Title: The Thought That Counts
Rating: G
Summary: It’s 1961 and Napoleon, the youngest CEA in U.N.C.L.E. history, is turning 29.  Knowing that Napoleon will be swamped with expensive gifts from those seeking to win his favor, Illya struggles to find a meaningful present for his partner.  Dedicated to Robert Vaughn.
Notes:
This is a ficlit I wrote on the occasion of Robert’s birthday today.  Thanks to @ksturf for plot help!

It is also available on both FFN and AO3, if you should prefer reading there.

Illya had been wondering for weeks about what to get
Napoleon for his birthday.  It was only
the second year of their partnership as agents, but a lot had happened in those
two years; in the first year, they had, on top of saving each other’s lives, had
taken down the Baron of THRUSH.  This had
resulted in them both receiving promotions to the top two positions at Section
II.

They had spent the first year getting to know each other
and getting close, and the second year was also spent getting even closer.  They were very happy together, and as CEA and
second in command, had accomplished a lot that second year.

With the second year already setting as they progressed
into November, it was getting to be the that puzzling time of year.  He had seen last year how popular Napoleon
was in the agency, and how colleagues from all over the different sections had
gotten him expensive and impressive gifts.
Illya, not used to the culture of such extravagant spending, had been
caught off-guard and had felt inadequate with only a sentimental piece of paper
as his present that year—his request for a permanent transfer to New York—and
had gotten the idea at the last moment, upon seeing all of Napoleon’s presents
stacked up on his desk, to treat Napoleon to dinner.

Things were different this year.  Not only were the two of them closer,
Napoleon, as CEA, would be receiving even more lavish gifts from his admirers,
no doubt trying to get into his good books.
Mills, from Section VIII, had been trying to give Napoleon gifts all year
for various occasions—sometimes no occasions at all; Napoleon had commented and
shown these gifts to Illya as he received him, commenting on how he couldn’t
help but think that Mills was bucking for something.

For all his high-class living and style, Napoleon could
read people well, knowing whether or not gift-givers were sincere.  And that was what Illya was puzzling over; he
could easily go out and buy something expensive and impressive…  But then, how would he be different than the
rest of them?

No, it wouldn’t do—it just wouldn’t do!  Napoleon was someone who meant a lot to him;
someone he cared about very deeply.
Whatever he was going to give, it had to be something meaningful, not
flashy and showy.

As the big day loomed only 24 hours away, Illya hovered
around department stores, in spite of how he normally frowned upon their
materialistic mantras.  Already, they
were pushing Christmas sales; it was absolutely eye-rolling.  Illya wasn’t a religious man, but even he
felt that whatever Christmas was supposed to be, it certainly wasn’t this.

And yet, Illya felt himself being pulled closer and closer
into the trap; the temptation buy something shiny, new, and expensive for
Napoleon was increasing by the moment—a gold-plated watch, silver pens, jewel-studded
cufflinks and pins…

Illya shook his head, driving the thoughts back.

Nyet, he chided himself.  They are
merely trinkets that will be rarely used, only seen on odd occasions.  Napoleon means more to me than to just give
him something that can only be used a couple times a year and will otherwise
sit around gathering dust!

Shaking his head again, he left the department store
empty-handed, still wondering what to get for him.

He thought of Napoleon’s taste for fine food and
wines.  Taking him out again to dinner
was always an option, but Illya wanted it to be part of his gift—yes, food was
practical, even if it was high-end food, but it was a meal, and, subsequently,
something that was only lasting for a short while.

Last year, I gave
him my transfer and wish to stay here, and he said it was the best present he
had ever received.  In spite of however flashy
he makes himself out to be, he is very down-to-Earth, and he knows about what
is important.  I am sure I will find
something…  I just need the proper
inspiration…

He was still thinking about it as he headed to work and
arrived to the office he shared with Napoleon.

“Enjoy your walk?” Napoleon asked.  Illya had given him that cover story to use
so that he could window shop for a potential present.

“It was an interesting walk,” Illya said.  “How goes the report for the mission we had
at St. Petersburg?”

Napoleon let out an “eh” as he paged through a
Russian-English dictionary.  “Frankly,
I’m glad you’re here; can you and your bilingual talents help with some of
these translations?  My Russian has
gotten a bit rusty.”

Illya smiled and sat down in the chair beside him.

“Of course I can help,” he said.  “What exactly seems to be the problem?  A particular word or phrase?”

“Nothing really in particular; I’m just out of practice,”
Napoleon realized.  “I knew Russian
pretty well when I finished taking it in Survival School.  And then I used a little bit when I was in my
probationary status, following Mark around.
And I still used it fairly well on my own.  Even in the last couple of years, I was
pretty good with it; I don’t know why I fell out of practice…”

Illya paused, thinking about it for a moment.

“I think it’s because of me,” he said, quietly.

Napoleon blinked in surprise and looked to Illya.

“What are you talking about?  You are
Russian; if anything, that should have spurred me to practice more…”

“Not really; with the both of us around, I would have,
naturally, done all of the necessary talking in Russian.  That would mean that you wouldn’t have as
much of a chance to do so, and that is why you have fallen out of practice with
the language—at the very least, it is partly the reason.”

Napoleon pondered over this.

“Huh…” he said.
“Well, I guess it is easier to let an expert handle something when you
know they’ll be better at it…”

“But then you just get worse because of it,” Illya
sighed.  “I truly am sorry for this,
Napoleon.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Tovarisch; you certainly
didn’t intend to sabotage my language skills,” Napoleon grinned.  “Nah, it just means I need to resist the
temptation to let you handle all the Russian when we work.  …In fact, it’ll probably be a good idea if we
decided on a certain part of the day where you only talk to me in Russian—not
English.  That should help get the wheels
turning up here again.”

Illya managed a wan smile.

“Of course,” he said.
“If I can help you get your skill in the language back, then I’ll do
whatever is in my power to make it happen.”

“Great; so I’m thinking dinner time—lazy evenings when we
start talking about all sorts of things,” Napoleon said.  “All those conversations will be good in
remembering if they’re in Russian.”

Illya nodded.

“Of course,” he said.
“Dinners, then.  But, in the
meantime, what do you want to do about these reports?”

Napoleon looked at the paperwork in his hands and on his
desk and scowled, clearly fighting a private war—on the one hand, he found
paperwork to be a drag in English; paperwork in Russian was even more tedious,
and Illya could help him get through it in a fraction of the time.

On the other hand, if he had Illya do most of the work for
him, well…  That meant he was shirking
practice in the language yet again.

Illya watched Napoleon as he sat there with his brow
furrowed, and a genuine smile managed to cross his face.

“How about I take half of that paperwork?” he offered,
kindly.

Napoleon looked over to him and grinned again.

“Sounds great to me,” he said, fervently.  “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask you
something…”

“About what?” Illya asked.

“Well, I just
found out that there’s going to be a free production of Much Ado About Nothing this weekend—it’s that Shakespeare in the
Park thing—it’s started getting pretty popular.”

“Ahh,” Illya said, smiling.
“Of course; I should have known that a fan of the Bard such as yourself
would want to see it.”

“You bet,” Napoleon grinned.  “Of course, you know I’d prefer Hamlet most of all, but Much Ado is a good play, too.  And since it’s the weekend after my birthday,
I was thinking we could have a picnic dinner and then enjoy the play and call
it an evening—if you’d be open to the idea, of course.”

Illya had to marvel at him for a moment; for all of
Napoleon’s insistence that he loved the good life, he really did have such
simple pleasures.  It certainly made
Illya relieved that he hadn’t fallen into any of the department store traps earlier
that morning; he had made the right decision there.

He suddenly had a flash of inspiration, realizing that he
did have access to the perfect gift after all.

“Da, Napoleon,”
he said.  “We can go see the play
together this weekend—but I wish to take you to dinner for your birthday
tomorrow.”

“Well, how can I say no to that?” Napoleon said, grandly.

Illya smiled back at him, pleased to see him so
excited.  He could only hope that the
gift he had decided on would give him the same joy.

                                            *********************************

Even though Illya had made peace with his choice of gift,
he still, nevertheless, felt that same self-consciousness from last year return
as he placed his small gift with the other flashy, wrapped boxes on Napoleon’s
desk.

Once again, he was beginning to doubt that he had made the
right choice after all.  What had the
others gotten him?  Even if he knew that
Napoleon was smart enough not to be bought off with lavish gifts, the doubts
remained.

Napoleon hadn’t arrived yet; he was coming in a bit later
that morning after working on those mission reports.  Mills from Section VIII kept popping in all
morning, looking disappointed to see that Napoleon wasn’t there, and—it almost
seemed–also looking disappointed to see Illya there at all.  Illya just ignored him; he had other things on
his mind, after all.

Napoleon strolled in later, whistling “Oh, What a Beautiful
Morning” and paused to greet Illya.

“Happy Birthday, Napoleon,” Illya said, smiling to see how
happy he was.  “I am glad you were able
to put those reports behind you.”

“Me, too—and I couldn’t have done it without your help, so
thanks,” Napoleon said.  “Also, I think
our Russian-only hour last evening really was beneficial to me, so thanks for
that, too.”

“Do you still wish to have Russian Hour tonight, as well,
or shall we forego it, since it is your birthday?” Illya asked.

“Hey, it’s my birthday no matter what language I speak; I say
we keep at it,” he said, looking at himself in a mirror.  “Hmm, 29 isn’t looking bad at all!”

“Let me put your vanity at ease and assure you that you
will still be looking your best even at 79,” Illya said.

“Oh, since when did you become clairvoyant?”

“Since I realized that it’ll get you away from that
mirror,” Illya teased.

Napoleon chuckled in spite of himself, and then turned his
attention to the pile of presents on his desk.

“Well, better start getting at this so that I can fill out
those thank-you cards,” he said, cheerfully.

And Illya sat back and watched as he opened one gift after
another—gourmet chocolates, crackers and caviar, fine cheeses, a couple bottles
of vintage wine, cufflinks and tie pins, and—Mills’s gift—a sterling silver
platter.

With some amount of satisfaction, Illya watched as Napoleon
scratched his head at the gift.

“Well, it’s nice,”
he admitted.  “…I guess I’ll find some use
for it.”

He shrugged and put the expensive gifts aside, and then
picked up Illya’s.  Illya held his breath
as Napoleon opened an old, bound book with Russian writing stamped on the cover
in gold leaf.  He tilted his head in
curiosity, and, suddenly, the light bulb went off as he realized what it was.

“Illya, is this… Hamlet?”

“In Russian,” Illya said, with a nod.  He gave Napoleon a sheepish smile.  “I got the idea after you said that you
wanted to get back the skill you had in the Russian language, and then I was
reminded yesterday of your love of the Bard’s work.  I apologize for its condition, but it has
been through a lot…”  He sighed.  “It used to belong to my father; it was part
of his library.  After the war ended, I
went back to the house to see if there was anything left of it that I could
take…  This was one of the few things
that I was able to salvage.  But aside
from a little wear and tear, it’s readable.”
He smiled.  “I think you can
appreciate it more than I can—and since you practically have the play memorized
in English, reading it in Russian will help you with the context.  And even after your flair for the language
returns, you can still enjoy reading it, as well.”

To his surprise, Napoleon was looking as though he was
trying to swallow a lump in his throat.

“You’re darn right I will,” he said at last, and he drew
Illya into a tight hug.  The book was one
of the few things that Illya had of his parents, and yet he had willingly given
it to him as a thoughtful gift, one that he could enjoy and would use.  That meant more to him than any of the
priciest gifts in the Diamond District.

And Illya hugged him back, relieved and happy that he had
gotten Napoleon exactly what he had needed.

And after an enjoyable day and an enjoyable dinner, they
spent a lovely evening together on Napoleon’s sofa, reading from the play and
reciting the soliloquies together in Russian—among them, the “To Be or Not to
Be” speech, the Fifth Soliloquy, and, together, they did the final exchange
between Hamlet and Horatio.

And as Illya recited the scenes with him, he took joy in
seeing the unbridled happiness in Napoleon’s eyes, his heart warm to know that
he had, once again, found the perfect gift for his partner.