The Contingent Happenings Affair Chapter 1: Act I: Roadkill, a man from uncle fanfic

A/N: Well, for better or worse, here I am again. Howdy.

As mentioned in the story summary, this is a sequel to my other MFU stories ("The Up is Down Affair" and "The Graveyard Secretary Affair") so you might perhaps want to consider starting at the beginning if you haven't already. Then again, perhaps not. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of making your own decisions.

This chapter isn't as heavy on the humor as I'd like, but I thought it was about time I addressed one or two Issues, so Act I introduces a few elements of the plot-to-be along with relationship drama/angst/crap(?). Also, it tries to be funny and hopefully succeeds in that on occasion.

And on that note, have a chapter with a title that references dead animals.

Act I: Thank you for not bringing roadkill into the house

Somewhere in Germany

"Just tell me what you want!"

"Now, let's not get snippy. All I want is what any girl wants: lots of shiny trinkets and plenty of closet space to keep them in."

"Except in this case your trinkets are illegal goods and your closet is my warehouse."

"Yes, that is rather unfortunate for you, isn't it?"

"Look, lady, I already promised not to call the cops on you and I'll keep to that. Just tell me what would get you to clear out and I'll do that, too."

"Very generous of you, but I'm perfectly content with the situation."

"There must be something you want—and you can't just have your people squatting in there indefinitely."

"Hm, you don't think so?"

"No. Just because I'm not calling in the police doesn't mean someone else won't at some point. Please, I—I'll do anything."

"…Anything?"

New York

Early March

Thursday

"Any questions?" Illya surveilled the room. "Yes?"

"Where are you from, Mr. Kuryakin?" a brunette in the front row asked, coiling her braided hair around a couple of fingers.

Illya blinked at her. Recalled her as being one of the brighter students, even if he did rather suspect her of not paying much attention to whatever he put on the whiteboard or projection screen. As he himself was known to occasionally zone out on a lecture, however, he forgave the apparent deficit in focus and decided to answer her rather than pretend she'd not said anything at all: "Forgive my lack of concision, Murphy. I meant to ask if you had any questions relevant to your coursework."

She smiled and shook her head, and a quick glance over the sea of other humans did not reveal any additional hands in the air, so he went on, "Very well. As usual, the new homework is due Tuesday. Last week's work has been graded and is on the desk, stacked according to alphabetical order. It was largely satisfactory. If your grade is below twenty out of forty, you may retry and resubmit the assignment a week from today. Avail yourself of my office hours if you require some guidance."

There was some change in the quality of the quiet among the pupils as they glanced around at each other, then a hand went up.

"Yes."

"What are your office hours?" a young man with artificially gray hair asked.

"They are prominently printed on the first page of the syllabus, which is available online in the unfortunate event that you lost the hard copy given you."

"Is our overall level of suckiness increasing?" the gray student pressed. "I mean, why are you mentioning office hours now?"

"You are always welcome to drop by at the appointed times if you are having difficulties. As some of you have consistently been having difficulties yet have not been dropping, a reminder of the opportunity for those individuals to improve their grades seemed in order. The level of…"

Illya waved his hand around a bit, and the student supplied, "Suckiness?"

"…has been consistent and is not yet irreparable. Some improvement in homework grades and a B average on the midterm and final should merit a passing mark for the course. If there are no further questions, please reclaim your homework and leave." He blinked a couple of times. "Ah—and… have a good weekend."

Murphy gathered her things very slowly and rather unsurprisingly ended up being the last one to retrieve her homework from the desk at the front of the room. Once there, she asked, "Is that your girlfriend?"

Illya followed the direction indicated by her thumb and noted April Dancer standing in the doorway. Dancer waved when their eyes met, and Kuryakin sort of half-raised his hand before declaring, "No. That is not. Good day, Murphy."

"Good day," the student echoed with an affectedly proper intonation and a laugh, collecting her homework (thirty-nine out of forty) and heading to the exit, where she paused to whisper something to the redhead in the doorway.

April replied in a voice just loud enough for Illya to hear, "That's not appropriate and he's not looking for a relationship."

As soon as thirty-nine-out-of-forty had left, April came further into the room and took a seat at one of the desks to wait for Illya to shut down the slideshow and gather his lecture materials. Eventually, placing a few folders in his backpack, he asked, "What are you smiling at?"

"I always smile when I come by to escort your ass home."

Illya suppressed a quiet harrumph. He certainly understood the U.N.C.L.E.'s decision to keep him under watch, but, "With this level of attention, I am bound to gain an inflated sense of my own self-importance. And yes, you do always smile, but not this much. Hence I return to my earlier question."

As they proceeded out of the classroom and down the hall, April explained, "I didn't think you were 'The Nice Professor', letting people have a second chance on homework. Last week you assigned, like, a hundred pages of supplemental reading and suggested they spend more time on the next assignment."

Illya released the harrumph. "I am an instructor, not a professor. The supplemental reading covered the material that several students seemed to struggle with, which I should think counts as helpful, even if it does not fit your definition of 'nice'."

April chuckled and he continued, "You can attribute the alleged additional niceness to Napoleon. He thought that some of the students might perceive me as intimidating and suggested I make some effort to counter that perception, in order that their learning experience might be a more productive one. Some permissiveness regarding shoddy work seemed an acceptable option."

"Yowza—shoddy, huh?" April glanced to her side, realized her charge had come to a sudden halt a few feet back, and stopped in her tracks.

Illya cocked his head to one side. "Do you find me intimidating?"

"I can count the number of times I see you smile in a day on three fingers, max."

"If you count modulo three—"

"Your wardrobe is at least ninety percent black and gray."

"They are the only colors I can trust without making a huge production of—"

"You have a somewhat unidentifiable European accent and look about ready to punch almost anybody who touches you." She grinned. "No, I don't find you intimidating, but I can understand why other people might."

"Murphy also appears to find me singularly unintimidating, as does the young man who made some inexplicable effort to artificially age himself over this past week."

"Which reminds me: didn't you do any kind of introductory thing at the start of the semester?"

"Of course I did. I said, 'Hello, I am Mr. Kuryakin. The relevant contact information can be found in the syllabus.' As I find the more prolonged introductions of some instructors rather dull, I did not wish to inflict such tedium upon my class."

"Fair point, but you're the type that people might find vaguely interesting: as far as instructors go, you're atypically young and cute and, again, have an unidentifiable accent."

"I shall attempt to sound more German," he declared, taking on the appropriate pronunciation.

"That'll throw 'em off the trail." As Illya quirked a smile, she added, "Hey, there's number one of the day," and realized that he had always been aware of the unidentifiable-accent situation and was somewhat enjoying it. April chuckled. "So are you gonna punk them the whole semester?"

"Define."

"Punk: to trick."

"Yes."

They proceeded to the West 81st Street apartment and, as per their Thursday usual, had lunch there before Illya launched into the weekly apartment-cleaning. April, as always, offered to help but was turned down and they settled into conversation, largely focused around bouncing ideas for their respective school assignments off each other, but with the occasional bit of personal or popular topics slipping in.

"Ever tempted to snoop in his stuff?" April asked as she wandered into Napoleon's bedroom, leaning against the doorway while Illya started dusting. "Not that you should actually snoop, of course, but I'm kinda curious about whether you get curious about stuff like that. You know, wanting to peek in the drawers or anything."

"No. Once a sock was poking out from a drawer, however, so I rectified the situation." He grimaced. "There was some temptation to organize the innards, but I resisted."

"I'm sure Napoleon wouldn't mind."

Illya shot her a doubtful look. "If he prefers to keep it in such disarray, there must be some reason for it."

"Yeah, and the reason is that he's lazy about keeping anything other than himself in good order."

The blond head gave a shake. "No. No, he has been quite proficient in keeping track of and preparing the diet that has been prescribed for me."

"Okay. He's lazy about keeping anything other than himself and anything related to you in good order."

"No. No, that does not make sense. If he is able to be organized in those facets of his life, why can he not keep his socks properly sorted?"

"Probably the same reason he can't manage to make his bed in the morn—huh." April glanced over the bed. The perfectly-made bed. "Mark said Napoleon didn't used to make his bed in the dorm regularly. And when he did make it, it left something to be desired."

Illya waited a moment before replying. "I make the bed I sleep in."

"I'm sure you do but—oh." She grinned at the ears rapidly tinting pink. "Hey, I'm glad it's going well for you guys."

"Not… not quite as 'well' as you may be thinking but… I have found it a—a comfort to have him there."

"Wow. Are we talking literally, or is that an Eastern European euphemism that's just going way over my head?"

"Literally, but not in a literal sense." He glanced over and took in her quizzical expression. "'Literal' referred originally to things that were written, as in 'letters' and such. So we were talking 'literally' in its more common modern usage."

April shook her head. "I guess I should give myself a good solid smack on the wrist. When you started dating Napoleon, I was convinced I'd have to, like, defend your honor or something—and oh my god, I still can't believe you do windows! Please come over and do mine."

"You do not clean windows?" Illya asked over his shoulder, spritzing the glass a few times.

"Not until I can make a smiley face out of the grease on the pane."

"In that case, perhaps we can stop at your residence before coming here on Thursdays."

April gave half a laugh. "Actually, I was joking. But if you're serious, maybe… every other week?"

"That is acceptable. And returning to your earlier comment, I am perfectly capable of defending my… honor."

"I know that now, blondie, but back then all I knew was that Napoleon was a bit of a wolf. I guess it's the promiscuous flirting he needs more than the promiscuous… physical stuff."

The hand wiping down the windowpane slowed a bit. "Pro… miscuous?"

"It means—"

"I am familiar with the definition. I am confused as to the context."

"Well, because he flirts with lots of people."

"Ah." The hand resumed its normal pace. "Only in the line of duty."

"Uh, no…" Dancer trailed off as Kuryakin again slackened his cleaning pace. "You didn't—crap, did I put my foot in my mouth?"

"No. No, of course I knew," Illya lied through his teeth, literally, according to a more common modern usage. "If you brought that article on electronic MOF sensors that you mentioned, perhaps you would be kind enough to read it aloud for me," he added, scrubbing more intensely than was generally necessary for the polishing of a window that was already more clean than not.

After another ninety minutes of unnecessarily vehement housecleaning done to the backdrop of chemistry journals being read, April left for home and Illya was left to chew on what she'd said.

Flirting.

Promiscuously.

April knew. She seemed to think Illya knew. That probably meant other people actually did know, which meant Napoleon wasn't being particularly subtle—except around Illya. At least, it would seem an odd coincidence that Napoleon didn't happen to flirt with other people when Illya was in the vicinity.

And if he was hiding this specific activity specifically from his boyfriend… was there anything else? Illya did occasionally overhear chatter from the population of female employees at U.N.C.L.E.-New York. While he'd assumed the overwrought admirations of Solo's looks and charm and… particular… skills were simply remnants of the man's past habits, the new information he'd gleaned from Dancer raised some doubts.

Illya took off his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes. This simply would not do. Napoleon would be home from his last class of the week in less than an hour, and he'd gotten too good at reading Illya's moods. He'd know something was up even if the Russian didn't say so, and Illya had no point of reference on how to bring up his concern—or even if he should mention it. After all, it was (probably) just flirting, and that was (probably) mostly harmless.

Probably. Probably. Probably.

One probably too many.

Actually, any probably was too many. Too much. Ridiculous!

He trusted Napoleon. Still trusted Napoleon. Right? Right. Right!

"Aha!" Illya exclaimed to the empty room. He patted his laptop in a silent apology for neglecting his work, then grabbed his phone to text April and see if she could minimize a probably or two.

Illya: You only meant that Napoleon flirts with Gerry over the communicator, yes?

April: No… you should probably talk with Napoleon

Illya: I will.

Not necessarily about this particular topic, of course. After all, he trusted Napoleon.

It was probably just flirting.

Probably just talking.

Napoleon probably wouldn't develop an attachment to the others with whom he flirted.

Probably wouldn't be taken in by their willingness to "put out" sooner than the Russian.

Probably wouldn't leave Illya for someone more scintillating.

Probably.

Friday

Illya was much more reserved than Napoleon was used to in a partner.

Most obviously, they were half a year into a relationship and still hadn't rounded the bases. At first, that was due to Kuryakin's making it clear via (hopefully) overstated threats of extreme violence that Solo would be well-advised to keep his hands and thoughts above the belt. Then, it was because Illya turned out to be younger than he'd initially admitted—then, because he confessed to being rather more naïve in matters of the flesh than Napoleon could have guessed. Now, because the American wasn't sure about the etiquette of propositioning someone whose parents had recently died, even if that someone had insisted that everything was fine, he'd accepted it, let's carry on as normal.

Also noticeable was that, for every four or five times Napoleon initiated contact, Illya took the initiative once. Sometimes he acted abruptly, smashing their mouths together in one sudden swoop, as if he were afraid he'd change his mind with even a microsecond more of contemplation. Others, he'd work up to it slowly, inching closer as they sat together on the sofa until he finally reached out to join their hands.

Perhaps most disconcerting, however, was how quiet Kuryakin was in particular situations. Solo didn't mind so much that his offerings of "I love you" or "beautiful" remained largely unremarked-upon: his main concern was that it was somewhat difficult to assess how his attentions were being received without the indications of pleasure to which he was accustomed. Nary a sigh, hum, moan, or sweet nothing to be heard.

So, loath as he was to interject intermissions into their make-out sessions, he made a habit of checking in every so often.

"Is this okay?" "Do you like this?" "Are you happy?"

Now, even with Illya half in his lap and too involved to notice that the commercial break on the TV had ended (which Napoleon assumed were positive responses), seeking verbal consent had become second nature, so he still asked.

"Yes, Napoleon, this is very nice. Am I supposed to ask if you are enjoying yourself every thirty seconds, as well?"

"Uh, no…"

"Ah, I went over," Illya commented with a glance back to the documentary now playing on the screen. "Pardon me."

He patted Napoleon's arm—the official signal for a break—and, seconds later, had straightened out his pajama top and readjusted himself to sit comfortably beside his boyfriend and watch the show. Napoleon attempted the same, but a quick sidelong glance turned into a long sideways stare and demolished that plan.

The flush from their recently abated activity was still fresh on the Russian's cheeks. His lips were a bit swollen and slightly redder than normal, a small smile quirking the edges upward. The blond hair was notably disarrayed and, really, could he look any more appealing?

It seemed the answer was yes, as Illya absently undid the top button of his shirt, presumably from having grown somewhat overwarm, and rolled his head back for a moment to stretch his neck. Napoleon swallowed hard and briefly debated how upset the younger man would be if he broke his promise to restrict their fooling around to the commercial interruptions.

He decided that, considering Illya had accidentally overstepped the boundary himself, the worst result would likely be mild irritation, so he draped an arm around Illya's shoulders, using his fingertips to lightly trail along the upper arm. Illya shifted a bit closer until their hips were just touching, so Napoleon brought his hand a bit higher, brushing across his shoulder until he was gently massaging from his hairline to behind the ear and the base of his neck. Shortly after, eyes still on the screen, the blond head tilted slightly to lean into the lazily traveling hand.

Since this seemed to be going reasonably well, Napoleon brought his face nearer until he could lightly nuzzle his nose at the nearer ear and press a kiss to the jaw. Illya bit his lip and stopped breathing for a moment, and Napoleon settled his massaging hand so he could feel as the pulse accelerated rapidly and pounded more emphatically.

Once breathing had resumed, albeit shallowly, Napoleon waited a bit more and then asked quietly, "Is this okay?" Upon receiving a brief nod and a "yes", he proceeded with a slow trail of kisses down the pale neck—until he got to the collarbone and was startled by a sound somewhere between a moan and a whine. If Illya's suddenly tensing was any indication, he was equally startled.

It apparently was an indication, as he swiftly squirmed out of the American's embrace and scooted away to the far end of the sofa, eyes blown wide. The blue gaze glanced downward briefly and, before Napoleon's brown orbs could follow, Illya grabbed one of the throw pillows and pulled it into his lap, cheeks flaming.

Nearly a minute later, the scarlet blond managed at a slightly higher pitch than usual, "I… I think we should have that talk soon."

Solo cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah—yeah, we'll do that."

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Good." Illya looked back to the TV, but almost immediately gave up and turned to Napoleon. He couldn't hold the gaze, though, so he buttoned the top of his pajamas again and then kept his eyes on his hands as they rested on the pillow and the flush plunged further down his neck. "How about Saturday? After dinner, perhaps."

"Sure." Once his brain had caught up with his mouth, he added, "Wait—this Saturday?"

"Yes. Tomorrow. Will that be acceptable?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Excellent."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing."

Illya tugged at his collar as if trying to convince it to cover a bit more skin.

"I, uh, know I promised not to do that."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes. It—it was very nice, though."

"Oh, good."

"I think I will sleep in my own room tonight."

"Oh—'kay." He'd rather quickly grown used to having Illya share his bed over the past few weeks, albeit with an indisputably and rather obnoxiously respectable distance between them. "I, uh—that's fine. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I am not upset and I trust you to stop if I tell you to but… I am not certain that I would tell you to stop." He moved to get up, then sat down again, checked briefly under the pillow on his lap, and said, "A… a cold shower is the standard procedure, yes?"

"Yeah, yup, that's the thing to do… yup."

Illya raised an eyebrow at the overhasty delivery.

Napoleon raised his brows in return, briefly wondered to himself whether Illya could possibly, actually be unaware of the alternative, and recovered quickly to reaffirm, "Yup. Cold shower should do the trick."

"Then I will do that and retire to my room for the night."

"Okay. Good night."

Illya moved to get up again, sat again, and gestured vaguely at the television. Napoleon took the hint and averted his eyes until he heard the click of the bathroom door shutting, then sighed and let himself fall over to occupy the rest of the sofa. At least his lapse in self-restraint had apparently coincided with Illya's willingness to potentially take their relationship to another level.

Unless he was scared off by The Talk, which—oh, yeah—Napoleon had volunteered to provide. And it wasn't as if that could go catastrophically awry in a multitude of ways.

The shower went on—and, oh crap, how much was he going to have to explain? Probably a lot. Too much. More than he really wanted to. But he'd promised to explain as best he could and, as he'd broken one promise today, it probably would not go over well if he went back on his word two days in a row.

He exhaled another sigh and sat up, grabbing his phone off the table to check the time. Nine-thirty. They usually dined at six-thirty, so it was under twenty-four hours before Illya would be staring at him with those intelligent, innocent, expectant, gorgeous eyes, waiting… to hopefully not be horrified and scarred for life.

Saturday

"April."

"Yeah?" After several moments of no follow-up, she looked up from her desk in their shared office at U.N.C.L.E.-New York. "Did you want something or what?"

Napoleon rolled his chair closer to April's desk, leaning in to cross his arms on the surface. "Yes, but I'm not sure if I'm submitting to female stereotypes and I don't want to offend you."

Frowning, she suggested, "If you have to preface it with that, it probably is offensive. You're earning bonus points for sensitivity, though, so you can tell me anyway and I'll let it slide this time."

He flashed a smile and started organizing the half dozen pens and pencils scattered around between them. "Well, I wanted to ask a favor, but it's kind of banking on your having some kind of innate, uh…"

"Motherly…?" April guessed dryly.

"…capacity for navigating the explanation of potentially delicate interpersonal situations."

April rolled her eyes, but only a little since she was holding to her promise to "let it slide" just this once. "If you need that kind of advice, dude, ask your mom."

"I did consider that, but I thought it might get awkward." He picked up one particularly stubby pencil and somewhat impressively managed to twirl the short stick around his fingers.

"More awkward than this?"

"Yep."

Not certain that she really wanted to know the answer, yet somewhat intrigued by the nervously-fiddling-with-a-pencil shtick, she asked, "Okay, then, what's the favor?"

"I, uh, need to give someone The Talk and was hoping to get some helpful hints regarding the same."

Dancer grinned. "What idiot thought to put you in charge of something like that? I didn't even know you knew any Talk-age kids."

Solo tapped his chin with the eraser end of the pencil. "I did, and I don't." At her look of confusion, he clarified, "I put me in charge, and I don't know any traditionally 'Talk-age' humans well enough for their parents to entrust them to my worthy guidance." At her look of further confusion, he further clarified in a quieter voice, "Illya needs it and I volunteered to provide."

"What?"

"I mean, he said he knows the basics of procreation—although I might go over that to make sure he didn't get any weird ideas about it—but nothing about what goes on between two guys—"

"Okay, okay, I see why you didn't want to ask your mom…"

"Thank you."

"…but I don't see why you decided on me as a consultant, 'cause I sure as hell don't have any helpful hints regarding how to explain it to the person you want to do it with." She patted him on the head. "Good luck, though."

"Aw, why don't I get pets on the head?"

Napoleon turned and April looked up to find Mark Slate playfully pouting in the doorway.

"I daresay I deserve head-pets at least as much as Polo," Slate went on, managing an impressive turn and flop into his own desk chair—impressive, that is, in that he did not end up actually cracking his skull into the wall, despite the risk of such an occurrence seeming quite substantial for half a second.

"Is Illya lurking around the corner?" was April's greeting to the Brit.

"Nah, he's doing the rounds with Waverly and the computer folks regarding Operation: Remake the Network's Entire Internet Security System for the next…" Mark consulted his watch. "…twenty to thirty minutes or so. Thought I'd pop in here and get a little work done before seeing him back to Uni for some more computer lab-monitoring."

Conveniently ignoring the bit about getting work done, April tapped Napoleon on the wrist and jerked her head in the other guy's direction. "Maybe you should ask Mark's advice. He's a big brother so he's probably got more helpful instincts than I do."

"Sure!" Mark chirped. "I'm always glad to give my unqualified opinion on anything. What ails ye, Polo?"

Napoleon rolled his chair over to Mark's desk. "I need tips on explaining and/or answering questions about sex. Go."

"It's gonna be awkward and you'll regret everything no matter what you do, so just go for it. Explain whatever you gotta explain, answer whatever you gotta answer—don't act judgy toward whoever's doing the asking, 'cause they might feel as weird about it as you do—and just be done with it."

There were several moments of quiet as Solo and Dancer blinked, first at Slate and then at each other.

"What?" Mark finally demanded.

"Dude, that was good," April burst out, and Napoleon agreed, "Solid guidance, Mr. Slate."

"Cheers." Mark frowned. "Should I be insulted that it came as such a shock to you?"

"Of course not," came the chorused response, so Mark sighed heavily and grumbled about being surrounded by ingrates.

Sunday

"It is enjoyable."

Napoleon looked up from the cutting board. "Beg pardon?"

"If it is done for recreational purposes, I assume it is enjoyable. What we discussed yesterday."

"Oh. Yes. Different people find different things enjoyable, of course, but most folks enjoy some variation on the theme." He went back to the food prep. "It's sort of an extension of kissing, which you've mentioned you think is nice."

"You enjoy it with women. I am not that."

"I did happen to notice that, chou."

"And you are confident that you would enjoy that… variation on the theme?"

"Yes."

"And if you do not?"

"Then, with your permission, we keep trying until we figure it out." Napoleon paused his task again to look back at Illya. "I like you. And I like what we've already done together. I imagine the worst-case scenario is that it turns out to be slightly less than mind-blowingly amazing."

Illya sighed a bit, gaze dropping to the counterspace before Napoleon. "You always prepare too much."

Napoleon took a second to recalibrate his brain to the sudden switch in topic, then offered a wry smile and, "Since someone refuses to cut down on his exercise routine, has trouble absorbing nutrients, and needs to put on about twenty pounds, I only make as much as you need. Besides, you've been eating it." He frowned. "Unless, of course, you've been throwing it away."

"I eat it. I don't enjoy the latter part of it."

"The doctor mentioned that it would get easier though, right? Once your intestines have recovered more?"

"Yes, my appetite is much stronger once I have gone some time with the appropriate diet. As I had been doing poorly for a few months, however, it is taking longer to recover. Hence my juvenile moaning and groaning on the matter."

"This is the first time you've moaned and groaned since starting on your new and improved diet. You're entitled to do that every once in a while."

Illya grunted and went back to scribbling out diagrams, so Napoleon resumed his own task. He was just setting up to hard-boil a few eggs when the Russian piped up again with, "Would you like to moan and groan a bit?"

"All's satisfactory on my end, my friend."

Illya arched an eyebrow. "Is it really?"

Napoleon raised a brow in return. "Is there something with which I am supposed to be dissatisfied?"

"I hope so. That is, I regret your dissatisfaction, but the alternative… I would regret that, too." He bent his head back to his work.

"Not to be dense, but what are we talking about?"

Illya spoke to his notebook on the table. "If the topic is not leaping to the forefront of your mind, it is presumably not a concern. I apologize for bringing it up."

"Bringing what up?"

"If you do not know, it is the same as if I had not brought up anything."

"Except that now I'm wondering what the heck you're talking about."

"That is preferable to your being aware of what I was talking about, as it was quite inappropriate for my thoughts to have been in that direction."

"Could I trade one 'moan and groan' for a 'please tell me what the hell you think I should be dissatisfied with'? Otherwise, this is going to drive me nuts and I'll actually have something I want to moan and groan about."

Illya sat up straight and met the American's gaze to explain in a clipped tone, "Infidelity, Napoleon. Women at the office are not especially subtle when they reference you in conversation. What is less easily discernable are the dates of the alleged… encounters."

Napoleon peered into the water he'd set to boiling, put in a few eggs, set the lid on top, and came over to sit across from Illya. "I haven't gone out with anyone but you since we met."

The blue eyes dropped. "They were not talking about dating," he said very quietly.

"I haven't slept with anyone since we started dating, either."

They rose again. "Then how can you claim not to have anything with which you are dissatisfied? There is something you enjoy and you have not been able to enjoy it for several months."

Napoleon sighed. "Alright. I am a little… frustrated."

"Dissatisfied."

"Fine. In that one, single, solitary, specific, individual aspect of my life, I am not entirely satisfied."

Illya nodded sharply. "Tonight then." Back to scribbling.

Solo blinked a few times. This was clearly not his day, so far as following Kuryakin's conversational trail went. "'Tonight then' what?"

"Tonight, we shall make some attempt at addressing your suboptimal level of satisfaction." At the lack of an immediate response, Illya looked up with half a smile, just long enough to remark, "I can hear the gears of your mind turning," before returning to his notebook.

"No. No, you can't. That's not gear-turning, Illya. That's short-circuiting."

"Is that good, in this context?"

"It's…." Napoleon let out something between a groan and a sigh as he let the side of his head rest on his fist. "It's bonkers."

"Definition, please."

"It's crazy. Illya." Napoleon reached out with both hands to stop the Russian's pencil from moving, prompting the attached person to lift his gaze. "Illya, Illya, Illya."

The blond head cocked to one side. "Is what I proposed not what you want?"

"It is, it really is, and that's why it's crazy that I have to say that we are not doing anything outside of the usual tonight."

"Ah." Illya nodded a bit. Blinked. Briefly glanced to the side. "Why do you have to?"

"Because you can't decide to take a big step like that on the basis of my 'suboptimal satisfaction'."

"Why not? You have been very patient with me. Why should I not make some effort to do something for your benefit?"

"First of all, because sex is not something you should generally use as a means of—of—evening the score or whatever. Second of all, because a first time should be because you want it for yourself, not because you want it for someone else."

"I… do want it."

"Tonight, specifically?"

Illya took his arrested pencil in his other hand and tapped the eraser end on the table, seemingly to give himself something else to look at.

"Well?"

He tapped a few more times. "I…" Tap. "…am not sure."

"Okay then. The next day we'll have all to ourselves is Saturday. What say we let the idea sort of percolate for the week and revisit the topic then?"

Tap, tap, tap. "Very well." Tap.

"You know, when you say 'very well' in that particular tone, sometimes it turns out that something is slightly… not right."

Tap, tap. "Nothing is not right." Tap.

"You sure?"

"Quite." Tap. "I am satisfied with the resolution of our conversation." Tap, tap. "It is simply annoying when I misread a social situation." Tap, tap, tap. "Particularly one involving such a sensitive topic as this."

Napoleon brought the captured hand in to kiss the knuckles, then released it with a couple of pats. He went to the cabinets to partition out the week in nuts. "Out of curiosity," Solo began in the hope of distracting Kuryakin from his listless pencil-tapping, "have we been making any headway in the weight-gaining department?"

Illya sighed heavily, flipped to a new page in his notebook, scrawled something in a large hand, and held it up. Napoleon squinted a bit against the light bouncing off the white paper.

February: +1.1 lb.

Hoping one of them had accidentally added a period where it didn't belong, Napoleon ventured, "Eleven?"

"You always did have a sense of humor."

"Okay, so it's not as much as we were aiming for, but it's still a step in the right direction so it's still good news."

Illya shrugged. "I expected progress to be slow. I cannot recall ever achieving what is considered a healthy weight."

"Never?"

"Never. But with your generous assistance I fully expect to one day have a physique worthy of a body double for… Chris Hemsworth."

Napoleon couldn't resist a burst of laughter at that point and was relieved when Illya's deadpan expression eased into a hint of a smile. "So we're going for the God of Thunder look, are we?"

"Yes. I need only develop the capacity to grow a full beard."

"Maybe some platform shoes."

"And, at this rate, several years."

"Tell you what, we'll start with aiming for Olympic mid-distance runner, and from there we can look at achieving a full Hemsworth, okay?"

A few minutes later Napoleon glanced over to the table again to find that Illya was already looking right back at him, so he smiled and waved. Illya's ears reddened a bit and he clenched his jaw—generally rather strong signs that the blond was working himself up to saying something nice. The American accordingly kept to puttering around and sorting vegetables rather than doing anything that required more concentration.

"I," Illya got out, so Napoleon returned his focus to the speaker. "I… like your face—it… it is very expressive and I… find it pleasant to look at."

Napoleon grinned. "Why, thank you."

"Then again, you too find it pleasant to look at, so it is not much to say that I happen to agree with you."

"Ouch." Napoleon mimed having been slapped in the face, then went over to the table and said, "Kiss it better," bending over enough to allow Illya easy access. The Russian seemed dubious as to the medicinal value of kissing but, judging that the existence of any wound was similarly imaginary, provided the requested peck on the cheek. "Thanks."

Monday

"Just one time a week."

"No."

"One floor?"

Illya hesitated. "One floor, one time."

"One floor, once a week."

"Every other week."

"Every week. One floor. One direction. You can choose whether it's going up or down."

Illya stared into the brown eyes for a few moments, then rolled his own and stalked over to the elevator. "Up," he snapped, pressing the appropriate button and tapping his fingers on his thighs as he waited for the lift to arrive.

Napoleon joined him with the reminder, "Only one floor. That's, what, ten feet, give or take?"

"The threateningness of ten feet is relative. Would you care to be dropped upon your head from a height of ten feet?"

"No, but there was that one time I tossed you off a balcony from a height of over ten feet."

"Yes, and I did not like that."

"No, but you survived it."

Illya scoffed and the elevator doors slid open at that point, so he stepped in and white-knuckled the interior railing with one hand. Napoleon followed and pressed the "1" button.

As the doors shut again, Illya said crisply, "Please stand clear of the exit."

Barely five seconds later, the doors opened and the blond strode out, muttering a "pardon me" to the lady he brushed past as Napoleon exclaimed, "Ah, Ms. Ravel! I thought you were one of the upper-story folks."

"I spent the morning visiting one of our neighbors on this floor. I've not seen you around much, Napoleon. Did you move back in recently?"

"Fairly recently, yes. Have you two met?"

Ms. Ravel glanced Illya up and down. "No, but I expect you must be the Russian that Mrs. Brundtland and some of the other old ladies chat about."

The corners of the Russian's mouth tilted down and he subtly cuffed his boyfriend in the ankle with the sword of his sneakered foot.

Napoleon stepped back and stopped the elevator doors from closing again, then gestured with his free hand and offered, "Ms. Ravel."

She nodded once and stepped into the elevator, giving one more nod of acknowledgement as the doors shut.

The brunet sighed and turned to the other man to lament, "I didn't even get to introduce you, but I assume your attempting to skin the back of my leg meant to get rid of her in a hurry."

"You have both sock and trouser to protect you," Illya countered. "And yes, I did want to be rid of her." He started down the hall, toward the stairwell. "I dislike her."

Napoleon followed. "Based on fifteen seconds of contact, you decided that?"

"Yes."

"And how do you like Mrs. Brundtland and her chatty friends?"

"You mean, the gossips."

Napoleon grinned his thanks as Illya held the stairwell door for him. "I guess I do."

"I do not dislike them." Illya came up so they could climb the stairs side-by-side. "They are annoying but harmless. Ms. Ravel is not harmless."

"Not harmless," Napoleon echoed. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"There are no neighbors for her to visit on the first floor."

"Beg pardon?"

"She said she was visiting a neighbor. She lied, for no apparent reason."

"What do you mean, no neighbors on the first floor?"

"I have reviewed the blueprints for the building. Fire safety, you know," he added as an aside. "The first floor consists of storage, offices, and meeting rooms."

"They could have been meeting up in a meeting room," Napoleon suggested slowly.

"Her phraseology did not seem in keeping with that theory. Also, her shoes looked wet, which would suggest some outdoor activity rather than spending the morning indoors. Additionally, her purse appeared to have a bird of a certain kind embroidered on one side."

Illya again held open the door to the corridor, but this time Napoleon paused in the doorway. "And why didn't you lead with the bird purse, Sherlock Kuryakin?" the brunet griped.

"I thought including evidence of deceit would be more damning than mentioning the embroidery alone. Really, Napoleon, we can't judge everyone solely on the basis of their fashion accessories. Mrs. Brundtland dresses Rufus in Harvard jumpers, but I do not suspect the woebegone canine of being matriculated in that institution."

"Well, I'll call in and inform the office." Once they were in the apartment, they did a security sweep and, once they agreed it was clear, Napoleon added, "Ms. Ravel's lived here for years, since before I knew anything about the U.N.C.L.E. or T.H.R.U.S.H., so her living here is probably a coincidence. Still, we can certainly look into upping our security system and finding out if she's a known operative."

"Excellent."

Tuesday

"Guys, we have a situation."

Kuryakin and Solo looked up from their respective U.N.C.L.E. desks as April Dancer swept into the office, moving to stand behind her desk and lean her knuckles on the surface in sort of a Serious Business pose.

"Mark's due to visit his family over spring break," she continued, "but I think he's going to cancel since he doesn't want to ditch in the middle of an assignment."

"That's ridiculous," Napoleon protested. "He'd only be gone a week. As long as Illya doesn't start doing anything or going anywhere out of the ordinary, you and I could cover for him, no problem." He looked to the monitoring subject in question. "You're not planning anything out of the ordinary, are you?"

"Most of what I do is out of the ordinary," Illya declared, "but I do not have any changes in mind for the immediate future."

April sighed briefly. "I told him that, but he's being all conscientious and whatever. Says he'd feel bad and wouldn't want Bai to think he's welching on his duties."

Illya opened a web browser on his laptop. "Where does his family live?"

"Marlborough."

Illya scrolled around on the screen a bit, frowned slightly, then decided, "It is not ideal, but it will do."

"Do what?" Napoleon wondered.

"If I decide to spend my spring break in or around historic Wiltshire County, surely Mr. Slate would not be so neglectful of his duties as to not join me. If one or both of you are willing to come, he might also happen to find himself with some amount of time to spend with his family."

"I'm in."

"Sounds pretty ideal to me," grinned April.

"Marlborough itself has little of interest to me," Illya countered. "It is, however, within an hour of such places as Oxford and Stonehenge, so I believe we could use its relatively central location to ensure our superiors do not attempt to categorize the trip as a vacation for Mark."

Napoleon pondered this for a moment. "If we're still assigned to you over the summer, think you could develop an interest in something rounds-about Hawaii?"

"No."

Wednesday

Illya looked up as Napoleon entered the room. He raised an eyebrow as the American stood up on the couch and stepped over, then sat down back of Illya and with a leg on either side. He wrapped his arms around the Russian's midsection and propped his chin on the shoulder.

Before Illya could say anything, Napoleon held up his phone and gestured to the earbuds, indicating that he was listening to the audiobook version of a reading assignment, so Illya quirked a grin and returned to his own work.

Or, rather, he tried to return to his own work but first found he had to take a few moments to adjust to the feel of having someone cuddled up behind him. He decided that he liked it and it was a shame that he had to concentrate on something other than how pleasant it was to have Napoleon so close.

To be held like this.

To feel the steady rise and fall of Napoleon's chest.

To know that someone wanted to be this up close and personal, and that somehow he himself didn't mind the proximity—

Concentrate! School! Work! AI! Encryption!

A few more mental slaps in the face brought him back.

At least for about half an hour.

And then it was impossible to concentrate on something other than how it felt to have another person be so close.

To be held like this.

To feel the rise and fall of another's chest against his back.

To know that someone wanted to be this up close and personal, and that all of a sudden it was completely overwhelming—

And probably—

Probably—

Illya stood abruptly, leaving Napoleon to stare after as he went to his room and shut himself in. After a few seconds of wondering what the hell this was about, Solo got to his feet and belatedly followed after.

"Illya?" Napoleon knocked on the door. "Illya, are you alright?" No answer. "Chou?"

"No. Leave."

"Can I help?"

"No. Leave."

"Leave the apartment? Your door?"

"No. Leave."

The American hovered there a few moments more and, upon hearing one additional, "No. Leave," stepped away and opted to wait out this episode back at the coffee table while continuing his reading assignment.

Just as he was about to get up and try to check on Illya again, "London Calling" started playing from his phone. He wasn't overly fond of the song himself, but April had half-jokingly proposed it to him a few years ago, to signal a call from London-born Mark Slate. Mark, who'd been miserably convalescing with the flu for several days, had erupted into an epic and rather painful mixture of laughter and coughing upon hearing the idea, and Napoleon had accordingly taken the suggestion and kept the ringtone ever since.

"Hi, Mark."

"Right, then, Polo, how'd you put him up to it?"

Despite having a fair idea of what the Brit was referring to, Napoleon made a show of clearing his throat and inquired, "Put who up what?"

Mark started answering, thought better of it, and scolded, "You're trying to make me say something weird."

Solo attempted an innocent sound, which turned out to be a soft grunt. "I haven't the foggiest notion what you're on about, ah, mate."

"Yes, you do, and you should know by now that I am entirely capable of saying weird shit all on my own. Anyway—as you also know—what I want to know is how you got Illya to settle on Marlborough as his preferred destination for spring break. Bai just told me the lot of us are off to Mother England but soon."

Napoleon hummed. "Marlborough's not far from Stonehenge and Oxford. I guess Mr. Monitoring Assignment wants to stare at a bunch of rocks and swing by the old alma mater."

"Hmph. Didn't think Sparky seemed the nostalgic type, but if that's what we're goin' with… cheers."

"Thank April and Illya. April brought up your conundrum, and Illya proposed the solution."

"Well, you were presumably in the room or whatever, so you can have some secondhand thanks."

Napoleon hummed again in acknowledgement, then went quiet to wait and see if there were any additional orders of business Mark wanted to address.

Several moments later: "Alright, Polo, what's the matter?"

Solo side-eyed the phone. "How's that?"

"I asked, what's the matter? I know there's something bugging you, so what gives?"

"How do you know something's bugging me?"

"I have me ways. And no, I'm not telling you me ways, 'cause then you'd make sure to thwart my methodology and I'd never again know when something's up you—up with you."

The American sighed a bit. "It's—"

"If you say it's nothing, I swear to god I'll reach through your fucking phone and throttle you, physics be damned."

"Okay, it's not nothing, but it's nothing… dire. Just a little personal stuff between me and Illya." Napoleon sighed. "I just have the unreasonable feeling that I've been horribly miscast."

"The fuck are you on about?"

"Well, we've got sort of an 'I love you, I know' thing going on and I got the wrong line."

"Eh?"

"You know. Star Wars?"

"Never seen any of those, Polo. And April's already said she'll disown me if I don't sit my arse down and watch it soon, so I'm sorted on that, thanks."

"Okay, so there's a line where Leia—the cinnamon-roll-buns girl?"

"Right."

"Says, 'I love you,' and Han Solo—Harrison Ford?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Says, 'I know.' My name is literally Solo! I'm supposed to be 'I know', not 'I love you'."

"Uh, yeah… right." Mark cleared his throat to banish some befuddlement from his voice. "Right then, Leia, what's your point?"

"I never thought I'd be the one doing the running in a relationship. I mean, I wasn't even looking for a relationship, and I kind of always assumed that one day I'd meet a girl and she'd pretty much have to rope me in."

"Kinky. Again: point?"

Napoleon sighed again. "I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I just—I guess I just don't understand him sometimes and I can't figure out how to get us on the same wavelength."

"Well, we do use frequency hopping, you know."

"Wha—oh. Radio communication jokes. Har, har."

"Alright, alright, tough crowd. I guess the good news is, sometimes Illya don't understand you either."

"That's the good news?"

"Yeah. 'Cause even though you both confuse each other, you're willing to take the time out of your lives to work it out when you can and wait it out when you can't."

Napoleon grunted. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but I really don't mind putting in the effort. You just happened to catch me at a moment of frustration. Does it always feel like you're repeatedly slamming headfirst into a steel wall when you try to really get close to someone?"

"A bit, perhaps, but I think a lot of it's more Illya-specific than that. Anything I can help with, or can you sort it out between you two?"

The American shrugged. "I think I pissed him off or something but I have literally no idea what I did."

"Have you tried—I dunno—asking him?"

An eyeroll later, "Soon as he's talking to me again, I'll consider that, thank you."

"Right. Anyway, thanks again for helping to preserve my skip across the pond."

"Sure. It'll be nice to see your people again."

"Yeah. And this time my mind can be at ease."

"If you are referencing my previous interactions with your sister, let's make it perfectly clear that she was the one doing the flirting and I was the one dutifully pretending not to notice."

"When I was looking, at least."

"And when you weren't looking, too."

"Mate, you'd flirt with a cucumber if it had a nice figure."

"I don't know what that means, but I assume my reaction should be: ew."

"It means that I'm fairly certain you consider my sister to be aesthetically superior to a vegetable and I therefore don't believe you weren't flirting back. But I forgive you since I assume your attentions will remain duly dedicated to your significant other, this time round."

Napoleon offered an appropriately chilly farewell and hung up.

Almost fifteen minutes later, Illya's bedroom door opened and the Russian quietly returned to the sofa, settling himself close enough that his and Napoleon's knee were touching. His features were a bit drawn and his eyes red, although there was no trace of tears or remnants of moisture. As Napoleon hadn't heard him stop in the bathroom to wash up, he concluded that there had been some significant eye-rubbing to stymie the unwelcome operation of tear ducts.

Solo removed his earbuds, paused the audiobook, and murmured, "Is it something I did?"

"Yes. But the fault lies with me, not you."

"Regardless, I don't want to upset you again. What did I do?"

Illya folded his hands in his lap, looking at them as he shook his head.

"Okay. Maybe you'll want to talk about it later."

"I doubt that."

"Okay. Can I hold you or is that what bothered you?"

In response, Illya leaned into Napoleon's side, and the latter accordingly put an arm around his shoulders.

"Have I told you I love you lately?"

"Incessantly."

Napoleon paused. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Illya glanced up with a frown. "You are fishing. Did we not establish that I do not want to talk about it?"

"Okay, okay, but if this is about the topic we were planning to revisit on Saturday, I don't want you to be feeling, uh, pressured or anything."

"You have demonstrated your capacity for patience, Napoleon. I am not pressured." Illya leaned forward to his assorted supplies on the coffee table. "I am, however, also not without work to do, and I am sure the same could be said of you."

Solo grunted in acknowledgement. "Before you get back to the grind, Mark called. He appreciates your willingness to schlep yourself out to England for his benefit."

Illya shrugged. "Is that not something a friend would do?"

"It is. And it's a nice thing to do."

"There is nothing particularly nice in doing what is expected of you."

"You're not going to tell me you're doing it completely out of duty, and not at all because you wanted to make Mark happy."

Illya paused in opening a notebook. "I don't know. Mark has always been kind to me, so it seems appropriate to reciprocate. Does that mean I want to make him happy?"

"Mm-hm."

"Oh." He blinked a few times. "I have grown quite sentimental, it seems."

Thursday

Waverly's outer office

"I mentioned to my mum that you lot were coming with," Mark said, "and she invited us to stay at hers. I told the Travel folks here at the office and they approved it. Safety in numbers and all that." He grinned. "It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but we'll not be cooped up in there all day, so… yeah. Save some dough on a hotel."

Napoleon asked and answered, "Does she live in the same place—no, she was living in London when we met her."

"Yeah." For Illya's edification, Mark added, "My mum and siblings and I lived in London. When I moved out here, Mum and the little ones said they might relocate to Marlborough, to be closer to my uncle in Swindon. Finally got 'round to it 'bout a year ago, not long after April and Polo here met them at our old London flat."

"How's the bed situation?" Napoleon piped up again. "Should we plan on bringing sleeping bags or pillows or something?"

"Nah, I think we can manage to sardine it bed-wise, and Mum will make sure we're sorted with pillows and such." Reading another reason behind the question, the Brit turned back to Illya. "The bedroom situation is there's four rooms. Mum will keep hers, April can bunk with my sister, and I'll share with my brother. You alright sharing with Polo here?"

"That will be fine, thank you," the Russian confirmed.

"And my folks have already met April and this other guy, so they're old news. Brace yourself, as you'll be the only fresh meat around."

Illya turned a look on Napoleon that the American easily interpreted as why did you not warn me about this before I nobly suggested a group trip to Marlborough?, then suggested with a reasonably believable smile to Mark, "Tell me about your family, if you like."

"My mum's a single mum, and I'm the eldest of the three. We're spaced out with two years between each of us. So: me, then Arthur, then Cynthia. Cyn rather fancied Napoleon last time out, but she's not one to hold a grudge so I don't imagine she'll give you too terrible a time."

"They are students, perhaps?"

"Art's in uni and Cyn's on her gap year, so she'll probably have more time to harass us than Art will. If you're going out to Oxford or wherever, though, and don't care for her company, just give me the heads up and I'll try to, uh, curb her enthusiasm."

The quartet looked over to the secretary's desk as the intercom beeped a few times. Ms. Khan pressed a button to make it shut up, then announced, "You can go in now," so the quartet headed in and seated themselves around the massive table.

"Given the events of your last trip overseas," Waverly began, "we will be taking some additional precautions this time around. Fortunately, Mr. Slate's family is aware of his position, so it should be easy enough for them to accommodate those measures."

The section head turned the table and April was the first to open the envelope that landed before her, producing an American passport, which she examined. "Jennifer Edwards," she read. "Aliases, sir?"

"For most of you, yes. Mr. Slate has not, on his own, attracted the attention of T.H.R.U.S.H. of yet, and it is his family that lives in Marlborough, so he will keep his own name. The rest of you will use aliases to avoid producing the effect of U.N.C.L.E. operatives travelling en masse. Miss Dancer, Mr. Solo, you will be using your middle names paired with your mothers' maiden names."

Slate promptly plucked the passport from Solo's hands. He jabbed a finger at the name he found within. "Are you sure Napoleon's not putting us on, Mr. Waverly?"

Waverly's lips twitched.

April reached over and pilfered Napoleon's open passport before he could grab it back himself. "Francis Bacon?"

Napoleon managed to recover the booklet at that point and Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. Dancer and Slate attempted to contain their mirth and the chief proceeded with, "Mr. Kuryakin, as your middle name is based on your father's name, and your mother's maiden name is known to T.H.R.U.S.H., combining the two seemed unlikely to provide much of a cover. We drew instead from an alternate spelling of your own name, and your maternal grandmother's maiden name."

The Russian didn't bother opening the Ukrainian passport in front of him as he guessed, "I-L-I-A Davidovich."

"Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. You will utilize your aliases exclusively, although Mr. Kuryakin can of course make exceptions if he comes across people he has previously been acquainted with. Mr. Slate, you will advise your immediate family of the situation and ensure they adopt the appropriate names for Solo and Dancer."

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Dancer, as Jennifer Edwards you will be a freelance journalist, on holiday but on the lookout for stories relating to social issues. Mr. Solo, as—" A discreet cough. "—Francis Bacon you will be an associate producer for a daytime talk show, on an engagement trip with your fiancé, Ilia Davidovich—an adjunct instructor in the Physics department of a university in the New York state system."

Solo offered Kuryakin a lopsided grin and, "Did you want a ring?"

Illya glanced down to his father's wedding ring on his finger and muttered, "I have one, thank you."

Waverly pressed on: "You are booked on a flight this Monday to Heathrow and from there will claim a rental car that has been arranged for you. From the airport, you will proceed to our London office to confirm your safe arrival and receive instruction as to resources that will be available to you in Wiltshire County in case of emergency. I understand you are to stay with Mr. Slate's family?"

"Yes, sir," Mark said. "My mum's house in Marlborough."

"I expect at least one of you to remain with Mr. Kuryakin at all times, even within your mother's home. If you leave Wiltshire County prior to the time of your return flight to New York, contact the London office to inform them of your itinerary, so that they may apprise you of U.N.C.L.E. resources in the new county. In particular, I must ask that you be especially cautious if you decide to visit Cambridge. That is, after all, an old haunt of Dr. Egret, as well as where we believe our former CEA Elinor Crane vanished, so I expect the four of you to stay together in the event you go there."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon chipped in.

"And for your part, Mr. Kuryakin, you must keep Dancer, Slate, and Solo informed of your movements. If you so much as set one foot outside of the Slate residence, you must inform at least one of them."

"Understood," Illya said with a nod.

"You will also be expected to spend some of your evenings working. You seemed quite close to having a preliminary version of the online network ready, and I should like to see some part of it launched soon."

"Of course."

"Excellent. Well, then. The four of you will be notified of any further instructions as necessary. If I don't see you again before you depart, have a safe journey. Dismissed."

The quartet stood.

"Ah—one other matter."

They sat.

"Mr. Solo, you mentioned recently that you and Mr. Kuryakin had cause to be suspicious of a resident in your building."

"Yes," Napoleon confirmed. "Ms. Ravel."

"Gervaise Ravel is not known to be a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent, but she has done business with T.H.R.U.S.H. corporations on several occasions. It is not clear whether she is aware of the true nature of those corporations, but we will prepare and install a new security system while you are away. Upon your return from England, be sure to check in here to be briefed on the new system. Dismissed."

As soon as they were out of Waverly's inner office and the door shut behind them, April cleared her throat and intoned, "Francis Bacon."

Mark accordingly burst into giggles and Illya deadpanned, "So this is why you are so familiar with the works of Shakespeare."

Napoleon sighed but couldn't resist smiling a bit.

Once they'd left the outer office and Mark had contained his cackles, the Brit commented, "Nice of the old boy to make it easy for you to hold hands, etcetera."

Napoleon grinned wider and nudged Illya's elbow. "So who do you think popped the question, beloved?"

Illya put a couple of fingertips to one ear as if assessing its temperature, ruffled a bit of hair to cover the pink, and based on that decided, "It seems quite obvious that it must have been your idea. Let us be careful not to overplay the scenario, however."

Napoleon fluttered his eyelids. "Hmm? I'm sorry, honey-bunny, I was too busy getting lost in your dreamy blue eyes to pay attention. What did you say?"

"I want a divorce."

Friday

Supervising a computer lab was about as dull as one would expect it to be. At least, it was until it became slightly less dull than Illya would prefer this particular morning, as an ominous buzzing sensation interrupted his routine of splitting his time between studying and glancing over the undergrads for any overt signs of extreme distress. The buzzing wasn't the short bzzt-bzzt of a text, but the prolonged bzzzzzzzzz … bzzzzzzzzz of a phone call.

He drew the device from his pocket and gazed upon the screen in the desperate hope that it would be an unknown number or someone else he could justifiably ignore, but—Mrs. Solo. No luck. Illya considered the likelihood of Napoleon's mother giving up versus attempting to call again, didn't like the odds, and tapped the Accept icon to submit to his fate before he could change his mind.

"Good morning, Mrs. Solo."

"Hello, Illya. Do you have a few minutes or should I call back later?"

"I am on-call to assist students in the computer lab so we might be interrupted, but I should have enough time to discuss what you wish."

"Alright. I—oh, before I get straight to the heart of the matter, how are you doing?"

"All is well."

"I'm glad to hear it. So I'm calling because—well, we were going to surprise you and Napoleon, but Mr. Solo thought we should give one of you a heads-up."

Oh, dear.

"Since Napoleon hasn't been able to visit us since October, we're flying in for the weekend to visit you! Amy mentioned that you boys didn't seem to mind sharing a room when she came over, so I hope we won't be putting you out too much."

"It will be a pleasure to see you again. Napoleon, especially, will be pleased. When will you be arriving?"

"Tomorrow morning. We'll stay overnight and leave Sunday night."

"Will you need a lift from the airport? I'm sure April would not mind being of assistance."

"Oh, April's a sweetheart so I'm sure she wouldn't mind, but we'll take a cab and be at the apartment around nine. We'll have a bite on the flight, so just have your breakfast whenever you normally have it."

"Very well. You wish this to remain a surprise for Napoleon?"

"Yes. I just talked to him a few days ago and he didn't mention any big plans for the weekend—there aren't, are there?"

"No. No plans."

"Oh, good. Mr. Solo was afraid we'd be horning in, but it's not even two days so I hope you don't mind too much."

"To the contrary, we are delighted. That is, I am delighted and I am sure Napoleon will be, as well."

"Okay, then I won't keep you any longer. We'll see you tomorrow, Illya."

"Yes. Goodbye."

Saturday

Illya peered through the peephole and opened the door upon visually confirming the identity of the party in the hall. He somewhat regretted that decision when he was abruptly engulfed in a hug.

"Oh, Illya. I didn't say anything over the phone since I didn't want to distract you if you were working on something, but we're so sorry for your loss. We've experienced sudden loss in our family, too, and I know it's not the same but we do empathize, sweetie. It must have been such a horrible shock when you heard and—well, I know we don't know each other very well, but you mean so much to Napoleon, and that means a lot to us. If you ever, ever need anything at all, never hesitate to ask, okay, dear?"

"That… that is most kind of you, Mrs. Solo," Illya said stiffly. "However, you are here to have a pleasant weekend with Napoleon, so we need not discuss the matter further. Hello, Mr. Solo," he added over her shoulder.

"Glad to see you again, Illya," Mr. Solo smiled before leaning in to whisper to his wife, "I don't think he's big on the hugs, Flora."

Mrs. Solo withdrew, worrying, "You're so skinny. Have you been eating?"

"Exuberantly, madam," Illya assured her. "Napoleon is in the shower just now, but I have cleared your room for you if you would care to put your things there."

"Thank you." As they passed through the apartment, she commented, "We haven't seen the place since you boys moved in. My, you're certainly keeping it clean. Have you hired someone?"

"To clean? No."

"Then this must be your doing," Mrs. Solo beamed. "Oh, Napoleon tries to tidy up after himself, but he isn't the most fastidious of housekeepers."

"A trait passed along through the male side of the family," contributed Mr. Solo.

Illya shrugged one shoulder. "If you are generous enough to allow me to live here, the least I can do is aid in keeping the residence in good order. Additionally, Napoleon is kind enough to do most of the cooking."

"A trait passed along through the female side of the family," Mr. Solo declared. The shower shut off just then, and the Solos accordingly motioned at each other to quiet down to avoid the risk of Napoleon overhearing them from the other room. They briefly disappeared into the bedroom to deposit their overnight things, then returned just long enough to whisper to Illya their intention to hide in the kitchen and pop out from there to surprise their son.

A few minutes later, Napoleon emerged, joined Illya as he peered out the window, and drew the Russian into a deep kiss before he could protest that this might not be the best time—

"My goodness!"

Napoleon promptly detached his lips and Illya removed the American's questionably-placed hands from his person.

"Mom, Dad! When did you get here?"

"Just in time, apparently," Mr. Solo chortled as his wife made a show of fanning herself. Her initial exclamation had sounded sincerely shocked, but now she seemed to be trying not to laugh.

Napoleon went over to give them each a hug, then turned back to ask the red-eared blond, "Did you know they were here?"

"Mrs. Solo called yesterday to…" (…warn…) "…tell me."

"Surprise," Mrs. Solo beamed, hugging her son again.

That night

"It was a surprise, alright," Napoleon remarked as he joined Illya under the covers.

"I'd have told you," came the response, half muffled by a pillow, "but your mother asked me not to."

"That's fine. It's a good surprise. Just… geez Louise, the timing."

"Yes, it is quite fortunate they did not choose next Saturday, as we'd not have returned from England by then."

"Yeah. That's… that's good. I meant that—well, we were maybe going to—"

"Canoodle," Illya suggested.

"—or at least discuss… canoodling," Napoleon couldn't suppress a smileas he spoke, "and now my parents are here until late Sunday, and we're leaving Monday to stay with Mark's mom for a week, so… I swear it's like a lousy rom-com."

Illya blinked at Napoleon's face in the semidarkness. "It is inappropriate to do and discuss things of that nature when anybody's parents are in the same residence?"

"At Mark's mom's house, I'd say it's inappropriate. Here, it's just awkward. Really awkward. Incredibly awkward. I cannot emphasize enough how awkward."

"Ah." Another few blinks. "Then how do multigenerational households reproduce, if it is insurmountably awkward to… engage?"

"I guess they just deal with it or wait until everyone else is out of the house for a little while."

"And you prefer not to deal with it."

"I don't want my prospective first time with someone I really care about to be affected by my being preoccupied with the thought of my parents being right there."

"I see." Illya hesitated a moment before offering, "Perhaps your disappointment would be eased if I told you something about myself that might be considered… unpleasant."

Always eager to learn more about his habitually reticent partner, Napoleon nodded with an agreeable grunt.

"Very well then. As a child, one of my favorite pastimes was dissecting small animals." At the dropped jaw, he hastened to add, "I did not kill them, of course."

"Of course," the older man managed to echo.

"There was a pet fish of mine that died on its own, and I found a dead bird in the attic, and there was a small rodent that seemed to have been run over."

Illya paused again, so Napoleon contributed, "Poor little thing."

"Oh." Illya blinked. "Yes. Un… unfortunate." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'd heard that alcohol is sometimes used to preserve organs, so I'd clean out jam jars and store the most intact organs in them with isopropyl alcohol. My mother was quite surprised when she came across them stowed away under my bed, and it was at that point that I commenced my journey of psychiatric evaluations and treatments—"

Napoleon gasped a bit and suddenly sat bolt upright.

"—and no, I do not have the organs of small creatures stored under the bed currently occupied by your parents."

The brown eyes flicked ever-so-briefly downward.

"Nor is there anything untoward stowed beneath this bed. You may rest assured, Napoleon, that the only organs currently in this apartment are those of the humans residing herein. Outside of a few biology courses, I gave up dissections when I learned it was considered abnormal."

Solo laid back down. "I must say I'm glad that you've graduated from dismemberment to minor explosions."

Kuryakin made an irritated sound. "I never dismembered them. I only…" Illya's speech slowed, as if he was just realizing how his words sounded as he spoke them, "…disemboweled them."

Napoleon attempted a smile and did not quite succeed.

Illya mimicked his attempt. "I assume you have been adequately cured of your disappointment."

"Well, I, uh… I've certainly been adequately distracted for the time being."

"That is good." Illya pulled a bit of the sheet higher in a rather defensive gesture. "Did I go too far? That is, have I… permanently dissuaded you?"

"No, not at all." Napoleon reached a hand up to pet at the blond hair. In a further effort to ease the worry, he added, "Do you want me to share something unpleasant about myself?"

"If you like."

"I wouldn't, really. But it's something that would probably come up at some point, so now's as good a time as any." He shifted closer, stealing a brief kiss. "For courage," he explained.

"It is worse than mine?"

Napoleon kissed his nose. "Some folks might think so."

The blue eyes went wide. "Oh." A second of consideration later, he dove in to peck Napoleon's lips, justifying it afterward with, "Extra courage."

"Thank you. Okay. The last time I seriously dated someone was in high school. I broke up with her—well, she broke up with me." Solo smiled weakly. "And she broke up with me because I was a worm and cheated on her."

The rest of him completely still, Kuryakin's eyes darted around at everything aside from the other's face.

"I know you were concerned about my cheating on you—and this is no excuse, but the last time was when I was eighteen and young and stupid."

"So you are saying I am young and stupid as well?" Illya asked quietly, still glancing about.

"No, no, no, and that's why I said it's not an excuse. But I'm a different person now than I was then."

"You flirt, though," the Russian continued softly. "That is not cheating, correct?"

Napoleon winced and rested his hand on the side of Illya's face, hoping that would somehow encourage him to make eye contact again. It only seemed to succeed in fixing the gaze a few inches away from his ear, but he continued nonetheless, "That—that depends on who you ask."

"I am asking you."

"I thought it was harmless. But when you brought up infidelity the other day, I realized that I was deliberately only flirting with other people when you weren't around and that—that tells its own story."

"I am asking you," Illya repeated, still very quietly but now with a more frigid tone as he gazed at the space to the side of Napoleon's ear.

"It's… not the way I cheated on my girlfriend in high school. I don't think of it as cheating because I don't feel about them the way I feel about you, and I don't talk to them the way I talk to you."

"Then it is not cheating," Illya said, a slight question in his voice.

"I don't—didn't—don't think so. I think. But in hindsight—the way I've been going about it… i-it's not great."

Illya turned his face into the pillow, shifting it out from under Napoleon's hand.

"I never did anything physical with them but we never set any rules about flirting with other people, so the default expectation possibly should have been… not doing it." The American started running his fingers through the yellow hair. "I'm sorry."

A muffled sigh was the response, then Illya turned his face back, grasping Napoleon's wrist in one hand to move it away from his head and hold it on the bit of mattress between their respective pillows. He stared at their hands. "Is it simply because you enjoy flirting, or because I do not flirt enough to satisfy you?"

"Illya, this is on me. Yes, I enjoy flirting, but the point is that I shouldn't have been shadily doing it behind your back."

Choosing to ignore the first and last parts, Illya returned, "In that case, let us attempt to set some rules. Let us say that you may flirt with other people, both in the line of duty and for your own enjoyment, but not exclusively and deliberately behind my back. If it turns out that I do not like that, we will revisit the topic."

"No—Illya—"

"You've told me before not to make promises that cannot be kept," he said curtly, his grip on the other's wrist firming slightly. "Do not promise you will not flirt with other people, Napoleon, because it seems to be part of your nature and I will not believe you."

Napoleon cringed. Yes, that hurt. But seeing as Illya had likely assumed that there had been no extracurricular flirting going on whereas Napoleon had been flouting that expectation for months… he couldn't be mad at the proclamation of disbelief.

"Okay," the brunet agreed, "but I promise you're the only person I will touch in a non-platonic manner." He carefully twisted his arm until Illya released his grasp, then gingerly intertwined their fingers and murmured, "Please look at me, chou."

Illya's eyes slid shut at the endearment.

"Please."

Open, and the blue gaze seared through to the back of the American's skull.

"I screwed up. I'm sorry. I know you might not trust me on this right now, but I meant what I promised." Napoleon glanced over to their joined hands, confirming what he'd thought he felt: "You're shaking."

"Noted, thank you."

Solo brought in the unsteady hand, pressing his lips to the knuckles. "I love you. I'm sorry for hurting you—hurting us."

Kuryakin shook his head a bit. "I don't know why it should hurt. You… did not do anything. Certainly nothing that ought to affect me."

"Well, I guess that's part of being in a relationship, caring for someone…."

Napoleon trailed off when Illya pulled his hand free, then almost gave a start as he felt a pair of arms slip around his waist before the blond head tucked itself under Napoleon's chin. Illya generally restricted their physical contact in the sack to a bit of hand-holding and a kiss goodnight, so an embrace like this was novel.

He wouldn't be opposed to more of this, of course, but he'd much prefer if it had more of an air of tenderness about it rather than—fear? Anger? Illya took pains to avoid showing Napoleon his face when he was upset, and tended to tense up when he was angry. Now, his head was ducked low and his hands were clenched into fists behind Napoleon's back, so the American wasn't sure if he was sad, scared, enraged, or some permutation thereof.

In any case, none of those was an emotion he ever wanted to elicit in Illya, who now murmured, "But it… it is making my chest hurt. That… is ridiculous."

Napoleon swallowed down the lump in his throat and lightly rubbed Illya's back. "I'm sorry—"

"No." Illya tightened his hold and the tone of his voice. "Do not apologize again. I can accept a misunderstanding. I cannot guarantee my capacity for forgiveness, so please—there is nothing to apologize for. Nothing to forgive. Do not make it seem there is something where there is nothing. We had a misunderstanding. We now have an agreement. We will go forward with that."

The American was quiet for a few moments, wishing he couldn't still feel the slight trembling of the frame in his arms. "I know you have trouble sleeping around people you don't trust," he murmured. "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"I trust you," came the strained whisper, and the statement was sincere: while Illya had had a few restless nights since a certain conversation with April, he had always known Napoleon to make every effort to be honest. Now that the brunet had come clean, he was somehow more at ease, although he still couldn't stop himself from quietly entreating, "Stay with me."

Napoleon pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Illya wondered when he'd become so pathetic. So emotionally linked to someone. So dependent. So… codependent? He wasn't sure he liked that. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed out of hand Dr. Boateng's suggestion that they discuss his relationship with Napoleon—

But no. His personal life was irrelevant to his work life at U.N.C.L.E., wasn't it? Working on the computers or out in the field, it didn't matter whether Napoleon flirted with girls, or whether he liked petting Illya's hair, or—

Which reminded him that his hair was getting a bit on the long side, and maybe he should consider cutting it soon—

Then again, he hated going for haircuts, and Napoleon did seem to enjoy running his fingers through the growing strands, and gosh, did that feel nice—

The Russian released a disdainful breath for his recently overdeveloped sentimentality and withdrew, murmuring, "Good night," as he turned away. Then he had a thought and returned abruptly, meeting Napoleon's surprised expression with, "Is it a matter of feeling wanted? Would it help if I were more affectionate?"

"I told you: it isn't anything you did or didn't do. It's me, carrying on the way I always have without pausing to consider whether or not it was okay to do that."

Illya frowned. "But I do not like that."

Napoleon inhaled as if to sigh, but instead translated the breath into, "That's why we've reached an agreement, right?"

A small shake of the head. "No. I mean, I do not like that there is nothing I can do."

The American reached to run his fingers through the blond hair again. "Just keep being yourself."

"But it seems that is not enough."

"You've already—" Napoleon almost said 'forgiven me', then caught himself. "—helped by coming up with a path forward. And by not bringing roadkill into the house to harvest organs. You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

Illya blinked. "That is helpful?"

"Sure as heck doesn't hurt."

"Ah. Then I will continue to not do that, thereby easing my anxiety by imagining it to be of assistance."

Now it was Napoleon's turn to have a thought, so he added, "In all seriousness, chou, you can be helpful by calling me out if you don't think I'm satisfactorily living up to our agreement. How's that suit you?"

"I suppose it will have to suffice," Illya murmured, then inhaled in surprise as Napoleon's mouth suddenly covered his own. Several moments later, once the American had moved on to press light kisses to his forehead, he remarked, "Do not construe this as a complaint, but is this your new way of shutting me up?"

Napoleon hummed in the negative. "I don't like seeing you worried." He withdrew his face infinitesimally, replacing his lips with delicately moving fingertips.

"I suggest you get used to it, especially until I am able to join you on assignments."

Napoleon chuckled. "What, you don't trust anyone else to have my back?"

"I trust no one to have your back, including myself, but I can at least monitor the situation when I am present."

"Well, I'll try to be as careful as I can until you're available to keep an eye on things."

"No."

"No?"

"You should not specifically seek to be cautious, as that would distract you from focusing on what you ought. You should seek to do your work, and your effectiveness in that arena will inherently include a measure of reasonable caution."

"Okay, I'll try to do my work as effectively as possible."

"Thank you."

Sunday

Mark's expression froze on his face. He leaned back to take another look at the number on the door, then leaned back in, and his mental lightbulb went off. "Oh, you must be Polo's—Napoleon's mum. Illya texted that you'd be popping in for a surprise visit." He thrust a hand forward. "Mark Slate."

"Mark!" Mrs. Solo exclaimed, shaking the offered hand. "Won't you come in?"

"Nah, no need, Mrs. S. I'm just here to pick up Sparky for our run." Mark leaned to the side to look behind her and wave at the blond donning a light jacket. "Hey, Illya!" As the remaining people in the apartment came into view to see the visitor, he added, "Morning, Polo—nice to meet you, Polo's dad!"

"It's Mark Slate," Mrs. Solo told her husband. "You remember Napoleon's mentioned his friend Mark."

"Oh, the English guy," Mr. Solo nodded and then, to Napoleon's mild mortification, added the obligatory Dad Joke: "Gotta run, Mark?"

As the elder Solos chatted a bit more with Slate, Napoleon said in what he thought was a rather soft voice, "Let Mark set the pace this time, okay? Love you," and pressed his lips to Illya's briefly.

Once Illya and Mark had said their see-ya's and departed, however, it turned out he could have turned down his volume a few more notches. When Mrs. Solo face him again, it was with a face-splitting smile and: "Love?"

Napoleon tried not to think about how he was going to be spending the entire day with that overheard four-letter word on his mother's mind, but: "Uh-oh."

"What 'uh-oh'?" Mrs. Solo challenged, coming over to lightly swat the concerned hand Napoleon was using to tap at his chin. "Love is good! Wait—just 'love', or 'in love'?"

"Did I miss something?" Mr. Solo wondered, then jumped as Mrs. Solo whirled around to grab his hand.

"Napoleon's in love!"

"I didn't say that!" Napoleon protested.

"Then why'd you say 'I love you' to him?"

"You said that?" Mr. Solo put in.

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair. Weighed the possibility of using techniques for resisting T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogations. Looked at how thrilled his mother was and the eager light in his father's eyes. Sighed. "Yes, I said that."

Mr. Solo beamed. "I told you. I told you in October: wedding bells."

"What? No! Illya—the last thing he would need is for you to pounce on him with this. He knows what I've told him, and I know he cares about me even if I'm not sure it's at the 'love' level—"

"Of course it is!" Mrs. Solo exclaimed. "You don't see how he is with people when you're not around. He's polite on his own but when you're with him he perks right up and, I dare say, is almost friendly at times. It's like flipping a light switch, my dear. He adores you."

Napoleon processed this for a second. "Okay. Okay. Regardless of that, my point is that Illya is uncomfortable with discussing emotions and it would really not help my case for being willing to take it slow if you guys are picking out china patterns. We are nowhere near even thinking about—about marriage at this point." (Except, of course, for phony engagements over spring break, but mentioning that detail would seem bizarre to folks outside of the U.N.C.L.E. loop. And it probably wouldn't help Napoleon's case, anyhow.)

"At this point?" Mr. Solo echoed with a sly grin.

Mrs. Solo sniffed. "When I asked you last summer when you were going to stop fooling around and start looking for an actual relationship, you said you weren't ready. Two months later, you were flying your boyfriend out to Montana."

Napoleon tugged at his collar. "Yes. Well. That was different."

"If you send me a text saying, 'B-T-W, Illya and I eloped'—"

"Not going to happen, mother mine."

"If it does, mother yours is going to give you an earful—"

Mr. Solo smirked. "And father yours will nod along emphatically."

"—although I will be very happy—"

"And I will nod emphatically to that, too."

"—and then I can start badgering you about grandkids."

"Mom!" Napoleon yelped.

"What? You can adopt!"

"That's not…." He sighed. "Well, I guess it's better you get it out of your system before Illya comes back. You can debate whether we should adopt domestically or internationally while I shower. Let me know what you decide," he finished on his way out of the room.

Napoleon pretended not to hear as his father commented, "Maybe they could start with a pet fish and work their way up."

Somewhere in England

It was a small room, but she wasn't complaining.

"Crane."

After all, it was furnished. There was a window, albeit one with frosted glass and iron bars on it. It was temperature-controlled. She even got a TV and a cooler.

"Crane."

All in all, it wasn't bad. It was almost like a hotel, albeit one of the Hotel California, "you can never leave" variety…

"Over here, love."

…unless…

"Crane, it's time."

…until now.

"Call Slate."

A/N: Yep, I'm so dang overconfident in my ability to write British people in a non-cringeworthy manner that I'm sending everybody to England! Apologies in advance.

Anyway, kudos on slogging through over 14k words of introductory swill. Yay you!

Updates will likely be on the sluggish side of glacial: stuff is actually happening IRL for me, which is lovely but also somewhat anxiety-inducing so, between being busy and being frazzled, my already-abominably-slow writing pace has taken a bit of a hit. I have every intention of completing the story and high hopes of finishing before the end of summer, but the future is not ours to see and whatever, so... :)