azdak

This is a total anachronism, but I couldn't resist it.



Slash. If you squint :-)

Summary: Sometimes it isn't easy to find twelve good men and true.



September


Monday

"I need a favor from you, Illya," said Mandy, batting her eyelashes at him.

"You do?" said Illya nervously. Mandy was notorious for calling in favors, but he couldn't deny that he owed her.

"It's like this," said Mandy, "We're doing an UNCLE nude calendar, but Mr September has just landed in the infirmary encased head to toe in plaster, which rather defeats the point. So we need a substitute. "

"A nude calendar?" repeated Illya, who was new to American English and unsure what the combination of words meant in this particular context.

"Yes. It's for charity, just for internal distribution, but it'll be a real laugh."

"But what is it?" persisted Illya.

Mandy's eyes danced. "Look, I'll show you the ones we've done so far," she offered, leaning in towards him so no-one could hear, "But you mustn't tell anyone you've seen them."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," promised Illya.

"Good. Come to my office tomorrow. You're in for a treat!"


Tuesday

Illya felt his eyes bulge outwards from their sockets as he flicked through the photographs. Each picture showed a naked male Section 2 agent, his gun prominently displayed, and his body contorted into an unlikely pose, in order to conceal what Illya had once heard referred to in London as his "crown jewels". There was Paul Matthews, in front of a poster of Ayer's Rock, sporting nothing but an Australian bush hat and a boa constrictor. There was Mark Slate, reclining on what at first glance appeared to be a tiger skin rug, but on closer inspection proved to be a striped cushion. Illya doubted if many people would look that closely; Mark was wearing a top hat and spats, with nothing in between.

"We're trying to reflect UNCLE's international make-up," explained Mandy proudly. "What do you say?"

Illya turned bright red. "I couldn't," he stuttered, "I simply, I mean, I mean, no!"

Mandy burst out laughing. "Oh, I didn't mean you, Illya!" she said, "I want you to persuade Napoleon to be our substitute Mr September."

"What about Mr Waverly?" Illya asked, unsure if this sort of thing was permitted.

Mandy gulped for air. "You can ask the Old Man, if you dare," she said, between giggles, "But we'll settle for Napoleon."

"He won't do it," said Illya regretfully. Now that he'd got over the initial shock, the idea had a certain appeal.

"He will, if you ask him," said Mandy.

"He will?" Illya was surprised to discover that he felt rather flattered. He was sure Mandy's estimation of his influence was exaggerated, but it was pleasing nonetheless.

"If you ask him? Sure he will."

"Very well, I will ask him. But he will say no."


Wednesday

"No," said Napoleon.


Thursday

Mandy pouted. Behind their long lashes, her eyes slowly filled with tears, and her lower lip began to tremble. "Oh, Illya," she sighed, "I was so sure you could do it. If we can't find a Mr September by the end of the week, we'll have to give up on the calendar, and I was so looking forward to it."

Illya could deal with mad scientists, psychopathic supervillains, and thugs with torture on their mind, but women crying made him dreadfully uncomfortable.

"All right," he said awkwardly, "I'll try again, but I think he'll still say no."

Mandy's tears dried as if by magic. "Oh, thank you, Illya!" she cried, her smile coming out like the sun. "Just keep working on him. He always says no about this sort of thing at first, but if you persist, you'll win him round."

"He does? I will?" thought Illya, filing the information away for future reference.


Friday

"I told you, no."

"Your fan club will be very disappointed. They will feel they've been cheated out of their money if they buy a calendar and there is no Napoleon Solo in it."

"Much as I hate to disappoint anyone, the answer's still no. A man has to preserve a certain mystique."

"But you will risk creating the wrong impression. They might think you have something to hide."

"I think everyone in this organization is aware that I've nothing to hide from the right people."

"Mark Slate is doing it."

"He is?" For the first time, Napoleon hesitated.

"You wouldn't want people to think you feared comparison with Mark Slate?"

"Fear comparison with that little runt! I'm twice the man he is!"

"Then show the world you have nothing to fear."

"All right, I'll do it," said Napoleon slowly. "But on one condition. And you've got to take the photo."


Saturday

"It's a very good photo, Illya," said Mandy, "But it's not exactly what I had in mind..."

"Why not?" demanded Illya. "It is very artistic. It took me several hours to work out how to backlight the steam from the shower."

"The steam is great, fabulous, I don't have a problem with the steam. It's Napoleon."

"What is wrong with Napoleon? He is naked, just as you wanted."

"But you can't see that! He might as well be fully dressed, with all that steam filling the picture!"

"You can see his face quite clearly," said Illya with dignity, "and his ankles. Napoleon says it's important to leave room for the imagination. You can take it or leave it."

Mandy sighed. "I'll take it," she said. "The negatives have to be at the printer's this evening, and I don't have time to find another Mr September, but I don't mind telling you that a lot of people are going to be very disappointed."


Sunday

As Mandy sorted through the calendar photos, trying to think of suitably witty titles for each month, it suddenly struck her that there was something odd about September. Was that - could it be - a third ankle emerging from the steam at the bottom? Mandy picked the photo up and squinted at it - if she held it far enough away, and turned her head just so, and half shut her eyes, she thought she could make out a second figure behind the billowing veil of steam. A smaller, paler, yet indisputably masculine figure. Doing - my God, surely not?!

Mandy blew out a breath and fanned herself with the photo. It looked as if the girls weren't going to be disappointed by September at all. Napoleon had had the right of it. It was always better to leave room for the imagination.