With his head down, against the driving snow, Illya trudged back to his apartment building. There had been a brief respite in the blizzard, so he had taken the opportunity to pop out to the local grocery store for a few essentials. Unfortunately, half the neighbourhood had had the same idea, so it had taken him over an hour. By that time, the blizzard had returned. Having his head down meant he couldn't see where he was going, and because of this, he walked headlong into someone coming the other way. The other person fell back and landed in the snow.

"Miss Hislop!" Illya exclaimed, recognising her from U.N.C.L.E.'s communications section. "I'm terribly sorry."

"Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin," she assured him, as he helped her up. "I couldn't really see where I was going either. Do you live around here?"

"Just here," he told her, pointing to his building. "Do you?"

"No. I was on the subway, but there was a breakdown. My apartment is only about another two miles away."

Despite it going against his every instinct to keep work and home separate, Illya invited her up to his apartment. She was clearly freezing, and walking another two miles in the blizzard would no doubt be detrimental to her health.

"I couldn't do that, Mr Kuryakin," she protested. "It isn't that far."

"Nonsense, Miss Hislop, I insist," he said, as he beckoned her towards the building

Sylvie weighed her options. She was at the point where she could barely feel her extremities, and heat was within reach.

"Thank you," she accepted, with obvious relief. "I wasn't enjoying fighting my way through this snow. And please, call me Sylvie."

"Only if you call me Illya."

Sylvie didn't know what to expect of Illya's apartment, but what she found wasn't it. The rumours around HQ had it that the Russian owned barely anything. They couldn't have been more wrong. The apartment was very well furnished and it was even decorated for Christmas. Dumping his groceries on the dining table, Illya helped Sylvie out of her coat.

"Would you like a shower to warm up?" he offered. "I'm sure I could find you a pair of sweatpants and a sweater."

…

After a wonderfully warm shower, Sylvie dried off and dressed in the grey sweatpants and black turtleneck Illya had left for her. They were a little big for her, but thanks to his small stature, they weren't too bad. She couldn't wrap her head around being in the Russian's apartment and his clothes. At the office he was friendly and polite enough, but being here felt like treading on sacred ground. As far as she knew, none of the girls at work had been here and they were never going to believe her.

Leaving the bedroom, Sylvie was met with the aroma of cooking. She found Illya in the kitchen, stirring a pot of what looked like pasta sauce. The normality of the scene seemed incongruous to the dangerous life she knew he led. Turning, as he heard her come in, Illya couldn't help but smile at how attractive Sylvie looked. Her hair was still wet, and his clothes didn't fit her, but she looked wonderfully natural.

"I don't want to worry you, but the snow is getting heavier," he told her. "You may have to stay the night."

As much as the idea thrilled her, Sylvie explained she would be fine to get home. The Russian, of course, wouldn't hear of it. The temperature outside was plummeting, and his apartment was warm and comfortable.

"I've got dinner cooking, so why don't you decide after we've eaten. At the very least, it'll warm you up inside."

"I can't argue with that," Sylvie replied, with a smile.

Once the meal was over, Illya once again asked Sylvie to stay over. Outside, the snow showed no sign of abating, and she was now warm and content. Against expectations, Sylvie had found herself very comfortable in the agent's company. For his part, Illya was surprised to find he was enjoying the young woman's company. He'd never really spoken to her before, other than about official business, and was pleased to find she was funny and intelligent.

"I really can't stay," Sylvie told him, trying to ignore how much Illya's eyes sparkled when he smiled. "It's getting late."

"Exactly," he said. "It's dark and cold, and there's no visibility. You may have my bed, and I will take the sofa. I promise that your honour shall remain."

Sylvie almost snorted. She wasn't as promiscuous as some of her colleagues, but her honour was still long gone.

"Very well," she finally conceded. "I'll stay on one condition."

"Which is?"

"You tell me about Russia. Not the political, scary version that we're sold here, but the real Russia."

"It's a deal,"

…

Four hours later, Sylvie was curled up on the sofa, drinking her third glass of vodka, and enjoying the soft jazz which was playing. Illya was cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the armchair. Sylvie listened to Illya's stories about Russian culture, music, literature and history. She did notice that he very carefully steered away from his personal history, but she didn't ask him about it either. She was aware that few people knew of his past. Truth be told, all the other things he talked of held her fascinated attention. She even began to imagine that, one day, she would get the chance to visit the places he was telling her about. The thing that really surprised Sylvie was just how excited Illya was getting, as he spoke of his homeland. He was nothing like the cool, reserved 'Ice Prince' she knew from headquarters. This laughing, animated version of him was unbelievably attractive, and Sylvie found herself hoping that something might happen between them. She glanced up at the clock.

"Oh my, look at the time," she stated. "It's time I headed to bed. Are you sure you don't want me to take the sofa?"

"I'm certain, Sylvie. I've slept in places a lot less comfortable."

Illya pulled himself to his feet and wished Sylvie a goodnight. As she headed to the bedroom, he wondered if his guest would be open to a little bed sharing. When he'd bumped into her, his intentions had been entirely chivalrous, but now his gentlemanly side was in retreat. He could almost hear Napoleon in his head, telling him to just go ahead and make a move, but Illya wasn't like his self-assured partner. Before he could make his mind up what to do, the door closed and ended the internal debate.

He turned the music off and began to clear up the debris from dinner. Illya was so engrossed in his task, he almost failed to notice Sylvie re-emerge, wearing only his bathrobe.

"For the record, Illya," she purred. "This bed will be much warmer with two people in it."

"I don't believe in Santa Claus," he replied, as he followed her into his bedroom. "But I think I could start to."

The End.