, merely smiled.

"What's going on, partner?"

Illya changed his position in one smooth movement, settling his feet in front of him and leaning onto his hands as his elbows found his knees.

"Napoleon, I have been thinking about this throw down you mentioned. Is that what the gift giving is, a challenge?"

Oh no... that wasn't what Napoleon wanted to convey for Christmas. Hopefully he hadn't spoiled this for his Russian friend.

"Not at all, Illya. I guess I just got carried away. It isn't about bigger or better or... well, anything like that. It's about showing someone you care. You know that, though... right?"

Illya cocked one eyebrow, the purse of his lips betraying the concentration he was using to form an answer.

"Of course, Napoleon.'

It came out a little too slowly.

"I have not been the recipient of many gifts, I will admit. I suppose that part of my life has been a bit... lacking, perhaps.'

He looked at Napoleon now with the expression that often caused women to melt into their shoes. His blue eyes were almost childlike as they peered back at the American.

"I just wanted to be certain that this American way of giving gifts was not so different from what I know. For instance, if I were to visit your Aunt Amy, I might take her a box of chocolates or, most certainly, a bouquet of flowers..."

"Ah, yes a dozen yellow roses for my sweet Aunt."

Illya shook his head. That little sharp shake of his that meant no way, no how.

"No, never an even number and certainly not yellow, at least not in my country. Even numbers are for funerals, and yellow...that would indicate jealousy, which is never a problem for me."

"Never?"

Illya made a face and continued.

"Christmas, that is a different thing altogether. I will admit to being inexperienced when it comes to celebrating this particular holiday. And, by the way, perhaps you should not have been too certain of yourself the other day. You assumed it was a gift for you. Now, the only thing we know for certain is that you are planning on giving one to me."

There is where he inserted the smile. It was completely smug, and entirely too mischievous for Napoleon's tastes.

"Oh, and just to show you that I do know how to give gifts, I offer you these...well, perhaps only one or two."

Illya reached around and pulled out the top drawer on his desk, reached in and then turned back to Napoleon with his fist closed around something. Napoleon was just a little wary, although he had to admit he was curious.

"What do you have?"

The smile was still there as the blond opened his hand to reveal three candies, crackling in their crisp wrappers.

"Milkmaids! I love caramels, Illya. Thank you. So, is that what you keep stashed in your desk? I should have known you had a treasure chest somewhere."

"Yes, and I count my treasure... daily. See that you do not steal from me, my friend. Gifts you may have, but this drawer is mine."

Napoleon had to laugh, and raised his hands at the sudden image of Illya as a pirate guarding a chest full of... Milkmaids. It was somehow very appropriate that this pirate would be merciless to those who tried to steal his stash of candy.

"Aye, captain. I'll keep my grubby paws off your caramels.'

He sat down on the edge of the desk as he unwrapped one of the caramels, his mood suddenly thoughtful as he considered the real depth of their conversation. How easy it was to forget how other people grew up, in conditions that bore no resemblance to his own childhood and customs.

"Say Illya, about the gifts...'

"Napoleon, I was kidding you. Of course it was a gift for you. We are still, as we agreed, on."

Napoleon did laugh now, and he wondered at the great piece of luck that had landed him a partner, a friend, like Illya Kuryakin.

"You know what Illya? You're one sneaky Russian."

Illya tossed him another Milkmaid.

Day 9

In a stroke of great luck, which is the best kind to be had, Napoleon was able to make good on his promise to take Illya dancing. Well, not them, together. He procured tickets to the Nutcracker, and probably the last ones available. Luckily for the two ballet loving agents, Napoleon had connections for a variety of desirable venues.

The men looked like they had just stepped out of the pages of Gentlemen's Quarterly as they took their seats in the balcony section. Two men attending a ballet performance did not go unnoticed by some of the surrounding patrons, including two young women who decided that the blond and the brunet were decidedly not together. It could have been Napoleon's very obvious smile; the one that asks you if you like your eggs scrambled or poached, assuming that there will be breakfast in bed.

Illya, always the demure one, felt two pair of eyes on him through much of the performance. Whether it was the sensitivity of a spy or the caution of hunted prey, he didn't bother to decipher.

"Those two young ladies have been watching us as carefully as they have the dancing. I'm beginning to think we should have charged them for their seats."

Napoleon didn't break his concentration from the stage. He enjoyed being admired by pretty girls, and was perfectly willing to admit the plumage of the peacock was there for a reason.

"Don't let it bother you, Illya. Intermission is just a few leaps away, and then we'll introduce ourselves."

By the time the curtain came down and the dancers had received a standing ovation, Napoleon was arranging for a late supper at 21. Ever the bon vivant, he was completely charmed by the sophisticated blonde who had shown a similar fascination with him. Illya, on the other hand, was adequately pleased with the elegant red haired beauty that had immediately taken his arm as they were leaving the theater.

How reasonable was it, really, to assume that two gentlemen, such as they were, could go to the ballet at the last possible opportunity, and meet two such attractive and attentive women?

The more Illya thought about it, the more highly unlikely it became. Thrush must have been watching them, even after the Nova Scotia incident, or perhaps because of it. Illya began to wonder if there was some other little bit of information that Mr. Waverly had failed to divulge. Certainly he and Napoleon had been targets before while not involved in a case involving Thrush, but coming on the heels of the strange affair up north it seemed likely that the women were somehow related to it.

As Napoleon entertained the women, Illya excused himself and went to the men's room. When safely inside a stall he pulled out his communicator and opened a relay to headquarters. It wouldn't take long to identify these two women, if they were in fact Thrush.

When Illya returned to the table, the blonde who was called Giselle, and the titian haired Eloise were laughing animatedly at one of Napoleon's stories. The agent caught his friend's eye and with a small inclination of his head signaled what they had both surmised already: the two lovelies were Thrush agents.

It wasn't pretty, but eventually the UNCLE men were able to maneuver the women into a compromising situation and spring their own trap. The Thrush birdies sang a sweet song about Central and kidnapping plots... such a lot of activity just before Christmas.

Napoleon was clucking his tongue over the disappointing end to their evening, but Illya was philosophical about it.

"It is not so bad, Napoleon. After all, we did catch them before they led us into their little scheme. And the ballet was well done. Thank you, by the way, for taking me. It is a treat to see a great work of art performed like that, especially a Russian masterpiece."

Napoleon agreed. About the ballet. He was still disappointed that the women had turned out to be Thrush agents. He was quite smitten with Giselle. Illya and Eloise had made a very striking couple as well.

"Say what you will, the evening would have ended with some very romantic overtures, I'm sure, had we not been dealing with those two saboteurs. I'm glad we at least had the treat of watching those lovely ballet dancers, though. I think I'll go home and dream about Sugar Plum fairies tonight.'

Napoleon looked at his partner, recognized a bit of wistfulness in the blue eyes.

"What is it, Illya? Did the Nutcracker make you homesick?"

Illya met Napoleon's gaze, wondered about the tendency of the other man to be a bit of a mother hen.

"No, I am not homesick. I was thinking, though, about being in a company of artists such as that ballet company. It must be very rewarding to captivate people like that, so that they are... ocharovannyi...um, enchanted."

Napoleon had to wonder what would make Illya wax romantic about ballet dancing. Probably his Russian soul couldn't resist it.

"What is your favorite part, Illya? Or do you have one?"

The blond thought about it, because he didn't, really. It wasn't even his favorite genre of music.

"Well, not to be too obvious, but I do enjoy the Russian Dance. That's actually Ukrainian, by the way. Not such a popular folk dance any longer, but it is from the Ukraine. What about you? Something with lots of dancing ladies, I imagine."

Napoleon chuckled.

"Yes, well I do enjoy the Dance of the Snowflakes. Aside from the obvious, the idea of the snowflakes being like beautiful women, falling in random patterns that somehow turn into lovely, icy snowflakes... It is pretty romantic."

The two agents were on their way out of headquarters, a typical end to one of their days. Go to work, take in the ballet, pick up some Thrush agents and end up back in HQ. After a good night's sleep, they would come back and start over again.

At least there had been the ladies' dancing.

I will admit that Day 10 was a bit challenging. Nevertheless, I've been having fun with these, and I hope you'll forgive me for the silliness.

Day 10

It was chilly this morning, something that slipped up on Illya as he headed to work. For some reason he hadn't thought to grab a scarf and now his neck was freezing as he braved this morning's cold temperatures on a brisk walk to the subway.

Napoleon would have no such difficulties. His ride into work this morning was warm inside of the Charger. He wondered why Illya had declined the offer of a ride, but time and experience had taught the American to not try and figure things out when it came to his Russian friend.

By eight o'clock Illya had visited the Canteen, eaten breakfast and was now sipping on his third cup of coffee as he sat behind his desk, perusing a copy of the report he had just filed. It was his habit to retain a copy and review the details, much like a sports team might study films of their opponents' games. It was the nuances, the small details of a mission that sometimes triggered a reaction later on and gave him the advantage over their Thrush adversaries.

"Illya, you beat me to work!"

The blond looked up at New York's Chief Enforcement Agent, wondering once again at life's little amusements; the likelihood of the two men being partners in today's political climate had been negligible. That they should become friends in addition to work associates was perhaps even more surprising.

"Napoleon, I always arrive for work before you. Why do you always proclaim it as though the norm has somehow been eclipsed?"

"Eclipsed? I... oh, never mind. So, anything new?"

Illya shrugged, the details of this report revealed nothing new. They had been victims of both sides in Nova Scotia. He still had no idea why Mr. Waverly had sent them off as decoys, and the old man wasn't giving out explanations. He never did.

"Nothing new to add to what we do not know.'

He turned around in his chair and faced Napoleon.

"We are expected in Mr. Waverly's office at nine. If you want some coffee, you had better go and get it now."

Napoleon decided to skip the coffee and head directly up to Mr. Waverly's office. It never hurt to be early when meeting with the venerable head of UNCLE North America. Perhaps he wouldn't send them off on another wild good chase if they obeyed all of the rules and behaved like good little UNCLE agents.

"I can't believe we got stuck with this assignment. Have you done something to aggravate the old man? Because I know my behavior has been exemplary."

The accusatory tone did not go unnoticed, but the blue eyes remained cool as Illya responded to his partner's insinuation that this latest baby-sitting task was somehow his fault.

"I have been with you, Napoleon, for the past nine days. It is highly unlikely that either of us have done anything wrong. These things just need doing, and it has fallen to us to make certain they are handled correctly."

Napoleon harrumphed, or as close to a harrumph as he could manage.

"Just what is it that makes this fellow so important toThrush? And why would Victor Marton want him? I still don't quite understand, although I know it has to do with something more familiar to you."

Illya had tried to explain it to Napoleon. It was physics, though, and unless it had something to do with why a woman's breasts could remain perky in spite of her bra size, the American was not inclined to pay attention. As it happened, however, this man they were going to protect had not engineered a new wonder bra, but instead had developed a theory of time displacement that threatened to shatter several... suffice it say, Napoleon wasn't interested.

"We only need to pick him up at the airport and escort him to another pair of agents who will assume responsibility for him."

Something like a growl emanated from Napoleon; quite uncharacteristic.

"Yes, but we have to make the exchange in Montreal. That's not exactly how I wanted to spend the evening, flying to Canada... again."

Illya had taken off his glasses and was chewing absentmindedly on the end of one earpiece. It was an idiosyncrasy of his, something of which he was barely aware.

"Yes, that is a bit unfortunate. At least we will be on a commercial plane this time, and the other agents will meet us at the terminal, just as we are meeting the two from Paris."

A deep exhale of breath signaled Napoleon's acquiescence to this latest gambit they were heading into. Two hours before the plane would be coming in at JFK, might as well get ready to fly.

Illya was standing away from the boarding area, his eyes scanning the concourse leading up to it and beyond. The airport was overrun with families, and the abundance of children made Illya wonder if anyone would be at home for the upcoming Big Day. Just how did parents explain Santa Claus finding children who weren't even in their own homes? Some of the habits and traditions of America were still quite puzzling to the pragmatic Russian.

Napoleon was standing as near as he could to the door through which passengers would file into the terminal. A few hardy souls had managed to wiggle in front of him; a young woman with a baby in her arms seemed to be waiting for her traveling husband, and an older gentleman who kept grinning and talking about finally seeing his grandbaby for the very first time.

With a rush of cold air and the chatter of a large crowd, the door whooshed open and one by one the passengers began to appear. The picture they had of the scientist showed an Asian man in his thirties, with longish black hair and dark rimmed glasses. What was it about these foreign physicists?

Napoleon spotted the French UNCLE agents and gave the signal that had been pre-determined. Of course they recognized Napoleon Solo, the New York CEA, but each man fulfilled the series of nods that indicated all was well.

With just a few brief words exchanged, it didn't take long before Napoleon was pulling the object of this assignment over to one side before leading him towards the corridor that would take them to their flight to Montreal. Illya was waiting and ready to assume his position on the opposite side from Napoleon. Together they formed a barrier against whatever or whoever might try and snatch the Chinese physicist.

Everything went smoothly, and within a few minutes the three men were onboard and sitting in first class. It was the only upside to this assignment, and Napoleon intended to enjoy it. As the stewardess came by to take drink orders, he declined the champagne. They were on duty, after all. There was no reason to not enjoy the hors d'oeuvres, however, something that Illya agreed with completely. Their charge, who had barely spoken since being whisked from his plane and onto yet another one, seemed disinclined to eat, choosing instead a martini.

"So, Dr. Ping, we will be handing you over to our agents in Montreal in about two hours, safe and sound. I want to applaud your courage in choosing to abandon Thrush. I know it couldn't have been an easy decision."

Dr. Ping nodded and smiled. He didn't speak English, but didn't see the need to try and convey that. The martini was the one thing he had learned about among some of the Thrush guards, and his own original cocktail was the means of his escape.

"Napoleon, I do not believe that Dr. Ping is conversant in English."

Illya was smiling back at the physicist as he nodded his head at Illya's statement.

"Who, exactly, sent us the information about his defection from Thrush?"

Napoleon thought back, and he didn't recall any mention of that detail.

"I don't think we covered that. He must have gotten his message out in Chinese, and we received the translated information. He's agreeable enough, and since he's on his second martini, I don't see him being a problem. Unless he can't hold his liquor."

Illya opened his communicator. Since he was sitting by the window, no one saw him as he quietly talked into a pen.

"Open Channel D...

The answering voice could barely be heard by Napoleon.

"This is Kuryakin. Do we have the original message from Dr. Ping?"

The warble didn't give any indication to those around. Only Illya could hear it.

"Really? All right, thank you. Kuryakin out."

Napoleon was waiting to hear what Illya had learned. Dr. Ping was on his third martini and smiling broadly. The man enjoyed a good drink, it seemed.

"Heather says that the message came in by way of Hong Kong. The doctor apparently has family there who contacted that office and relayed the information necessary to pick up Ping and get him on that last flight."

Napoleon shook his head, wondering how they managed to do as well as they did, sometimes.

"Okay, then we don't really know very much except for where he was and where he's going. Good thing we know his name."

Illya leaned back against the seat and headrest, glad that this was a short affair. If it wasn't a problem, perhaps he and Napoleon could just spend the night in Montreal. The food was good and there were some nice shops; it was Christmas after all.

"I believe Mr. Waverly mentioned that Dr. Ping was living in Lor, France."

"Lor?"

At that name, the doctor perked up a little, his eyes sort of glassy from the fourth martini.

"L_o Zi Li Ping."

He was smiling broadly at that. Perhaps he spoke French. Illya decided to give it a try.

"Parlez-vous franais?"

Still smiling, tilting slightly.

"Oui, monsieur. L_o Zi Li Ping."

Napoleon started to laugh, although he was attempting to hold it back.

"Is he trying to bow?"

Illya was chuckling, the obvious attempt at manners from the scientist was diluted by his inebriated state.

"Yes, I believe he is. He is identifying himself. The man is drunk, Napoleon. Very drunk."

The two agents decided to dispense with the conversation, and shortly their drunken scientist was sound asleep. Even though the flight was not a long one, the fact that it was uninterrupted and calm made it almost relaxing. When Illya suggested that they remain in Montreal for the rest of the day and evening, Napoleon was only too happy to inform New York that they would not be returning until the next day.

Too soon the flight was over, and Illya gave their sleepy friend a nudge to rouse him out of his nap. Four martinis and a high altitude had left him groggy and slightly confused. Illya attempted to communicate once more in French.

"Nous sommes ici. Ceci est de MontrŽal."

Behind the big glasses, Dr. Ping's eyes were huge as he looked around the interior, then slowly remembered what was going on.

"Ah, oui. Je suis libre. Je vous remercie."

Napoleon looked from Illya to the doctor, smiling as he took in the two scientists. There were a few similarities.

"He's polite, anyway. Yes, tell him he's free. Well, almost. We need to make sure he gets to UNCLE headquarters."

Illya explained everything to the scientist, assuring him that they would not leave him until the other UNCLE agents were on the scene. All things considered, the day had not been unpleasant, and it was good to know that one man who could make a difference was now on the right side.

Within a few minutes the Montreal agents were clasping Dr. Ping by the arms and preparing to escort him out to their waiting vehicle. All signs were good, and the additional security that was stationed around the airport assured everyone that it was going to be a safe and secure trip to headquarters.

"Very well, then. We shall leave the good doctor in your care. He speaks French."

Agent Lambert winked, her smile nearly irresistible to Napoleon as she assured him that she, and most of the agents here in Montreal, also spoke French. All would be taken care of. And, much to Napoleon's delight, it was Quebecois French. Just his style, he thought; the girl and the accent.

"Au revoir, docteur et bonne chance."

The little doctor bowed again, and came up smiling. Christmas music was playing over the airport speakers, and one song began to repeat itself as the round of verses went on and on. As Illya and Napoleon watched Doctor Li Ping being escorted by the Montreal agents, the Russian suddenly connected the song with the reaction he had to the physicist's Chinese name.

"Do you get it? That is certainly one for the report."

Napoleon looked at his partner, not understanding the reference.

"His name. Listen to the song and then think of his name..."

And so Napoleon listened and then he smiled.

"Ahhh... it's a stretch, though, Illya. And with your accent, how did you ever make that fit?"

"My accent? No matter, it is funny."

And for the rest of the night, when one of them thought of the doctor, they smiled and said his name.

L_o Zi Li Ping

Day 11

It wasn't enough to just have a nice evening in Montreal with nothing more important to do than enjoy dinner, and perhaps dance with one of the attractive women in the club Napoleon insisted on going into.

The club. That was the problem. Going into the club had been a mistake, and once again two women had made themselves available to the UNCLE agents, and been successful in drugging their drinks before either man caught on.

Now, in another dark room and with matching headaches, UNCLE's finest were feeling less than fine.

"How stupid are we, Napoleon? How many times are we going to let these Thrush... ces femmes indŽsirables. I wish I could hit someone...hard."

Napoleon flinched slightly, his memory serving up an image of him pursuing the women in spite of Illya's protests.

"Well, just don't hit me. I feel bad enough as it is. What the heck did they put in our drinks, anyway?"

Illya laid his head back against the wall, his eyelids unwilling to open all the way. He wished fervently to be away from here, without a headache and definitely out of Montreal.

"I have no idea. Whatever it was they gave me enough for both of us.'

Somewhere down an unseen corridor there was noise. Apparently there were other people in this building. As long as no one came in to haul one or both of them away to some typical Thrush brutality, Illya thought he could tolerate this just long enough to plan an escape.

He did open his eyes, and was not entirely disappointed at what he saw.

"Napoleon, do you see that thing over there... that... over there."

Illya was pointing, and Napoleon lined up his vision with the extended finger. It was a bagpipe, sort of.

"What are you going to do with a bagpipe? Don't tell me you know how to play one."

Illya made a face and rolled his eyes. How typical of Napoleon to not grasp the obvious. Oh, well maybe not exactly obvious.

"That old bagpipe has a blowpipe, and if one of us still has something left for an incendiary, we can make ourselves a little fire and lure some imbecilic Thrush guard into our trap.'

Now Napoleon was rolling his eyes.

"I can't believe we're back inside of a Thrush cell, trying to blow our way out. Again."

Both men took a deep breath. They also began doing an inventory of their supplies. Remarkably, Napoleon had all of his buttons. Not so remarkable was the sad fact that they weren't explosive.

Illya was checking the hem in his trousers. The thread was a spark-igniting filament that could start a small fire under the right conditions. All he needed to do was to utilize the raw materials in this room to start the flame, and use the pipe to blow it into a real blaze.

"Napoleon, let's dismantle that bagpipe. We can create a diversion big enough to attract some attention, get the drop on a guard and make our escape."

The two set about the job of taking the bagpipe apart. The blowpipe was extracted from the bag itself, leaving the drones and chanter still attached to the bag, which was made of some type of animal skin. Illya put the remains of the bagpipe on the floor next to their cell door, and piled some of the trash that Napoleon had gathered up as kindling for a fire. He ignited his filament that was taken from his trouser hem, and started blowing onto it through the scavenged blowpipe.

Napoleon broke up a wobbly chair, as quietly as possible, and placed the pieces on top of the Illya's struggling fire. It took about fifteen minutes, but eventually they had a blaze going that they could only hope would pique someone's interest. Worse case scenario and they would do a repeat of their escape in Nova Scotia, and break down the door with some of the ratty furniture in the room.

Just like on television, the two agents managed to knock out the guard who came rushing in, grabbed his gun and made their getaway with all of the panache one would expect from two brave dare devils. They even managed to steal the Jaguar the two women had been driving the night before; something they decided would make a good present for Agent Lambert.

That, ironically, was Illya's idea.

When at last Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo walked into the New York offices of UNCLE, it was late at night. They had stayed a little longer in Montreal than either would have liked, and catching a plane out was complicated by a storm that had held up flights for over three hours.

Sitting now in their office, the final page of the report was sliding out of Illya's typewriter; the two of them were tired, cranky and hungry enough to raid a vending machine and call it dinner.

"Illya, next time I see two gorgeous women and we are anywhere near Canada, just shoot me instead of them. That way they might just walk away."

That made Illya laugh, partly because there were times when he was actually tempted to do something like that; with a sleep dart, of course.

"You know, finding that bagpipe made things a little easier than it would have been otherwise. I believe it speeded things up a bit."

That made Napoleon look up from the report he was scanning. Illya typed, he scanned. It seemed to work for them.

"You know, that really was something. Who has bagpipes hanging around in a Thrush cell?"

"They weren't exactly hanging. Cast aside on the floor... no pipers piping on those ever again. Pity, actually."

Napoleon remembered asking Illya if he played.

"So, you never answered me. Do you play bagpipes? You were rather knowledgeable about them."

Illya pushed away from his desk, he was done for the night.

"Let's go get something to eat, Napoleon. How about a pizza from Luigi's? That sounds good to me."

That did sound good. If they hurried out of headquarters they could just make it before the kitchen shut down for the night. They were moving quickly, anxious to get going.

"Okay then, let's go. What kind, because there won't be time to quibble about it when we get there, we're just going to make it as it is. You know, they close at...

"Eleven."

Down the grey corridors and nearing reception...

"Right, and do you want...'

They said goodnight to Renee, the girl in reception...

"Peppers. And hot...

They waived a goodnight to Del Floria...

"Piping."

It was good to be home.

Day 12

In the past two weeks Napoleon and Illya had traveled from New York to Nova Scotia, down to Oklahoma, back to New York and then to Montreal. They had been hijacked and stuck in a cell, taken in by Ukrainian immigrants and fed pierogis and poppy seed cake.

The two agents had seen a place named Swan Lake and then come back to New York and gone to the ballet. The Nutcracker had turned into more Thrush intrigue when they were picked up by two female Thrushies. Fortunately, the women were no match for the intrepid duo, who were able get the upper hand, quite literally, and save the evening from total ruin.

After escorting a Chinese Thrush defector to Montreal, the handsome UNCLE men were once again picked up by enemy agents, but saved eventually by a bagpipe and a timely getaway in a red Jag.

And now it was Christmas Eve. No phone calls had come in to alert them that Mr. Waverly wanted them to report to his office. Both Illya and Napoleon were at their desks, not any the worse for considerable wear, and looking forward to having the next day off. For the first time in a couple of years, Illya did not volunteer to work the holiday, deciding to leaving it to newer agents who would profit from the experience. Call it sacrifice with purpose.

Napoleon had decided on the perfect gift for his partner. In spite of efforts to dissuade the Russian from his preference for jazz, the man's esoteric tastes remained unchanged. But, it was Christmas, and Napoleon was nothing if not gracious and generous when it came to giving gifts. Both of those qualities were involved in the selection and giving of this gift, and he was confident that Illya would really like it.

Illya had finally finished assembling his gift for Napoleon. Being almost caught that day (how many days had it been since then?) had been a close thing. Napoleon was so nosy; it made surprising him very difficult. But this year Illya thought there would be success.

Napoleon informed Illya that he should be prepared for dinner and something else. He gave no clues, only that it was a Christmas gift with no strings attached.

"Hmmm... you make it intriguing, I give you that. Very well, you can rest assured, I believe, that you will enjoy the time you spend with the gift I have for you."

Napoleon grinned; the game really was on. And each man was playing the game they had originally proposed nearly two weeks ago.

The Christmas Eve dinner that Napoleon hosted for him and his friend was a subdued and private affair, something that suited both men just fine. There were times for just enjoying the company of one's friend, being at ease and not having to be overly social.

Illya was becoming just a little bit curious about what his friend had planned for the rest of the evening. He knew that his own offering was a small thing, but carefully chosen and meticulously examined by his own eye. It was a wonder he hadn't lost parts of it, the little bits of it a challenge even for him.

He had hesitated, initially, to take it apart. His own curiosity had gotten the better of him, however, and afterwards so had his wallet. As he reached into the pocket of his coat now to retrieve it, the velvety cloth bag an appropriate seasonal gift wrap, the blond agent was glad he had taken it to a professional for a proper cleaning. It was a lovely piece, and he hoped Napoleon would appreciate and like it as much as Illya supposed he should.

For Napoleon's part, his gift was only in its first course. The second, he knew, would be a thrill for the Russian, and probably his first time going to this particular venue. Better an experience, sometimes, than an object. This year and this place would come to hold a special memory, although Napoleon could have had no inkling of it when the idea came to him.

"All right, Napoleon, I shall go first. I hope you like this, as it has an interesting history.'

Illya knew he was rambling; gift giving was not something to which he was accustomed. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, and just a little afraid of being rejected. Not that he actually analyzed all of that, but he did feel curiously as though his gift might backfire.

"I, um... I do hope you like it. Well, here... I can tell you about it after you... here."

And with that awkward preamble, Illya handed the velvet bag to Napoleon and waited while his friend untied the cord and reached into the little bag, withdrawing an elegant silver pocket watch that was engraved with an intricate design highlighted with an S.

"Illya, this is beautiful. Did you have it engraved?"

That little shake of his head and Illya let his friend know that he had not been responsible for that.

"It comes from a family I knew in the Ukraine. It is one of the things that I carried with me all of these years. I never felt as though it suited me, especially since it had an initial on it not my own. It has been waiting for a new owner for many years. I hope you like it."

Napoleon noted the hesitancy in Illya's voice and expression. How could he not like it, the piece was very handsome.

"Who were they? The family, I mean, the ones who originally had this watch?"

Illya was uncertain how to explain.

"Have you ever heard of the Russian novelist Vsevolod Solovyov?"

Napoleon thought the name sounded familiar, or perhaps it was the first two syllables making it seem that way.

"I might have. Was the watch his?"

Illya nodded, smiling at the immediate grasp of the connection.

"Yes, according to some of my gypsy friends from back in my youth. Solovyov had been to Paris where he became involved with some people whom he later denounced. Apparently one of that circle had given him this watch as an endearment of some sort, and wanting to shed the memories as well as their influence, he gave the watch to a member of the gypsy band. He was also, it seems, a bit of a rogue, seducing women all over Europe."

At that last bit, both men smiled with a knowing acknowledgement that some things were unavoidably noted.

"Well, it is a beauty. And what a great bit of history... thank you Illya. It will be treasured, truly."

"You are welcome, my friend. You march, as I have heard it said, to your own drummer. Certainly no ordinary gift would have sufficed."

Napoleon was moved, and amused. It was uncanny that this watch could accomplish both, and engender even further the warmth of his friendship with the shy Russian. Life was interesting.

"Speaking of drummers...'

Now Napoleon was really grinning. He hoped his gift was as appreciated as the one he had just received.

"We, my jazz loving friend, are going to Birdland to hear some jazz. This is a special performance, they haven't advertised who will be there because they didn't want a riot. I think, however, that you will be pleased."

Illya was totally taken by surprise. Napoleon hated jazz, but somehow by wanting to take him to this special event, he was willing to at least try and enjoy the music that inspired Illya.

"Really? Are you really going to go with me to hear jazz? I am very happy, and also incredibly curious. Are you going to tell me who we will be hearing?"

"Mmmm... No. But we'd better get going, because the show starts at nine."

With that he called for the check and they were heading out the door on their way to something that, for only a few, would remain an indelible memory.

"Miles David, Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams. Napoleon, I am still in awe of this. You have no idea. It is... well, I just cannot say how marvelous this is. Thank you. I would never have guessed anything like this, ever...ever."

The two men had decided a nightcap in Napoleon's apartment was appropriate to end the evening. Illya had no plans for the next morning, so rather than head back to his own home, he had agreed to take the guest room and join his friend for Christmas breakfast. It was a rare thing to have a day to look forward to in which no emergencies called to them.

Illya was certain that even Napoleon had enjoyed the evening. The brilliance of that quintet, and the energy inside of Birdland made for a dizzying night of musical joy for the Russian. They had no clue that within a few months the classic jazz venue would close, another victim of rock and roll.

"So, I guess I chose well then."

Illya nodded, his head still full of the sounds he had greedily absorbed during the ninety minute set.

"Oh yes. I only hope the watch is half as satisfying as this evening has been for me. Thank you, Napoleon. Again, thank you."

Napoleon was thoughtful. Two grown men who regularly risked their lives for a living, and it all came down to expressions of friendship. One inspired a watch once owned by a famous and, perhaps, slightly scandalous Russian author; the other a night of jazz inside of an American original.

"Different drummers, Illya. We both have one, it seems. I guess you could say that makes us syncopated."

Illya had to laugh. It was fairly accurate. They were different as night is to day, and just as complimentary. He might call it Fate, if he believed in such things.

"One last glass to toast the evening? Here's to you, my friend, and the drummers whose beats we hear. May they keep on drumming."

They toasted the day, the gifts, and the friendship that was the best gift of all.