A/N: As mentioned in the description, this story is the sequel to my other MFU fic, "The Up is Down Affair" and, unfortunately, it would be very helpful for you to read that one before you start on this one. Maybe you could slog through this without it, but there are lots of references to things that happened in TUIDA so… whoopsy-doodle.

This story is a bit heavier on the OCs than TUIDA, as I needed them for the plotline. Aside from a blip at the beginning, I try to keep the proverbial camera primarily on Napoleon and Illya. The TV series tended to have new characters in almost every episode anyway, so hopefully this is okay.

Also, this story is a bit heavy in terms of subject matter at some points. I'll give specific content warnings at the start of each chapter. Maybe I'll over-warn a bit, but better safe than sorry, right? :)

Chapter one warnings: Acid burns; deaths (OCs only); mental illness (mostly depression).

Act I: Novelette in fourths/Talk about you

Four years ago

He had no business being here. Not really. Aside from the little detail that he was authorized and had been ordered to be here, of course. An agent did as they were told, even if they thought it was kind of a dumb idea.

And that was another thing: in the labs at U.N.C.L.E., one was seldom "Agent This" or "Agent That". A lot of the folks held doctoral degrees, so they tended to favor having "Dr." or, if they'd started out in academia, "Professor" in front of their names. Others in the labs may not have had the same scholastic credentials, but they often considered themselves scientists before agents, so they used variations on their specific department or job label so as to differentiate themselves from the Enforcement agents.

He could relate to that. Chemical and Mechanical Engineering. CME.

CME Ogola.

Well, usually CME Ogola.

Now it was Agent Ogola.

And in either case, CME/Agent Ogola felt he had spectacularly proven that he had no business being here.

Rather, he would later feel that he had spectacularly proven his point, and even then he would have the good sense to keep to himself whatever feeble bit of self-righteousness he managed to work up.

Because "here" was on the property of a T.H.R.U.S.H. facility suspected of producing chemical weapons.

Here was where Section II, Number 2 had just been shot dead.

Here was where a rookie agent had just been shot and doused with sulfuric acid.

Here was where Agent Ogola had received a not inconsiderable proportion of the backsplash from the acid spilled on the rookie agent, and where Agent Ogola was hiding in the woods behind the facility, biting his thumb to keep from screaming until backup could arrive and do something to fix this terrible mess.

Here would soon be the former site of T.H.R.U.S.H. sympathizer Andrew Park's dream project—a one-stop shop of a factory for chemicals both beneficent and maleficent—the Aristophanes Corporation.

Three years ago

He really hated this suit. To be fair, he just hated suits in general, but this particular iteration of the garment was especially unlikeable.

Strike one: it was a flattering cut. Illya wasn't one to toot his own horn, but he was a good-looking kid and he knew it. Both the "good-looking" and the "kid" part. Being a good-looking literal child of fifteen at a university crawling with adults, the prodigy preferred to swath himself in discreet (mostly black) garments with a looser fit. Not that he felt morally obligated to "not tempt" anyone, but he figured there wasn't any harm in attempting to render himself as invisible as someone with bright blond hair and blue eyes could be rendered.

And that led to strike two: it was not black. And maybe Illya didn't stick to mostly-black clothes just because he was trying to be less noticeable. Maybe he also just did not like colors, and maybe that was because he was affected by blue-yellow color blindness, and as a terrifically distrustful tritanope he certainly did not trust people enough to describe colors and their connotations to him.

And that was strike three: he had not chosen it. His mother had, and his mother thought that well-fitting clothes would make him look more professional, and his mother had told him that the suit was dark blue. Then one of his classmates had mentioned that the suit was a lovely powder blue, so he wasn't sure whether his classmate was putting him on or if Mama had thought he'd look cute in a lighter color and had only said deep blue to talk him into wearing the damn thing, seeing as he personally perceived very little difference between dark and light shades of that color.

The problem could easily have been remedied by his going out and using a bit of his stipend to spring for a cheap black suit (Mama was back in Russia after that ill-fated shopping trip in London and wouldn't be any the wiser), but he kept getting distracted by schoolwork at Oxford and now he was in South Korea for a conference and not quite up to navigating himself to a clothing store. He'd tried to pick up enough Korean to scrape by in emergency situation (Where are the police? Where is the hospital? May I have some water? Is there a toilet?), but that did not extend to preparing himself for a shopping expedition, and he wasn't about to hassle the professor he was accompanying with such trifles.

Not that Professor Choi would have minded. She seemed to alternate easily between treating Illya as a colleague (they'd already had a paper published together) and as a pseudo-son (they'd arrived in Seoul a day early to ensure they would get to the conference without having to hurry, and Choi had elected to spend that extra day showing Illya some of the sights).

Now they were in Colleague mode, walking from their hotel to another hotel—a much fancier establishment where the conference was being hosted.

Professor Choi glanced across the street, attention apparently caught by the bookstore there. She turned back to her pupil and said, "That is the hotel, with the trees in front," with a gesture to the appropriate building. "Will you be okay waiting there? I have a purchase I must make."

Illya nodded. "I will wait." The Russian headed over and stood beneath one of the trees. Soon, he noticed a Korean man in an American-style varsity jacket seated on a bench near the hotel entrance staring at him. He tried to ignore the intense look, feeling it best not to engage with strangers, especially in a country whose language he was only minimally familiar with.

Eventually it became too much to resist so, determined to put an end to the open ogling, he raised his eyebrows in a challenging gesture at the man. The challenge was, it seems, interpreted as an invitation, seeing as the man smiled, stood, and walked over. Illya moved his hands from inside his pockets to being folded before himself, in case he needed to have them ready for self-defense.

The man leaned in and inhaled the hotel-shampoo-scent of the blond hair (I wish I learned "creepy" in Korean…), then leaned back out again as Illya tensed, lowered his head, and cast his gaze warily up. A grin from the forty-something stranger. "Yeppeo."

The fifteen-year-old cycled quickly through some phrases, matching the spoken word to its translation.

Pretty, the man had said.

Illya remembered the word, as several people (mostly elderly ladies) had come up to him and Professor Choi during their sightseeing expedition and (according to Choi) commented on how pretty the foreigner's hair and eyes were. Where the compliment had been sweet (if not a smidgen embarrassing) from the old ladies, it somehow sounded different coming from a middle-aged man with what smelled to be an alcohol-induced flush.

As his attempted glare had been grievously unsuccessful, Illya switched from hostility to rigid politeness. Given the aroma of liquor, it would probably be better to avoid antagonizing the man, anyway. He thanked the stranger in his iciest tone, using the most formal expression of gratitude he could recall ("Kamsamnida.") as well as speaking in a slightly different register than normal, as he had heard that it was polite for younger people to address their elders in a higher pitch.

This tactic did not produce immediate results, unless one counted the widening smile on the man's face, but that wasn't the result Kuryakin had been hoping for, so he didn't count it. "Roshia saram?"

Illya betrayed no sign of having been surprised that the man knew he was Russian. Instead, he confirmed his nationality with a deliberately stilted, "Ne, Roshia saram-ibnida."

The man reached over to take his arm and Illya sidestepped away. He didn't know how to say kindly fuck off, my good man in Korean, so he went with an expression of denial: "An-ibnida," which, as far as he could remember, meant something along the lines of "it is not," and was hopefully enough to get some kind of get the hell away from me message through.

It wasn't.

As the man pursued him in a small, slow, halting circuit around the tree, he added an apology, even though it was really this somewhat sozzled stranger who ought to have been doing the apologizing. He briefly considered doing away with the dilemma entirely by punching the man out or yelling for a police officer, but elected not to: he'd recently had a close brush with The Law for having hacked into corporate documents, and had accordingly resolved to keep a low profile for the time being.

And thus, Illya kept up his mantra ("An-ibnida, chwesonghabnida, an-ibnida, chwesonghabnida…") until Professor Choi came into view, at which point he called sharply, "Professor!"

The computer scientist, who'd been focused on the sidewalk, looked up. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open almost comically as she observed her hapless student's situation, then she gathered her features into a deep frown and called to the man, "Ya!"

The man immediately stopped and, as Choi approached and placed herself between the teen and his pursuer, they spoke too quickly and too quietly for Illya to follow any part of their exchange. Eventually, the stranger inhaled a breath through his teeth and turned to the blond, blurting, "Chweso—"

Choi cut off the man with, "Ka!" and, when the man started babbling again, repeated loudly and with a hand motion that managed to be surprisingly threatening for a bespectacled sixty-year-old lady on the shady side of five feet, "Ka-a-a!"

At last, just as other people were starting to stare, the man gave several bows in rapid succession and backed off, turning around to all but run away, the Aristophanes Corporation logo on the back of his jacket fluttering behind as he hurried off.

The professor wiped a hand down her face. "Ah—Illya, I should know better than to have left you here. I am deeply sorry." Her bow was in direct proportion to the degree of her regret. She never bowed in England, so the Russian could only assume that being back in her home country had revived the old habit. "Did he touch you?" Choi inquired once she rose again, glancing over her charge anxiously.

"No, I was too fast for him," Illya answered, deigning to add a reassuring smile in consideration of the professor's perturbation. "I must admit, however, that I am confused."

Choi's face, still blotchy from her former anger, turned a more uniform red. "Ah. You… are young and have blond hair, so he asked if you are Russian. You are, of course, so you said as much." She cleared her throat. "The, uh, misunderstanding was that… 'Russian' is a euphemism in Korea for—uh… call-girl—well, call-boy in your case, I suppose—although he may have thought you were a girl…."

Illya tilted his head. "Call-boy?"

Choi winced as she said more bluntly, "Prostitute."

Illya frowned. Now he had to mentally flip through his English vocabulary cards, but apparently not quickly enough for Choi, who stepped closer and lowered her voice a bit to further clarify, "A person who is paid to have sex."

The non-euphemistically Russian teen blinked rapidly. "Oh," he eventually managed, and Choi bowed again in apology for not having had the foresight to prevent this situation. Illya cleared his throat and regained a stronger voice as he asked, "Was this incident sexual harassment, then?" He had, of course, heard of the act and made conscious efforts to avoid it, but he wasn't entirely clear on what the first part entailed. The second part (the "harassment" bit) provided enough of a negative connotation that it was obviously a bad thing.

Choi furrowed her brow. "Yes, I—perhaps I should not have let him go. Do you want me to contact the police?"

Illya shook his head absently and picked at his light-or-dark-blue trouser leg. "Was it the suit, you think?" he mused. The degree of emphasis coloring the professor's reply drew his attention immediately.

"No. It was a man making an ass of himself. Clothing has nothing to do with it, Illya. Wear whatever you want."

Illya blinked, getting the distinct impression that there was some nuance underlying Choi's message that he wasn't appreciating. As far as he was concerned, however, they'd dwelled on this incident long enough, so he asked, "Did you make the purchase you required?"

"Ah, yes!" Choi pulled a book halfway out of the shopping bag in her left hand. "It is the book in which you had a chapter published." She replaced the object and extended the bag toward her student with both hands. "I thought you might like to have a copy in Korean."

Illya accepted with both hands and a 'kamsamnida' and asked, "How much?"

"No, Illya, it is a gift." Grimace. "It would have been a gift nonetheless, but you certainly deserve something nice after what happened now."

"Ah. If I am not 'pushing it' in terms of getting something nice, would you also be so kind as to grace me with your opinion as to what this color should be called?" He pinched a bit of his trouser leg between a couple of fingers to illustrate which color he was referring to.

Choi frowned, partly at the unusual question and partly in thought as to what to dub the shade of the suit. "E1EBEE?" She took a second to translate the hexadecimal into a more elucidating name for her colorblind student. "Marian blue. It is quite a light shade, quite pale, not at all obtrusive."

Dammit, Mama. "Thank you."

Two years ago

Napoleon quickly assembled the communicator. "Solo here."

"Hey, bebop, welcome back to the east coast."

Napoleon side-eyed the device. Since the owner of the raspy voice that had offered the welcome obviously could not appreciate that gesture, he added, "Thank you, mysterious stranger."

"I'm Gerry. Secretary, third shift. Thought I'd give you a buzz and introduce myself, since you'll be stuck with me if you use Channel S to contact HQ between one and eight a.m., Eastern Standard Time."

Solo chuckled. Channel S had been set aside for the trainees, and one of the senior agents had commented (only a tad bitterly) that some of the better secretaries had been set aside for Channel S, to ensure the noobs could get the assistance they needed. Napoleon wasn't entirely sure what they were supposed to be better at, but this one certainly had a better voice than the lady who'd answered the phone sex line he'd accidentally (No, really, Mom, I swear!) called once.

"I'd hardly call you someone to be stuck with, friend."

"Ooh, friends already, are we? Be still, my beating heart."

"Worked for our uncle very long, Ger?"

"Long enough that they trust me to the care and keeping of rookie agents, Nap. So don't go getting yourself decapitated over the graveyard shift, okay, or I'll have to file a report on my last interactions with ya. I've got enough paperwork as it is."

"I'll save all decapitations for 8:01, my dear."

"EST, love?"

"8:01 a.m., EST, sweetheart."

"You're a peach."

Early December

"Kuryakin, correct?"

Illya looked up from the orientation manual he was leafing through. "Yes."

"Anton Bai. I have been appointed as the new Chief Enforcement Agent. As you have joined the organization as a future Enforcement agent, I will be overseeing part of your training. Would you mind coming to my office for a bit?"

"Not at all, Mr. Bai."

Illya rose to his feet and they proceeded to Bai's office, moving rather slowly to accommodate Kuryakin's recent knee injury. After a few moments of slow, quiet walking, Bai offered, "You are Russian, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"How are you liking New York?"

"It is not appreciably worse than other places I have lived." Making a guess based on the senior agent's overly careful enunciation, Illya asked, "Where are you from, Mr. Bai?"

"Taiwan, by way of Canada."

"And how are you liking New York?"

"I dislike driving and like edutainment, so a city with a good subway system and a lot of museums has been very enjoyable."

"There are other cities with similar features."

"Yes. I am not based in them, however." Bai opened the door with his name on it and gestured for Illya to limp on in first. Once they were both seated, the CEA got to the point.

The point was illustrated by a few visual aids, as the team that had gathered belongings from certain people's dorm rooms had recovered evidence of certain people's oft-used items (i.e. explosive materials) and unused items (i.e. anti-anxiety medication and antidepressants). Bai was pleased by some of the discoveries ("It never hurts to have a working knowledge of explosives. Do try to obtain your materials legally, though. NYPD gets touchy about that sort of thing.") and displeased by others ("We take agents' mental health very seriously. Psychiatric evaluation is standard procedure, and we expect you to undergo evaluation and develop a workable treatment plan if necessary.").

"Before I let you go, there is one more thing. Mr. Solo has disclosed that you two are dating." Reading the sudden stiffness in the Russian's posture, he continued quickly. "I have no issue with that, Mr. Kuryakin, and it is not a matter of public record. For your privacy, it has been removed from the recent mission report and placed in your personnel file, which has more restricted access.

"What I wanted to say—although I suspect I don't need to tell you—is that you are expected to behave professionally here at HQ. On assignment, you are expected to behave as the situation dictates. In your private life, you have no restrictions from us. I have advised Mr. Solo similarly."

Illya allowed himself a small smirk. "I expect you'd have profited more from advising him twice."

"I agree." Bai leaned back with a returning grin. "Now, Mr. Solo informed me that there is an apartment he wanted to show you, as a prospective new residence. He is waiting for you at the front desk."

And indeed he was. Once Illya had made his way there, Napoleon called for a cab and commented, "Mr. Bai mentioned that he was going to waylay you."

"Yes. He has great faith in your capacity to act professional." Illya looked him up and down swiftly. "No more crutches for you?"

"It wasn't the worst break in the world." Solo lifted his leg a bit and sort of slow-motion kicked his protectively-booted foot. "The doc says this should be fine, long as I don't get overenthusiastic about long walks until I'm cleared for it."

"There goes your dating profile."

"Hmm?"

Illya shrugged one shoulder and they turned in their badges, heading outside to wait around the corner. When a cab pulled to the curb, Napoleon moved closer and the driver called out to him, "You are Central Park?"

"That's us," Solo confirmed and, as they got in, Illya frowned to the American, "Mr. Bai said you were showing me an apartment."

The brunet grinned and shrugged. "So we're going by way of Central Park."

"What was that you just said about limiting your enthusiasm for long walks…?"

"We can find a bench."

Illya frowned but figured Napoleon seemed in one of his Mysterious Grand Surprise moods and decided to save his breath. There was little chance he'd get anything definitive out of the other man, and he might need his breath to berate Solo later. Then a thought occurred to him and he decided to risk wasting a few gasps of air.

"Napoleon, surely this apartment you are showing me is not within a short walking distance of Central Park."

"What if it was?"

"Surely you are not delusional enough to think my stipend is generous enough to afford me an apartment near Central Park."

"You just got a nice new job that comes with a housing allowance."

"A housing allowance that generous is undoubtedly beyond my pay grade."

"Let's see if you like it before you start worrying about the price tag."

"Spoken like a man without a budget."

Napoleon's brow furrowed, and Illya had to repress a triumphal smile. It seemed that he had won: Solo came clean.

"My parents own a place on West 81st. When I came to New York for college, they told me I was welcome to it, but I preferred to have the dorm experience. Now that the dorms are off the table for both of us, it seems very welcoming. Two bedrooms, one bath. About thirteen hundred square feet. Not palatial, but homey…"

As Napoleon prattled on, Illya ran an imaginary finger over the map of Manhattan he'd committed to memory when he decided to come to New York. "West—Napoleon!"

"It's near the park and the Museum of Natural History."

"I know!"

Napoleon raised an amused eyebrow at the near-horrified expression on the Russian's face.

"Oh, Napoleon, this is very considerate of you but I cannot—" Illya dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, Napoleon."

"Can't you at least look it over before deciding you cannot whatever-it-was you were going to say you couldn't?"

"We're approaching Central Park," the driver called back. "Where should I be dropping you gentlemen?"

Napoleon leaned forward a bit. "Somewhere along West Central will be fine. As close to Natural History as you can manage."

"Yes, sir, I will do that."

Illya stayed quiet the last few minutes of the trip, as Napoleon further specified that they weren't exactly in any condition to get out in a hurry, so could the driver maybe instead pull down this street so they'd have a better shot at actually pausing at a curb instead of making them obstruct traffic as they hobbled out—

"Oh, you are lucky, sir," the driver cut him off. "There is a spot right there." He swerved suddenly and screeched to a halt right near the 81st Street-Museum of Natural History subway station.

Solo flashed a grin. "I always knew I was a lucky sort of a fella." As he paid the driver, he included enough of a tip that the cabbie considered himself to be a lucky sort of a fella as well.

"You did not miscount, sir?" the driver hesitantly offered.

"I am an excellent counter," Solo declared as he opened the door and got out. "Mastered my integers in the early grades, I'll have you know."

"There is no mistake," Kuryakin assured the driver before joining the American on the sidewalk.

"Thank you, sir," the cabbie called before pulling away, "good day, sir."

Napoleon's smile automatically widened at the dirty look being sent through narrowed blue eyes.

"Napoleon."

"Yes, Illya, I believe we have successfully established that that is my name."

"I cannot—I cannot…"

Solo chuckled. "Let's expand on that, shall we?"

"It—Napoleon, apartments in this area are surely several times more than most people make in a year."

"My parents own it. They don't expect us to pay market rate to live in a place they hardly ever use anymore." He took Illya's non-cane-holding arm and urged him to move. "Come on, let's at least walk there and have a look-see."

Illya came along, shaking his head as he did so, but not willing to let the exorbitant cost of having taken a cab here go to waste. "I… suppose looking is affordable."

After that, they proceeded quietly, aside from Napoleon's helpfully pointing out all the wonderful features he hoped might sway the blond's opinion.

Look, we're right next to the park.

Hey, there's the Museum of Natural History.

Ooh, the Hayden Planetarium!

That's a nice place to grab a bite.

"And here we are."

They stopped in a small courtyard and Illya blinked wide eyes at the entryway. "Oh, Napoleon…"

"Will you stop saying 'oh, Napoleon'? You already agreed to take a peek. No backsies."

"But… it is of a different class than I am."

"Yes, it is," Napoleon agreed. "You're far superior." He sighed a bit at the skeptical look on his prospective housemate's face. "How'd you ever survive the hallowed halls of Cambridge if this is how you react to a somewhat less-hallowed apartment building?"

"Cambridge is devoted to academic endeavors. I have full confidence in my capacity in that area."

"What is it that people do in their apartments?"

One blond eyebrow arched.

"Well?"

"Sleep. Eat. Use the facilities…"

"Do you have full confidence in your capacity for eating, sleeping, and shi—er, using facilities?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't have any excuses left."

Illya shifted his gaze around quickly before leaning in to ask very quietly, "I will not look like a… callboy?"

"WHA—"

Illya slapped a hand over the American's mouth. "I was whispering for a reason, you imbecile," he hissed, removing the hand.

When Solo was still looking at him like he was crazy, Kuryakin sort of looked around again and muttered by way of explanation, "I attended a scholarly conference in South Korea once and was mistaken for a prostitute."

"You've said you trust me," Napoleon said, now serious because, while he himself found the story humorous (Definitely asking about that one later.), it was obvious that the younger man looked back on the situation as being less than amusing. "Trust me on this." He put a hand on the nearer shoulder and pressed him forward until they were at the door, where they almost collided with a heavyset woman on her way out.

"Oh, pardon—why, if it isn't Napoleon Solo!"

"Only if it isn't Mrs. Brundtland!" Napoleon quickly took her hand to give it a brief kiss. "Long time no see, my dear lady."

"Yes, indeed. And darling Rufus always had such a soft spot for you. Will you be around long enough to give him a thrill?"

"If I'm lucky." A wink to Illya. "And I generally am. Oh—" Solo reaffixed his palm to Kuryakin's shoulder. "—Mrs. Brundtland, this is Illya Kuryakin. I might be moving back in here, and I'm having a heck of a time talking this idiot into putting up with the horror of living in a nice place. Illya struggles with accepting the finer things in life." He leaned in a bit to stage-whisper, "He's Russian."

Illya shot a dour look in Napoleon's direction before nodding at Mrs. Brundtland with a curt, "Madame."

"Well, this is a wonderful building," the lady beamed to her newest acquaintance. "Wonderful location, very secure, spacious layouts—most of the time we have a doorman—oh, but that finicky, finicky Ms. Ravel!" She turned back to Napoleon. "Thomson has been out sick and she still won't let anyone substitute for him." Back to Illya. "Ms. Ravel lives here, too, and Thomson is the doorman. She kicked up such a fuss the first time Management hired a temp to fill in for Thomson, that we simply go without if Thomson can't come in."

"Thank you for elucidating the true struggles of taking up residence in this building, Madame," Illya deadpanned. "Napoleon, I could not possibly live in such a hellhole. Let us go."

As he made to leave, Napoleon grabbed his arm and Mrs. Brundtland exclaimed, "Oh, no, I know it's bratty of me to have such—such… what is it you kids say? First-world problems? In any case, it really is lovely here, Illya, if you can stand to live within a five-mile radius of a spoiled old lady like me and a spoiled young lady like Ms. Ravel."

Illya forced a smile to Mrs. Brundtland while shooting a pained second-world glance in Napoleon's direction.

"Well, I must go now, boys. But sometime you'll have to tell me what happened to your foot and your hand and, uh…?" She sort of gestured at the cane.

"Knee," Napoleon supplied.

"Yes—my, you boys make quite a pair. Ah, youth." She tutted and shook her head with a grin. "I'll see you around, Napoleon. It's nice to meet you, Illya."

Napoleon kissed her hand again and Illya offered another nod. As soon as Mrs. Brundtland had left and they had entered the building, the American explained, "Darling Rufus is Mrs. Brundtland's dog."

"I did not ask. Though one always has hopes that a human in this day and age would give due consideration to the matter of naming their child Rufus." He followed Napoleon to the elevators and, when the brunet pressed the Call button, asked, "Which floor?"

"Four."

Illya stepped away. "I will meet you there." He started toward the door marked Stairs.

"You're kidding, right?" Solo called after. "What's wrong with the elevator?"

"Elevator… ah, you mean the death box."

"You're willing to single-handedly disarm evildoers but elevators is where you draw the line?"

"Beauty and brains. I am privileged to be affiliated with a man of your observational prowess."

"You'll strain your leg or your ribs or both. We're already walking more than Dr. Jimenez would probably be happy with."

Illya paused at the door. "I have a cane and there is presumably a railing to further support me."

"If you use both, you'll irritate your hand."

"If you pursue this argument, you'll irritate me. You have already coaxed me into viewing an apartment over which I have clearly expressed some apprehension. Be so kind as to allow me get there in my own way." With that, Illya opened the door.

Napoleon dropped his head back, silently asked the ceiling to grant him patience, then made his way over to the stairs, saying, "Wait!" in such an uncharacteristically sharp voice that Illya took notice and froze, letting his companion brush past him and into the stairwell.

"Your foot—"

"Is certainly not worse off than your combined injuries. And this way, at least I can regulate the speed of your ascent." The American led the way up, muttering that he was suddenly glad his parents hadn't managed to obtain a place on an upper story when they'd procured the apartment all those years ago.

A few stairs in, Illya asked in a tenuous tenor, "So this is where you lived when you moved from Kansas to New York as a child?"

Taking note of the other's wary voice, Napoleon made sure to resume his own, usual, upbeat tone. "Yes. They kept the place even after we moved out West again, since we still visited the City a couple times a year and my mom hates hotels."

"It usually stands empty, then?"

"That it does, dear thorn in my side."

"And you're quite certain your parents wouldn't mind me moving in, seeing as their standing invitation was to you only?"

"Yes. I knew you'd ask that, so I called them yesterday to make doubly sure." Solo paused on a landing. "They said I was silly for asking, and that of course that sweet young man was welcome to move in. Actually, the word 'dingus' was involved."

"You will forgive me if I say I don't believe your parents called you a dingus."

"As well you shouldn't." Solo approached the last set of stairs. "I said you were a dingus who wouldn't trust them to welcome you to move into the joint." He pushed the door to the hallway open and held it for Illya, letting the glaring Russian pass through.

"And was it also you who called me sweet?"

Between its being the truth, and his not wanting to spark a week's worth of I'm not sweet and I'll prove it to you scowling, the only answer was, "No." He affected a grim expression and further intoned, "It was my mother. She doesn't know you the way I do."

The slight upturn of the mouth—an indicator of wanting to smile but not wanting anyone to see said smile—demonstrated that Solo's response had been the correct one.

As he withdrew the keyring from his pocket and headed to 4A, Napoleon commented, "Sometime you must let me in on why elevators ain't good enough for ya."

"Put simply, my friend," Illya said as the appropriate door was unlocked, "I hate them."

"You mean you're not going to wow me with a thesis of logical reasons to spurn the despicable lift?"

"I could if you like, but I assume you would not like."

"And you say you're not sensitive to people's feelings."

Napoleon locked the door again, glancing as he did at a small chalkboard hanging by the doorway. He nodded at the hastily-drawn seagull in flight drawn on the board, remarking, "Clear. The place has been empty for a while, so I had some of the folks at the office run down and do a thorough security check. We'll do our own sweeps if we move in, but for a start it's good to have had a specialist go over it."

"Ah."

"You'll learn how to do the sweep tomorrow, I think. It's part of the essential training that you're being forced to suffer through despite your current incapacities."

"I would rather suffer the essentials now than be reliant on your… essentials for longer than necessary."

Napoleon took this as a statement of fact rather than a snide comment on his capabilities—after all, it wouldn't do to have one agent overly dependent on another—and started the tour by removing his own coat and, when Illya removed his as well, hung both garments on the nearby rack.

They proceeded slowly partway down the hall, and Napoleon soon gestured to an open doorway on their left. "Kitchen."

The Russian obligingly edged closer to the aperture and peered around the galley kitchen with its breakfast nook at the far end. "Serviceable," he declared, and Napoleon supposed that was the closest thing to a compliment that he could reasonably expect.

"Living room."

"Ironic."

Napoleon raised his brows.

"No humans live in it, you said, and I assume a residence of this caliber would be moderately successful in expelling any infestations of insect or rodent life."

"Bedroom one. Bedroom two. Bathroom." Napoleon flung open the three doors in as rapid a succession as he could manage given his podiatric impediment. "I call dibs on número uno. That was my room as a kid and I'm still territorial over it. So do the digs conform to your discriminating demands?"

Illya gave a nod that seemed more an acknowledgement of Napoleon's having spoken than an agreement with the words used. This apparent distractedness was confirmed, as his wandering gaze was backed up by his head turning away. The American noted that his attention seemed to have been caught by the large window that made up most of one of the ironic living room's walls, and he accordingly hobbled on over to open one of the windows and gesture for the other to join him.

The Russian came over and Napoleon suggested he look to the left. You could just about see Museum property from this angle, and he was counting on Illya's recognizing this and being unable to resist the prospect of living there.

Illya leaned a bit out the window and looked left and, based on his reaction, seemed to have achieved the recognition that Napoleon had been hoping for: "Chert voz'mi, Napoleon!"

"That didn't sound like a happy word."

"It is Russian, Napoleon, it is not the language of pussycats and buttercups."

Napoleon chuckled, then gathered himself to inquire, "Does that mean you're amenable to the idea of moving in?"

"No, it means 'damn it'." Illya brought his head back inside the room and shut the window. "But yes, I would like to move in."

"From that frown on your face, I'm sensing another 'but' in there."

"There are a few."

"Let's go over them, then." Napoleon sank into the sofa, nodding for Illya to join him if he liked, which he did. "So?"

"I know we would be operating as housemates in this capacity, and you have already indicated that we would have separate bedrooms, but in light of our being in a relationship…." Illya shrugged, letting the implication linger.

Napoleon shrugged back. "You said it yourself. Housemates. Separate bedrooms. If or when we change the sleeping arrangements, that's up to you. If it were up to me, I'd certainly be open to it, but anything that makes you uncomfortable on that front is not acceptable. Good enough?"

Illya nodded.

"Next 'but'."

"I would not be comfortable without paying rent of some kind."

"Mr. and Mrs. Solo refuse to accept rent, but they said we would pay our own expenses. Utilities, food, etcetera. We can go halves on the utilities and groceries. Good?"

"May I also do most of the cleaning?"

"Why?"

"This is your family inheritance, Napoleon, not mine. I must compensate for that."

"If you clean, I cook."

Illya made a sound of agreement, as that wasn't much of a sacrifice: he couldn't cook anyway. Really, he would be doing the American a favor by not cooking. But Napoleon did not particularly need to know that detail at the moment.

"Next?"

"The remainder is comprised of my own troubles, and you need not concern yourself."

"I don't mind being concerned if you want to share, notwithstanding."

Illya shrugged. They weren't exactly deep, dark, deviant troubles, and he had recently discovered that he got a bit of a thrill from sharing bits of his feelings with Napoleon. That was rather an odd development, actually, as he hated sharing things with the therapists he'd previously seen and would never dream of expressing personal thoughts to anybody else. Even his parents.

Or maybe especially his parents.

Whichever way it was, this was Napoleon here, and Illya had grown rather disconcertingly fond of Napoleon, and so Illya admitted, "I feel taking this up as a residence is an enormous self-indulgence on my part. Also, I do not look forward to informing my parents of my new residence."

"You just signed up with U.N.C.L.E. Not exactly the least risky career option you could've gone with. I think you deserve a little self-indulgence. Plus…" Napoleon took his companion's un-bandaged hand. "…we'd have more time to get acquainted."

Illya frowned. "Between our interpersonal interactions and your having had a camera in my room, I fail to see how much more you might expect us to be acquainted."

"As much more as it takes for you not to blush when I do this." He brought the hand up, pressed his lips to the knuckles, and smiled as the expected color filled the attached person's cheeks. "And this." He brushed a few fingers along the side of Illya's face. "And this." A chaste meeting of the lips.

As they parted, Illya cleared his throat but still didn't achieve quite a natural tone as he said, "I see. It… I will work on that."

"No rush."

Another clearing of the throat, and this time he sounded just about normal as he asked, "Now what?"

"Now we draw up our roommate agreement."

Illya sighed. "I suppose I have to give up setting off explosions in my room."

That had been Napoleon's first request exactly, but the Russian looked so despondent about it that he changed course. "Let's not be hasty. I'm sure we can figure out a way to keep the building intact without forcing you to give up your favorite hobby."

Illya gave a sniff. "How do you know it is my favorite?"

"If I could blow things up for fun without blowing myself up in the process, it would certainly be my favorite hobby. I was projecting my feelings onto you."

The younger man shrugged and admitted, "You are not wrong."

"Can you do your hobby without having to disarm the fire alarms?"

Another shrug. "It is not as much fun without lots of smoke and sparks, but I suppose I must make some compromise."

That seemed to be all Kuryakin had to say on the matter, but it stopped short of a commitment so the American pressed, "Does that mean yes?"

Illya nodded.

"Okay. As long as you only do it when you're well-rested, and as long as you keep it small enough to not set off any alarms, and as long as you don't use things that could produce shrapnel that might permanently damage walls and furniture… you may continue exploding things in your room."

Napoleon was fairly certain that this wasn't part of his parents' mental equations when they said that of course that sweet boyfriend of his was absolutely welcome to move in. Provided Illya didn't blow any walls out, however, he figured that he'd be exempt from having to explain the younger man's preferred pastime to Mr. and Mrs. Solo.

A bright smile was the brunet's reward for this prospective lapse in sanity, and Illya sounded perilously close to cheerful as he pledged to comply with the proposed conditions.

Mid-December

As he shut off the showerhead, soft sounds from the living room television made their way through the bathroom walls, and he allowed himself a small smile from the satisfaction of knowing that Napoleon had made it back safely.

Not that there had been much doubt of that given that he'd been on a simple courier mission, but it had been Solo's first solo operation and it wasn't unheard of for things to go wrong on even the simplest of tasks, so maybe Kuryakin would even allow a hint of warmth to enter his voice when he saw his housemate and commented, I see you made it.

Dried and dressed, he opened the door and gaped for half a second at the middle-aged woman holding a tray of hot beverages by the coffee table.

No obvious weaponry.

Female, middle-aged.

Holding a tray with more than one serving—thoughtful.

Could hear someone was in the shower but surprised to see me—expected someone else.

No signs of forced entry, coat on the sofa arm, suitcase nearby—making herself at home.

The Solos' home.

A Solo.

"Would you happen to be Napoleon's aunt?" Illya asked, half ready to slam the door shut and lock himself in the bathroom as he called for backup. He held himself partly behind the door, but not in such a way that it would be obvious he was considering a brisk retreat.

"Why, yes." The lady's startled features softened into a smile. "I'm Amy, and you must be Illya."

The Russian nodded and finally stepped out from behind his shield—er, door.

"Flora was right," Aunt Amy chuckled, setting down her tray. "You do look like one of my china dolls. Napoleon always did have good taste. Speaking of, I was actually expecting it was him in the shower."

"He's at work," Illya supplied as he approached. "He will be back soon."

When he hesitated at the far end of the couch, Amy grinned, "Well, sit down and we'll have some cocoa." They sat. "Before I arrived, I actually wasn't expecting anyone at all in the shower… I didn't think anyone would be here."

Illya blinked a couple of times. "Napoleon did not tell you, then. We ran into some difficulties at the dorm we lived at, so he suggested we move here."

She handed over a mug, cautioned it was hot, and asked, "Do any of those difficulties have to do with that limp of yours?"

"Yes." Following the agreed-upon cover story, he made sure to allow his usually-repressed tendency toward a stilted delivery to shine through. "There was a girl who… was harassing me a bit and… well." He flashed a grimace of a smile, and it had the desired effect.

"Say no more, my dear. I don't mind at all that you're here: I just would have expected Napoleon to tell me you boys were moving in. He knows that I always spend a few days in New York around Christmastime, and I always stay here."

Illya rose to his feet. "I am terribly sorry but Napoleon did not tell me, either. I will clear some things from the bedroom I have been using and you can settle in."

Amy laughed a bit. "Oh, please—please, sit. I'm on vacation, for Pete's sake," she said, patting his arm lightly as he sat again. "I'm in no rush to move in lock, stock, and barrel." Apparently having noticed he'd not touched his cocoa, aside from holding the mug containing it, she asked, "You don't like chocolate? I could make—"

"That is not necessary. Forgive my paranoia, but what is in it?"

"Cocoa powder, milk, and sugar. Aunt Amy doesn't go in for roofies, dear."

Illya silently damned the flush that burned his ears, then explained, "I have food sensitivities. As I have been doing well with my restraints of late…"

"Say no more," she said again. "I was thinking of making dinner tonight. If you could tell me what you can't have, I'm sure I could whip up with something that complies with your… restraints."

A whiff of apology marred his effort at a smile. "It is rather extensive, I'm afraid. I cannot eat anything with gluten."

"Hmm, what's that…?" She snapped her fingers a couple of times. "Celiac?"

He nodded.

"One of my girlfriends has it. I can cook for that."

Illya blinked back his surprise. It seemed Napoleon wasn't the only one in his family who possessed a talent with the ladies. Well, given his own social shortcomings, he was hardly one to judge if Aunt Amy had multiple girlfriends, so he simply smiled a bit more successfully and offered, "That is very kind of you."

"It's my pleasure, dear." She stood. "I'll just rummage around your fridge and see what I've got to work with, or if I have to make a grocery run."

After surveying the refrigerator and cabinets, Amy decided that her flash of culinary inspiration required some extra ingredients and turned down Illya's offer of company, saying that he could stay home and wait for Napoleon.

"I'm giving you the very important task of chewing him out for not telling either of us what he should have," she declared, donned her coat, grabbed her purse, and left. Then she opened the door again, stuck her head in, and added, "Make sure you do it with love though, dear," before leaving for real.

As soon as he was sure she'd left, Illya set to clearing his more personal things from his room, depositing assorted items in a suitcase, then moving the bag into Napoleon's room. They could decide later on exactly what the sleeping arrangements would be but at least Aunt Amy now had a room to herself. He took her bag and left it at the foot of his—Amy's—bed.

"I'm home!"

Illya strode to the door, grabbed the collar at Napoleon's throat in one hand, and drew him in for several seconds' worth of kissing. Once he was through, he straightened the American's shirt, dusted a bit of snow off the shoulder, and said with a curt nod, "Well done."

As the blond headed further into the apartment, Napoleon shed his coat and followed, asking, "Not that I need to understand the justification for that warmest of welcomes, but 'well done' on what?"

"Returning home in one piece."

"Hmm, if that's what I get for a single courier mission, I can't wait 'til I'm working full time." He made to grasp Illya's elbow, but it was yanked out of his reach.

"No, I am supposed to chew you out now."

Solo raised his eyebrows.

"You failed to inform me that your Aunt Amy would be staying here for Christmas. And you failed to inform your Aunt Amy that we live here now."

"Oops." Napoleon glanced around a bit. "But how did you know?"

"She was in the living room when I finished my shower. It almost startled me."

"A thousand apologies, mon chou. At least in your almost-startlement you did not kill her." He glanced around again, as if just realizing a somewhat disturbing lack of Aunt Amy's in the vicinity, then fixed an only semi-jocular gaze of suspicion on his companion.

Illya rolled his eyes. "I did not assassinate your aunt, Napoleon."

"Much appreciated." Napoleon started walking through the place, calling, "Aunt Amy, yoo-hoo!" Upon making a full circuit of the apartment, he returned to the Russian and said, "Okay, I give up. Where are you stashing her?"

"She went out to pick up some groceries. She very generously offered to make us dinner."

"Did you tell her—"

"Yes. She said she knows how to cook gluten-free because one of her girlfriends shares my condition." He frowned a bit. "It was surprising to find that you are not the preeminent lothario in your family but she seems nice, notwithstanding."

"Lothari—oh, Illya." Napoleon laughed. "When a woman talks about her girlfriends, she's usually talking about friends who happen to be female."

"That seems unnecessarily confusing."

"Yup. Well, if you're done dressing me down, can I get another kiss now?"

Illya tilted his head. "I guessed what 'chewing out' meant based on the context, but I am not clear as to the degree of severity implied." He tilted his head to the other side, pouted a bit, and glared at the floor in thought. "She did say to do it with love, though, so perhaps that has some mitigating effect."

As he went back to pondering, Napoleon leaned in a bit but stopped when the other started speaking again. "Ah—I hope you do not mind, but I moved some of my things to your room so your aunt can have her own space."

"That's fine. Do you mind sharing the bed or—"

"Do not dare to offer me your own bed."

Napoleon smiled and didn't bother trying to claim that that hadn't been the alternative he was about to offer.

Illya squared his shoulders. "We can share."

Placing a hand on either side of the blond head, Napoleon pressed a brief kiss to his forehead, as if to emphasize the point he was about to make. "There's no need to look so grim, Illya. You aren't about to enter the wolf's den. There won't be any funny business." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Unless you want there to be."

"No. Thank you. Perhaps some other time."

Later that night, as each of them respectably occupied his own side of the bed, Illya commented, "You must find it rather dull. That you make overtures in certain directions only to have me insist 'no, not now, later.'"

"I only keep trying since you say 'later'. Whenever 'later' turns out to be is fine. You're worth the wait."

"There is no rational way for you to have come to that conclusion. Given that you are the only person I have ever kissed, the reasonable—and correct—inference would be that I have no other skills to draw upon in giving you pleasure."

"You're a fast learner. And the goal is for us both to be doing the giving in some way. It's not as if you'd be going it alone."

"Yes. But…. Napoleon."

The gap between each word was longer than each previous pause and, after the Napoleon, Solo prompted quietly, "What is it?"

"I… nothing."

"No. It's something and, whatever it is, you're nervous about it."

"You'll laugh."

"If you can try to tell me, I can try not to laugh."

Illya grunted, and the dim light revealed white teeth bared in a bit of a grimace. "You'll have to try very hard. It is quite… ridiculous."

"Even if it is ridiculous, you are not, mon chou."

A pause. Then, "I don't know how it works."

"It?"

"Intimate relations between men. Based on human anatomy and some terminology used in electrical engineering, I was able to infer how a man and a woman… engage… but I have not been able to guess at the mechanics between two men. Perhaps if I put more effort into such a thought experiment—"

Napoleon frowned at the silhouette beside him. He cut into the uncharacteristic rambling with, "Infer? Illya, didn't you get The Talk?"

"What talk?"

"Didn't your parents tell you about sex? Or, at least, didn't you learn about it in school for health class or something?"

"My talents were such that I was permitted to skip some subjects considered less vital to my academic career. I expect this health class you speak of was among those subjects. And no, my parents do not seem to have gotten around to raising the issue with me." Illya swallowed. "I suppose at my age it is rather silly—"

"I'm not laughing, Illya." He reached out to take the younger man's hand and kissed the knuckles. "I promise we'll have a good talk about everything before we even consider anything more than what we've done, okay?"

"Okay."

"And just because we talk about things doesn't mean we'll do anything you're uncomfortable with, okay?"

Illya nodded.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to but you were never… curious? You never even, say, did an internet search…?"

"While I do not watch it myself, I am aware that pornography exists and is quite popular online and can be… intimidating. Given the nature of the search terms, I decided that some things were better left… un-Googled, as it were."

"Probably a wise move on that one," Napoleon conceded.

"Additionally, I was not previously interested in devoting much attention to investigating the subject. I only researched anatomy and considered the process of procreation as it seemed a fundamental piece of knowledge for a human to possess. My research was not geared toward understanding non-practical aspects of the subject."

"Not… previously interested?" Napoleon prodded gingerly.

Illya squeezed the hand still holding his own. "Yes. In light of… recent developments…." He cleared his throat and withdrew from the localized embrace. "I believe I have embarrassed myself enough for one evening. It is late and we should sleep now."

"There's no reason to be embarrassed, but okay. Good night."

Illya rolled over, returning, "Good night," over his shoulder.

After that, Napoleon stared at the ceiling for a while. He'd figured that—at the very worst—if he somehow changed his mind and decided to have kids—assuming he didn't manage to palm off the job on someone else—he had a solid fifteen or twenty years before having to give The Talk. And, in any case, he'd never thought that he'd have to give The Talk to The Boyfriend.

It was astonishing how Illya could be so mature in some ways—intelligent and courageous and cynical and sarcastic—and yet have managed to go his entire life without anything other than an educated guess as to how basic procreation was carried out. At least that reassured Napoleon that it was the unknown rather than the American himself that made Illya so nervous: it only made sense that someone with virtually no clue about dating and "intimate relations", as he called it, should be anxious. Hell, Napoleon was anxious and, while he'd never been with a guy, at least he had some idea of what he'd be getting into.

Just as Napoleon was drifting off, a buzzing sound reawakened him. He grabbed for his communicator, assembled it through muscle memory more than any conscious effort at dexterity, and mumbled, "Solo here."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, bucko, but you're on assignment as of two minutes ago."

"Always good to hear from you, Ger," Napoleon half-sighed, partly for Illya's edification, as the Russian had apparently also noted the vibrations and was now propped up on an elbow, staring at him. "Am I going to the office first, or straight off to wherever-I'm-going?"

"Office first. Pack a bag, kid. Brazil must be beautiful this time of year… all those sweaty swimsuits."

Napoleon chuckled and rolled out of bed, stepping to the closet containing his suitcase as he asked, "Jealous or disgusted, Gerry-pie?"

"It's a heady mixture of secondhand sunstroke and deep-seated repulsion."

"Not a beach person, I take it. Anyway, get yourself a little better acquainted with Mr. Kuryakin while I pack." Napoleon chucked the communicator over to the bed and Illya (unsurprisingly not in the mood for chit-chat) picked it up in much the same manner as he'd likely handle a rattlesnake.

"Hello, Gerry."

"Greetings, Mr. Kuryakin. My regrets for having called at such an inopportune time."

"I cannot fault you for doing your work. Have you any idea when Mr. Solo will be returned?"

"Can't give you an exact ETA, sir, but Waverly wouldn't want Solo missing his last semester at university. Odds are he'll be back by mid-January at the latest, in time for the start of classes."

Napoleon looked up from packing socks, asking with a wry twist of his lips, "You call that getting acquainted?"

Illya arched a brow in return. "It seems Mr. Solo was serious about us knowing each other better, Gerry."

A brief laugh wheezed through the communicator. "Okay. My favorite color is blue. What's yours, sir?"

"I suppose black is not technically a color, but I prefer things in that shade as opposed to others. My musical inclinations currently tend toward the compositions of Rachmaninoff. What music do you like?"

"Lately I've been going in for Dvorak. Not overly original of me, but I've had the New World on repeat for the past week."

"Excellent. We have found common ground in our taste in music." The Russian pierced his housemate with a glare. "One hopes this progress is sufficiently satisfactory for Mr. Solo." When Napoleon flashed a smile, Illya added, "If there are no further words you must exchange with Mr. Solo at this juncture, I shall terminate our contact."

"Nothing else, sir. Good night, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Good night, Gerry."

As Napoleon caught the communicator as Illya lobbed it back to him, he commented, "Bummer that duty calls now, of all times. I was looking forward to the holidays."

Illya split his response between a nod and a shrug. They'd been planning to have Christmas à la Napoleon (since the occasion barely registered on Illya's internal calendar, aside from the now-tainted memories of Dr. Egret sharing holiday movies with him) and New Year's à la Illya (except with less vodka).

Napoleon stepped behind the closet door for a few moments to get dressed and soon emerged saying, "Darn it—Aunt Amy—"

"Will, I'm sure, be disappointed not to get more time with you but it cannot be helped. Your friend called in the middle of the night with an emergency and, as you are such a nice person, you immediately rushed to their aid. It is a personal issue so, of course, you could not tell me about it, and you don't know when you'll be back, but you'll text when you can."

Napoleon grinned. "I always knew I was a real pal. Anyway, Aunt Amy knows you weren't expecting her, so she won't expect you to be entertaining. Just go about your business and maybe spare her a sidelong glance once in a while."

Illya nodded.

"Oh, except for the blowing-things-up part. Don't do that part of your business while she's here."

Illya dropped back, the person giving a sigh and the pillow giving a poof as a head plumped into it. "You are leaving and you are also taking away my explosions. I am bereft of all the pleasures in life."

Napoleon frowned at him for several seconds, over the course of which he reached his verdict: bluffing. "No explosions," the American said in a scolding tone.

The Russian sighed a bit and sat up. "It was worth a shot." Perhaps he could develop a sudden interest in cookery while Napoleon was away. Surely he could manage to be bad enough at it to develop a more interesting demise for a soufflé than a simple collapse.

Napoleon came back over. "Can I get me a nice send-off?"

Illya's brow furrowed. "That seems an odd way to say goodbye."

"Is it?"

Illya nodded and, when Napoleon seemed perplexed, reluctantly demonstrated the gesture, prompting the American to burst into quiet laughter. "Illya, I said 'send-off', not 'flip me off'! This is what I meant…" and he demonstrated with a gentle kiss on the lips.

As they parted, the blond admitted, "That is much nicer."

Napoleon pressed their foreheads together. "I'll miss you."

"If you do not return intact I will not be pleased."

"How touching." Napoleon stole another kiss before pulling away. "See you sooner rather than later, I hope."

Illya nodded as Napoleon headed to the door. Realizing that it was unlikely that "soon" would be as soon as the twenty-fifth, he scrambled up and urged, "Wait!" The Russian reached into his backpack and chucked a small, gift-wrapped box at the waiting man.

Napoleon managed to take it up with his free hand, grinning. He slipped the gift into a side pocket of his suitcase. "Thanks. Yours is in the back of my sock drawer."

"I know."

Napoleon gave a huff of mock displeasure. "Next time I'll snitch on you to Santa."

Illya rolled his eyes. "Happy Christmas, stoolie."

"Happy New Year, brat."

A/N: As a heads-up for the rest of the chapters, Mark Slate only gets a small role and April Dancer is just barely mentioned in the story, so if you liked them in TUIDA… sorry. I do have vague notions of a third story, however, because I'm an idiot that way; that vague notion involves more April and (since they're a package deal) probably Mark, too.

Meanwhile, updates will be slow as the rest of the chapters are not completely written yet. They'll get done eventually as I know the gist of what's going to happen in each, but they're not in a fit state for posting at the present time. I'll write as fast as I can but… y'know… real life, etc. :)

And FYI, chapter titles are named after songs that I thought fit the mood of the content. Does that make this a songfic? This chapter's songs are from George Gershwin (spoiler: every chapter includes something from Gershwin) and Mika. Or MIKA. Depends how enthusiastic you're feeling, I guess.

Thanks for reading!