Napoleon Solo had gone to some trouble to find out a little about Russian food, chosen some that looked or sounded appetizing, researched how to prepare them and once he was satisfied that he had done as well as a newcomer to Russian food could do, he had issued his invitation to his new partner to come around for dinner.

He had made certain to prepare several dishes, both Russian and American dishes that he felt would complement one another. The unintended symbolism it suggested was not lost on him. He hoped that Illya would appreciate the motive, even if his cooking fell short of ideal.

As he waited for the right moment to prepare the finishing touches, he thought back over that mission, Illya's subsequent injury, and the anger he had felt, both at the THRUSH goon for stabbing his partner, but also at Illya for putting himself at risk unnecessarily. Getting hurt was always a big risk, but that was why they worked in pairs, to back one another up. He would have to make sure to explain and teach Illya how to be a good partner. Right now, although he admired his partner, in fact, he liked Illya intensely, he was not confident that Illya would have his back. The man was just too independent. He was accustomed to working alone. He hoped that Illya would read the copy of his report that he had left with him. If he did, Illya would know how highly Solo rated him, how good an agent he would be if he could correct this one, rather major, setback. He would also become aware too, that if he proved unwilling to learn, Solo would be terminating their partnership, despite his high regard for the Russian. It would put the onus very much on Kuryakin. It would also test the man himself. Would he be eager to change? To learn, to realize that he still had much to learn? Or, would he prove to be arrogant and insist on continuing to go his own way?

Illya Kuryakin closed the file with a snap, and sat for a long time, pinching his lip between thumb and forefinger. He had been very much in awe of Napoleon Solo from the moment the older man had first walked into Waverly's office, the day they had met.

His days at Survival school had been plagued by Cutter's proud recitations of agent Napoleon Solo's achievements, both at the school, and later, in the field. It had never occurred to Illya for a single second that he would end up being partnered with this man.

Napoleon was the CEA not only of New York, of the entire North-Western region of UNCLE. He was famed for being intelligent, for being able to come up with the most cunning plots to defeat his enemies, and of being, for want of a better phrase, a sort of woman-magnet. Illya was very well aware of his own abilities, and aware that his partner knew of them too, having apparently studied his file in some depth. Their first mission together, the Kohliad Affair had been complicated and obscure at times, and Illya seized this opportunity to demonstrate to Napoleon exactly what he could do. That he wasn't green. That he was more than just a newbie. Unfortunately, it seemed that it had backfired spectacularly. He was both a newbie, and very green. He realized that now. His face went red with shame at the idea that Napoleon might even consider breaking their partnership. Solo was certainly not as frivolous as he sometimes appeared. He took his job and his role very seriously indeed.

Illya considered Napoleon a friend…and he had reason to know that Napoleon regarded him the same way, and yet he was willing to put the good of the job ahead of any other consideration.

Secretly Illya was impressed with Solo's focus. That was why he was a good CEA. He knew that even being partnered with the Chief Enforcement Agent would certainly not buy him any favours. If he fell below standard fitness in any way at all, Solo would not hesitate to relegate him to office duties until he qualified once more.

So, he would go to Napoleon's for dinner. Of course, he would. He was a good agent. He knew he was. If he learned what Napoleon could teach him, he would become a great agent. Perhaps he might even reach the elusive section two number two ranking, that the CEA's partner would normally expect to receive. Give it six months, Illya decided. I'll be number two in six months.

Napoleon Solo recalled asking Mister Waverly if the new Russian import had any weaknesses at all? Clearly, he did, but it seemed that Illya's failings were due only to lack of experience. The Russian, or rather Soviet tactic of going for the throat in every encounter without regard for the consequences had obviously been drummed into Kuryakin by his superiors, and considering the little that the Russian had let slip about KGB training tactics…he could not be blamed for them. He was clearly an extremely bright individual. The more he thought about it, the more certain Solo became that Illya would not fail him a second time. Once his mistakes were pointed out to him, Illya's very nature would ensure that he never forgot.

All the same, Solo was very relieved when someone banged the door to a familiar rhythm. It was Illya. He opened the door. Illya was standing there. He had dressed down surprisingly, and was wearing a pair of faded, worn out, pale blue jeans and a blue and white plaid shirt over a white tee-shirt. He carried two large bulging cases in his arms, and a bag that clinked.

"Illya, you did come!"

Illya smiled shyly.

"Of course! Here."

He handed over the bag, which Napoleon opened and drew out a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whisky. He grinned.

"Thanks, my friend. Come in. Dinner is almost ready."

Illya locked the door and set the alarm, and carried his two cases into the living room, curious to see the inside of his partner's apartment.

Unlike his own, this was luxurious. Not exactly decadent, but clearly Napoleon was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. The walls were clean and painted in cream and pale green. The cream carpets were thick and luxurious underfoot. The sofas seemed to go on forever. Illya felt that if he owned a sofa like this, he would have no need of a bed. One corner of the room sported a mini grand piano. Illya's eyes opened wide in surprise. Napoleon did not seem quite the type somehow.

"Take a seat and relax!" Napoleon said, coming in behind him. Illya indicated the piano.

"Do you play?"

Napoleon shook his head,

"Not very well. I can tinkle out a tune one-handed, but that is all. I inherited that piano from my uncle Jack. He could never play either."

"May I?"

Napoleon nodded in surprise.

"Of course, be my guest."

Illya sat himself on the piano stool and opened the lid. He tapped out a few bars, testing the quality and sound of the keys and looked up.

"Good sound. It could do with tuning up, but it is not bad at all. Let's see if I can…"

He started to play, and Napoleon recognized Grieg's Piano Concerto. He watched, enthralled, as the twenty-two-year old Russian played the entire first movement from memory, then sprang to life, remembering he had food burning in the oven. He reappeared with several tureens on a large tray and put them on the table.

Napoleon watched his partner as Illya attacked his food. Watching him eat was a joy. He made Napoleon feel that it was worth all the trouble he had gone to, to provide the repast. Illya was clearly enjoying the meal thoroughly. After a few moments, Illya looked up, suddenly conscious that Napoleon was watching him.

"Napoleon? Are you not eating…? I think even I could not eat all of this delicious food by myself in one sitting…"

Napoleon grinned.

"My grandmother would have said that you eat with gusto. You look like you are hungry."

Illya gave a rare but brief smile.

"When I was little boy I learned quickly to eat whatever I was given, because time of next meal was never certain."

He gestured to the steaming tureens in front of them.

"When presented with meal that is also delicious, eating becomes a great pleasure."

"Even a hobby?"

Illya's smile returned.

"You told me that word before, a hobby is something I enjoy doing when I am not working? Something I do for pleasure, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then there is risk that here in America where food is so plentiful, eating could become the greatest hobby of all."

"In that case, you could quickly become very overweight…fat I mean."

Illya looked unconcerned.

"I have quick….er…what is your word? Metabolism?"

"I'll take your word for it."

Napoleon loaded his plate and started to eat.

"You play the piano beautifully. That was one of my favourite pieces of music."

"I too enjoy Chopin." Illya replied with a gleam in his eye. Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"That was Grieg you were playing, you sneaky Russian and you know it!"

This time Illya laughed.

"So, you enjoy beautiful women and classical music. Do you also collect vintage cars, too?"

Napoleon tried to glare at him, but Illya was still laughing, and it was an infectious laugh. Illya rarely even smiled except sometimes with his eyes. For him to actually laugh out loud was up until now, unknown. For Napoleon, it was wonderful. Illya was still very much the ice-cold, aloof Russian to everyone at headquarters. Even when Illya made a dry comment that set people chuckling, it had always been with the same icy, aloof expression that made people shiver. That he was allowing his new partner to peep beneath the veneer was a privilege.

They made surprisingly short work of the food, and sat back with their drinks in hand. Illya seemed to have something on his mind, and Napoleon waited, knowing, or rather, guessing that Illya would work up to speaking about it in his own time. After about ten minutes of silence, sipping rather than gulping his vodka, he looked up.

"I studied that file you gave me."

Napoleon nodded gravely.

"I hoped that you would."

"You took a chance."

"On what my friend?"

"On me. On my possible reaction upon reading it."

Napoleon shook his head.

"No, Illya. Whatever else you may be, you are supremely honest."

"In which case, you will forgive me for pointing out a glaring hole in your report."

Napoleon gaped. That was not what he had expected to hear.

"Enlighten me."

"Huh?"

"Tell me!"

"Ah. Well, you put a great deal of emphasis upon my lack of communication, and the fact that I did not volunteer any information. I concede, you were perfectly correct about that."

"But?"

"Never at any point did you ask me for my opinion or input. At each phase, you decided where we should go and why, and my first twelve hours were occupied with waiting for you. I have no recollection of you volunteering to give me any information or sharing your ideas with me either, beyond giving me orders."

Napoleon was momentarily stung into silence. Illya placed his empty glass on the table and regarded his partner searchingly.

"I admit I wanted, foolishly, to prove to you that I was not…what did you call me again? A newbie. I wanted to show you I was a good agent. I see now I was in error."

A rueful smile quirked the corner of the Russian's mouth.

"What is your excuse?"

A whirl of emotions flew around Napoleon's head, anger and indignation prominent among them. But as the first moments of speechless anger evaporated and he started to consider the Russian's words more closely, he found himself thinking back, and he realized, grudgingly, that Illya was right. He had taken so much for granted. If Illya had been watching and trying to learn from his example, then he could have done nothing else. He had commented in the report that Mister Kuryakin had seemed restive under his supervision, and seemed to resent taking orders. Perhaps this was a glimmer of the reason. In which case, he was as much to blame as Illya for their problems.

He regarded the Russian curiously. He was still just twenty-two years old. Absurdly young for a section two agent, and so much history behind him as well, the majority, Napoleon knew, was filed in Waverly's office with a `top secret' rating, that even Solo did not have access to.

He had commented on Kuryakin's absolute honesty. It was one of the first things that he had learned about the young man. Kuryakin was black and white. There would never be any shaded areas of grey with him. He would never balk at telling the exact truth, regardless of the consequences. He had, to Solo's cost, just proven that.

He noticed that Kuryakin had started to look a little edgy over the last couple of minutes, no doubt wondering if he had just destroyed his new partnership, or even his career. Sometimes the truth was hard to hear, but Kuryakin had taken it to heart. He would too. Honestly, plain honesty like this was too valuable to risk losing by taking offence.

"I was right, Mister Kuryakin, you are a supremely honest man. I wonder how many men would have had the courage to tell me that openly the way you did?"

Kuryakin said nothing, but watched him with slightly anxious, slightly defiant eyes. Napoleon smiled.

"Mister Kuryakin, I want you to make me a promise?"

"If I can…"

"Using the same boldness you did just now, telling me the truth like that, I want you to swear to me that you will always tell me the exact truth? Never hide the truth from me for the sake of saving my feelings. As partners, we need to be able to share our ideas with each other freely, make our plans together. We also need to always be completely honest with each other. Promise me Kuryakin?"

Illya Kuryakin stared into the American's big brown eyes and read only sincerity there. He breathed deeply, in some relief and nodded, and they shook hands on the pact.

"Always the truth."