A/N: This first chapter is a bit heavy on the quotes and pop culture references, but (at least some of it) is relevant to the plotline that shall miraculously appear in the next chapter.

Act I:

"I'd challenge you to a battle of wits but I see you're unarmed"

September

There was no up. Or, at least, there wasn't according to Illya's field of vision, and that state of affairs was (by his own admission) his own doing.

Specifically, it was because he did not look up.

More specifically, it was because he did not want to look up.

To be absolutely to-the-point about it, it was because the world was too big and too depressing and too unfamiliar and he therefore had to counteract the bigness and depressing-ness and lack of familiarity by keeping his personal world as small as possible.

Up, therefore, had to go. There was a lot of up (atmosphere, stratosphere, infinitude of space, etc., etc.), and simply eliminating that mass of intimidation was therefore the easiest way to shut down as much Existence as possible in one fell swoop.

Down was still there (down into a textbook) as well as forward (forward to the point that he occasionally almost nose-planted into a computer screen). But up? There was no reason for him to look up, barring a desperate need to catch sight of a falling anvil in order to facilitate a quick tumble out of the way. Professors tended to be forward or slightly down, depending on the architecture of the classroom, so his schoolwork did not have to suffer.

Nobody tried to talk to him without his expecting them to, so there was no need to look up in surprise (save for the anvil situation). Keeping your face firmly directed toward a book while wearing headphones tended to deter people from trying to interact. The headphones didn't even have to be connected to anything: the mere presentation was enough that any idiot could recognize the universal signal for "don't bother me."

Well.

Almost any idiot.

"I suppose we'd better sit a few seats apart," April commented as they approached the designated door.

"You're abandoning me, mon amie?"

April smirked. "Only for both our sakes. You'll either try to distract me—and therefore yourself—the whole time, or you'll manage to sit with a supermodel on your other side and flirt with her the whole time. I might as well spare myself such a nauseating experience this early in the morning."

Napoleon sighed a bit but didn't protest because April was right. April was right most of the time. "Very well, Miss Dancer, I release you from your bonds of friendship for the duration of the class."

"Very generous of you, I'm sure."

She headed out to take a seat in the third row, smack in the center of the classroom. Napoleon followed and also sat smack in the center, although he chose the front row.

The front row, so he'd be distracted by fewer people's phones and laptops occasionally being illuminated.

The front row, so he could at least appear to be A Good Student on the first day of the semester.

The front row, mostly because there was a slightly-built thing with a silky mop of blond hair partly flattened by headphones, right next to the seat he happened to choose.

"Hello."

The aforementioned thing looked up and Napoleon almost gave a start, as said thing turned out to look rather more male than he'd anticipated (albeit not to such a degree as to be deterring). "Hello," the blond returned crisply. Niceties presumably over, he (yes, definitely a 'he' with that voice) returned to reading the textbook opened on his desk.

"I'm Napoleon."

"That's unfortunate."

Napoleon blinked. "Sorry?"

The blond looked up again, eyes slightly narrowed in irritation, and his rather English-sounding accent lent an extra layer of disgruntlement as he carried on this apparently unwanted chit-chat. "That seems like the sort of name that would be easily mocked by your peers growing up."

"True. You?"

"No, I was mocked for things other than my name."

"Which is…?"

Resigned to his conversational fate, the blond lowered the headphones, letting them rest around his neck. "Being short and nerdy, mostly."

"I mean, what is your name?"

"Oh. Illya Kuryakin." The blond—Illya—offered something that for the briefest of moments appeared to be a smile. "Forgive my mistake. My English is not yet perfect."

"And yet you're already on to advanced Spanish. Should've taken French, though. They'd have a lot of fun with a chap named 'Illya' in there. You know: il y a un poisson, il y a un homme…"

"I know. Hence I take Spanish."

Napoleon chuckled, propped his chin on one hand, and leaned in a bit closer. "Tell me, Illya, where are you and that adorable little accent of yours from?"

Illya blinked at a spot somewhere to the right of Napoleon for a few moments before locking on his eyes again. Napoleon figured that his front-row companion was having trouble recognizing his blatantly obvious flirting for what it was, wondered briefly if Illya and his accent were considering a violent response to such an effort, then relaxed as the blond responded in his earlier, fairly non-antagonistic tone.

"I grew up in Russia, but I learned English in England. If you already have French, you are taking Spanish for fun, yes?"

"Yes. Even though I'm a Napoleon, I also try to be a Romeo, so having several Romance languages under my belt helps."

Illya observed the brunet's smirk. "You do realize that the term 'Romance language' has nothing to do with emotion of any kind, don't you?" Napoleon frowned slightly, so he went on, "It is Romance as in Roman. They share a common background in Latin, the language of the Roman empire. Also, in the event that you wish to improve your characterization of yourself, Romeo was less a dashing romantic and more a hormonal teenage boy, so perhaps you should reconsider with whom you compare yourself."

"Your peers growing up were right. Nerd."

Illya again appeared almost to smile, but all traces of mirth quickly vaporized. He turned away and Napoleon thought that he had been offended, but a voice from the front of the room informed him that the professor had arrived and the class was beginning.

"As much fun as I've had on the straight and narrow, I think it's about time I broadened my horizons."

April turned from her cross-legged position on the floor to look up at Napoleon, who was sprawled across his bed in his and Mark Slate's dorm room. "Damn, blondie really did a number on you, huh?"

Napoleon lifted his head to meet her gaze. Surprised, pleased, impressed… the smile on his face reflected some sentiment of that variety.

"Oh, please. I was sitting behind you for seventy-five minutes. I'd have to be blind not to notice you making goo-goo eyes at him the entire time."

Now he looked insulted. "I do not make goo-goo eyes, Miss Dancer."

"Puppy-dog eyes, heart eyes… whatever you want to call them, you were making them, like, hard. I can't decide if it was impressive or hysterical but, in any case, I hope you don't think you were being subtle, 'cause there's no freaking way blondie didn't notice." She offered a placating smile in response to Napoleon's mild glare. "Sooo, what's his name?"

Solo didn't trust that particular expression on that particular person's face, but he supplied warily, "Illya."

"Napoleon and Illya, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

She stopped abruptly when a throat cleared from the doorway, followed by Mark Slate remarking, "I hate to interrupt your little campfire singalong, but I brought a guest." He stepped into the room, allowing enough space for a smaller man to join them.

"We ran into each other on my way back up. He took a liking to our sandwich fixings—" Mark slightly lifted the tray of cheese, cold-cuts, and bread. "—and I still can't resist a New York bagel, much to the displeasure of my exercise routine." A jerk of his chin brought attention to the brown paper bag clasped in the arms of their visitor. "I invited him up so we could share. Illya Kuryakin, the slobs you see before you are my friends April Dancer and Napoleon Solo."

April's face split into a grin as she pulled out the plastic dishware from a drawer stowed under the bunk beds. "Nice to meet your face, Illya." She told Mark, "The three of us have Spanish together. I had the privilege of staring at the backs of these guys' heads whenever the professor got boring."

"No kidding," Mark returned the smile. "Small campus, eh?"

Napoleon slid off the bed to join the others for their dorm floor-based picnic. "So what type of bagel are we sharing?"

Illya reached into the bag and, as he placed the booty on the large plate April had set out for this purpose, said, "Two plain, two cinnamon raisins, two poppy seed, and one spicy squash thing that the lady at the shop insisted I take."

Napoleon chuckled. "Pumpkin spice, you mean."

"Yes. She said that if I were to live in the U.S., I would have to try a pumpkin spice something at some point." He wrinkled his nose at the orange monstrosity topping the pile of otherwise beautifully brown and beige bagels. "Feel free to take whichever you like, but feel especially free to spare me the honor of participating in this particular American tradition."

April ended up taking the pumpkin spice bagel mostly out of pity for the poor thing having been distastefully pushed around by the others, and the group proceeded with the university student-specific introductions. Napoleon, Mark, and April collectively expressed their shock at having just begun their final year of school and shared their respective double-majors with Illya: geography and philosophy, psychology and criminal justice, chemistry and communication. Illya mentioned through a mouthful of bagel-and-cheese sandwich that he was in the Graduate program, conducting research into artificial intelligence.

"I didn't know there were graduate students in the dorm," commented Napoleon, a bit taken aback that the baby-faced Russian could possibly be past his teen years.

"My parents are overprotective. As I am so far from them, they feel I can be looked after a bit in a dorm environment. Unnecessary, of course, but there is no harm in making them happy."

"Well, since you're stuck in a dorm, I hope you're getting on well with your roommate, at least," Mark said.

"I don't have a roommate."

April raised her eyebrows and said lightly, "Lucky bastard. How'd you manage that? Is it a grad student thing?"

"No, it is because I cannot sleep if there is someone I don't completely trust in the room. The last time I had a roommate, I became so underslept that I fainted on the way to class one day. I now have a doctor's note saying that I must have a room to myself lest I take another swan dive into a fountain."

The other guys made a sort of oof! sound in sympathy as April offered, "You're obviously okay now, but I hope you weren't hurt too badly."

"A few stitches. I was in hospital for a week, but that was mostly monitoring for nonexistent concussion and making sure I slept. Doctors are rather finicky creatures."

Mark made another sympathetic noise, pondered for a moment, and said, "Seeing as you have your own room, if you're awake the next time Napoleon brings female company up here, can I hide out at yours until he's done?"

Napoleon looked uncharacteristically scandalized while April snickered and Illya solemnly welcomed Mark to the sanctuary of his dorm room at any time, provided he didn't have "do not disturb" chalked onto the board attached to his door. A moment later, Illya tapped his fingertips together a few times, commented that his hands were a bit sticky from the finger-food-based supper, and excused himself to wash his hands in the communal bathroom.

As soon as he was out the door, Napoleon fixed Mark with a scowl. "You're killing me here, Slate."

Mark's mouth worked wordlessly through a few expressions before managing, "Wha-at? I thought you appreciated when I help promote your, uh, particular set of skills."

"Well, normally, yes, but you're going to make him think I'm straight!"

"Aren't you? And why should you care if—oh." A sly smile slithered across his face. "Ohhh…"

"'Oh', indeed." Napoleon's scowl deepened. "Stop leering, you Neanderthal, it's not my fault he was the prettiest girl in the room."

"Hey!" April protested. "He's cute, I'll grant you, but let's not go overboard." She picked off a corner of roast ham from her newly-constructed bagel sandwich and plastered it on Napoleon's nose. "I was in the room too, you know."

"Never mind him, April," Mark smirked as Napoleon peeled off the deli meat and popped it in his gob. "He can't help it if—Napoleon and Illya, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

"You lot do enjoy your campfire singalongs."

The lot jerked their collection of eyes around to stare at the door.

"That is what you called it, I believe," he added to Mark before reclaiming his pillow on the floor. "Do all the singalongs involve spelling? It seems like a good educational opportunity for children and learners of foreign languages."

Napoleon wondered if anybody else felt like punching themselves in the face, realized that everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time, and determined that he was the only one with a self-punching impulse at this juncture. "It's really not that educational—" Napoleon smiled at Illya and spared a sharp look at his alleged friends. "—considering there's only one word that's spelled."

Mark's smirk widened. "I beg to differ, Polo. We could always change it to 'sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I—'"

April slapped his leg, making Napoleon wonder what she had planned for later if she was willing to save him some embarrassment now.

Illya glanced around expressionlessly, eventually settling on Napoleon, who couldn't help noticing the flush starting on the Russian's neck. "Am I to take it that you feel toward me the emotion you have erroneously been attributing to Romance languages?"

April helpfully supplied, "Either that or—" She winked, then clicked her tongue a couple of times while making a lewd gesture.

Illya's features remained stoic even as the flush crept up to his face, and Napoleon declared, "Miss Dancer, I do believe you've been skipping out on your lady lessons of late."

"Maybe I wouldn't if you hadn't let slip to my parents that I flunked my history final last semester. You know, the 'huge fucking slap in the face' incident before I could break it to them gently?"

The pair glared at each other, but the severe expressions soon softened. Napoleon caved first: "I should've been more careful. I'm sorry, April."

"Good. I am too." She looked back to their distinctly pink guest. "I was being an idiot, Illya. Don't hold that against Napoleon. He really is a nice guy when he isn't running his mouth off."

Napoleon quirked a hopeful smile, which only resulted in Illya turning redder. The Russian did eventually manage to murmur, "I suppose it's flattering. You were flirting with me in class earlier, then?"

Napoleon shot a triumphant look at April, feeling rather vindicated in not having been quite as obvious as she had suggested. He quickly deflated, however, since it might not have been the most promising sign for all his efforts to have gone unnoticed. All this was (he hoped) covered by an outward grin and a nod, then ruined since he couldn't quite keep the nerves out of his voice when he spoke again.

"Would, uh… would you like to grab a coffee before class tomorrow? It can just be as friends if you're not interested in anything more than that."

Mark and April raised their eyebrows at the less than suave delivery.

"I have an early class. Unless you are sociable enough for both of us at six in the morning…"

Mark and April looked curiously at the rosy-eared blond. It hadn't been a no. They turned their heads to Napoleon as he made his counteroffer.

"Dinner, maybe? Again, date or not-date, whichever you prefer."

Illya glanced at Mark and April, who accordingly turned their attention to their respective suppers and muttered quick conversation between themselves to offer some semblance of privacy without going so far as actually leaving the room.

Because leaving the room would mean they would miss this rather interesting situation.

Not that they'd paying attention or anything, because that would be intrusive.

Illya pretended the others weren't paying attention as he looked back to Napoleon and nodded.

"Date or not?" Napoleon pressed quietly. "Not to be a nudge, but I want to know whether flirting would be appropriate."

"Seeing as I am an adult and ought to obtain some life experiences, I suppose we can try a date."

"I had a feeling you were a romantic at heart."

"But…"

"But what?"

"I do not know how to flirt."

"You don't have to. Just be yourself."

Illya frowned. "Then what are you getting out of it?"

"Your company."

"Having myself as your company would not be many people's idea of a good time."

"Their loss."

Illya thought for a moment. "I have never been on a date, I am a poor conversationalist, I am rude, and, if the food is good, I shall pay more attention to it than to you." He nodded. "I believe those are the faults that would be the most glaring in a dating scenario."

Napoleon grinned. "And what positive traits do you think would be the strongest in a dating scenario?"

"Oh." Back to pondering. "I suppose it would be highly unlikely that I shall endeavor to murder you over the course of the date."

"Well, I'm sold. Can you be ready by seven in the evening?"

"Yes, but perhaps we could make it earlier. I have an early class and would like to be in bed by a reasonable hour."

"Five, then?"

"That is fine."

"Dress nice. You don't have to wear a tie, but dress pants and a jacket would be good. It doesn't have to be a dress shirt, but preferably something that can be tucked into the pants."

"And by 'pants' you mean 'trousers', correct?" The Russian noted that the humor of this distinction was not lost on Slate, who coughed loudly before returning to definitely-not-listening-in-on-the-date-planning.

"Correct."

Illya wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Thank you for sharing your dinner with me. You can keep the rest of the bagels. Well." He peered at the designated bagel platter and its sole survivor. "You can keep the bagel. Good night."

The remaining party barely had time to return the nicety before Illya rose, turned, and exited the room in one continuous movement. Napoleon broke into a wider smile at the demonstration of gracefulness and April swatted him with a pillow.

"What's that for?"

"At least go on the date before you start thinking dirty, pervert."

Napoleon grabbed the pillow to ensure it would not be weaponized again and affected what he determined was an appropriately offended expression. "I was not thinking dirty, Miss Dancer, but even if I was, he's a grown man. I think he can handle thoughts, especially the ones he isn't aware of."

April looked skeptical. "If he barely noticed you were flirting earlier, and if he was blushing that hard just now, and especially if he's really never been on a date—"

"I am capable of keeping it in my pants, thank you. It's just a date, April." Napoleon let his faux indignation slip, in light of his friend's concern for their new acquaintance. "If it makes you feel any better, I promise to restrict myself to outrageous flirting and maybe hand-holding. I'll show him a good time with the early-bird specials and get him home in one piece and fully dressed."

April still seemed to have some misgivings—just because one returned home fully dressed didn't mean that one's clothes had not been disturbed at some earlier time—but Mark smirked, "Seems you're in for a grand old time, Polo. Really, April, the guy's so formal, I see no possible way he'd be letting Don Juan Solo have his way with 'im." He turned back to the Casanova in question. "How d'you feel about being Dr. Kuryakin's test subject in the field of dating?"

"Well, it's research for me, too," Napoleon countered. "If it turns out I enjoy going out with a guy, that opens up a whole new dating pool."

Dancer sighed. "It would be so disappointing, though. I couldn't call you a skirt-chaser anymore, could I?"

"Dating men wouldn't mean I'd give up the ladies," Napoleon reassured her.

"Besides," Mark added, "some guys wear skirts. Free your minds, folks."

"Hubba, hubba."

"I am not familiar with that expression."

"It means you look good."

Illya stepped into the hallway, shut and locked his dorm room door, and looked Napoleon up and down quickly before returning, "In that case, 'hubba, hubba'." Solo chuckled at the blond's deadpan delivery and offered his arm, to which Kuryakin responded, "If you begin treating me as you would treat one of the girls you date, I might have to punch you to overcompensate for the emasculation."

Napoleon had some doubts as to how much damage his slim companion could inflict, but none as to the sincerity of the threat. He put away the offending appendage, said that their destination was in walking distance, and they walked the first half of that distance mostly in silence, until Solo decided that waiting for his date to set the conversational pace was not an effective strategy.

At least, not if he wanted the pace to be somewhere on the zippier side of "glacial".

Hence, he started off with the innocuous topic of school—Illya's nerdy side would presumably appreciate that—and prattled on about his courses this semester until Kuryakin's occasional comments became frequent enough that he dared to ask after the man's academic endeavors.

The remaining five minutes of walking were dominated by such a remarkable collection of incomprehensible phrases that Napoleon was left with the distinct impression that the intention was to put him off. He especially got that impression when his sincerely-delivered expression of interest was met with a face that looked darn near peeved, but their arrival meant that he was saved from a detailed explanation of what the living hell a hidden Markov model was. Markov was probably better left hidden.

"Et voila, we have arrived."

Illya peered at the designated building. "Is this not a bit excessive? There must be cheaper places to eat."

"Of course there are. What's your point?"

"I doubt if I can afford this place, and I certainly will not let you—"

"Now, now," Napoleon chided lightly, "no fussing. If the money is what's worrying you, I'll have you know I've got a very generous uncle. So long as I perform well in school, he covers my living expenses with a metaphorical smile."

"Only metaphorical?"

"Well, he tends to be rather stoic, but he says play can be just as important as work, so who am I to argue?"

Illya sighed. "Very well. Let's play."

Napoleon opened the door and turned to make a sweeping gesture, then recalled Illya's earlier promise of a punch and stopped mid-gesture. He let himself in first, holding the door open behind him to let Illya follow.

The maître d' offered, "Good evening, Mr. Solo."

A blond eyebrow quirked in Napoleon's direction. "Ah, so you frequently spend unnecessary amounts of money on food."

"The better to get reservations on short notice, my dear." As Illya bristled at the endearment despite its sarcastic intent, Napoleon said, "Good evening, Paul. Mr. Kuryakin, may I present the world's preeminent maître d'hôtel, Paul Chen."

Paul nodded politely. "Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin."

"We're right on time, I hope?"

"As always, sir. Unfortunately, your usual table was not available on short notice, but we have another quiet little corner that should suffice." He led them up a narrow spiral staircase, into a large room broken up by bookcases among which tables were nestled, and stopped at a table set for two in a corner behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Once they were seated, he snapped his fingers and a server swept by briefly to fill their glasses with water as Paul handed each diner a menu and a promise to return soon.

As the maître d' and server departed, Napoleon asked, "Shall I order us some wine?"

"Due to your country's puritanical mores, I am unfortunately not permitted to imbibe."

Napoleon looked up from the wine list. "What?"

"How unhelpfully vague. Are you surprised by my age, the drinking age, or your country's history with and patriarchal views of alcohol?"

"Illya, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Napoleon sighed. "Well, at least you're an adult. Don't scare me like that!"

"If you have a habit of being frightened by people's ages, I would suggest you make inquiries before the date begins."

"You told me you're doing graduate studies," Napoleon offered in his own defense. "Any reasonable person would assume that implies you are at least in your twenties."

"Ah, so it is my fault. I apologize, but I do not feel terribly bad about it. Given that our collective assumptions about age do not seem to have been accurate thus far, might I ask how old you are?"

"Twenty-five. I joined the Army right out of high school, so I ended up starting college late."

Illya nodded. "In that case, you can order wine for yourself if you'd like. I shall refrain in the interest of not providing any motivation for my getting deported."

"If you wanted to sneak a sip from my glass, you can go ahead. Life's short: live a little."

"Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend."

Napoleon chuckled. "Illya Kuryakin: inimitable assassin of moods."

"Omar Kayyam, actually. And enlighten me as to what mood it is that I killed, exactly."

"Something a bit lighter than contemplation of our inescapable mortality, I hope."

"Very well then. I had thought quoting poetry would be appropriate for a date. Perhaps you can provide some tips."

"Poetry is great. Just maybe go for something a little less jaws-of-death and a little more summer's-day."

"Shakespeare would be appropriate, then."

"Yes, but don't feel like you have to. Not everybody's the poetry-reciting type."

"Nonetheless, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Surely I can manage to recall something poetic for mine."

Napoleon grinned. "And what is your purpose?"

"Dating correctly."

Now he laughed. "Illya, the point of dating is to have a good time! If you're worried about 'doing it right', you're probably doing it wrong."

"Ah, so I should not concern myself with being at least moderately polite, and it is perfectly acceptable to ignore you the whole time."

"Well, no…"

"And I should not have complied with your request that I dress nicely."

"No—I mean yes—"

"Dispute not with me, for I am a lunatic. Perhaps I should, as they say, cut my losses."

Napoleon put a hand over Illya's as he moved to get up. Kuryakin jerked his own hand back but stopped his retreat as the American Shakespeare'd back, "Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. Therefore, you must stay so I can keep an eye on you."

Illya settled and took a look around at the bookshelves. "Very well. I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it." A smile came perilously close to sneaking through.

Napoleon leaned back with a smile. "Clearly, you and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Shall we engage in a duel of Shakespearean quotes all night?"

"Perhaps not. I would challenge you with such a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed."

"Well, don't hold back. Speak what you feel, not what you ought to say."

"I am not bound to please you with my answers."

Napoleon sighed and looked to the ceiling. "God hath given you one face and you make yourself another. How can someone with your baby face be so determined to tap dance with barbed-wire shoes on my weary soul?"

"Are you saying that men should be what they seem?"

"Well, if we are true to ourselves, we cannot be false to anyone. Are you being yourself, my purple-hued maltworm?"

"Indeed. You have a knack for putting one at his ease." Illya bowed his head. "I concede the battle. Shakespeare is yours. Getting me to relax is no small feat."

"I hadn't noticed."

Seeing an opening, it was at this moment that Paul returned and asked if they cared for something besides water to drink. Illya declined and Napoleon followed suit to be polite. Paul asked if they had had a chance to look over the menu and Napoleon almost said no, but Illya caught sight of the Chinese flag pin beneath the maître d's nametag.

"Ni shuo hanyu ma?"

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Dui le." He flipped open his notepad. "Nin yao shenme?"

From there out, the words seemed to run together and Napoleon gave up on trying to distinguish one from another. It appeared to be quite a discussion, with Illya occasionally pointing at something on the menu and Paul pointing out something else. After the heat of the debate was past, Illya slowed down his speech again and apparently turned his levels of dry wit to the max, if Paul's mirthful responses and occasional chuckles were any indication.

"Nin tai hao le, xiansheng tai hao le," Paul laughed, scribbling onto his notepad. He turned to Napoleon, laughter gone and replaced by his normal courteous smile. "And for you, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon shook his head ruefully. "Goodness, Paul, it seems I've been speaking the wrong language with my friend here."

"It is never the wrong language if it is mutually comprehensible," Paul countered. "If you ever do care to learn Mandarin, however, speaking it with Mr. Kuryakin would certainly be a treat for you." He twirled his pen in his fingers once to draw attention back to the matter of ordering food. Napoleon ordered his usual dish and Paul withdrew from the table.

"Perhaps my unfortunate state of being a lowly plebeian is coming to the fore here," Illya commented, "but I was under the impression that taking orders was the work of a server, and beneath the dignity of a maître d'."

"Most of the staff here just happen to know that I am an excellent tipper. And they further happen to know that I like Paul and, seeing as all tips are split amongst the wait staff…"

Illyas lip curled slightly. "Ah, so money can do it all. Typical capitalistic thinking."

"Au contraire, mon chou. Money can't buy me love."

"I suppose it depends on what sort of love it is you are looking for."

"True. In any case, not to burst your anti-capitalist bubble, bud, but your Russian economy isn't entirely sitting on a socialistic basis there."

"Because I am Russian you assume I am a socialist?"

"You weren't sounding especially fond of capitalism."

"I am not. On the other hand, Russia's attempts at socialism or some shoddy representation thereof have been… let us say, disappointing."

Napoleon bit his tongue (literally and for several seconds) before saying, "Here's another tidbit of dating advice: politics is generally not first date material."

"Yes, I have heard there are three things to never discuss: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin."

Napoleon grinned. "You know Peanuts?"

"Of course, Napoleon. I am Russian, not Venusian. Did you know that Charles Schulz based the Great Pumpkin on an old Russian folktale?"

"Color me intrigued."

"It is the myth of the despotic Kubla Kraus and his reign of tyranny over the Pumpkin Peasants…"

"Please, Mr. Kuryakin, you are not the only one with a working knowledge of holiday television." He smirked. "Jack Frost, 1979. From October through December, my mother practically lived to dig up as many cartoons and funky stop-motion shows as she could find. I suppose this is my 'idiot American' revealing itself, but I didn't realize they'd managed to grace Russian screens, as well."

Illya shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I saw them while I was in England. My advisor for a couple of years was an American professor. As I was a foreign student, alone and not able to return home more than once a year, she took pity on me. She set up a screening of holiday specials, open to all students, and invited me to attend specifically. When I did not, she asked me to be her 'technical assistant'—really, just putting in the DVD and adjusting the volume occasionally—and I attended her screenings every week in the last months of the year for two years."

"You poor thing. Such suffering, when you could have been doing something productive."

"Yes, it was rather a trial."

"I was being sarcastic."

"As was I."

Napoleon smiled and leaned in. "Out of idle curiosity… did you agree to a date merely to have had at least one experience in the field, or do you find me not completely repulsive?"

"It could be both or neither. If I were desperate to have an 'experience', I would put up with you even if I found you repulsive. If I found you not completely repulsive, I would not necessarily feel compelled to date you."

"Out of all those words, none answered my question."

"Fishing for compliments is quite unbecoming of a man with a mental capacity such as yours. Are you so insecure that you require me to remind you of your cleverness and good looks?"

A smile slipped to Solo's mouth and he chuckled to himself, "Slap-slap-kiss, eh?"

Illya's ears grew pink. "Pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing." He propped his chin in his hand. "Can't give a compliment without it being wrapped in an insult, can you?"

"Unfortunately, your options are the compliment wrapped in an insult, or an insult wrapped in an insult. I apologize if I did not make my irretrievable propensity for discourtesy clear upfront."

Napoleon shook his head cheerfully. "Not at all. It's part of your charm."

"In what way is despicability charming?"

"You're not despicable. It's just that the nice thoughts on the inside can't make it past those lovely lips without being generously coated in sarcasm."

"If you suggest using your tongue to extricate those nice feelings, I will have be forced to disembowel you, tie knots in your intestines, and then replace them from whence they came."

"Sweet talker."

April barely looked up from the laptop she was clicking away at as Napoleon entered a small office cramped with three desks in varying states of disarray, three chairs, and several filing cabinets. "Back from your hot date with blondie already? Did your zipper get stuck?"

Napoleon managed an aggrieved expression. "Not all my dates end up with a roll in the hay, Miss Dancer. I saw him safely home like a perfect gentleman." He dropped into the chair at his desk (the one in the most advanced state of disarray) and broke out a grin. "I think he likes me."

Now this got the lady's attention. She tilted her screen forward a bit to allow herself a better view of her officemate. "Good lord, you look positively goofy!"

An effort to rein in the allegedly goofy smile was only partly successful. "Well, excuse you. I had to recite about half the complete works of Shakespeare to get his attention, so I should think I deserve to bask in the, ah… afterglow."

April harrumphed. "You're still goofy, but whatever. Bask away." She readjusted the screen. "I have paperwork to do."

"Bludhaven affair all done?"

"Yeah. Next time you have to shadow someone on a mission, Agent Grayson's a good one. Lets you do a thing or two instead of treating you like dead weight. Highly recommend."

"Duly noted." The last vestiges of his smile faded as he swiveled to the obscenely large stack of papers piled on his desk. He made a dent of about two millimeters before standing up.

April chuckled without taking her eyes off her own work. "It wouldn't be so bad if you got it done as it came in."

"It's not that," Napoleon retorted dishonestly. "There's something I wanted to look for in Records."

"A dewy-eyed young lady willing to do your work for you?"

"Shall I bring one back for you, too?"

Dancer poked her tongue out at him and Solo returned the favor, then turned and headed out of the office.

He arrived in the Records department on the floor above the offices in short order, entering the large room with its overabundance of filing cabinets and offering a warm greeting to the poor sucker charged with its care for the night. The post of Glorified File Gofer was the doghouse of the Intelligence section, with the job being assigned based on how much one had annoyed one's fellow researchers of late or (as seemed to be the case this time) based on how low down you happened to be in the department's pecking order.

"Hello, Napoleon," the dewy-eyed young lady offered, managing a wan smile in return. "Can I help you find something?"

Knowing that the rest of her night would likely be dominated by thumb-twiddling, Napoleon magnanimously opted to give her a thrill, even though he was perfectly capable of puttering around with files himself. "As a matter of fact, Ellie, you can. I was wondering if we had anything on Kuryakin-comma-Illya."

"C, K, or Q?"

"K-U-R-Y," Napoleon prompted, and Ellie spun on her heel to head directly for the appropriate section. "Why everything isn't digitized by now is beyond me," he lamented, shaking his head as he sauntered after her.

"Some of the other departments have been in the process for years now," Ellie replied, pulling open a drawer. "They've been reluctant to start on our stuff, though. After all, the only way to hack into these things is by busting in here in person." She patted a filing cabinet. "Considering the sad state of our Computer division, I think we all feel safer by indulging our inner luddites."

Napoleon pouted a moment and thoughtfully nodded. He managed not to flinch too badly as she slammed the drawer shut, rattling the entire wall of metal cabinets in the process.

"Nothing in Tier 1. Want me to check Tier 2?"

"I hate to be a bother, but if you haven't anything more pressing to attend to…"

Ellie cast a withering look in his direction. They both knew darn well she hadn't, and that circumstance was enough to wick the dew from her wide green eyes.

He smiled disarmingly. "Please."

She flashed a tight smile back before leading the way from the openly-available Tier 1 collection to the Tier 2 collection, which required the low-level security clearance afforded to most of the employees. Tier 3 would be beyond Solo's purview until he was a full-fledged agent, Tier 4 was accessible to upper-level agents, and Tier 5 was the stuff that only Old Man Waverly himself had access to.

In the Tier 2 room, as soon as the automatic door had shut behind them and closed off the Tier 1 section, Ellie marched to the relevant cabinet and rifled through a couple of drawers' worth of files. Three wall-rattling clangs later, Ellie leaned back against the cabinets and folded her arms, announcing, "Nothing. I think Crane's still in if you wanted to get permission to put in a request."

Napoleon thanked her and departed the suite of Records rooms, going straight to the Chief Enforcement Agent who, by no fault of her own, had been charged with overseeing the trainees from U.N.C.L.E.'s most recent round of recruitment. Of the ten people who'd started last year, only Dancer, Slate, and Solo had thus far survived Crane's scrutiny. Solo had been informed in no uncertain terms and on several occasions that he was only holding on by the skin of his teeth, but the trio of trainees agreed that it was probably his attitude more than his aptitude that kept him out of their mentor's good graces.

Thus, Napoleon slipped into his best behavior as he rapped at Agent Crane's office door.

"Enter."

Napoleon entered.

"What is it, Solo?"

"I had a gander at some of files in Records…"

"You are well aware that I do not care for idle chatter."

"Yes, Ms. Crane. The point is that I was looking for one person in particular—Illya Kuryakin—and we don't seem to have a file on him."

"And?"

"And… if he isn't a genius, he sure does a good impression of one. Seems like the kind of guy who could make some good contributions to the world. Or bad contributions."

"Genius in what way? We're not currently in need of a musical prodigy." Before he could clarify, she surged on with, "Also, are you suggesting that he might tend toward the dark side, or that his talents could potentially work for people of either side of the moral coin?"

"We know each other socially so I didn't want to do a full interrogation. He's eighteen and pursuing a doctorate in artificial intelligence. He seems like a good guy, but computer stuff does obviously have the potential for nefarious applications."

"Alright, you may put in a request for information."

"Thank you."

"Dismissed."

"Yes'm."

Crane looked up with narrowed eyes that thoroughly expressed her incredulity at his having ever survived the Army.

"Yes, ma'am," he corrected himself. Sometimes he was incredulous at himself, but he chalked up his present discipline issues to having difficulty in figuring out where exactly U.N.C.L.E. stood on the spectrum from "civilian casual" to "full military". He personally tended to end up flailing uncertainly somewhere in the middle, and it certainly didn't help that the CEA refused to clarify matters ("You want to be a spy? Figure it out, Solo.").

Crane nodded curtly and went back to ignoring the world at large. Solo retreated rather quickly and went back to his disturbingly high stack of paperwork for another hour before calling it a night and heading back to the dorms with April, seeing her to her third-floor room to prove that he really was a gentleman.

"It's easy to keep your hands to yourself when I'm practically your sister," she'd retorted.

He arrived at his and Mark's fifth-floor quarters soon after, and Slate promptly greeted him with, "How's office life without the life of the party, hey, Polo?"

"Delightfully quiet," Napoleon countered. If Solo and Dancer were practically siblings, Slate and Dancer were practically twins. Since they weren't actually twins, the "twin telepathy" deal hadn't quite gone through, so they simply chattered away merrily, annoying Napoleon by managing to somehow get twice as much work done as he did in spite their virtually nonstop banter.

"Oh? Get much done, then?"

Napoleon estimated the amount he'd gotten done by holding up a thumb and index finger about half an inch apart. "About yay much."

Mark looked up from his homework-covered desk long enough to observe the estimate and offered, "Bravo, sir. It don't bode well for the rest of the semester that I'm already working my way up to the amount of stuff you've got on your plate at work."

"Tough break that your class schedule didn't pan out," Solo commented, tossing himself back onto his bed.

"I know. Wednesday and Friday, I'll be lonesome at the office, and Tuesday and Thursday, you get to hang with April, you lucky bastard."

"Ah, yes, plenty of quality time together, sloughing through paperwork. Maybe if we're really lucky, though, the three of us could get assigned something together in the field."

"I dunno if having three noobs on a single assignment is at the top of Crane's to-do list, but it would be pretty grand. Oh!"

Napoleon raised an eyebrow as Mark twisted around in his chair.

"Fine mate I am—almost forgot to ask about your tête-à-tête with your science experiment."

Napoleon grinned. "It required at least ninety percent of the material contained in my tête, but I think it went well."

"Must've done. Never seen you looking that goofy over a single date."

A scowl. "I am not goofy-looking!"

A snort. "April texted me that saying that'd get your goat."

Solo relaxed a bit.

"Of course, it also happens to be true."

He glared briefly, but the look faded quickly. "It isn't weird, is it?"

"What isn't weird, is it? That you like someone for their brain instead of just their body?"

"No—"

"That you like a guy?"

"No—"

"That you—"

"Going out on a limb, here: no."

Slate harrumphed and turned back to his homework. As he started scribbling on things, he asked, "What, then?"

"A couple of things, actually. First… he's eighteen."

"Well, ideally, everyone's eighteen at some point in their life."

"But I'm twenty-five. And if you round it up, I'm thirty years old and dating a teenager."

"If you're rounding you up, you might as well round him up." Pause. "That sounded wrong. What I mean is, if you're rounding your age to thirty, you might as well round his to twenty. Saves you from the creepy-adult-dating-a-teen scenario."

"It is creepy, then?"

"Didn't say that. You're both adults. For once, you managed to have a good time on a date with a minimum of canoodling, right?"

Napoleon affected a wounded expression that the back of Mark's head failed to appreciate. "Yes."

"Then you're also saved from being a lecher after a younger man's body. As I said: two adults. Less than ten years' difference. I don't see a problem." Another pause. "Which is not to say I'd want you dating my eighteen-year-old sister…"

"Double standards much, Slate?"

"What's the second of the couple of potentially-weird things?" Slate parried.

"I'm going to put in an information request on him."

"Motive?"

"He's a computer nerd and the Computers section could use some more of those."

"Not weird."

"I could be subconsciously wanting to stalk him like a creepy boyfriend, even if I'm not technically his boyfriend."

"If you wanted to do that, you'd be Facebook-stalking him or Twitter-stalking him or Instagram-stalking him… you're not creepy enough to jump straight to using a hardcore research department to do your evil bidding, mate."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Later that night, sometime after Mark had (in typical Mark fashion) fallen asleep over his homework, Napoleon took out his communicator and hooked it over his ear. The device resembled nothing so much as a normal cellphone headset, but it operated with radio waves just like the decommissioned cigarette case-based communicators. "Open Channel S."

A raspy voice responded. "Channel S open, babe."

"Solo here."

"I know. Y'think I call just anybody 'babe'?"

"I wouldn't presume to know, Gerry my sweet."

"You got something for me to do, kid, or are you just desperate to flirt with someone 'cause the girls weren't biting today?"

"Tell me, Ger, are you a boy or a girl?" After a split second of consideration, he added, "Or both or neither?"

"I'm a disembodied voice patiently waiting for you to get to the point, doll. Under the bold presumption that there is a point to which we might be able to get."

"Can you get Intelligence to put together a file on one Illya Kuryakin?"

"Sure. Any old one or is there a specific one you'd prefer?"

"Illya Kuryakin, male, age eighteen, of Russian origin, grad student in the computer science department at my university. Studied at an English university at some point but I don't know which one or when. Blond hair, blue eyes, about five-seven."

"Alrighty-dighty, daddy-o. Anything else?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I thought we had something together, Gerry."

The communicator barked a wheezy laugh into Napoleon's ear. "I'm just, like, floored that you have thoughts. Y'know I love you, hon, but I'm in a committed relationship with a filing cabinet and shorty ain't playing around today."

"Ah, sweet Gerry pie," Napoleon sighed heavily, "someday I'll take you away from all that. Let me know when you hear back on this."

"You got it, bubby."

What the hell was that?

For a person widely recognized as being above average in the intelligence arena, Illya Kuryakin was having a hell of a time comprehending just what the hell that was.

It had been nearly four hours since Napoleon Solo had walked him back to his room, and most of that time had been spent sprawled in various positions across his bed, staring at the ceiling, the wall, another wall, the door, the desk…. As he locked a steely gaze on the corkboard by the door, it occurred to him that none of these inanimate objects was about to be particularly forthcoming in explaining how the evening had spiraled so badly out of his control. He closed his eyes.

What had gone right? He'd managed to avoid revealing his dietary restrictions to his date by using Mandarin when making his order. The only especially personal thing he'd shared was, as planned, the little story about watching Christmas movies in England.

What had gone wrong? Using technical jargon in describing his research hadn't proved the least bit off-putting. His concerted efforts toward romantic incompetence only resulted in Napoleon reeling him in with an impressive collection of Shakespearean quotes. He somehow ended up complimenting Solo and, even though he'd couched things in the least flattering manner possible, Solo still had the nerve to seem flattered. And, most damning of all, he blushed.

Illya Kuryakin did not blush.

He made it a point to not blush.

And yet, two evenings in a row, that insufferable American had made him turn red.

It had seemed simple enough: take advantage of his first-ever invitation to go out, and use the opportunity to prove that he could maintain his habitual indifference on a date, just as he did in every other scenario. Except he felt his face reddening at the mere recollection of Solo's request for a good-night kiss ("You'll not do that if you enjoy the current topography of your mouth.") and the handshake Kuryakin had offered as a replacement.

And the red burned warmer as he recalled how the handshake had resulted in Napoleon sneaking a quick press of lips to his knuckles.

All in all, Illya considered the date a complete failure.

He'd thoroughly enjoyed himself.