"Gaby," Napoleon said cajolingly, "you need to stir it more. It'll stick to the bottom of the pot."

"I am stirring it," Gaby replied impatiently, halfheartedly swirling the spoon once through the risotto on the stove. "It's fine."

"But, Gaby," he implored, "it won't thicken properly if you don't keep stirring it."

"Fine," she huffed, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. "Have Illya do it if you don't like how I'm doing it."

"I'm busy," Illya replied immediately, not even looking up from his solo game of chess.

It had been two weeks since Napoleon's capture in France and he still had another week before he was allowed the use of his hands. His thumbs had been left unharmed, for which Napoleon was intensely relieved. But while this allowed him some limited function, his splinted fingers left him heavily reliant on Gaby and Illya. The last two weeks had been difficult for all of them, though for Napoleon most of all.

After the incident, they had spent another two days in France while Illya and Gaby successfully wrapped up the mission using information from Napoleon's bugs. Meanwhile, Napoleon waited on the sofa of the safehouse, feeling useless and trying not to worry, or to move too much.

Once the mission was over, Waverly hired a private jet to take them back to London. After a thorough examination by UNCLE's medical staff, Napoleon had been placed on leave for four weeks to give his hands and ribs time to heal, the first three of which they had to stay securely wrapped. Waverly had also given Gaby and Illya two weeks leave, partly to help Napoleon in his recovery, but mostly as a much needed vacation. Waverly had even rented a luxurious apartment for them to stay in.

The first week had been wonderfully relaxing. Although they would deny it if questioned, Illya and Gaby had doted on Napoleon. The morning after they had arrived in London, Illya had returned to the apartment with a present for him: his signet ring, perfectly repaired. Gaby washed his hair for him in the sink, her calloused fingers combing gently through the dark strands, then toweled it dry and styled it for him. Illya helped him dress, deftly tying his tie, doing up the numerous buttons of his three-piece suits, and lacing his shoes. The three of them relaxed and rested, reading or listening to the radio or working on Gaby's Russian in the comfort of the apartment. Slowly Napoleon improved.

By the end of the first week, he was feeling much better, which meant he was going stir crazy cooped up in the apartment and was beyond frustrated at not being able to do anything with his hands. So the three of them went out and enjoyed the multitude of activities London had to offer. The weather was surprisingly pleasant, allowing them to walk freely about the city. Napoleon led them on a tour of several museums, giving Illya and Gaby a running commentary on each piece of art they passed and alarmingly detailed descriptions of the security systems. The three of them went shopping and Illya and Napoleon argued endlessly about which outfits better suited Gaby while Gaby ignored them both and selected her own. Napoleon himself spent a ridiculous amount of time and money on Savile Row getting fitted for new suits to replace the ones that had been ruined over the course of their missions.

They were enjoying their time off, but they were all quickly running out of patience, despite their best intentions. In general Gaby could be snappy on her best days and it was impossible not to notice Illya's occasional lapses in anger management, but this was the first time they started to see cracks in Napoleon's charming, carefully maintained façade. He never had to ask for their help and they never made him feel bad about needing it, but he was an independent person and had been looking after himself for so long that it frustrated him to no end to be dependent on others, even those he was rapidly coming to trust and care about. He sat in rigid silence as he waited for Illya to cut up his food for him when they went to restaurants. He fidgeted while Gaby styled his hair and sighed in frustration when it didn't turn out how he wanted. He continually grumbled under his breath about the fact that Illya had to dress him like a child and had nearly bit Gaby's head off when she suggested he wear something less complicated than his usual suits. He tried his best to hide his frustration, always quick to thank them for their assistance and to apologize for being a hindrance, but they noticed anyway. He appreciated their help, he really did, but he wished he could just get back to taking care of himself.

And he was about to get his wish, if not quite in the way he wanted. Gaby and Illya's two weeks were up and they were leaving in the morning for a mission in Prague. Napoleon had wanted to make them a nice farewell dinner, which meant he had to convince one of his partners to help him cook it. Illya had flat out refused, too smart to get between Napoleon and his cooking, even when bribed with the promise of stroganoff; they argued enough about everything else to add cooking to the list as well. Although Gaby had been reluctant, Napoleon persuaded her easily enough—she did like his cooking, after all, despite her previous complaints. But he had overestimated her patience for cooking. She could happily strip apart and reassemble engines for hours on end or run surveillance all night without complaint, but apparently that impressive focus didn't apply to continuously stirring a pot for half an hour.

The risotto had come out undercooked, a bit too thin with the rice still slightly crunchy, and Gaby refused to let him add truffles. Napoleon thanked her prettily for her help but frowned through the first few bites, disappointed that he hadn't managed to pull off a nicer dinner for his friends. They assured him it was still quite good and his mood slowly lifted as the meal progressed and Gaby and Illya distracted him with their banter.

He was almost his usual chipper self by the time they had finished eating and were sitting around the table over drinks. Illya had declined as usual. He only drank on special occasions, and never before or during missions or more than one drink. They still offered as a gesture, but they never pressed him when he refused. Gaby was on her second vodka, but was being careful not to drink enough that she'd regret it in the morning. Napoleon, who had no such restrictions, had already finished his third scotch.

"I don't know how you'll manage without me," Napoleon said airily, leaning back in his chair and swirling yet another measure of the amber liquid around the bottom of his tumbler as elegantly as possibly given his clumsy grip. "Whatever will you do without my charm and sophistication?"

"You know we managed just fine without you for years?" Illya scoffed offhandedly. "I'm sure we'll survive."

"I know," Napoleon replied quietly. His expression didn't change but a bit of spark went out of his eyes. He quickly downed the rest of his scotch. The room fell uncomfortably quiet, the only sound the soft chink of crystal and splash of liquid as Napoleon poured himself another drink. Illya looked rather remorseful about his careless comment.

"It should be a simple mission," Gaby said carefully. "Just basic reconnaissance to gather intel. In and out. Waverly said we might even be back before your splints are off next week."

"I have no doubt you'll do wonderfully," he said sincerely. His smile still didn't quite reach his eyes. His drink burned his throat as he tossed it back and he was quick to refill it. "Just promise you'll be careful."

"Of course," Illya assured him, serious this time. "Really, Cowboy, we will be fine." Gaby nodded in agreement.

"I suppose I should let you two get some rest," Napoleon said, standing suddenly. "A good night's sleep and an early start and all that." With a quiet goodnight, he withdrew, glass in hand.

"Napoleon," Gaby called after him, her voice soft. He turned back, one eyebrow quirked in question. "You take care of yourself too." He nodded, then turned away again and disappeared into his room with a soft click of the door.

0 0 0

Napoleon hadn't been asleep for more than an hour or two when he suddenly jolted awake, gasping for breath and heart pounding. He kicked off the blankets that were tangled around his legs and swung his feet out of his overly large bed. He sat there for a long moment, perched on the edge of his bed as he struggled to get his breathing under control. He tried to bury his head in his hands, then gave up with a resigned sign as he nearly jabbed himself in the eye with a splinted finger.

Knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep any time soon, he stood and pulled his dressing gown on over his silk pajama bottoms to stave off the late night chill. He slid his bare feet into a pair of slippers and shuffled wearily out to the deserted living room. He clicked on a lamp and curled up on one end of the sofa, his response to sleepless nights since he was a child. He would stay there for a few hours until he relaxed enough to go back to bed or simply fell asleep where he was.

Napoleon was no stranger to nightmares. They always plagued him the first couple of weeks after a mission went sideways and the most vivid memories came back to trouble him when he was especially stressed, or sometimes for no reason at all. Such side effects came with the job and Napoleon wasn't alone in his emotional turmoil. Illya's demons tormented him during the day, manifesting themselves in his occasional bouts of rage or melancholy. Gaby suffered from insomnia, her turmoil of thoughts and memories often refusing to let her fall asleep in the first place. Sometimes their sleepless nights would coincide and, if they happened to be sharing accommodations, Napoleon would shuffle out to the couch to find her curled in an armchair. The company was nice at least. Other times Napoleon stayed on the couch all night until Illya woke for his absurdly early morning runs. On those mornings, Illya would stay in and play his solitary games of chess instead. The three of them never talked about the ghosts and memories that came to haunt them, merely offered unspoken understanding and comfort.

Tonight the room was empty, Gaby at least trying to sleep before their early morning departure. Napoleon resisted the urge to pour himself a drink to help calm his nerves, knowing he would already regret his previous ones in the morning. Instead he settled deeper into the plush sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest and bundling his robe more tightly around him. He tilted his head back against the armrest, carefully examining the shadowy details of the intricate molding around the ceiling in an effort to escape his thoughts. It didn't work. Seconds and then minutes and then hours slowly ticked by.

When Napoleon woke again, he was still on the sofa, but someone had covered him in a blanket and late morning sunlight was spilling in through the open curtains. He sat up slowly, trying to ease the stiffness in his legs and neck from sleeping on the too-short sofa.

The apartment was empty and silent. A glass of water had been placed on the coffee table next to him, a note pinned under it. After several long moments of trying to decipher Illya's paradoxically neat yet illegible script, he learned that Illya and Gaby had left early and hadn't wanted to wake him since he had finally managed to fall asleep. Napoleon sighed; he had thought the only benefit to sleeping on the couch would be that he could see them off.

He downed the glass of water, heaved himself off the sofa, and shuffled tiredly toward the kitchen. He was regretting drinking as much as he had the previous night and hoped some coffee would help ease his headache.

After a long struggle with the coffee maker and a rather impressive mess of grounds, his coffee was brewing. He stared blankly into the refrigerator and various cabinets, trying to find something to eat that wouldn't be too difficult to prepare or clean up after with his useless fingers. Ultimately he resigned himself to toast with another disappointed sigh. He missed Gaby and Illya already.

This was going to be a very long week.

0 0 0

It was mid afternoon and the apartment was quiet when Illya and Gaby returned. The two of them fell silent, cutting off mid conversation as they walked in to find Napoleon asleep on the sofa in almost the exact same position they had left him in five days prior. A book had slipped from his hands and was lying open on the floor next to him. He was dressed in his exercise clothes, just worn sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. His hair lay in soft curls, free from his usual pomade, and he had several days' growth of stubble across his jaw. They had rarely seen him so unguarded or disheveled.

Gaby dropped her suitcase just inside the door with a loud thud to announce their arrival. Napoleon startled awake, momentarily panicked until he realized that it was just his partners.

"Sleeping on job?" Illya teased as Napoleon sat up quickly and dragged a hand through his hair in an attempt to make it a bit more presentable, grimacing slightly as the splints caught in the curls.

"I'm on vacation," Napoleon retorted. "And I wasn't expecting you back so soon. Everything went well, I take it?" He wasn't able to keep the surprise from his voice.

"As well as four days of camping out above a warehouse can go," Gaby replied, dropping tiredly into an armchair. "But we got the information we needed."

"Always good to hear." Napoleon bent over to retrieve his book instead, avoiding her appraising stare.

"We're still on Prague time and were thinking of getting early dinner," Illya offered, changing the subject. "Care to join us?"

"That sounds excellent," he agreed, pushing himself up off the couch. "Just give me a minute to change into something a bit more suitable."

In reality it was closer to thirty minutes, more than half of which he spent trying to shave, Napoleon too proud to ask Illya for help the minute he got back. Only years of practice kept him from looking as self-conscious as he felt when he stepped out of the apartment in nice but rather casual slacks and a button down, his hair combed but still unstyled.

0 0 0

The next morning, Napoleon left the apartment alone for his appointment with medical.

"Are you sure you don't want one of us to come with you?" Gaby offered as he was stepping out the door. "We have to report to Waverly so we're headed in to headquarters anyway."

"I'm just going to get rid of these damned nuisances," he replied, waving a splinted hand dismissively, a confident grin firmly in place. "I should be just fine on my own." His grin faded the second he was out the door.

Gaby and Illya were gone when he returned an hour and a half later with a foam ball, a list of hand exercises, and a follow-up appointment scheduled for the next week. By the time they too returned home in the evening, the new items had been carefully hidden away and Napoleon was cheerily cooking a celebratory dinner.

0 0 0

"So are you eager to get back in the field, Cowboy?" Illya asked over dinner as Napoleon's final week of leave was drawing to a close.

He hummed noncommittally.

Gaby and Illya had seen very little of Napoleon over the course of the last week. They had been in and out of the office, handling all of the necessary post-mission paperwork, while Napoleon had spent most of his time out of the apartment, making a show of reveling in his regained independence. Yet all the while he had seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

"Waverly said something about a Paris mission this Tuesday," Gaby pressed, dissatisfied with his indifference. "I thought you'd be excited about that."

"Of course," he said quickly, forcing enthusiasm into his voice and a smile onto his face. "Who wouldn't look forward to some of the best art and fashion in Europe?"

"That is not why we're going to Paris," Illya pointed out with a roll of his eyes.

"Of course it's not," Napoleon said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But that doesn't mean there's any chance I'd go to Paris without enjoying all it has to offer."

Gaby just smiled. Perhaps she didn't need to worry about him after all.

Yet late that night, a series of light clatters followed by a louder thud brought Illya out to the living room. He found Napoleon on the sofa, his head buried in hands.

"Everything okay, Cowboy?" he asked evenly, surveying the room. Napoleon's set of lock picks was scattered across the floor and a padlock lay in a corner on the opposite side of the room.

"I'm sorry, Peril," Napoleon sighed, bending hastily to gather up his picks with clumsy fingers. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Illya reassured him, crossing the room to retrieve the lock. "I was just reading." Napoleon didn't meet his gaze when he handed it to him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Illya offered when he stayed quiet.

"Not particularly," Napoleon admitted, carefully sliding his tools back into their case. He finally gave Illya a tight smile. "I promise I won't bother you with any more noise tonight."

"Goodnight then, Cowboy."

"Goodnight, Peril."

Illya turned back as he reached the door to his room and saw Napoleon pull a small foam ball from his pocket and eye it resentfully. He considered saying something more but thought better of it and turned away.

0 0 0

"You weren't at mission briefing today," Illya said accusatorily the instant Napoleon returned to the apartment late the next night.

"Oh, was that today?" Napoleon asked blithely. "It must have slipped my mind." He bypassed where the two of them were sitting on the sofa and headed straight to the liquor cabinet.

"Cut the crap, Solo," Gaby snapped. "Waverly says you're off the mission. He's sending Tomlinson instead."

"I wondered who he'd pick for my spot. Interesting. I would have gone with Connelly."

"You knew you weren't going? Why?" Illya asked, sounding more confused than angry.

Gaby, however, was irate. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

"I figured Waverley would tell you at the briefing," Napoleon replied calmly. He kept his back to them, intent on pouring himself a drink. "And I didn't feel like sitting through a briefing for a mission I'm not part of."

"Aren't you being rather cavalier about the whole thing?"

"Isn't that rather my attitude toward everything?"

"Damn it, Solo, stop evading and talk to us!" she exploded, storming over to him and snatching the tumbler of scotch from his hand. She did a double take as she finally got a good look at his face. "Mein Gott."

"What?" Illya asked, alarmed. Gaby grabbed Napoleon's arm and dragged him over to the armchair nearest to the lamp. She forced him to sit, then gently angled his face towards the light as Illya hurriedly joined them.

The left side of Napoleon's jaw was a darkening purple bruise and it looked like the swelling in his matching black eye was only just going down enough for him to open it.

"Who did this?" Illya demanded, his voice laced with icy rage. "What happened?"

"Calm down, Peril," Napoleon sighed. "It was my own fault."

"Explain," Gaby ordered.

"Would one of you mind grabbing me some ice first?"

"No," was Gaby's curt reply. "You can have ice when you explain why you look like someone used your face for boxing practice." Napoleon sighed again.

"Fine. I had my follow up with medical this morning for my hands. They refused to clear me for duty." Gaby looked confused.

"But you got the splints off last week. I thought they were fine. They healed straight and everything."

"The breaks are knitted," he corrected. "That doesn't mean they're fine. They're… how did the doctor put it? Ah yes, they're 'functioning at a level that would be a liability to myself and my partners.' Because they've been immobile too long.

"So I went to Waverley. He sided with medical. I politely disagreed. He politely refused to change his mind. I less politely disagreed."

"Please tell me you didn't get into a fist fight with Waverly," Gaby interrupted.

"Of course not," Napoleon scoffed. "I'm not a complete idiot. We just argued. And then he suspended me for two weeks. So of course I had to go prove that I was capable of doing my job." Both Illya and Gaby looked at him disapprovingly.

"Nothing serious, of course," he reassured them with a sigh. "Just some light pick pocketing. I really do have a bit more sense than the two of you seem to think. I wouldn't have even kept anything. I would've put it back or claimed it was dropped or turned it in as lost. I just needed to know I could do it.

"So I tried to lift a woman's pocketbook while walking down the street. Her husband took issue with finding my hand in his wife's coat and reacted accordingly. And I couldn't even fight back." To demonstrate, he tried to ball his hands into fists. The result was loose and shaky and his left pinkie hardly bent at all.

"It's probably a good thing I didn't fight back," he concluded ruefully, "or I might have reinjured something or damaged my hands more. In a way I got off easy." There was a long silence as Gaby and Illya both struggled to find something to say. After a moment, Illya gave up and left to find ice.

"There is no shame in needing time to heal," Illya said finally as he handed Napoleon a towel-wrapped bundle of ice. "Your hands will get better."

"And what if they don't?" Napoleon asked quietly, finally voicing the fear that had been plaguing him for weeks. The words were slightly muffled by the cloth he had pressed to his face. "I don't want to go back to prison."

"What?" Gaby asked, aghast. "Why would you go back to prison?" But Illya paled as he understood what Napoleon was getting at; the ever-looming threat of a Siberian gulag made him very familiar with such fears.

"We risk our lives every day in the field," Napoleon explained to Gaby. "I know that, and I've accepted the fact that people in our line of work rarely make it to a nice, tidy retirement. But what use is a thief without his hands? Without them I'm just a pretty face. I still owe the CIA another four years and if I'm of no use to them, I'll be right back in the prison they pulled me out of. Sanders liked to remind me of that every time I didn't perform to his standards on a mission."

"UNCLE is not the CIA," Gaby insisted vehemently. "Waverly wouldn't let that happen, Napoleon."

"That's what Waverly told me today," Napoleon sighed. "As much as I want to believe him, the CIA has made it clear that while I may be on loan to UNCLE, I still belong to them. And I've been with them long enough to know what'll happen when they find out I'm useless."

"You are more that just your hands, Cowboy," Illya said seriously. "True, you have lightest fingers of anyone I have ever met, but you also speak six languages, you are smart, and you are good strategist. You are not just common thief."

"He's right," Gaby added. "You're clever, you're a quick thinker, you're good at reading people, you're calm under pressure, you can talk yourself out of just about anything. That's already more skill than a lot of agents have."

Napoleon looked like he desperately wanted to believe them.

"Do you want us to talk to Waverly?" Gaby offered tentatively, knowing how sounded.

"And what good would that do?" Napoleon scoffed. "He was right; I'm not ready to go back into the field. All the talking in the world won't change that and there's nothing more he can do that he hasn't already done. All I can do at this point is take my suspension and see how things are in two weeks."

"Things will be fine," Illya insisted.

"I hope you're right."

0 0 0

The Madrid evening was unseasonably warm and after two months of mild London weather, Napoleon was sweltering in the throng of guests that crowded the elegant villa.

"Coast is clear," Illya's voice crackled over his earpiece. "You have seven minutes before next patrol."

"Shall we?" Napoleon asked, draining the rest of his drink and offering Gaby his arm,

"I'd be delighted." She took his arm and swayed against his side in an imitation of intoxication. The two of them freed themselves from the press of the crowd and headed towards the grand staircase to the upper floor. The key was to be discreet, but not furtive, and to any observer they merely looked like a slightly tipsy couple in search of a private corner.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they slipped past the empty bedrooms to the study at the end of the hallway.

"Would you care to do the honors?" Napoleon asked, gesturing at the locked door. Gaby eyed him appraisingly but slipped her lock gun out of a concealed pocked without comment. After several long moments of fiddling with the device and a soft click of the lock, Gaby pushed the door open and ushered Napoleon inside.

"Well I'm not doing that one," she said, waving her hand dismissively at the hulking safe that was bolted to the floor beneath the massive desk.

"And what about this one?" Napoleon retorted as he deftly slid back a concealed panel in the wall to reveal yet another safe with an even more intimidating set of locks.

"Not a chance." She folded her arms and arched her eyebrows at him expectantly.

"Well make yourself useful then and hold these," he said, drawing out his bundle of tools and handing them to her. She gave an irritated huff they both knew was for show.

Napoleon fitted an earpiece into his ear and started in on the combination dial, his brow creased in concentration as he listened for the almost imperceptible clicks of the tumblers. With a final twist of the dial, there was a quiet thunk as the tumblers fell into alignment.

After a pause that could almost be called hesitation, he took up his picks and carefully fed them into the lock. His movements were deliberate and controlled but nowhere near his usual confident ease. Long seconds trickled by, then seconds more as he fiddled delicately with the lock.

With a final clunk, the lock disengaged and Napoleon let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he had been holding. His relief turned to affront a moment later as Gaby echoed his sigh of relief.

"You do realize I still managed that years faster than Peril could have, right?" he asked as he spun the handle and opened the door with a flourish.

"I heard that," Illya groused over the com, but Napoleon could hear the fondness in his voice.

Gaby just smiled. "It's good to have you back, Napoleon."

A/N: Surprise! I have returned from the void! So I started writing this immediately after finishing What's in a Name? knowing that I wanted to do more with the story, but knowing myself well enough not to post it as incomplete and promise a second chapter that I may never finish. Which is probably good because I wrote most of it, couldn't figure out how to end it, got busy with life, and abandoned it in my WIP folder for a good long while. Every time I got lovely, kind comments and kudos on WIAN, I would be reminded how much I loved the fandom and characters and think hey, I should finish that. So I'd dig it out of my WIPs, reread it, edit it, realize I STILL didn't know how to end it, and forlornly dump it back in the WIP folder. Rinse and repeat. For years.

Well with the current state of the world, I find myself with a bit more free time than usual and my sister convinced me to do Camp NaNoWriMo with her, so I've decided to try and wrap up some things from my WIP folder of doom. So finally, after exactly four years and a day, it's finished. It may not be the greatest ending I could have hoped for, but at least it's an ending. Thank you to all you wonderful, lovely people who have read WIAN over the years and left kind comments and encouragement. It warms my heart and it's what brought me back to finish the story after all these years. And thanks to all of you for reading this new story today (and this entire rambling note) after all these years. You guys are wonderful! Take care and stay safe!