Napoleon Solo was on the point of knocking but he paused and smiled. How strange...
No one knew what Illya Kuryakin did when he went home.
Music.
The Russian polymath, explosive expert, skilled and formidable fighter, his usually distant - sometimes prickly – partner played guitar. He played guitar and... Napoleon Solo listened. He played guitar and...
Suddenly the door burst open.
"What the hell are you doing here, Napoleon?"
The guitar in his hand, the young man with his – too – long blond hair, his black turtleneck and his black pants stood barefoot, staring at him warily.
Napoleon couldn't help smiling again.
"Napoleon?"
The man pointed an inquiring chin at the living room. Illya pursed his lips and stepped aside reluctantly. Napoleon Solo headed quietly towards the couch and sat down. His partner sighed.
"Didn't Mr. Waverly give us three days' leave?" He locked the door and turned to the dark haired man who was still looking at him with his irritating though charming smile. "Napoleon? Are we needed?"
Napoleon Solo straightened his tie. "No, we aren't."
Something like confusion showed in the Russian's face for a split second.
"I intended to go sailing and I thought that perhaps you'd enjoy it..."
"Sailing?" Confusion gave way to disbelief. "Napoleon...I don't really feel like sailing. I..."
Napoleon Solo raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Yes, I know but weather forecast is fine. We'll have a sunny day, warm with some gentle breeze and a very calm sea..." He tilted his head expectantly. "You'll enjoy it, I swear..."
Disarming.
Illya Kuryakin sighed deep down and admitted defeat. In the past, no amount of persuasion would have made him change his mind - especially about sailing – but when it came to charm, his partner's ability couldn't be caught out.
"You could bring your guitar..."