He didn't like to talk about his childhood, being totally happy to let others draw what conclusions they might from the man he'd become. City boy. Diplomat's child. Ivy League scholar. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He wouldn't confirm or deny, letting them draw inferences from his silence, the smallest of smiles, while inside he knew just how wrong their inferences were. In truth, he didn't remember all that much of being a child and had always wondered just why it was his brain sought to hide so much of the truth in whatever place it was that held memories which never emerged. Like anyone else, Napoleon supposed there had been happy times he didn't remember too, not solely a welter of darkness his subconscious was choosing to suppress. Surely that had to be the case? The facts, he knew, such as they were. For a time he had been a city boy, though probably not the part of the city they meant by that phrase; he'd known the streets where he and his mother had lived like the back of his hand, able to find his way unerringly home no matter how lost he became. It was a grim life, if he looked back at it from the perspective of an adult, but it hadn't seemed so at the time - he'd never gone hungry, never felt the absence of a mother's love, never felt unwanted. All that was to come later, when he left the city behind. Back in those days there had to be the usual paraphernalia of childhood, the toys that meant more than he could possibly imagine now, skinned knees and bruises, the small day to day hurts and annoyances of a world he couldn't quite understand, no matter how hard he tried. At least the small town where he'd found himself, unexpected and unwanted, had a cinema - as a child, uncertain of his welcome, he'd spent hours in its comforting darkness. It was there he'd learned much of what he'd put into practice as an adult, learning the charm and savoir faire he would later come to rely on, the skills others would think he'd honed in the embassies of a dozen different countries. It also provided a hiding place, somewhere he could feel safe, surrounded by the images of what seemed a kinder place. Even now the smell of cotton candy took him back to that time, to a place he believed he'd successfully escaped, only for his mind to play tricks on him once more. He wasn't certain how it had started, how he'd come to be the centre of attention in a way he'd never anticipated. He'd only wanted to fit in, blend into the background till he knew just how this new place worked, where he fit in, but his cousin had other plans. In some ways, it came as no surprise - he was an interloper, unwanted, stealing the limelight from the one who'd previously had all the attention, and no amount of protesting was sufficient to keep him safe. "Take your cousin to the fair." Innocent words, the kind of thing a family member should be able to suggest with no hidden consequences. In itself, it was a kindness, an attempt to make a newcomer feel more at home. They couldn't have known what they were suggesting had a darker side, something hidden behind the pastels and lights. He'd trailed along willingly, his shorter legs starting to tire before they even reached the fairground, his cousin setting a punishing pace that ought to have been his first clue something was wrong. "Stop whining," Napoleon was told when they paused at the entrance. He tried to catch his breath, his side aching where a stitch was forming - he'd set his own pace before, never needing to run at anyone else's speed. He'd trailed behind his cousin obediently, the silent dog he seemed to want, stomach rumbling as the hours passed and there was no sight of an end to it all. "Stay here," the words each time his cousin wanted to go on some ride, leaving him clutching the railings outside, leaning against them as he watched the world spin and loop, never included. Then he looked around and his cousin was gone. It was dark now, the lights on the fairground barely breaking through the gloom, and he wondered what his cousin would say when he was asked what had happened. How much trouble Napoleon would get into for not sticking by his side, not paying attention to where he'd gone. For getting himself lost this way. It was almost a relief when the hand clamped over his mouth, sickly-sweet with the smell of cotton candy; he was small enough the man lifted him with no effort, his heels dragging for a moment before he was carried away, face pressed to the sweet-scented shoulder, just another tired child out a little too late. Months later, found foot-sore and disoriented by the side of a country road, he wouldn't be able to say much at all. No words to describe the hours he was alone and certainly no words to describe the hours when he wasn't. All those things bottled up inside, just the memory of the look on his cousin's face when the police car drew up at the front of the house, the mingled delight and disgust at the unwanted's return. He'd hide it all away, back in his moviehouse fantasy, learning to be suave and sophisticated, to give nothing of himself but hold everything back. Frozen inside, if anyone knew it, but luckily no-one could see, no matter how close they thought they got. In the end, if it seemed the case that Napoleon Solo just wasn't that good at undercover work, he could only ascribe that to one fact - that he'd been undercover for most of his life, playing the part everyone thought was himself. ~ fin ~ Disclaimer: Not mine. This story is written for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and storyline are the property of the author - not to be archived elsewhere without permission.