Chapter Text
…Decorating couldn’t be easier: simply cut the white parts out of the stencils printed on the next page and lay over your baked cookies, then use a sifter to dust confectioner’s sugar over the top. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, break out your piping bag and whip up a batch of the royal icing recipe that follows…
Napoleon turns the heart-shaped stencils he already cut out this way and that, trying to decide if they’re too ornate. He’s done ten of them so far, but he knows the most he can push the papers to publish is two, so he’s got some decisions to make. Grabbing one made up of modern, geometric lines, he places it over a waiting cookie and begins piping; he could do it freehand, of course, but he really does need to make sure that the design is replicable by the lowest common denominator. When he finishes the geometric cookie he grabs a different stencil and begins again, working his way through the designs one by one.
He’s almost finished with the last one when the door to his studio apartment nearly bursts open to admit his best friend, who is currently masquerading as a wet dog. Fortunately, Gaby has better manners than one—marginally. She peels out of her sodden coat and throws it on his bed, ignoring his yelp of disapproval, before coming to lean over the tiny kitchen table that serves double duty as his work bench.
“What’s Josephine up to today?” she remarks, cocking an eyebrow at the designs. “Valentines cookies already?”
“You know I have to work several months in advance,” Napoleon huffs as he tries to shoo her away before her hair drips on his paper stencils, or his cookies, or both.
The demands of publishing meant that he’s always out of sync with the holidays; they’d been eating variations on a yule log in October, and handmade Halloween candy before Labor Day. Now he’s decorating Valentine’s cookies to the soundtrack of Christmas carols playing on his turntable. It’s sometimes disappointing, but the steady income more than made up for the inconvenience. What had started out as a bit of a lark had become a full-time job, when you put together the hours he spends perfecting new recipes, the late nights banging out copy each week, and all the photography that he does himself.
Napoleon still can’t quite believe that he makes enough to live on—barely—doing this. He never even planned to be doing it; when he’d sent a rather opinionated letter to the New York Times following the publication of what he considered a travesty of a recipe in their Lifestyles section, the last thing he expected was to actually get a response. And what a response it was; he’d included his own, much-improved version of the recipe, and the paper had gotten so much mail demanding more from the author that they’d sent him an offer to write his own column. Or rather, they had extended an offer to one Josephine Solo, because Napoleon had known from the beginning that your average 1960s American would be much more inclined to take advice from an elegant Long Island housewife than a gay man who lives in a fifth floor walkup in Greenwich Village. The details of her idyllic life in a quaint village had grown out of each column, which featured not only recipes but style tips and guidelines for elegant entertaining. As if Napoleon could entertain anyone other than Gaby in this place.
The sexism of the time had at least helped him in one way: no one questions that all of Josephine’s business contracts and negotiations should be controlled by her husband. She never travels to the city, so Napoleon goes ‘in her stead’ to meetings with the paper’s odious Chief Editor, Mr. Sanders. He’d spent his entire first paycheck on a suit so he could look the part of someone who might own a home on the south fork of Long Island, and so far it had paid off. Sanders still had no clue that his prized Lifestyle columnist is a complete fiction, and Napoleon’s—sorry Josephine’s—column had become nationally syndicated, appearing in papers across the country. He’d even been able to quit his job at the diner, though that suit is still the single most expensive thing he owns.
Not much deterred by his fussing, Gaby picks up one of the decorated cookies and inspects it. “Are these the usual recipe, or did you do something frou-frou to them this time?”
“There’s touch of rosewater in the dough, and some ground pistachio,” he tells her, adding a little defensively, “it’s a subtle note,” when she crinkles her nose up skeptically.
“I don’t know, Solo, you know what happened when you tried to do lavender scones at Easter last year.”
He certainly does. No end of letters had arrived complaining of the flavor, mostly from people he’s sure hadn’t steeped the lavender in the milk properly in the first place. “This recipe is foolproof.”
Gaby snorts at that, sniffing the cookie carefully, and it’s only then that he realizes she intends to eat it.
“Hey!” he exclaims. He makes a grab for her arm, but she dances out of the way, always light on her feet from years spent as a dancer. “You can’t eat them yet, I don’t know which ones I’ll need for photography!”
When she’s out of his reach, Gaby turns and holds up the cookie she’d absconded with: an ornate paisley design. “There is no way your average American housewife is going to be able to replicate this. I’m doing you a favor, eliminating this one.”
With that, she shoves half the cookie in her mouth, and Napoleon can do nothing but sigh. She’s probably right. Turning his attention back to his work, he picks up piping where he left off.
“Pretty good, actually,” Gaby says through a mouthful of cookie as she sidles closer again.
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” he returns dryly, though he knows, in Gaby parlance, that that means the recipe will be a success. “Why are you so wet, anyway?”
“Started sleeting like a motherfucker a few hours ago,” she tells him.
“And what? You just stood out in it?”
She shoots him an unimpressed glare. “You don’t pack in a protest just because the weather gets bad. Do you think the Vietnamese—”
“Ok, ok, forget I asked,” he jumps in, cutting her off before she can get going. He’s no fan of the war himself, but he’s working on a deadline, and listening to Gaby rant about war atrocities is certainly not going to help him concentrate. Thankfully she doesn’t press it, instead settling into the other chair as she polishes off her cookie.
“Oh, this came for you,” she announces, reaching into the half-open front of her coveralls to pull out an envelope partly covered in smudged fingerprints of dark engine grease. “It was stuck in the door outside.”
That gets Napoleon to look away from his work, his eyes going wide. Almost all of his mail gets sent to a post office box, except for one very recent correspondent who insisted on having a street address, which means… “From UNCLE?”
Gaby answers him with a grin, and he abandons his piping to snatch the envelope out of her hand, tearing into it immediately. UNCLE Publishing is not only responsible for the biggest housekeeping and lifestyle magazine in the country, Style at Home, they’ve also expressed interest in publishing a cookbook of Napoleon’s recipes. Sanders, of course, does not approve of this, but now that the column is syndicated he can’t do much about it. He might still pay part of the paychecks, but he doesn’t own Napoleon or the column, and Napoleon has been doing everything in his power to keep it that way. Securing this deal with UNCLE could finally mean getting out from under Sanders’ thumb entirely, not to mention finally being able to move into a larger apartment.
Napoleon reads over the enclosed letter quickly, then has to stop and go back and read it again, because this cannot be happening. The hopeful smile slides off his face, replaced by what must be a look of profound horror.
“What is it?” Gaby asks, her eyes going wide at his obvious distress.
“It’s Waverly,” he croaks out.
“And? What’s wrong? Is the book deal off? Oh shit— did he find out about Josephine?”
Napoleon shakes his head slowly. “He wants to meet her.”
“Oh, well, he’s asked before,” she says dismissively, slumping back in her chair. “Surely you can put him off again.”
“It gets worse.” Napoleon swallows hard. “You remember that operation a few weeks ago that’s been splashed all over the news? Some intelligence officer risked his life to save a school full of children near Da Nang, ended up injured and his cover blown?”
“The Russian,” she nods. “What was his name? Kolyakin?”
“Kuryakin,” he mutters, glancing down at the letter again. Just the other day, Napoleon had just read a profile on him in the newspaper: born in Moscow, son of a disgraced Russian minister, fled to the US with his mother when he was a kid, joined the military and quickly rose through the ranks to the most elite special forces. Snatched up by the CIA to become, apparently, an exceptional spy, at least until he couldn’t walk away from a school that was supposed to be empty, and wasn’t.
“Apparently,” Napoleon says slowly, “UNCLE has been wanting to do a piece on him, and when they found out that he has no family in the states anymore, Waverly decided that he wanted an article for Style at Home about giving him a good, old fashioned, American Christmas.”
“Isn’t Waverly British?” Gaby asks, her brow furrowed. “What does he care about American Christmases?”
“He cares that they sell a lot of magazines.”
“Fair enough,” she allows. “But what does this have to do with you?”
“Gaby, no one does an old fashioned, aspirational American Christmas like Josephine Solo,” Napoleon says, and it sounds like he’s bragging, but it’s true. “The entire country will be trying to replicate her goose dinner exactly this year. Who better to host a returned war hero for the holidays?”
Gaby gapes at him. “You can’t be serious!”
“As a heart attack,” Napoleon groans, “which is what I think I’m going to have right about now.”
He drops his forehead onto the table in front of him, and Gaby takes the opportunity to snatch the letter up and read it for herself, as if he would make up such a thing. She must read it at least twice, because minutes go by before she speaks again.
“You’ll just have to tell him it’s not possible,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re going out of town for Christmas. Or maybe just explain to her how you prefer to have a quiet Christmas, just the two of you.”
“I can’t explain anything. You read the letter. He insists on meeting my ‘wife’. If I’m going to have even a chance of getting out of this, I’m going to need an assist,” Napoleon tells her.
Unsurprisingly, Gaby catches his meaning quickly, though her reaction leaves something to be desired. “Oh hell no,” she protests, her eyes going wide. “I am not pretending to be your fake wife.”
“C’mon Gaby,” he pleads, “you’re the only one who knows the truth! It’ll only be for one meeting, I swear.”
“Until he asks for another. And anyway, there is no way that Waverly will believe I’m America’s most perfect homemaker, or whatever the hell they market you as these days,” she scoffs.
“It’s not me they’re marketing, and she’s not perfect,” Napoleon argues half-heartedly.
Gaby huffs a mirthless laugh at that. “Tell that to all her adoring fans who want to be exactly like her, or want their wives to be exactly like her. They would combust if they knew who they were really taking advice from.”
“Which is why I need your help,” he presses. “Please, Gaby, you know this deal means everything to me. I’ll owe you forever. I’ll never ask for anything again.”
“That is absolutely a lie,” she returns, “but ok. I’ll do this one meeting, if you agree to go to the women’s rights march in Central Park with me next month. And whatever I’m supposed to wear to this thing is coming out of your pocket.”
At this point, Napoleon is so relieved he would agree to anything. “Of course, of course,” he says, not thinking about where he’s going to find the cash to buy Gaby something suitably housewife-y to wear. “We’ll go in, and tell Waverly that we’re very sorry but it’s just not possible, and then we’re done. It’ll be fine.”
Very little about the meeting with Waverly is fine.
It starts before they even leave Gaby’s apartment. Napoleon is waiting for her to get changed and trying not to catastrophize about what will happen if he turns Waverly down, which means he’s drinking a probably ill-advised glass of cheap whiskey to calm his nerves. What he doesn’t expect to have to worry about is how Gaby comes stomping out of her bedroom, very clearly not pleased.
“You can’t seriously expect me to wear this,” she says, gesturing down at the outfit Napoleon had brought for her.
“Please, don’t start,” Napoleon sighs. “It was the only suit they had at the thrift store in your size. And before you ask: yes, you have to wear a suit to a meeting like this.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s not that bad,” he counters. It’s a perfectly serviceable navy skirt suit with gold buttons and toggles down the front, and maybe it’s not the most modern or stylish cut in the world, but it’ll work for their purposes. Assuming she stops fidgeting like she’s never worn a suit in her life (she almost certainly hasn’t). The square-toed, wide heel shoes are more of a travesty, if he’s honest, but he didn’t have a lot of time and money to work with. “You can get rid of it just as soon as we’re done, ok?”
“Fine,” she huffs, shaking her perfectly-coiffed ringlets irritatedly. Between her hair and the much heavier makeup that she’s wearing, she hardly looks like herself. “Let’s get this over with.”
Waverly himself is pleasant as always, which is entirely the problem. He’s just so damned hard to say no to; Gaby had given Napoleon a hard time before about how he always seems to come out of meetings with the man agreeing to things he didn’t intend to, but now she gets to experience the full brunt of it. To her credit, she plays the part of the demure housewife well enough that Waverly doesn’t seem to suspect that she’s not who she says she is, though that doesn’t mean they don’t have a few close calls.
“Your recipes really are rather wonderful, Mrs. Solo,” Waverly says to her once the initial greetings have been exchanged.
It takes Gaby a fraction of a second longer than is completely normal to realize he’s speaking to her. “Oh please, call me… Jo,” she says, shooting Napoleon a slightly panicked look. They hadn’t discussed nicknames, because Napoleon hadn’t really figured they’d have a need for such things.
“Jo, then,” Waverly agrees easily. “My secretary made those cookies of yours the other day, the jam pinwheels? The filling is truly extraordinary. What is that unusual flavor again?”
“Uh,” Gaby says, ever so eloquently, her eyes going slightly wide. She’d taste-tested the jam, like she does with all his recipes, but he can’t blame her for not remembering. It had been months ago.
“The ones with the orange liqueur,” Napoleon jumps in. “I love it when you make those.”
“Right, of course!” she confirms eagerly. “You know, I write so many recipes, I can hardly keep them straight sometimes.”
Waverly smiles and nods, apparently happy to accept this explanation. “I’m sure. Perhaps you can make those for the holidays this year,” he adds with a wink.
“Yes, about that…” Gaby says, taking a deep breath. “Well, you see, after all the entertaining we do during the holiday season, we prefer have a quiet Christmas on the day of.”
“Excellent, that’s perfect,” Waverly replies, looking inexplicably unperturbed by this news.
Napoleon and Gaby exchange a look, because that was certainly not the reaction they expected. With a slightly awkward smile, Napoleon ventures, “Sorry?”
“Mr. Kuryakin is a rather quiet chap himself,” Waverly explains. “I should think he wouldn’t care for a big production.”
“Right, of course, but—” Gaby tries.
“Nor do I, for that matter. A simple, country Christmas sounds like just the ticket.”
“Sorry?” Napoleon repeats, forgetting himself. “You’re coming too?”
“Of course I am,” Waverly chuckles. “There’s a profile to write, after all, and I don’t usually make it back to England for the holidays these days. It’s been years since I’ve had a proper goose dinner! I have to admit I’m very much looking forward to it. You are planning to do your famous goose dinner, aren’t you?”
“Oh y–yes,” Gaby confirms automatically, decidedly not paying attention to the wide-eyed look Napoleon is trying to surreptitiously give her. The goose recipe is one that Napoleon knows works but has never made himself, not in the least because he can’t afford a goose, and anyway his apartment’s oven isn’t big enough to hold one.
“Wonderful, wonderful. Mr. Kuryakin will be arriving in New York on the 23rd, so I’ll bring him out that evening, I should think,” Waverly says, quite oblivious to their panic. “There is also the matter of your expenses,” he adds, turning slightly to pluck what looks to be a checkbook out of one of his desk drawers. “I’ve no wish for this to be a burden, so I’d like to offer you a bit of an advance. Please let me know if this isn’t sufficient.” With that, he signs the check with a flourish and passes it over to Napoleon, who tries to hide his shock as he stares down at it.
“No, I, uh— think this should be— adequate,” Napoleon gulps.
Waverly smiles at them. “Now if there’s nothing more, I really should get back to work. This article isn’t going to print itself! Do be sure to confirm your address with my secretary on your way out.”
Waverly turns back to the sheets spread out across his desk then, and, so dismissed, Gaby and Napoleon stumble back out into the hall wondering what the hell just happened.
“What was that?” Gaby demands, hissing out the words under her breath.
“I should be asking you the same,” Napoleon returns. “You’re the one who confirmed we’d be having a goose dinner!”
“I didn’t say it was with him!”
Napoleon scoffs. “As if it wasn’t implied.”
“Look, you’re just going to have to go back in there and tell him the truth,” she says, tipping her chin up in the air defiantly.
“Me?”
“It’s your lie, isn’t it?” Gaby huffs. “I don’t know why I let you drag me into this.”
“I—” he starts, but she’s right. It is his lie, and he knew that one day it would all come crashing down around him. He just didn’t think it would be so soon. There’s nothing for it, though; even though he could certainly do quite a bit with Waverly’s generous advance, he doesn’t have a house on Long Island in which to host a cozy, quiet Christmas for four. “That’s it, then,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping miserably. “I’m sunk.”
Gaby’s expression softens at that. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she offers, putting a comforting hand on his arm. “You’ll still have the column, right? There’s no reason for anyone else to find out.”
“Are you kidding me? Waverly will probably publish a big exposé. ‘Josephine Solo is a fraud.’ Can you imagine how many magazines that would sell?” Napoleon asks with a bitter laugh.
Gaby makes a sympathetic noise and chews on her lip thoughtfully for a moment. “Well,” she says eventually, “there might be another option.”
“Huh?” Napoleon frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“The people my uncle works for, the Vinciguerras, have a house out on Long Island. I went there last summer for a weekend, remember?” she prompts, and Napoleon nods. “Insufferable rich people—really not my scene, their whole business seemed kinda shady honestly—but they said I was welcome to use the place if they weren’t around, and they always spend the winters in Italy.”
Napoleon stares at her for what is probably far too long, unsure that he’s not hearing things. Surely it couldn’t be that simple? “First off, why have we never gone out there, and second… are you sure they wouldn’t mind?”
“Well someone always says he’s too busy writing to take a weekend off,” Gaby accuses, crossing her arms over her chest. “And yes, I’m sure. Showed me where the spare key is kept and everything.”
“But… you do realize this means you’d have to keep pretending to be Josephine Solo, right?” he ventures. It’s not like she would be likely to forget, but still, it’s also hard to imagine her agreeing to it. “The perfect housewife? You don’t even know how to cook!”
Gaby shrugs. “We’ll make it work. Besides,” she adds, plucking Waverly’s check from his fingers with a smirk, “you can take care of my expenses, it seems.”
“I’ll need some of that for the goose, you know,” Napoleon warns, but he can hardly complain if she’s willing to go to all this trouble for him. There’s a broad grin spreading across his face now, and she can’t seem to keep hers from growing to match. “But the rest is yours, I promise. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.”
“C’mere, you giant idiot,” Gaby says, pulling him into a hug. “You know I’m not doing this for the money, right?” she mumbles into his shoulder.
“I know,” he murmurs back, letting his arms tighten around her before stepping back again. “Now let’s get out of here, ok? We’ve got a lot to do in two weeks to prepare.”