"Ugggh," Kuryakin moaned. He looked over to see his partner crumpled into a ball the the corner of the room.

"Room? Where is this?" He muttered to himself.

It wasn't a cell, but a neatly appointed living room from the looks of it, the furnishings were contemporary, and keeping with the decor of the times. There was a fire burning in a fireplace...if this was a holding cell, then it was the best they'd ever been in, maybe.

As the Russian's wits returned to him, he remembered exactly where they were and what they'd been doing.

Illya rolled off the lime green sofa, to his knees as he wasn't quite able to stand just yet. He cradled his head in his hands as it was throbbing and he was feeling a bit dizzy.

"Napoleon?" He whispered; any louder and he thought his head would explode.

Things were still spinning, and he decided to crawl on his knees to get to Solo.

Once there, Illya rolled Napoleon over to his back. On his forehead was a nasty purple bruise that no doubt would become darker.

"Napoleon," Illya shook the man.

"Leave me die in peace."

"You are not dying, but you do need to get up."

'I don't want to, mom. Just five more minutes please?"

"I am not your mother,"Illya hissed. "Will you please get up; we have to get out of here."

"Tsk," Solo clicked his tongue as he managed to push himself up to a sitting position." Ohhh, my head." Sluggish and slow were the only way to describe how he moved.

Napoleon put his head to his forehead, instantly regretting it.

"You have a very bad bruise my friend," Illya offered his hand to help him up and together they grunted to their feet.

"Where are we...wait I remember now. This is George Dennell's place. We were at his New Year's party, .or were we? Doesn't look like there was a party here at all."

"Ahhh, thank you. Now I remember," Illya raised his voice.

"Don't do that will you please?" Napoleon cringed. "I remember a drinking contest...shots."

That I recall," Illya said."It was you, me, Mark and George."

A moan came from behind the sofa; a hand appeared, then another.

"Good Lord what happened?" It was Slate, and he could barely keep himself steady as he held onto the furniture." Oh that's right mates...we had a bloody drinking contest to ring in the new year. Say, who won?"

"Good morning all!" A cheerful George Dennell appeared carrying a tray with plates of bacon, eggs and hash browns, as well as cups of black coffee." How's it going? Gee, I'm feeling great this morning!''

"Quiet!" All three men shouted in response. Of course they instantly regretted it.

"Anybody hungry?" George set down the tray. "I figured I'd let you fellas sleep it off. I didn't disturb you while I was cleaning, did I?"

There was no answer.

"Well come on guys, dig in. Plenty more where this came from."

Mark took one look at the greasy bacon, hash browns and the runny eggs and began to gag.

"Bathroom?" He barked.

"That way," George pointed, and Slate dashed off.

"Gosh I hope he's going to be all right? How are you two feeling, you look a little green around the gills. I would have thought you'd do better in a drinking contest. How's the head Napoleon?"

"Sore. How'd it happen George?"

"Well you sort of tripped over my foot and hit your head on the coffee table. Didn't knock you out though, and that was really impressive if you ask me."

"Who won?" Napoleon asked as he grabbed one of the mugs of coffee.

"Gee I guess I did," George grinned."Sorry about your head Napoleon. Want some ice for your head. You got a pretty nasty bruise going there. Maybye I should get you guys some aspirin too."

"How is that possible? You won George?" Illya moaned. Like Slate, the sight of the food was making him surprisingly queasy. "Were you drinking water?"

"Me? Golly not water; I was drinking scotch. Not just any scotch mind you...you do remember I'm Scottish. My poison is the Strathisla brand and it's actually made by my relations over in the old country. I grew up drinking it; it's like mother's milk to the Dennell clan, sort of. The Strathisla distillery goes way back to 1786 and was built on the banks of the good old river Isla. It's where they make Chivas Regal you know."

Kuryakin shot his partner a look but said nothing.

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders in reply "Who'da thunk?"

"Last time I drink scotch," Illya mumbled.

"George you mean to say you've had an 'in' to get Chivas Regal all these years and you never said anything...to me?" Napoleon asked.

"Gee, I didn't think to."

This time Kuryakin spoke up flashing a barely perceptible smile, "Who would have...thunk?"