Work Text:
When Christmas Morn is Dawning
By DH Bryn
“My personal preference is to open at least a few gifts on Christmas Eve.”
“You would. No patience.”
“What do you mean, no patience? One does not rise to become the youngest Chief Enforcement Agent of the U.N.C.L.E. without patience, stealth, timing and skill, you know.”
Solo heard his partner’s snort of derision.
“Napoleon, at least a dozen members of the Section Two Secretarial Pool will attest to your impatience.”
“I have never left a lady dissatisfied…”
“…that you know of,” the Russian smirked.
Napoleon chuckled. “Touché.”
The pair were silent for a long moment, indulging in nostalgic memories of holidays and family.
“I was always impatient for the special treats at Christmas, from when I was a little boy. There were always the antipasti, then the ravioli and the manicotti. The fish dishes – the seven fishes of Christmas - and the wonderful breads…”
“Oh, Napoleon. You are killing me, here. My stomach aches with hunger,”
“Sorry,” Solo said, abashed. “It is hard not to think of family and food this time of year…”
“Just a bowl of borscht. One big bowl. And some vareniki...”
“Vareniki?”
“Dumplings. Filled with potato and onion. With sour cream and dill..,”
“How on earth are you so skinny? With all that heavy food…”
“There was less during the war, of course. We were thankful for whatever we could get.”
There was a long silence. At length, Solo asked, quietly, “Are you all right?”
“You know that I am always all right.”
“Of course. Forgive me for doubting you.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t dwell on food quite so much.”
“I haven’t even started on desserts…”
“Borzhe moi! “
“Okay, okay. I give up… so, imagine it is Christmas morning.”
“Which Christmas? December 25th or January 6th?”
“Both!” Napoleon smirked. “We can celebrate one another’s traditions.”
“Fair enough. So, Christmas morning…”
“I would request panettone, the way my nonna used to bake it, loaded with fruit and almonds. With a nice espresso.”
“Sausages and eggs and pierogies for me…a Ukrainian Christmas breakfast…” Illya mused, and Napoleon could tell that the Russian was seriously imagining the feast from the almost-lustful sigh he emitted.
“And then the gifts…” Napoleon said, deliberately altering the direction of the conversation.
“Ah. Of course, the gifts.”
Another long silence.
“So, what did you get me?” Solo teased.
The Russian agent released a deep sigh and spoke slowly at last.
“In Russia, we treasure handcrafted gifts, personal things. And so, having seen you play, I would give you a hand carved chess set. I have seen some that are works of art. And I would gift you one of those. It would meet your excellent standards of tastefulness, and you could exercise your penchant for strategy.”
Napoleon discovered that his throat felt a little tighter, his eyes watering a bit.
“That is lovely,” he murmured.
Another long silence.
“It’s almost morning,” Illya observed, ominously.
“What will I give you, then?” Napoleon said, ignoring his partner’s last statement.
“What indeed?” Kuryakin wondered, steering his typically gloomy thoughts away from their situation.
“I think it must be something priceless, like you, my friend. I think – a Fabergé egg. One of the mechanized ones. Except — “
“Except what? How do you improve on a Fabergé egg?”
“It would need to be broken, somehow.”
“Why?”
“I know how you love to tinker and repair things, tovarisch. You could fix the broken work of art.” Illya chuckled ruefully at this.
“I mean it,” Solo added. “You can fix just about anything. Just as you have, so often, repaired your partner.”
By this time, faint light was slowly beginning to brighten the room. In the dim light, eyes met, and strong, unspoken feelings were conveyed.
A key turned in the lock and the door opened. Two armed Thrush guards preceded the satrapy chief who smiled at his prisoners.
“Well, gentlemen, time is up. Are you ready to talk, Mr. Solo?”
Illya stared at his friend calmly, steadily. He shook his head very, very slightly.
“I think not,” Solo said, his voice somehow holding firm.
“As you will,” the Thrush replied. “Come, Mr. Kuryakin. You are first.”
Illya rose awkwardly due to injuries incurred during interrogation. As he wobbled on shaky legs, Napoleon murmured, “The chess set is a good choice. I have strategies to spare.”
Kuryakin wore his characteristic half smile as he looked at his partner for what he knew might be the final time.
“Merry Christmas, Napoleon.”
“Merry Christmas, my friend.”