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“I hate pantyhose", Napoleon snarled as he stood struggling to dress in front of the full-length mirror, "...and next time, I'm insisting Wardrobe give me stockings and a garter belt."
“You think you’ve got problems,” Illya retorted.
"I don't know, I think you look very fetching in that tiara and those shoes... how the mighty have fallen," Napoleon said, as he came up behind his partner.
“If I were you, I would not speak of falling just before stepping into those shoes,” Illya said, looking pointedly at the spiked high heels waiting for his partner’s feet.
"Not a problem," Napoleon responded. "I learned to walk in heels years ago."
“So it was an aberration when you stumbled in your sensible pumps at the Ambassador Hotel three months ago and took out, what was it, the buffet table, three UNCLE agents, and two Senator’s wives?”
"I just wonder what Mr. Waverly's important assignment is and why we have to go dressed as women and not very convincing women at that," Napoleon answered as he fiddled with his bright pink wig.
“Well … pink is your color,” Illya said with a mischievous grin, “and Mr Waverly rarely gets to see you in it.”
At the throat clearing from the doorway, they both turned to face their employer; he studied them at length and smiling, nodded as if to answer an inner voice.
“Not very convincing women, I agree, Mr Solo,” Waverly said with a quirk of one shaggy brow, “but I believe you will do very well as … I think the expression is ‘drag queens.’”
"The drag queens I've met have been very convincing as women," Illya contradicted.
"It's true and, in Tahiti, the most beautiful women are often members of the Third Sex, that is, men who choose to live as women," Napoleon said, adding sadly, "I have no chance."
“Despite the potential for, ah, personal disappointment,” Waverly said gruffly as he handed Napoleon a thick manila envelope, “I expect you and Mr. Kuryakin to complete the assignment outlined here with your usual dedication and success.”
"And our assignment is to be instructors for a drag queen charm school held in preparation for The Easter Charity Cotillion", Napoleon read as Mr. Waverly exited the room, adding under his breath, "Do you think THRUSH has a good 401K plan?"
“I was thinking more along the lines of those Stilletto* brothers and their mother,” Illya muttered, massaging his forehead.
“I still don’t see what interest UNCLE has in this school,” Napoleon said as he continued to shuffle through the neatly typed pages; “it’s not as though … oh —- ” and he stopped abruptly, his cheeks flaming to nearly the shade of his brightly colored wig.
“Napoleon, what’s wrong and don’t tell me you suddenly remembered a story that your Aunt Amy told you about one of your youthful digressions.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine; I was just surprised,” Napoleon said, straightening his sequined shoulders resolutely and meeting his partner’s concerned eyes with a sheepish smile; “I haven’t seen Angelique since, ah, since we….”
“Since you what, Napoleon?” Illya asked, his voice suddenly innocent and laced with sweetness, all belying the devilishness in his eyes.
“Since we,” Napoleon corrected, his gaze shifting meaningfully from Illya’s dancing eyes to the camera and microphone monitoring the UNCLE wardrobe room, “completed that assignment in Rio last year; I’ve been avoiding any extracurricular activities with female THRUSH operatives since you convinced me how, uh, risky they are, but I suspect Angelique might not quite appreciate my new, um, reticence.”
“On the other hand, she might feel that it is simply your admission to embracing a new version of Napoleon Solo, one who is comfortable in his own skin, if not necessarily that particular outfit and see you as a new challenge to undertake – no pun intended.”
“Angelique does love a challenge,” Napoleon said, wrapping a feathered boa around his neck and forcing his feet into the sparkly stilettos as he motioned toward the door, “but we might never find out why she’s suddenly interested in drag queens and Easter cotillions if we don’t get this show on the road; after you, partner mine, our chariot awaits.”
“Just know that if we break down tonight, I’m going to let you thumb for a ride as my legs will never get anyone to stop, more like make them run in fear,” Illya said as he gathered up his purse and stole.
“That’s all right, partner mine, because you have other physical attributes that can stop my heart…like your vision, of course…you have great vision”, Napoleon said, pointedly looking toward the room’s security camera.
“I usually have excellent vision, but unfortunately my reading glasses clash with this dress,” Illya said, glancing down at the sapphire blue silk hugging his lithe form, “so you will need to brief me on the mission while I drive; it is less than charming to be late to class, you know.”
Meanwhile at THRUSH's HQ Angelique was thinking about Napoleon...
“You’re thinking about that UNCLE agent again, aren’t you, and don’t try bother trying to deny it as you are practically drooling,” her partner muttered, less that happy with the thought of having to compete with UNCLE’s golden boy as he was twice the man.
“That’s enough, you two,” Victor Marton said, glaring first at Angelique and then at the dark-haired man at her side, “you’re going to have one shot at those diamonds, and I won’t allow the operation to be ruined by lovesick daydreaming or egotistical sniping.”
“Whatever, you say, darling, and may I add that the cravat about your neck is looking quite handsome or could that merely be a way to hide the scar that your last encounter with my lovesick dreamboat left you with?” Angelique asked, carefully making her face blank of expression and emotion, more automaton than human.
“Don’t mind the little … witch, Victor” said the dark haired agent, Brawn Hampton, with a twitch of the sleeves of his blood red gown, “besides being irritated that Solo hasn’t returned her calls, she knows she’s not a good enough actress to pull off this job: a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.”
“I don’t like men who fawn any more than I care for love-sick women, but know this, Monsieur, that I believe she is more than capable at her role of pretending to be a man than you are as one,” Maton murmured, as he reset his hat and prepared to take his leave, pausing at the last moment to add a sly and condescending smile to his words.
While the Thrush agents kept arguing and insulting each other, the Uncle agents drove to the drag queen school – both thinking of Angelique; both reluctant to meet her, albeit for entirely different reasons.
“Napoleon, stop fumbling with your makeup or you’ll ruin it and I’ll have to do it all over,” Illya said, splitting his attention between the road and his partner.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Napoleon groused; “with those gorgeous long eyelashes of yours, all you needed was a dab of mascara; I have feathers glued to my eyelids — and they hurt!”
“Napoleon, I have known you to crawl through rubble with broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, survive torture, best a leopard and still be able to save the world; however, you want me to believe that some feathers hurt you,” Illya shook his head and sighed, “I can dress you up, but I can’t take you… Angelique’s here.”
As Illya angled their nondescript sedan toward a parking spot reserved for instructors, Napoleon stared out the passenger window at the garishly clothed charm school students; it was easy to pick out Angelique’s familiar form, but he wasn’t certain whether there were additional THRUSH agents in the group.
“I’m not entirely sure that she’s on her own and would make sense if there were other with her, but I’m not seeing anyone familiar,” Illya murmured as he helped Napoleon do one final check of his makeup.
“There are supposed to be twenty-five students in the class, and we should assume there’s at least one more THRUSH agent among them,” Napoleon said, fluffing his wig as he prepared to exit the vehicle; “pay close attention to anyone Angelique snarls at — that will be our man … or woman.”
“As the case may be,” Illya said, turning attention to his own toilet before reaching for the door handle and adding, “May the best… whichever, win, as long as it’s either of us.”
“Speaking of winning,” Napoleon said as his partner joined him on the sidewalk, “I’m beginning to think this entire set-up might be just a little too easy; if all we have to do, to protect the cotillion attendees and their diamonds, is identify enemy operatives and give them a failing grade in charm class, why would THRUSH send in an agent I know so … intimately.”
“I just thought of something, something so impossible yet improbable--” Illya started, then paused in mid-thought “-- no, although, I mean, it is possible but so highly unlikely that it isn’t… is it?”
“You think you’ve got problems,” Illya retorted.
"I don't know, I think you look very fetching in that tiara and those shoes... how the mighty have fallen," Napoleon said, as he came up behind his partner.
“If I were you, I would not speak of falling just before stepping into those shoes,” Illya said, looking pointedly at the spiked high heels waiting for his partner’s feet.
"Not a problem," Napoleon responded. "I learned to walk in heels years ago."
“So it was an aberration when you stumbled in your sensible pumps at the Ambassador Hotel three months ago and took out, what was it, the buffet table, three UNCLE agents, and two Senator’s wives?”
"I just wonder what Mr. Waverly's important assignment is and why we have to go dressed as women and not very convincing women at that," Napoleon answered as he fiddled with his bright pink wig.
“Well … pink is your color,” Illya said with a mischievous grin, “and Mr Waverly rarely gets to see you in it.”
At the throat clearing from the doorway, they both turned to face their employer; he studied them at length and smiling, nodded as if to answer an inner voice.
“Not very convincing women, I agree, Mr Solo,” Waverly said with a quirk of one shaggy brow, “but I believe you will do very well as … I think the expression is ‘drag queens.’”
"The drag queens I've met have been very convincing as women," Illya contradicted.
"It's true and, in Tahiti, the most beautiful women are often members of the Third Sex, that is, men who choose to live as women," Napoleon said, adding sadly, "I have no chance."
“Despite the potential for, ah, personal disappointment,” Waverly said gruffly as he handed Napoleon a thick manila envelope, “I expect you and Mr. Kuryakin to complete the assignment outlined here with your usual dedication and success.”
"And our assignment is to be instructors for a drag queen charm school held in preparation for The Easter Charity Cotillion", Napoleon read as Mr. Waverly exited the room, adding under his breath, "Do you think THRUSH has a good 401K plan?"
“I was thinking more along the lines of those Stilletto* brothers and their mother,” Illya muttered, massaging his forehead.
“I still don’t see what interest UNCLE has in this school,” Napoleon said as he continued to shuffle through the neatly typed pages; “it’s not as though … oh —- ” and he stopped abruptly, his cheeks flaming to nearly the shade of his brightly colored wig.
“Napoleon, what’s wrong and don’t tell me you suddenly remembered a story that your Aunt Amy told you about one of your youthful digressions.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine; I was just surprised,” Napoleon said, straightening his sequined shoulders resolutely and meeting his partner’s concerned eyes with a sheepish smile; “I haven’t seen Angelique since, ah, since we….”
“Since you what, Napoleon?” Illya asked, his voice suddenly innocent and laced with sweetness, all belying the devilishness in his eyes.
“Since we,” Napoleon corrected, his gaze shifting meaningfully from Illya’s dancing eyes to the camera and microphone monitoring the UNCLE wardrobe room, “completed that assignment in Rio last year; I’ve been avoiding any extracurricular activities with female THRUSH operatives since you convinced me how, uh, risky they are, but I suspect Angelique might not quite appreciate my new, um, reticence.”
“On the other hand, she might feel that it is simply your admission to embracing a new version of Napoleon Solo, one who is comfortable in his own skin, if not necessarily that particular outfit and see you as a new challenge to undertake – no pun intended.”
“Angelique does love a challenge,” Napoleon said, wrapping a feathered boa around his neck and forcing his feet into the sparkly stilettos as he motioned toward the door, “but we might never find out why she’s suddenly interested in drag queens and Easter cotillions if we don’t get this show on the road; after you, partner mine, our chariot awaits.”
“Just know that if we break down tonight, I’m going to let you thumb for a ride as my legs will never get anyone to stop, more like make them run in fear,” Illya said as he gathered up his purse and stole.
“That’s all right, partner mine, because you have other physical attributes that can stop my heart…like your vision, of course…you have great vision”, Napoleon said, pointedly looking toward the room’s security camera.
“I usually have excellent vision, but unfortunately my reading glasses clash with this dress,” Illya said, glancing down at the sapphire blue silk hugging his lithe form, “so you will need to brief me on the mission while I drive; it is less than charming to be late to class, you know.”
Meanwhile at THRUSH's HQ Angelique was thinking about Napoleon...
“You’re thinking about that UNCLE agent again, aren’t you, and don’t try bother trying to deny it as you are practically drooling,” her partner muttered, less that happy with the thought of having to compete with UNCLE’s golden boy as he was twice the man.
“That’s enough, you two,” Victor Marton said, glaring first at Angelique and then at the dark-haired man at her side, “you’re going to have one shot at those diamonds, and I won’t allow the operation to be ruined by lovesick daydreaming or egotistical sniping.”
“Whatever, you say, darling, and may I add that the cravat about your neck is looking quite handsome or could that merely be a way to hide the scar that your last encounter with my lovesick dreamboat left you with?” Angelique asked, carefully making her face blank of expression and emotion, more automaton than human.
“Don’t mind the little … witch, Victor” said the dark haired agent, Brawn Hampton, with a twitch of the sleeves of his blood red gown, “besides being irritated that Solo hasn’t returned her calls, she knows she’s not a good enough actress to pull off this job: a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.”
“I don’t like men who fawn any more than I care for love-sick women, but know this, Monsieur, that I believe she is more than capable at her role of pretending to be a man than you are as one,” Maton murmured, as he reset his hat and prepared to take his leave, pausing at the last moment to add a sly and condescending smile to his words.
While the Thrush agents kept arguing and insulting each other, the Uncle agents drove to the drag queen school – both thinking of Angelique; both reluctant to meet her, albeit for entirely different reasons.
“Napoleon, stop fumbling with your makeup or you’ll ruin it and I’ll have to do it all over,” Illya said, splitting his attention between the road and his partner.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Napoleon groused; “with those gorgeous long eyelashes of yours, all you needed was a dab of mascara; I have feathers glued to my eyelids — and they hurt!”
“Napoleon, I have known you to crawl through rubble with broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, survive torture, best a leopard and still be able to save the world; however, you want me to believe that some feathers hurt you,” Illya shook his head and sighed, “I can dress you up, but I can’t take you… Angelique’s here.”
As Illya angled their nondescript sedan toward a parking spot reserved for instructors, Napoleon stared out the passenger window at the garishly clothed charm school students; it was easy to pick out Angelique’s familiar form, but he wasn’t certain whether there were additional THRUSH agents in the group.
“I’m not entirely sure that she’s on her own and would make sense if there were other with her, but I’m not seeing anyone familiar,” Illya murmured as he helped Napoleon do one final check of his makeup.
“There are supposed to be twenty-five students in the class, and we should assume there’s at least one more THRUSH agent among them,” Napoleon said, fluffing his wig as he prepared to exit the vehicle; “pay close attention to anyone Angelique snarls at — that will be our man … or woman.”
“As the case may be,” Illya said, turning attention to his own toilet before reaching for the door handle and adding, “May the best… whichever, win, as long as it’s either of us.”
“Speaking of winning,” Napoleon said as his partner joined him on the sidewalk, “I’m beginning to think this entire set-up might be just a little too easy; if all we have to do, to protect the cotillion attendees and their diamonds, is identify enemy operatives and give them a failing grade in charm class, why would THRUSH send in an agent I know so … intimately.”
“I just thought of something, something so impossible yet improbable--” Illya started, then paused in mid-thought “-- no, although, I mean, it is possible but so highly unlikely that it isn’t… is it?”