Act I: "It was Christmas Eve, babe"
Illya wasn't a fan of Christmas anymore. Back home he used to like it; it was celebrated as a time for family and friends to get together whilst partaking in different traditions. But since moving to the western world, to him it had seemingly lost its true meaning over here; it was merely just another tacky commercial holiday with the main purpose to suck money from those who had it and even worse, from those who didn't.
Napoleon, on the other hand, was a massive fan of Christmas. Of course he was, he was the embodiment of a western man, tacky 'traditions' and all. He loved every aspect of it, shopping for others and himself, indulging in Christmas food, the chance to utilise mistletoe.
Napoleon's love for Christmas was so extreme that that's the only reason Illya was here with him on Christmas Eve. They'd both finished at HQ early evening, as they'd somehow managed to speed through a backlog of paper work and as they were about to part ways after exchanging Christmas pleasantries Napoleon slapped on that charming smile and batted his eyelids. His family, who he usually flew out to spend Christmas with, granted he wasn't on a mission, had last minute decided to go on vacation abroad to spend the holidays this year and Napoleon couldn't join them because they were needed back at work on Boxing Day. He insisted he could somehow survive spending Christmas Day alone if only Illya would keep him company for the rest of Christmas Eve.
Illya at first refused, but when Napoleon had followed him down the road, made a nuisance of himself and Illya just how much it meant to Napoleon not to spend this time alone he gave in.
Illya said that as long as Napoleon had him back home by midnight and didn't leave him hanging anywhere like a gooseberry whilst he went seducing, then Illya would be his company for the evening.
Napoleon had endearingly likened him to Scrooge when he'd changed for the better and in return let Illya decided what to do. That's how they'd ended up in an Irish tavern in the East Village of New York. Illya was fond of the Irish taverns in Manhattan, he'd spent many years living in London when younger for his studies and had on occasion visited Ireland. Although he missed the traditional English pubs, in New York the Irish taverns were as close as he was going to get.
"Another two shots of vodka please, sir." Napoleon called across the bar, slamming some loose change down.
"Four shots in an hour Napoleon. Are you planning to sleep tomorrow away with a headache?"
"You've had the same amount."
"I'm Russian, if anything I can handle my vodka," Illya replied with a smirk. Failing to point out that Napoleon was also more than half way through his second large glass of white wine, whilst Illya was slowly sipping on the same low alcohol content beer.
The bartender took the change and handed over the shots, his thick Irish accent directing Illya to look after this 'lightweight American'. Napoleon looked like he should be offended, but he clearly had no idea what the had just been said and Illya just chuckled along with the bartender.
The two men clinked the small glasses together and downed the vodka in unison. No matter how much he drunk, the burning sensation in the back of his throat was never something that Illya would get used to and he promptly chugged a few mouthfuls of beer to settle it down. Napoleon done no such thing and Illya wondered if he was tipsy enough for the pain to be number or it just didn't shake him anyway.
Despite his initial reluctance to come out this evening, Illya was actually enjoying himself. He was glad he got to pick where to go, not just for the Irish tavern, but he imagined left to Napoleon they'd be doing something annoyingly Christmassy like watching carols, visiting Santa's grotto or last minute gift shopping. Whilst the tavern did have a tree up and a few decorations, with some staff and fellow drinkers in Christmas themed jumpers and paper hats it was pretty tame compared to the rest of the city. Him getting to pick the place wasn't the only reason he was enjoying himself though, it was because he couldn't actually remember a time him and Napoleon had let loose together in personal time like this. They'd gone to the occasional dinner together, usually when Napoleon wanted to test a restaurant ahead of a date, they'd shared drinks undercover or quite often after a mission in a hotel room before they flew back or even as part of a double date sort of thing, but they'd never just gone out together and drunk.
Illya was happy that they were doing that right now, because that's what friends done wasn't it? And here in New York, Napoleon was one of the few, if not only, people that he could call a friend. In fact when he thought about it, Napoleon was probably the only person in years that ever invited him to hang out as normal friends do. Usually from men and women there was an ulterior motive of requesting his company that was either wanting to bed him, wanting his help with something, or a politically correct invite because everyone else in the section was invited to the function and it would be rude to leave him out.
Illya tried not to mind, it wasn't as if he didn't purposely try and keep himself to himself most times and he wasn't exactly taking the first steps to make friends during his downtime. Though he'd allow himself to admit in some very private corner or his brain that it could be kind of lonely occasionally. Perhaps in the new year he'd suggest to Napoleon they do stuff together like this at least once a month if time permitted. Like a platonic date night; they were partners after all.
Illya was so caught up in his thoughts he almost missed the fifth shot glass being thrust into his hand. "Another one," he sighed, swirling around the clear liquid.
"It's Christmas Eve, babe." Napoleon smiled. "Time to be merry."
"Did you just call me babe?" Illya cocked an eyebrow, amused.
Napoleon screwed up his face, done the shot and slammed the empty glass down on the bar. "Nope."
"Yes you did."
"Don't think so, you misheard me. Must've been your accent."
Another eyebrow raised, that didn't even make sense. No more shots for Napoleon or himself either, he thought as the burning liquid trickled down his throat. Five in less than an hour was pushing it even for him, there was only so much his Russian blood could dilute. He scooped up a handful of the complimentary peanuts in a measly effort to try and counteract any effects of the alcohol with food.
"Psst," Napoleon said rather loudly, leaning over to what he thought was whisper in Illya's ear. "Don't look now but right behind you there's two gorgeous women who keep giving us the eye."
"The back of my head must look very attractive to them," Illya deadpanned. "I thought we agreed if I came out tonight you wouldn't leave me to be a third wheel."
"My little Russian," Napoleon said, managing to shuffle up his bar stool and throwing his arm around Illya. "It's not third wheeling if there's a lady for you."
"Have you ever thought, Napoleon, that I don't want a lady?"
"Oh."
There was silence for a moment and then Napoleon cleared his throat. "Oooooooh... Oh.. I didn't realise. Since when? I mean that's none of my business but since when?"
It took a few seconds for Illya to realise what an Earth Napoleon was going on about and he rolled his eyes. "I mean tonight I don't want anyone."
He didn't specify man or woman. It was more amusing to watch tipsy, maybe drunk at this stage, Napoleon try to be discreet in finding out which. Illya was never one to indulge in his romantic life or lack of and despite his prying the only information Napoleon would ever get was what he ever got to witness first hand. Perhaps if they done more stuff like this regularly Illya might divulge a little more over a beer.
"Hey, Illya."
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"1966 is going to be a good year."
"How do you mean?"
"For you and me, it's going to be good. I can't tell, trust me, Kuryakin."
Illya had no idea what Napoleon was on about and any more requests to clarify fell on deaf ears as the agent ungracefully clambered off his barstool and staggered towards the toilets.
Illya looked down at his watch, it had only just gone 8pm, he wondered how much more Napoleon could take of this before passing out, throwing up or both. Illya hadn't seen Napoleon this bad since this intoxicated since a colleague's leaving drinks when Illya had first been assigned to New York and that had been years ago. He wondered if since then Napoleon had made a conscious effort not to drink as much but tonight he'd decided to oppose letting loose on Illya.
At least, as long as there was no sick, it was interesting to watch. Napoleon was always so smooth and composed around everyone, watching him trip over his words and his steps made for good viewing.
Just then Napoleon reappeared, without any explanation he quickly pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Time to go, Illya." He said, looking flustered, his eyes darting around the place. Illya noted how disheveled he looked, tie askew, shirt partly untucked, hair a mess. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to guess what he'd just been up to.
Illya looked around the room, but didn't see anything that would have Napoleon so on edge all of a sudden like the young woman he'd just pulled coming towards him brandishing a wedding ring. "I like it here. If we leave here I'm going home, I didn't agree on a bar crawl."
"Can you just come on, Illya." By this point Napoleon was literally tugging at his arm.
"Napoleon, what's wrong?"
Napoleon pulled out a crisp $10 note and slid it under the nut bowl as a tip. A very generous tip, either he really was feeling the Christmas spirit or he was too panicked or drunk to even care.
"One of the lovely ladies giving us the eye followed me to the bathroom," Napoleon finally explained, "but she failed to mention she was waiting for her husband who tuned up early. And he's built like a tank."
Illya smirked, discretion wasn't drunk Napoleon's strong point. "You don't fancy taking him?"
"I mean we could, but he's built like a tank."
"There's no, we in this." Illya said, looking back to where Napoleon was nodding. It wasn't hard to find out who the disgruntled husband was, he was rather large. All fists and knuckles. His eyes scanned over the crowds presumably for Napoleon. Illya didn't fancy drunk Napoleon's chances against him in a fist fight and he himself wasn't looking for a brawl so he hopped off his seat, grabbed his coat and let Napoleon drag him out the establishment.
They ran down the street, not because the brute had followed them, but because Napoleon had taken Illya's hand and he didn't have a choice. They cake to a halt when Napoleon pulled them into an alleyway.
"You know he wasn't following us," Illya pointed out. "Not everyone you annoy is a professional bad guy who's going to hunt you down."
"Hey, you can never be too careful." Napoleon looked down and smiled. It didn't take long for Illya to realise what he was smiling at and pulled his hand out of Napoleon's. He felt the temperature in his cheeks rising and blamed it on the fact the alcohol had just hit him and not because Napoleon holding his hand hadn't felt weird.
"Don't go home yet, Illya," Napoleon pleaded, leaning back against the wall and putting on his wooly hat and gloves that matched his scarf. It was the only time Illya had given him a Christmas present after seeing the set in a shop in Paris and deciding the royal blue would suit him so much it would be a crime against fashion for him not to buy the garments.
And Illya was right, every winter when it was worn the set never failed to look good on him. Not that Illya was paying attention to what looked good on Napoleon or not.
Or maybe he was.
God, he suddenly changed his mind about no more alcohol and decided he needed another vodka. He realised that he hadn't answered Napoleon and against his better judgement didn't reinforce what he early said about going home. "What did you have in mind?"
Napoleon pushed himself off the wall and stepped back into the street, beckoning Illya to stand next to him.
"Look," he stretched his arm out in front of him, "this is New York, the city where dreams come true at the most magical time of the year. The possibilities are endless."
"Napoleon, that's not an answer."
It was such a quick moment that Illya almost didn't realise that Napoleon had slipped his hand into his again and given it a squeeze before letting go and spreading his arms wide. He spun around, unsteadily, nearly hitting a pedestrian and a lamppost. "It's snowing, Illya."
So it was, Illya's nose twitched as the cold substance hit it. He allowed himself a slight smile, despite not liking all the festivity shoved in his face due to the holidays he always admired the picturesque scene of snow over the city.
Illya wasn't a fan of Christmas anymore. Back home he used to like it; it was celebrated as a time for family and friends to get together whilst partaking in different traditions. But since moving to the western world, to him it had seemingly lost its true meaning over here; it was merely just another tacky commercial holiday with the main purpose to suck money from those who had it and even worse, from those who didn't.
Napoleon, on the other hand, was a massive fan of Christmas. Of course he was, he was the embodiment of a western man, tacky 'traditions' and all. He loved every aspect of it, shopping for others and himself, indulging in Christmas food, the chance to utilise mistletoe.
Napoleon's love for Christmas was so extreme that that's the only reason Illya was here with him on Christmas Eve. They'd both finished at HQ early evening, as they'd somehow managed to speed through a backlog of paper work and as they were about to part ways after exchanging Christmas pleasantries Napoleon slapped on that charming smile and batted his eyelids. His family, who he usually flew out to spend Christmas with, granted he wasn't on a mission, had last minute decided to go on vacation abroad to spend the holidays this year and Napoleon couldn't join them because they were needed back at work on Boxing Day. He insisted he could somehow survive spending Christmas Day alone if only Illya would keep him company for the rest of Christmas Eve.
Illya at first refused, but when Napoleon had followed him down the road, made a nuisance of himself and Illya just how much it meant to Napoleon not to spend this time alone he gave in.
Illya said that as long as Napoleon had him back home by midnight and didn't leave him hanging anywhere like a gooseberry whilst he went seducing, then Illya would be his company for the evening.
Napoleon had endearingly likened him to Scrooge when he'd changed for the better and in return let Illya decided what to do. That's how they'd ended up in an Irish tavern in the East Village of New York. Illya was fond of the Irish taverns in Manhattan, he'd spent many years living in London when younger for his studies and had on occasion visited Ireland. Although he missed the traditional English pubs, in New York the Irish taverns were as close as he was going to get.
"Another two shots of vodka please, sir." Napoleon called across the bar, slamming some loose change down.
"Four shots in an hour Napoleon. Are you planning to sleep tomorrow away with a headache?"
"You've had the same amount."
"I'm Russian, if anything I can handle my vodka," Illya replied with a smirk. Failing to point out that Napoleon was also more than half way through his second large glass of white wine, whilst Illya was slowly sipping on the same low alcohol content beer.
The bartender took the change and handed over the shots, his thick Irish accent directing Illya to look after this 'lightweight American'. Napoleon looked like he should be offended, but he clearly had no idea what the had just been said and Illya just chuckled along with the bartender.
The two men clinked the small glasses together and downed the vodka in unison. No matter how much he drunk, the burning sensation in the back of his throat was never something that Illya would get used to and he promptly chugged a few mouthfuls of beer to settle it down. Napoleon done no such thing and Illya wondered if he was tipsy enough for the pain to be number or it just didn't shake him anyway.
Despite his initial reluctance to come out this evening, Illya was actually enjoying himself. He was glad he got to pick where to go, not just for the Irish tavern, but he imagined left to Napoleon they'd be doing something annoyingly Christmassy like watching carols, visiting Santa's grotto or last minute gift shopping. Whilst the tavern did have a tree up and a few decorations, with some staff and fellow drinkers in Christmas themed jumpers and paper hats it was pretty tame compared to the rest of the city. Him getting to pick the place wasn't the only reason he was enjoying himself though, it was because he couldn't actually remember a time him and Napoleon had let loose together in personal time like this. They'd gone to the occasional dinner together, usually when Napoleon wanted to test a restaurant ahead of a date, they'd shared drinks undercover or quite often after a mission in a hotel room before they flew back or even as part of a double date sort of thing, but they'd never just gone out together and drunk.
Illya was happy that they were doing that right now, because that's what friends done wasn't it? And here in New York, Napoleon was one of the few, if not only, people that he could call a friend. In fact when he thought about it, Napoleon was probably the only person in years that ever invited him to hang out as normal friends do. Usually from men and women there was an ulterior motive of requesting his company that was either wanting to bed him, wanting his help with something, or a politically correct invite because everyone else in the section was invited to the function and it would be rude to leave him out.
Illya tried not to mind, it wasn't as if he didn't purposely try and keep himself to himself most times and he wasn't exactly taking the first steps to make friends during his downtime. Though he'd allow himself to admit in some very private corner or his brain that it could be kind of lonely occasionally. Perhaps in the new year he'd suggest to Napoleon they do stuff together like this at least once a month if time permitted. Like a platonic date night; they were partners after all.
Illya was so caught up in his thoughts he almost missed the fifth shot glass being thrust into his hand. "Another one," he sighed, swirling around the clear liquid.
"It's Christmas Eve, babe." Napoleon smiled. "Time to be merry."
"Did you just call me babe?" Illya cocked an eyebrow, amused.
Napoleon screwed up his face, done the shot and slammed the empty glass down on the bar. "Nope."
"Yes you did."
"Don't think so, you misheard me. Must've been your accent."
Another eyebrow raised, that didn't even make sense. No more shots for Napoleon or himself either, he thought as the burning liquid trickled down his throat. Five in less than an hour was pushing it even for him, there was only so much his Russian blood could dilute. He scooped up a handful of the complimentary peanuts in a measly effort to try and counteract any effects of the alcohol with food.
"Psst," Napoleon said rather loudly, leaning over to what he thought was whisper in Illya's ear. "Don't look now but right behind you there's two gorgeous women who keep giving us the eye."
"The back of my head must look very attractive to them," Illya deadpanned. "I thought we agreed if I came out tonight you wouldn't leave me to be a third wheel."
"My little Russian," Napoleon said, managing to shuffle up his bar stool and throwing his arm around Illya. "It's not third wheeling if there's a lady for you."
"Have you ever thought, Napoleon, that I don't want a lady?"
"Oh."
There was silence for a moment and then Napoleon cleared his throat. "Oooooooh... Oh.. I didn't realise. Since when? I mean that's none of my business but since when?"
It took a few seconds for Illya to realise what an Earth Napoleon was going on about and he rolled his eyes. "I mean tonight I don't want anyone."
He didn't specify man or woman. It was more amusing to watch tipsy, maybe drunk at this stage, Napoleon try to be discreet in finding out which. Illya was never one to indulge in his romantic life or lack of and despite his prying the only information Napoleon would ever get was what he ever got to witness first hand. Perhaps if they done more stuff like this regularly Illya might divulge a little more over a beer.
"Hey, Illya."
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"1966 is going to be a good year."
"How do you mean?"
"For you and me, it's going to be good. I can't tell, trust me, Kuryakin."
Illya had no idea what Napoleon was on about and any more requests to clarify fell on deaf ears as the agent ungracefully clambered off his barstool and staggered towards the toilets.
Illya looked down at his watch, it had only just gone 8pm, he wondered how much more Napoleon could take of this before passing out, throwing up or both. Illya hadn't seen Napoleon this bad since this intoxicated since a colleague's leaving drinks when Illya had first been assigned to New York and that had been years ago. He wondered if since then Napoleon had made a conscious effort not to drink as much but tonight he'd decided to oppose letting loose on Illya.
At least, as long as there was no sick, it was interesting to watch. Napoleon was always so smooth and composed around everyone, watching him trip over his words and his steps made for good viewing.
Just then Napoleon reappeared, without any explanation he quickly pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Time to go, Illya." He said, looking flustered, his eyes darting around the place. Illya noted how disheveled he looked, tie askew, shirt partly untucked, hair a mess. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to guess what he'd just been up to.
Illya looked around the room, but didn't see anything that would have Napoleon so on edge all of a sudden like the young woman he'd just pulled coming towards him brandishing a wedding ring. "I like it here. If we leave here I'm going home, I didn't agree on a bar crawl."
"Can you just come on, Illya." By this point Napoleon was literally tugging at his arm.
"Napoleon, what's wrong?"
Napoleon pulled out a crisp $10 note and slid it under the nut bowl as a tip. A very generous tip, either he really was feeling the Christmas spirit or he was too panicked or drunk to even care.
"One of the lovely ladies giving us the eye followed me to the bathroom," Napoleon finally explained, "but she failed to mention she was waiting for her husband who tuned up early. And he's built like a tank."
Illya smirked, discretion wasn't drunk Napoleon's strong point. "You don't fancy taking him?"
"I mean we could, but he's built like a tank."
"There's no, we in this." Illya said, looking back to where Napoleon was nodding. It wasn't hard to find out who the disgruntled husband was, he was rather large. All fists and knuckles. His eyes scanned over the crowds presumably for Napoleon. Illya didn't fancy drunk Napoleon's chances against him in a fist fight and he himself wasn't looking for a brawl so he hopped off his seat, grabbed his coat and let Napoleon drag him out the establishment.
They ran down the street, not because the brute had followed them, but because Napoleon had taken Illya's hand and he didn't have a choice. They cake to a halt when Napoleon pulled them into an alleyway.
"You know he wasn't following us," Illya pointed out. "Not everyone you annoy is a professional bad guy who's going to hunt you down."
"Hey, you can never be too careful." Napoleon looked down and smiled. It didn't take long for Illya to realise what he was smiling at and pulled his hand out of Napoleon's. He felt the temperature in his cheeks rising and blamed it on the fact the alcohol had just hit him and not because Napoleon holding his hand hadn't felt weird.
"Don't go home yet, Illya," Napoleon pleaded, leaning back against the wall and putting on his wooly hat and gloves that matched his scarf. It was the only time Illya had given him a Christmas present after seeing the set in a shop in Paris and deciding the royal blue would suit him so much it would be a crime against fashion for him not to buy the garments.
And Illya was right, every winter when it was worn the set never failed to look good on him. Not that Illya was paying attention to what looked good on Napoleon or not.
Or maybe he was.
God, he suddenly changed his mind about no more alcohol and decided he needed another vodka. He realised that he hadn't answered Napoleon and against his better judgement didn't reinforce what he early said about going home. "What did you have in mind?"
Napoleon pushed himself off the wall and stepped back into the street, beckoning Illya to stand next to him.
"Look," he stretched his arm out in front of him, "this is New York, the city where dreams come true at the most magical time of the year. The possibilities are endless."
"Napoleon, that's not an answer."
It was such a quick moment that Illya almost didn't realise that Napoleon had slipped his hand into his again and given it a squeeze before letting go and spreading his arms wide. He spun around, unsteadily, nearly hitting a pedestrian and a lamppost. "It's snowing, Illya."
So it was, Illya's nose twitched as the cold substance hit it. He allowed himself a slight smile, despite not liking all the festivity shoved in his face due to the holidays he always admired the picturesque scene of snow over the city.