The Contingent Happenings Affair Chapter 2: Act II: Musical theater, a man from uncle fanfic

A/N: You're back! (triumphant kazoo)

Welcome to another installment of "Yep, this is as good as it's getting." Can't speak to the style (or copy-editing) of it, but the substance of this chapter accomplishes about what I wanted it to so… yay? Anyway, brace yourself for my potentially (probably) faulty Ukrainian and attempts at writing British speech. I came, I tried, I gave up.

This chapter officially introduces guests from another TV series, but they'll have minor roles. I'll say what series at the end of this chapter, although I dropped a hint in the first chapter so maybe you're way ahead of me.

Chapter warnings: Mention of a panic attack but, if you were okay Act II of "Up is Down", this should be fine unless you find its taking place on an airplane disturbing.

Act II: An aspiring musical theater producer

Six years ago

"Shite, we're idiots. Especially you—also me but… mostly you."

"No argument here."

"Think they'll fall for it?"

Mark pulled a face. "Considering we're here, now, going through with it…."

"I know we're fucking doing it, thanks."

"And we wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think the odds were better'n one-in-two." He grinned. "Then again, I've always been rubbish at maths, so—hell are you doing?"

Arthur Slate's gray eyes narrowed at his brother. "What's it look like?" the brunet snapped as he unzipped the backpack. "Checking that everything's as it should be now, before we try to pass off two actual firecrackers and a bunch of empty boxes as enough shit to blow up a roomful of students. You know which ones to show 'em, right?"

Mark nodded, coming over to squat by the younger teen. He poked a finger at the two genuine articles. "See, I crumpled the bottom left corner on each, and scratched a bit of the color off the top right corner. Not so obvious that they'll notice—" Hopefully. "—but enough for me to pick a suitable sample if they want a demo. Satisfied?"

Arthur shrugged, which seemed the closest thing to an affirmation that he would be inclined to offer, so Mark replaced the stuff to his own taste. After all, he'd be the one selling alleged explosives to several prigs bent on attacking an event at their school.

International Day of Happiness.

The teaching staff decide to observe the UN holiday and some assholes look at that decision and immediately make their own decision to literally. Attack. Happiness.

"So," Mark commented as he rezipped the bag. "I was thinking."

"And that would be what got us into this. Spare me."

Mark bit the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry. I get cranky when faced with the possibility of hospitalization and/or imprisonment looming in my immediate future. What is it?"

"I was thinking, once we get the footage of them buying what they think are explosives, we should maybe go straight to the cops instead of the head teacher."

"You think Mr. Vincent—" The head teacher. "—'ll not believe us, even with video proof?"

"He's fricking racist and nepotist."

"Nepotist's a word?"

"Sure is."

"Damn."

"You do so hate it when I'm right."

"No, I do so hate it when it suddenly occurs to me that we'll have to tell Mum that we've been involved in vigilante sting ops." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, well. She can only be shocked and appalled for so long."

The doorbell rang and Mark whispered, "Go time. By which I mean, you go hide. And don't forget to hit Record before you take the video."

Sometime last year

Nobody liked detraining. It was, of course, a necessary tactic to have at the disposal of the U.N.C.L.E.—and it did have the merit of allowing former agents to move on with fairly normal lives afterward—but the disruption in one's life was not insubstantial, so nobody looked upon the policy with much fondness.

Nevertheless, CEA Crane hoped she would be detrained as completely as possible. Self-detraining techniques had only been developed a few years back, and none of the agents who'd been trained in the techniques had yet found it necessary in a real situation in the field, so she wasn't a hundred percent certain that it would be a hundred percent effective.

Nevertheless, she was left with little choice, as the T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogations were getting harsher and no rescue seemed forthcoming. And so, sitting in her grungy little cell, she shifted her jaw until she felt the click, which activated the implants near her ears, which were filled with the high-pitched whirring of the detraining machine. She closed her eyes and pictured the spinning black and white disc, imagined the voice of Dr. Lazarus guiding her through the hypnosis, blanked her mind…

"'Ey, Crane, what you up to? Crane—stop her!"

New York

Monday

T.H.R.U.S.H. office

"It's Slate, ma'am."

Gervaise Ravel sighed. She'd told Slate not to call her directly unless there was a problem, so it was with some reluctance that she held out a hand for the phone and said as her secretary gave over the device, "Well, let's see what the damn fool has to say. Hello, Slate?"

"Hello, ma'am. We waited all afternoon and nobody turned up."

"Damn fool. Not you, Slate. Actually, yes, you too, but I meant your contact."

"I know I wasn't to leave without the money, ma'am, but I have some family affairs I'm to attend and they might suspect something is off if I'm not there."

"Yes, alright. You may return for now but make sure you keep yourself available. We'll be in touch."

Silence.

"You will keep yourself available. We have a contract."

"Yes, ma'am."

Elsewhere

Gatwick.

North Terminal.

In the queue at the gate, behind a British businessman and an elderly couple who sound to be from the American South.

It's too familiar. Too much so to be real, but this always happens before he takes a flight in real life and there's not a lot he can do about it so he sighs to himself and gets on with it.

"First time traveling alone, lad?" the airline worker asks once it's his turn.

"Not at all, madam," he replies, since that's what he said when this actually happened and he worries that going off script might prolong this whole process or somehow make it even more unpleasant.

"Old hand at it, eh?" She hands back his ticket. "There you are, love. Have a good flight."

"Thank you," he says, walking down the tunnel into the plane and withholding a grimace as he approaches his seat. Somehow it's worse now that he knows not only when, but also why it's going to happen. He thinks being armed with this knowledge should make it easier, but his clenching stomach and tensing shoulders are making a strong counterargument so his brain concedes the point.

"Why, hello there, neighbor," the lady already seated in the chair beside his smiles at him, and this time he knows this is Dr. Egret, even if she is in the guise of what seems to be a ninety-something-year-old Alabaman or Mississippian or whatever-it-is she's going for.

He briefly considers spitting in her face, but again opts against rocking the boat and instead recites, "Good day," as he sits. He nods when Dr. Egret's alleged husband smiles politely in his direction. He fastens his seatbelt and fidgets a bit and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, which is easy enough to carry on with, given what he's anticipating.

Time passes and he isn't sure whether it actually is two hours, but it certainly feels at least that long. In any case, Dr. Egret gives an emphatic shudder and Illya represses a sudden, near-uncontrollable urge to strangle her with the travel pillow round her neck. The puffiness would probably make that a difficult enterprise, but he would be more than willing to rip out what he could of the fluffy innards and have a go at it anyway.

"Is something wrong, madam?" he dutifully inquires as the pseudo-husband snores at a volume rivalling that of the plane engines.

"Oh, yes, thank you, just a chill."

He would listen for it this time.

"I should have listened to my friend Martha."

Maybe he'll notice the change in the sound of her voice, now that he knows what is going on.

"She told me to bundle up, but I guess I didn't do enough for Jack Frost today."

Maybe a bit. Just a slight change in the pitch, a marginally different inflection. Of course, he might be imagining it.

And of course, there is actually no "might" about it: all of this is in his head.

And of course, that doesn't make a lick of difference when his chest is seizing up and the plane feels as if it's gone into a tailspin. Or when his vision is flashing and Dr. Egret is asking, "Are you alright, dearie?" and the last syllable rings out, rising in pitch until it seems capable of shattering his eardrums.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

At least this will be over soon.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Maybe even before he goes completely deaf.

ILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

That would be nice.

ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL

Yes, sometime prior to his brain exploding would be lovely.

ILLYA ILLYA ILLYA—

"Illya, time to rise, sunshine."

Illya's eyes snapped open and he decided that the ceiling had never looked more beautiful. Except for that one hole which Napoleon had said formerly held a screw which formerly held up a model airplane, but Illya was willing to overlook that imperfection for the time being. Even if it was a hideous eyesore.

He glanced around to make sure he was really in the waking world, eventually fixing his gaze on Napoleon, whose brows furrowed as the American took in the sweat and odd expression on the Russian's face.

"Bad dream?" Solo prompted, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Bad memory." Kuryakin frowned at Napoleon's frown and sat up. "You should be happy. That means I am more pleased to see you than I would normally be." He leaned in close—close—closer—until Napoleon read and acted upon the silent request. Some indeterminate amount of time later, he withdrew from the kiss to smile at Napoleon's significantly less worried face.

Napoleon quirked a returning grin, started to move back in, and then pulled back again abruptly. "Goldarn it, we don't have time. We've got places to do, things to go—I mean—"

Illya combed a few fingers through the brown hair, realizing it was slightly damp.

Shower.

He'd showered already.

And, now that more of his brainpower was coming online, Kuryakin further assessed that Solo was fully dressed for the day.

Illya jerked around, grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and found 4:12 a.m. displayed on the screen.

"I shut off the alarm and figured I'd let you sleep a little longer while I made myself presentable," Napoleon explained. "We still have plenty of time before our ride arrives—"

"You said we don't have time."

"We have enough for personal hygiene and food, not for passionate necking. My time management skills leave something to be desired."

"Yes, you must work on that."

Napoleon ruffled the blond hair. "Bathe thyself, stinky. Ms. Khan was nice enough to offer her services, so we shouldn't hold her up."

"Parking anywhere around here should be fine," April said to Mr. Waverly's secretary as they turned onto West 81st Street. "I'll text them that we're here."

A couple of minutes later, Napoleon got in first with his rolling carryon bag and his gun case: Mark would be the only one flashing his U.N.C.L.E. identification on the flight out, so Solo and Dancer had to make like ordinary civilians and check their weapons at the airport. Illya, who hadn't yet been issued a weapon, followed with one small duffel bag, which he used to nudge Napoleon over when the American initially paused at the middle seat instead of proceeding directly to the spot behind Ms. Khan.

"Thanks again for driving us," Napoleon offered as he buckled in.

"Not at all," Ms. Khan smiled back. "I just feel bad we have to leave Mark to his own devices, since we can't have the same car dropping off you and him at the same terminal when you're not supposed to act like you know him until you get to London."

"If it'll make you feel any better, I'm sure he'll have a grand old time sashaying on past Security with his U.N.C.L.E. ID while the rest of us have our persons intruded upon by TSA. And getting to be Mr. Manly Man with the gun, looking out for me and Illya on the flight."

Not long after that, the front row and the back row each split into their own conversation zones. About halfway to the airport, April glanced to the backseat and smiled to herself.

"So what makes him different?" she asked, once Mark had left their office to escort Illya back to the university.

"How do you mean?"

"What's keeping you in a legit relationship with no sex instead of returning to your freewheeling ways?"

"It's great when people assume I'm some kind of sex maniac."

April propped her chin on one hand and screwed her mouth to one side.

"Geez, really?"

"The track record for your personal life doesn't really allow for a wide range of interpretations, pal."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But to answer your question stemming from your entirely unjustified view of my social behaviors, I guess it's because I've never met anyone like him before. It's… it's exhilarating."

April tilted her head to the other side. "I think the last time you called something exhilarating was when we skydived from a helicopter for a training assignment last summer."

"That's what it's like."

She frowned. "Five minutes of abject terror?"

"That's what she said—and I instantly regret that on multiple levels." Napoleon politely extended his arm and waited for April to smack him on the hand before continuing. "What I mean is, it's like a mission."

"A series of short-term, highly specific tasks intended to be executed without becoming emotionally invested in anyone involved?"

Napoleon stared for a few moments. "No, I—no. I meant in the sense that he keeps me on my toes. And I have a sense of purpose. I—well, I think he kind of needs me."

"And when you're settled?"

"Settled?"

"When his quirks don't surprise you anymore. When you eventually do sleep with him and the mystery is gone. If, when you go on assignments, you find that he doesn't need you as much as you think."

"Miss Dancer, I am absolutely shocked that a perfectly intelligent person like you can manage to entirely miss the most important part."

"Which is…?"

"I'm emotionally invested in the person involved."

And as the dark and light heads bent together to talk quietly, Napoleon's arm across the back of the seat to occasionally play with Illya's hair, she could believe Solo's statement. The American seemed to have devoted all his attention to whatever the Russian was saying, and his smile as he listened was a sincere one, not the indulgent version he wore when he paid attention to get something he wanted.

For Illya's part, while the blond stopped short of smiling, the set of his face was more relaxed than when he talked to other people and holding eye contact with Napoleon seemed to come more naturally than with anyone else. So maybe he did need Solo. Or at least did better around the brunet. And—

—and she had completely dropped her end of the conversation with Ms. Khan, who smiled as she registered April's oh crap expression and asked, "Finished spacing out?"

"Yeah, sorry," Dancer said sheepishly.

Khan flicked her eyes to the rear. "Out of curiosity, are they together?"

"Yes, they are," returned Kuryakin's voice crisply, "for the week, at least. Ah, Terminal 7. I hope your flight is pleasantly uneventful, April."

Napoleon followed suit in bidding April a safe trip and then chatted with Ms. Khan until they reached Terminal 4. Once they'd alighted from the car, Napoleon touched a hand to Illya's elbow: a test for how receptive the Russian might be to having an arm around him.

Instead of one of the usual two outcomes (being ignored or being smiled at) Illya pressed a hand of his own to the back of Napoleon's shoulder and the American went along with the pressure that steered him off to one side, turning around once he reached the exterior wall of the terminal as he assumed that the goal was not for him to nose-plant into the thing.

"You were—" Illya paused as if it hurt to get the word out and pressed Napoleon's shoulder into the wall as if to compel Solo to share in his discomfort. "—right."

Napoleon had never felt less smug about being told that. "Which specific instance of my rightness are we discussing?"

"At the apartment the other day and regarding our conversation in the car. I… could put more effort into being open."

"I can't recall ever saying that."

"You are too well-mannered to make the accusation directly."

Solo had a different opinion on that matter: if he thought Kuryakin wasn't doing the best he could, that would definitely have been a topic of conversation by now. Still, if this misperception was prompting Illya to open up more, he wasn't about to disillusion the guy. Napoleon made a noncommittal sound and kept his mouth shut.

"Dr. Boateng has suggested that there may be some merit in your joining us for a session. If convenient for you."

Based on Illya's steadily-tightening grip on him, Napoleon went with, "Do you want me to join you?"

"Not in every sense of the word, but I believe it is important that you do." Illya abruptly released his grip when he realized (based on a grimace from Napoleon) that his clenching hand was inflicting some pain, and he stared at the offending hand for a moment before ramming it into his pocket. "I would… appreciate your presence, if not inconvenient."

"For you, it could never be an inconvenience."

"Withhold that judgement until you've spoken with Dr. Boateng."

"I mean it. And I consider it an honor that you would trust me with this."

Illya muttered something under his breath that did not sound to be in English, turned away, turned back just long enough to shoot out, "Thank you," and resumed his progress to the inside of the terminal.

Napoleon grinned and followed as they went in to check in themselves and his gun case. While Solo found he felt a bit empty without his weapon, it was more the issue of the security line that irked him: specifically, the part where he anticipated how Slate would boast about his queue-jumping privileges without letting on to outside parties that he and Solo were acquainted. He had a sneaking suspicion it would have something to do with an obscene gesture that Mark had oh-so-conveniently taught him the day they learned of their travel arrangements.

In the queue, Mark cast a casual look backward, the illusion of innocence broken briefly by a scratch to the side of his nose, which he just happened to execute with his thumb and index finger extended: L for 'loser'. Then V for… well, Napoleon wasn't sure what it stood for, but it sure bore a resemblance to that obscene gesture he just happened to have learned recently.

Short of testing how far and true he could aim his spitting—sadly an unnecessarily risky tactic for the time being—there wasn't much Solo could do in retaliation just then. And so he returned his attention to his boyfriend and, for the week, fiancé.

Black beanie.

Black turtleneck.

Black bomber jacket.

Black skinny jeans.

Black duffel back over one shoulder.

Turning around to say something, then realizing that the American was already eying him and opting instead to raise a questioning brow.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "You, uh, look like a cat burglar." And also really hot, but for now he preferred not to examine why he was linking the two.

Illya's gaze flicked down briefly over the American's outfit. Button-up plaid shirt. Khaki pants. Red-checkered coat laid over his rolling carry-on. "You look like a lumberjack."

"And I'm okay. With that." He pressed a guiding hand to the black-clad back to urge the Russian forward and close a bit of the gap developing between them and the person ahead in line. When Illya moved about half the distance he'd been hoping for and stopped with a quick backward glare, he was reminded of the ride to the airport, during which he'd unsuccessfully endeavored to coax the blond into explaining why he disliked air travel.

Well, it wasn't completely a failure, as Illya had spent a fair chunk of the drive teaching him endearments in Russian and Ukrainian. Besides being a good time for Solo, it revealed just how much Kuryakin did not want to discuss the matter: it seemed rather a desperate ploy for him to resort to arming Napoleon with new words of a romantic variety. (The diminutive forms of words for cute little animals were definitely going to get some play in the future, undoubtedly to the younger man's eternal regret.)

This trip, Solo also had the advantage of being more familiar with the Russian's body language, and Kuryakin had the (mis?)fortune of not being distracted by being miserably ill. Between the two, Illya was aware of his surroundings and Napoleon was aware that Illya was not thrilled with those surroundings.

The hands shoved deep in pockets.

The sullen, watchful gaze slowly scanning from left to right and back again.

The repeated rolling of tense shoulders.

Solo eased the pressure he was exerting with his hand, transforming it into a light massage that seemed to lengthen the intervals between shoulder rolls and reduce the danger of Kuryakin's fingernails puncturing the insides of his pockets throughout their rousing adventure through airport security.

Once they'd been seated to wait at their gate for a few minutes—Illya working away at his computer and Napoleon flipping through a magazine someone had left behind—Napoleon resumed his earlier massage at the first hint of a rising shoulder, until Illya looked up from his laptop to remark, "You are rather… touchy-feely today."

Napoleon glanced around furtively before leaning in close to say in an exaggerated whisper, "All a part of my super-secret spy cover." He winked as he drew back.

Illya cocked his head and held the brown gaze long enough that Napoleon started getting a bit uneasy, but then the Russian took his face in both hands and gently pulled it in for a chaste but lingering kiss. Taking in the American's slack-jawed expression as they parted, he whispered, "My superior secret spy cover," and returned the wink.

"Maybe we should explore the possibility of employing role-play on a more regular basis."

Illya smiled vaguely and turned his attention back to his laptop, and that relative lack of a response suggested to Napoleon that his intended innuendo hadn't been entirely understood. He accordingly sighed in mock exasperation, "Ah, my pure heart."

"Did you say something blisteringly witty and presumably inappropriate that I failed to appreciate?" Illya wondered mildly, tapping away at the keys.

"Yes."

"Pity."

Somewhere in France

"I did what you said but nobody showed."

"Damn fool, you were too slow. The party you were to meet had a train to catch."

"What I'm hearing is, I can have another shot if I hop a train."

"I think your ears need to be cleaned out, but fine. I did get rather attached to the idea of your doing this little favor for me. Go to England. Marlborough. Wednesday afternoon on the high street. Remember: look for the man—"

"Wearing a red coat and with a blonde."

"Codeword—"

"Codeword: William Shakespeare. Response: Francis Bacon."

"I don't like your attitude."

"Like I'm crazy about yours, lady."

"My attitude keeps me in control of you. Yours will get you in trouble with me. You better just hope you don't bungle this again because, with that attitude, this is your last chance."

In-flight

Illya opened his eyes upon feeling something prod at his shoulder, glancing to the side to find Napoleon grinning at him. He sighed quietly and, removing his headphones, commented, "You will never learn, will you?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Why are you disturbing me?"

"Got you an engagement gift."

Illya frowned at the clamshell box being drawn from Napoleon's carryon case and the American simply smiled in return, as he knew the Russian wouldn't be able to protest as effectively as he'd like.

Solo held the cube in front of Kuryakin. "Happy betrothal."

Illya folded his arms over his chest. "I did not get you anything and your birthday is not for another month and I have no intention of giving you anything until then."

"That's fine. You've already given me your heart, and that's more than enough." He gave the box a light shake.

Illya harrumphed quietly and plucked the thing from Napoleon's hand. Rather than opening it immediately, he held it up in front of the other's nose and said, "I accept it on one condition. Francis."

"Anything, my true heart."

"Once we are… married… I will manage our finances."

"I shudder at the prospect of a fiscally responsible future, but okay."

Illya flashed a grin. Since the box was unwrapped, he simply flipped back the lid to see the silver-colored watch nestled within, then clenched his jaw as he took in the fancy-looking logo on the inside of the box. "Perhaps I should manage them starting immediately."

Napoleon leaned in to gesture at the watch with, "It's engraved."

A blue glare. "You are not helping."

Solo kissed the tip of his nose.

"That is marginally helpful."

"Hmm, I wonder what would be extremely helpful…"

Illya pushed the approaching face away and took out the watch, flipping it over to read the engraving, then flipping it over again and replacing it as his ears went pink.

Before the blond could clap the lid shut, Napoleon asked, "What's it say?"

"I should hope you knew—no. It would be better if you did not. Then I could rest assured that you found this at a significant discount in a secondhand shop."

"I told them what to put, but I want to make sure they got it right." And based on Illya's developing coloration in response to what was supposed to be a rather tame and familiar sentiment, some kind of screw-up did not seem entirely beyond the realm of possibility.

Illya handed over the watch and clamped one hand over Napoleon's mouth in a warning not to read it aloud. Solo kissed the constricting palm and it promptly withdrew, but the American took in the inscription silently: one word per line in Cyrillic, followed by the date that they met. They looked like the appropriate characters as far as he could recall but…

Napoleon leaned on the shared armrest to whisper as quietly as possible in his ear, "It says, 'Ya tebe lyublyu', right?"

Two quick nods.

Good, right message: Ukrainian for 'I love you'.

He continued at a low volume, "And I mean it. You know that, don't you?" Napoleon reached as if to put the watch on the other's wrist, but Illya deftly slipped the object from his hands and fastened it himself. As Illya rotated his hand and frowned at the gap between the watchband and his wrist despite the thing being at its tightest setting, Napoleon added, "You'll fill it out soon enough. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong with having a dandy bracelet."

One side of Illya's mouth twitched. "Of the two of us, I'd say you are more the dandy."

"More the randy, at least, my dear heart."

Now both corners of his mouth dropped, and he used a pinky to feel the engraving on the underside of the watch face, commenting, "Your pronunciation was terrible, by the way. It is 'ya tebe lyublyu', not 'yeti babalu'."

"I don't mind practicing. Ya table 'aloo, yada balsa blue—"

"Your attempts at a comedic deterioration are not successful."

"Yet a vindaloo, yenta ballyhoo—was that a smile, my brave heart?"

"A sneer."

"I'll take it."

Illya capitulated with a backhanded swat to Napoleon's shoulder and the demonstration of a full smile. "Vyrodok."

"Can I assume that means 'a strikingly handsome man'?"

He almost made the correction ("It means 'moron', but I mean it in affectionate manner.") but ultimately decided on: "You can assume whatever you like." Illya raised a brow when Napoleon reached over. "For your edification, however, it does not mean, 'please grab my wrist'."

"Time," Napoleon said simply, releasing the wrist and bending over to the carryon stored under the seat for a few moments before returning with one of Illya's antidepressants and a small snack to be taken with it. "We'll keep the watch on New York time," he said as Illya begrudgingly scoffed a few almonds with the pill. "As god is my witness, you'll never get off-schedule again—ah-ah-ah, show me."

Blue eyes flicked upward, but Illya obligingly opened his mouth and moved his tongue around to show the medicine had gone where it was supposed to.

"Hey, I'd trust you to take it but you're the one who said I shouldn't."

"Yes. Damn my forthcoming nature."

"Sorry to disturb if you didn't want to talk to no one," a gravelly voice asserted, and Napoleon turned to the row-mate on his other side: a sturdily-built older man with the appearance of a former boxer.

Illya bit the inside of his cheek. While the general public's reaction to their occasional hand-holding and even rarer public kisses had thus far ranged from indifference to smiles, he was still perpetually bracing himself for negative reactions despite Napoleon's regular reminders about people who minded and people who mattered.

"I'm a bachelor myself," the cap-wearing man went on, "but it always warms my heart when I hear about folks finding someone special. Congratulations."

Napoleon nudged Illya's foot with his own, as if he'd sensed the younger man's tension and was saying, See, it's fine!, as he offered to the stranger, "That's very nice of you to say. Thank you."

"No problem." The man looked past Napoleon to smile at the rather stiff Illya. "I know I don't look it, but I'm a real sucker for a love story and, livin' in New York, it's like I get to share in a little bit of lots of people's happiness." He offered his hand to the brunet. "Max, by the way."

"I'm Francis," Napoleon returned, shaking the hand, "and this bright young thing is Ilia."

Illya glowered at his partner. "If you call me that again, we are calling it off."

"Aw, don't sully Max's idealistic vision of romance, my tender heart."

Illya suppressed a sigh. He'd taken Napoleon's sudden barrage of new pet names as part of his alleged cover, but really: "I do wish you'd settle on one before it devolves further."

"Whatever do you mean, my achy breaky heart?"

Not seeming perturbed, Max simply offered his hand for Illya to shake as well and asked, "Are you guys from New York, or just flyin' out from there?"

Napoleon nudged Illya's foot again, this time to signal the need for caution: while Max's striking up a conversation was, in all likelihood, a simple matter of friendliness, there was still a non-zero possibility of the stranger having questionable connections.

"Well, obviously you're not from New York," Max continued with a glance to Illya, "but do you live there, I mean?"

"We surely do," Napoleon supplied. "Neither of us is a native New Yorker, but it's home now. A friend of ours has a home in England, so we thought we'd take advantage of their hospitality and have a little trip to celebrate getting engaged."

"I bet it's a swell place to have a vacation. Me, I'm traveling for work. I'm sort of in project management, see, and my boss, Miss Ravel, has an operation goin' on in England, so I'm supposed to check in and make sure everything's hunky-dory."

"Ravel, huh? What a coincidence!" Napoleon exclaimed, and Illya glanced at him in surprise, silently wondering if the American was essentially about to reveal their home address. Not that Max's Miss Ravel was definitely their own Miss Ravel, but they couldn't rule out the prospect. "Ilia here had a whole Maurice Ravel phase not too long ago. I don't suppose your Miss Ravel is a descendant."

"Afraid I wouldn't know that, Francis. Miss R doesn't exactly encourage the asking of personal questions. Not a real friendly lady, Miss R, but she pays okay, and an old high school dropout like me can't get picky about that kinda thing, see? Especially seeing as I'm not in primo condition like I used to be, physical-wise."

Napoleon nodded sympathetically. "On the bright side, though, it seems there's some interesting aspects to the work. Travel and all."

"This is my first real trip for work, although Miss R did say there might be more if I do good." He looked past Solo. "Say, where do you come from, Ilia? Originally, I mean. I'm usually pretty good at pegging accents but I couldn't catch yours."

"I am Ukrainian. I affect an English pronunciation, however, as my original accent served only to draw more than my share of 'Russian hacker' jokes."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows as if to ask if that was really a thing the Russian had dealt with, and Illya's long-suffering eyeroll provided a clear enough answer.

"That's lousy. Damn Russians, eh?" Max remarked, grinning to ensure his lighthearted intention was recognized. "Are you a Ukrainian hacker?"

"I am a physics lecturer."

"Wow, a real cerebral type, huh? How about you, Francis?"

Napoleon shook his head, choosing to ignore that Illya (or at least Ilia—hopefully just Ilia) felt the need to snort at Max's question. "No, I'm more the showbiz type. I'm an associate producer."

"Theater or what?"

"TV. Daytime talk."

"He aspires to be a musical theater associate producer," Illya contributed, and Napoleon decided that the blond was having too much fun all of a sudden. The brunet accordingly shot him a withering look and received a blinding smile in return.

"Hey, that's neat," Max said, then frowned slightly. "Say, what does a producer do, exactly?"

"Avert disasters, mostly," was Napoleon's summary.

"Sounds like my job."

"Small world," Napoleon chuckled. "What kind of company is it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Mining equipment. Sales mostly, although Miss R also has a hand in other parts of it. Me, I make sure we're getting paid and the clients are all happy, and sometimes I hang around when the businessfolk are dealin' with the environment people. I don't got that sleazy-businessman vibe about me, I guess, so Miss R thinks havin' me around helps lighten the mood a little. It usually works, once everyone gets past my external appearance."

"I'm sure it does. You've certainly put us at our ease, Max."

"That's good to hear, 'cause I gotta be top-form on this one. Usually it's only the environment people with some government I got to help with, but this time it's also one of them students-and-citizens groups. They're the real tough ones to deal with. Always feel bad for those guys."

England

University of Reading

Arthur Slate had come to a decision recently—very recently—earlier that very day, in fact—and that decision was that exposure therapy was highly overrated. No matter how many times he ditched class—often—quite often—earlier that very day, in fact—he still dreaded being glared at by the lecturer.

It wasn't a good time for anyone involved, as he was sure the lecturer felt rather disrespected and, for his own part, he felt like crap.

And the person responsible for this general unhappiness wasn't about to be getting away unscathed as far as Art was concerned, so he fixed an appropriately irritated expression to his face and held it until his sister appeared in his phone's video-chat app.

"Alright, Cyn, I've let my intellectual expansion go to hell, at your request."

"Are you somewhere you can talk?"

"No, I ditched lecture and rang you somewhere I couldn't talk."

"Good. Now. What the fuck? I thought we were s'posed to collect their filthy bribe money over the weekend. Or at least be told where to collect their filthy bribe money over the weekend."

"Yes, but our contact texted me that their contact's not got the cash to them yet."

Cynthia scoffed, tossing her freshly platinum-blond hair out of her face. "What kind of stinking, filthy, greedy, money-grubbing ass-hats are they? Can't get the cash together? Fucking fail, man."

"I asked them that. Like, more polite, but same idea, yeah? They said they were blackmailing somebody and were to use the blackmail money to pay us."

Cynthia's jaw went slack.

"Yeah."

"Were they serious, you think?"

"Text doesn't translate sarcasm so well, so I couldn't say. Whatever way it is, they said they'd be in touch. Deal's still on. Hopefully they can do a weekend so I'll not have to ditch. Again. As I'm doing for you. Again."

"Don't worry your nerdy head. I'm sure having 'uncovering corporate corruption' on your résumé will compensate for a slightly dented academic record. Assuming they don't mind the questionable legality of the means through which said corruption was demonstrated."

"One certainly can dream, can't one?"

Late evening

En route from U.N.C.L.E.-London to Marlborough

Time certainly flew when you yourself were flying. Between time spent on air travel and losing about five hours from zipping across time zones, pretty much the whole day was shot and, in some ways, it seemed they'd made very little progress: they'd driven in the dark to the airport, and now they were driving in the dark from the airport.

Now, of course, it was Mark Slate rather than Ms. Khan behind the wheel, and the wheel was on the other side of the car, and the car was on the other side of the road, and the road was on the other side of the world—

So okay, fine, they'd actually made plenty of progress. The point was: car.

In a car.

After having been in a plane for six-odd hours.

After having been in another car for almost an hour.

And the entire journey had been in the dark of night and the clouds of day.

And one rather restless Solo was starting to hold one rather insultingly cheerful Slate personally responsible for having family in England rather than Jamaica.

Or Costa Rica.

Belize.

Florida.

That one spot of ocean they'd flown over that had been privileged to a delightful break in the clouds.

Solo shook his head at himself. Enough of the negative.

Mark was delighted out of his gourd, to the point that Napoleon thought the roadside "Tiredness kills; Take a break" sign should have been replaced by one along the lines of "Enthusiastically bobbing your head to every song on the radio because you're so deliriously happy kills; Chill."

April was also in a good mood, based on her level of multitasking: keeping up a rapid back-and-forth with Mark, while monitoring their progress on the map on her phone, while texting a photo of every vaguely British thing they passed to her mother—and a busy April was a happy April.

Illya… well, Napoleon couldn't get a read on his exact mood, but that pensive expression was generally indicative of something between meh and pretty good, so that was fine. Then the blond head tilted a bit to better peer through the windshield, and Illya reached over to tap at the side of Napoleon's leg with one finger. Napoleon accordingly wove their fingers together and the Russian's lips tilted up.

Okay, pretty good then. Solo applauded himself for the progress he'd made in assessing the Kuryakin's expressions, but he kept his self-congratulation on the tepid side. For all that he seemed to have succeeded in winning the Russian's affection, Napoleon found himself wondering about his own intentions.

The endgame.

April's suggestion that he, while sincere, was in over his head. (Which was true.)

Mom's idea they were on the verge of a lifetime commitment. (Which had been a rather startling opinion but, even more startlingly, hadn't been an instinctively gut-twisting prospect.)

Illya's overall satisfaction with the way things were going. (Which was great for the here and now, but didn't provide much guidance regarding the future trajectory of their relationship.)

Still, Napoleon occasionally got the impression that he was causing more stress to the younger man than he was relieving.

And it would be nice if the Russian could eventually say, I love you.

And sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how they would be affected as the end of the semester brought on inevitable changes: the assignment to monitor Illya was slated to end then, and Kuryakin would spend the better part of the summer away at various U.N.C.L.E. training sessions while Solo would regularly be sent on missions.

Illya had suggested that his relationship with his parents might have suffered from a lack of regular interaction and, while the pair had made it through Napoleon's jaunt to Brazil, that was last time. And there would be a lot of next times ahead—

But that was starting to get into the negative again. And right now, all was well. Everyone was safe and in high spirits. If he was still nervous about the durability of his relationship with Illya by the time they returned to New York, he could bring it up when they went for a joint session with Dr. Boateng and they'd get it figured out.

Everything was going to be okay, Napoleon decided with a nod to himself. Things were fine as they were, and in the meantime he'd figure out the endgame and, once he'd wrapped his head around that, he'd make it happen.

"Did you want something?"

Napoleon blinked as he realized Illya had caught him absent-mindedly staring at him.

"Uh, no, I—your hair's getting a little long."

Illya did not look entirely convinced by that offering but rejoined, "If it disturbs you so much, I can give myself a trim once we arrive."

Napoleon shook his head. "I was making an observation, not a criticism."

"Then why were you looking at me?"

"I was just thinking that I'm going to miss you."

Illya took a moment before he made a sound of comprehension. "For the most part, it will only be for a few weeks at a time, assuming I am not killed in a training accident and you do not get yourself assassinated."

"I know. I'll miss not seeing you every day, though."

"You have managed previously to muddle through life without seeing me any day, and I expect you will be too busy to spend an appreciable amount of your time pining." Illya glanced to the front row to confirm that Mark and April were still preoccupied with their own conversation, then leaned closer to add softly, "And I… expect I will miss you, too. When I am not otherwise occupied." He jolted back to a more upright position at a wordless exclamation from the driver's seat.

"Christ, this is so British Countryside I think I might puke a union jack," Mark asserted cheerfully as they drove down a narrow street, small brick buildings scattered to the left and trees interspersed with fields on the right.

"What happens if a car wants to come from the opposite direction?" April wondered.

"We fall into a blind hysterical panic. Or pull to one side to let the other party by."

"Good. Keep that in mind, 'cause I think this is one-way and we're going the wrong way."

"You told me to go here!"

"Yeah, I sure screwed up, didn't I? Anyway, as our official Englishman, shouldn't you have some innate instinct regarding how to tell what's a one-way street?"

"It's bleeding dark out here and I'm a city boy." He went on, pitch rising melodramatically. "I have no English Country instincts. I know fuck-all about country lanes. I started breaking out in hives when we passed a thatched roof. I'm falling into a blind hysterical panic, mate!" He coughed. "God, that's hard on the vocal cords. Seriously, though, please tell me we're close."

April glanced at the map she had opened on her phone. "There's the turnoff. At Whatever-it-says Nurseries."

"Okee-dokee—hey, there's my mum!" Mark beeped the horn at the woman in the driveway of a boxy two-story house, proceeding slowly until the vehicle was in a decent position. "Hi, Mum!" He unlocked the doors and laughed when his mother didn't automatically move aside. "Mum, get out the way!"

Mark's mother smiled a quick greeting to the others as they emerged, and she stepped away from the driver's door long enough to let Mark out so she could glomp him. "Ah, Mark, my first-born, my prodigal son, the primary cause of my future heart troubles! We were so disappointed when you said you might not come—such a relief to have you here now."

Constance gave him one last squeeze before proceeding to the passenger side. "And—" She paused for the briefest of moments to recalibrate the name she was supposed to associate with the person, then moved in to hug April. "—Jennifer, gorgeous as always, pet."

"Nice of you to notice, Constance. These guys seriously underappreciate that. It's almost as if they like me for my beautiful mind instead of my looks."

Napoleon gave April a couple of pats on the cheek and, "I'd be happy to objectify you anytime, sweetheart."

She returned the pats and, "I know you would, boo."

Constance gave Napoleon a hug as well. "Francis, so nice to see you."

"Ever a pleasure, Constance."

"And you must be Ilia—oh, but look at me keeping you all standing out here! Here, let's get you inside and then we can talk."

Constance ushered them all inside and then rather suspiciously faded back a bit. The second the front door shut behind them—

"Newman!" a voice exclaimed, and a curly-haired blur flashed by to tackle Mark, who narrowly avoided a tumble to the ground as he returned the greeting with, "Redford!" before proceeding to half-dodge and half-participate in the impromptu sparring match, protesting, "We're too old for it, boyo! You're embarrassing me in front of my friends!"

"My evil plan is working!"

'Redford' continued play-fighting Mark further into the house, until he was conveniently backed up to a couch so a young lady could jump up and blow a plastic horn directly behind Mark's head, which whipped around to exclaim at the buzzing sound, "Mary, mother of Jesus, are you trying to kill me?"

She stopped the noise long enough to say, "Only if you don't give," then resumed the audio attack. Mark groaned and dropped onto the sofa, which seemed to be a signal of surrender as the girl stopped blowing her horn and she and Redford plopped down either side of Mark.

"Why the hell do you still have a fecking vuvuzela?" Mark groused, snatching the thing from the girl.

"I keep it 'round for special purposes."

"Met any nice boys?"

"No."

"Any bad boys you need me to rough up?"

"No."

Mark leaned to the boy on his other side. "Met any nice girls?"

"Nah."

"Any bad girls you need me to rough up?"

"Nah."

"Good, noses to the grindstones." He patted each sibling on the knee and hopped up to gesture with the vuvuzela toward the entrance. "You chuckleheads remember Francis and Jennifer, and the new kid is Ilia. He may seem a bit grumpy at first, but we're onto 'im: he's a lamb. Ilia, this is Art—" Mark held the vuvuzela above the appropriate head. "—Cyn—" He repeated the action on his sister. "—and our mummy dearest, but you can call her Constance."

Illya nodded at each member of the family in turn and considered whether it would be rude for his first comment to be that he didn't notice much of a family resemblance aside from that between Mark and Constance. The platinum-blond Cynthia had noticeably rounder features both in face and figure, and Arthur's olive skin and dark brown curls were similarly dissimilar. Fortunately for him, Arthur seemed to see the thus-far-unasked question coming and took the matter of asking out of his hands.

"Mark's the only one related to Mum by blood." Art affected a saccharine expression and wrapped his sister in an embrace. "But we're all related by love."

Cynthia produced a tissue from her pocket and put it to her nose with an impressively loud honk before returning the clean material to its original place. "It's so touching," she choked out through phony tears.

Mark snorted. "Yeah. What's touching is we like Cyn enough to not murder her for keeping a fricking vuvuzela. Seriously, though, how do you still have this?"

"We found it in a carton when we were moving house."

"And how has Art not bludgeoned you over the head with it by now?"

"He said he'd not if I promised only to use it on you."

Vuvuzela-holding hand on his hip, Mark turned to face his brother, who grinned at the glare: "Come on, Newman'd not strangle Redford, would he?"

"Redford never give Newman's sister permission to attack him with a vuvuzela." He turned back again to shake the horn at his sister. "This stays in my custody for the week, missy."

Cynthia smirked. "I have another."

"God save us."

"God save him." Cynthia pointed at Napoleon.

Solo ran a finger under his collar. "Uh… beg pardon, my dear Cyn?"

"Well, I'll withhold judgement for a second." She gestured between him and Illya. "Are you actually engaged, or is that part of your cover?"

"We're together," the American said and, "We are not engaged," the Russian stated flatly, and Constance gasped a bit. She explained her reaction with, "I'd not even thought that it was part of the cover! The guest room's only got the one bed in, I'm afraid."

"That's alright," April chimed in. "They're used to sharing a conjugal bed."

Illya frowned. "Yes, but you can rest assured, madam, that we will not…." He glanced to the side for a moment, then half-guessed, "Conjugate."

Napoleon coughed to cover a laugh, and Constance smiled, "Well, if you should change your mind, pet, just bring the sheets down in the morning so they can have a wash."

"So you are an item then," Cynthia concluded, gesturing again between the pair. The Napoleon nodded happily so she smiled, "Well, congratulations to you, Ilia, but you! Francis Bacon!"

Napoleon gave a start as she propped her hands on her hips and made a production of stomping over.

"Leading me on—I thought you were straight!"

Napoleon gave his collar another tug as Mark shot him the briefest of glares.

Illya blinked placidly at Cyn. "My efforts at proselytization have not been entirely unsuccessful."

As Cynthia kept up her intensely judging look, Napoleon cleared his throat. "Mark, wasn't your uncle supposed to be partaking in this here wagon-welcoming?"

Mark smirked slightly but went with it, asking his mother, "Where's Uncle Ash? I thought I'd be seeing him today."

Constance sighed, shaking her head. "He planned to be here, of course, but business, you know? He has to take what he can get and he won't be back in Swindon until terribly late today, but he promised he'll drop in tomorrow." She turned to her son's companions. "Ashley doesn't know about your, um, 'company', in case Mark's not told you…"

"In a striking instance of irony," Mark parenthesized.

"…but he knows some of Mark's friends are here. Tomorrow might be the only day he has a chance to visit with us, and he said he'd like to meet you all, if you'd not mind taking a bit of time out of your holiday."

April nodded agreeably. "We might as well have tomorrow be a slow day, anyway. Hang around here to adjust to the time difference."

"Yes, and speaking of here," Illya put in, "it was most kind of you to extend your hospitality to us, ma'am."

"Not at all," Constance beamed. "Any friend of Mark's—and having guests gives me an excuse to show off the house. Come, let's get you all settled."

Swindon

"I'm starting to think it may be best if I cut ties."

Crane shot Ashley Slate a look. The man was nice enough, she was sure: he had hapless, down-on-his-luck man who'd fallen into a bad situation written all over him. Like many other hapless, down-on-his-luck men she had vague recollections of, however, he also had an annoying tendency to talk. A lot. One might say too much.

"Not with Ms. Ravel. Believe me, I've tried that and I know it'll not be happening anytime soon. I meant with my family. Cut off from them before Ravel gets the idea to catch them up in any of this."

Crane shrugged. Sometimes cutting out the family worked out. Sometimes it didn't. Either way, not her problem.

"I'm telling you this because I was hoping you might have some suggestions or could help me. Ms. Ravel says you've been well deep into undercover things."

"Ms. Ravel is a pit viper and you'd do well not to believe a word that drips from her fangs."

Even if that particular set of drips had been correct.

Even though Crane could not recall all the particulars of her own past. Her interrupted effort at self-detraining had succeeded in burying her memories of the most sensitive information, but she had retained some of her spy skillset—which was good in that she was apparently valuable enough to be kept alive, but bad in that Ravel expected Crane to do her bidding.

Ravel, who'd mentioned T.H.R.U.S.H. in a flattering light several times.

T.H.R.U.S.H., which Crane was mostly certain was not a warm, friendly sort of an organization.

Certain, that is, based on her fractured memories and this business about bribing an environmental agency to allow… well, Crane wasn't privy to the details, but bribery to glean a benefit for Ravel was probably not a sign of great and good things.

And it was also not great that she'd been given a dainty little necklace one day and informed politely that it would inject poison into several spots on her neck if she failed to adequately comply with orders.

Ashley arched his brows and smiled humorlessly. "So you do talk."

She shrugged again.

"Does that mean you'll not help me?"

Not sensing a hint of resignation about him, it seemed unlikely that he'd drop the matter all that soon, so she sighed. "It's not rocket science, Slate. Make an ass of yourself. If they buy your bullshit, they won't want anything to do with you. If they don't, say you need some time to yourself and they'll leave you alone for a while. Meantime, you can change your identity so that they can't find you once they think they've left you alone long enough."

"Can you help me with that?"

"With what: changing your identity or working out some assholery?"

"Both." Ashley thought for a moment. "The family's having some company over. Americans, I think. Perhaps it would be easier on me to offend the family indirectly, via the guests."

Crane cracked a few knuckles. "Tell me about them."

Marlborough

Night

Forty-two, forty-one, forty…

"I hope you didn't mind."

Thirty-seven, thirty-six… Illya shifted his gaze upward, intermittently catching glimpses of the American's face as the brunet sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him as he did his sit-ups.

"I just blurted it right out without thinking."

Thirty-two, thirty-one… "I must have missed something." Twenty-eight, twenty-seven… "Enlighten me as to what offense you are supposed to have committed."

"When Cyn was asking if we were engaged and I said we were together. I forgot to ask if it was okay with you to tell them that."

Twenty-two, twenty-one… "Mark seems reasonably well-acquainted with his family." Fifteen, fourteen… "I trust he'd have warned us of any potentially unpleasant reactions."

"You don't mind, then?"

Ten, nine… "I do not mind." Three, two, one… Illya stood up, adjusted his stance, and started in on the squats. Fifty, forty-nine… "I have to get over it, yes?"

"Well, there are some things one 'gets over' slowly, some things one 'gets over' quickly, and some things one just can't get over. I'm sure this particular thing doesn't fall into the last category, but it wouldn't be great to mix up the first two."

Forty, thirty-nine… "It is not because I am ashamed of you."

Napoleon smiled. "I know."

Thirty, twenty-nine… "Oh. That is good." He finished his evening calisthenics in silence, flicked off the last remaining light in the room—the bedside lamp—and joined Napoleon under the covers. When the American rolled closer and rested an arm over his waist, Illya remarked, "This is not so much smaller than the bed at home that such togetherness is necessary."

Napoleon hummed. "You don't like this?"

"I was merely making an observation."

"Love you."

"I know." Illya blinked at the burst of laughter this prompted, but carried on. "You've been saying that since October, when we hardly knew each other. How could you know now, let alone then?"

"Know that I love you?"

Nod.

"Well, attraction is a part of love. The first time I saw you, I thought you were attractive. So I asked you out and figured we'd have a nice dinner and then, well…." Napoleon coughed delicately. "But I realized pretty early on that the, uh, latter part of that wouldn't be happening."

"Most perceptive of you."

"And as we talked, I also realized you weren't like the other people I'd gone out with."

"Again, quite perceptive."

Napoleon sighed in mock exasperation. "I don't mean just that you're not a girl. I meant that you're… special."

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"Just… I don't know, I started getting sort of a funny feeling."

"Most people would attribute that to indigestion."

"Not that kind of funny feeling."

Illya sighed and turned over to return the one-armed embrace. "You are doing a terrible job of explaining this."

"Geez, you expect me to explain why I love you while you're being a pain in the patootie?"

"Clearly." Pause. "What is a patootie?"

"You expect me to explain new vocab words while you're being a pain in the derriere?" Napoleon pressed a hand to one side of Illya's head and a kiss to the top. "Anyway, in anticipation of a hole you'd probably punch in my rationale, no: I don't have a point of reference for this type of love. That's kind of the thing though, isn't it?"

"What thing?"

"The thing is that I've never felt this way about anyone but you. The closest thing was when I had a girlfriend years ago, but it's much stronger with you."

Illya grunted. "So a butterfly in the stomach for her, and nausea for me?"

"In keeping with your ever-romantic indigestion analogy, I suppose that's an accurate description of the relative intensity. Hey," he grinned, "maybe that's where the concept of being 'lovesick' came from."

"I am unfamiliar with the etymology of the word, but that seems plausible."

"Actually, the first time I said it—that I love you—it was half accidental. I meant more that I loved you as a person but, in the context of our dating, I realized after I said it that it could easily be construed as 'in love'. And eventually I realized that 'in love' was probably not wrong."

Illya shifted onto an elbow so he could look square into the brown eyes. "You are… in love?"

"I haven't made that clear?"

"I… must have neglected to take into account the context. I would attempt to punch a hole at this point, but you have already anticipated that impulse." He lay down again. "Your aunt was wrong. You have very poor taste."

"Beg pardon?"

"In people to fall in love with. Terrible taste."

"Then it's good for me that you taste so good."

Illya turned his face away as Napoleon leaned in. "You think I want to kiss you now, after you have revealed a rather concerning fondness for the flavor of human flesh?"

"God, what a tease."

They both sat up to look to the wall behind the headboard, and Napoleon took a second to process the interjecting voice before responding. "Would you mind saying that again, my dear Cyn?"

A squeak from the other side of the wall, then, "I—I was just saying how you shouldn't say anything too awkward or otherwise regrettable, given these thin walls."

"Thanks for the heads-up."

"Anytime, Francis."

Napoleon picked up his pillow and motioned toward the foot of the bed. Illya nodded and they reorganized themselves with their feet closer to the wall.

The Russian picked up the throw pillow that they'd previously relegated to the foot of the bed, now tossing it between his hands and watching its progress as he asked, "Have you told your parents?"

"Told them what?"

"About your work. Mark's mother and siblings know. April's parents know. It seems your parents do not, but I do not know for certain."

"Ah. Yeah, I haven't quite gotten around to it yet."

Illya grunted softly, spinning the pillow around before tossing it around again.

"Are you bringing it up because you think I should tell them?"

"I wanted to satisfy my curiosity."

"Alright. Well, since we're talking about it now anyway… do you think I should tell them?"

"I never told my parents. They are now dead as a result of my career choice."

Napoleon was quiet for a few moments in the hope of drawing some eye contact, but Illya kept his gaze on the pillow. "You regret not telling them?"

"No."

"You think I should tell my parents?"

"I did not say that."

"Then what were you saying?"

"I made statements of fact. I leave them to your interpretation."

"Okay, but it seems suspiciously like you're attempting to advise me on the matter."

"The only advice that should be taken from me, is to never listen to my advice."

"Writing ourselves into a contradiction, aren't we?"

"See what trouble it is already, to take my advice?" Illya tossed the pillow a bit in Napoleon's direction and the brunet accordingly caught it as the blond added, "My opinion is that you ought to consider telling your parents, if you have not already given the matter some thought. I am sure you will ultimately make the decision that is best for your particular situation." He turned away. "Good night, Francis."

Later that night

Napoleon glanced back upon taking his weight off the bed to ensure he hadn't disturbed his bedmate, finding slits of blue groggily peering in his general direction. He gave the blond head a couple of reassuring pats and, once Illya had half-smiled and resumed his sleep, left the room.

He padded down to the kitchen to prepare some tea and had just sat down at the counter to wait for the water to boil when he heard footsteps approaching. Napoleon hitched the leg with his ankle holster up on the stool until he saw it was the only vaguely threatening Constance—and she was only threatening in any capacity due to the broom she wielded.

"Ah, it's you," Constance sighed, lowering her broom. "Mark mentioned you were tasked as security detail for Ilia, so I'm afraid I was a bit paranoid." She lifted the stick a bit to further clarify its intended purpose, then leaned it in a corner of the wall. "Having some tea?"

"Yes. Everyone I know who's spent any time in England seems pretty confident in its calming abilities, so I figured I might as well give it a shot." Napoleon flicked at the tag sticking out of his mug. "Stole some of this lavender-chamomile stuff."

Constance took a seat. "You need some calming, eh? Nothing worse than jetlag, I hope."

Napoleon shrugged. "Nothing much but, since you're lingering here instead of heading back upstairs, can I take that as you wouldn't mind my bumming an opinion off you? I don't know a lot of parents and having your insight might be illuminating in this situation."

"I don't mind, if you don't mind boiling enough water for the both of us. I could use some calming myself after my little adventure with the broomstick."

The American grinned and added more water, retrieving a mug and a sachet of the tea Constance requested.

"Now, what can I give you an opinion about?"

"Well… my parents hoped to have grandchildren someday. Expected to, really, since my sister seemed inclined in the get-married-have-children direction but… she died before she could get to any of that. I'm not—I don't want children. In other circumstances, I'd have no problem sticking to my 'it's my life, not yours' guns but…"

"But you feel you're letting them down, now you're their only chance at grandkids."

"Yes."

Constance nodded. "Alright. First thing, I'm sorry to hear about your sister."

The water sounded quite bubbly by this point, so Napoleon occupied himself with switching off the hob and splitting the water between his and her mugs. Once he'd settled down again, she continued.

"Second thing, you're right that it is entirely your decision. Whether or not to have children one day. The only difference I would suggest you make in addressing the matter, is to be a bit extra patient if they start hinting around."

"I will. That's what I thought but… I also felt it was a little selfish of me."

"What would be more selfish: not having children, or having children you'd not wanted to make yourself feel right with your parents? Wouldn't be fair to the hypothetical kiddies, now would it?"

"Yes… yes, thank you."

She smiled and they sat quietly for a few minutes as the tea steeped, until he ventured, "So how'd you take it when Mark told you about his career of choice?"

Constance smiled. "He's not told you?"

He shook his head.

"Well, it'll be just between us that I've betrayed his trust. I expect he's still a bit embarrassed about the whole episode." Napoleon grinned broadly so she reiterated, "Between us, Sir Francis."

"Scout's honor, ma'am."

"Alright. Mark was sixteen, and Arthur fourteen. In the same school, and I suppose it's not unusual that there was some bullies. Racist, the worst of 'em, so they were giving Arthur a hard time. They didn't want me fretting, so they tried to handle it themselves: first by confronting the bullies, then telling staff, but nothing was working. And then I showed them The Sting."

"Does that have to do why Mark and Art were calling each other Newman and Redford?"

"Yes. They didn't take it as a how-to guide, of course, but it got them thinking about sting operations. Around the time I showed them the movie, the bullying was getting worse and they were concerned things might get more violent, so they thought the staff might pay the matter better attention if they could get some evidence of the issue and present it. Mark got himself in with the bullies and found that their concern about violence was even more valid than they thought, as there was some talk of a bombing at an event the school was planning."

Constance took a sip of tea to provide a dramatic pause. "Two guesses what happened next."

"They marched themselves down to the nearest police station and ever-so-responsibly reported the matter."

"Mark tried that, but he was reprimanded for seeking to waste law enforcement resources to resolve a children's bullying problem. Next."

"They offered to sell explosives to the bullies and filmed the transaction as evidence of their nefariousness."

"Bingo."

"Good thing you didn't aid in their inspiration by showing them Carrie."

Constance had a chuckle before continuing. "Day after they turned their video in to the police, a pair of gray-suited men were at the door. From the U.N.C.L.E. and they wanted to talk recruitment with Mark and Art. I wouldn't let them talk with Art, though, since I thought fourteen was a bit young for that sort of talk. Sixteen is young too, of course, but Mark was already looking into careers and universities and all that, so I thought allowing them to talk with me in the room was… well, reasonable, I suppose."

"And he ran with it."

"Yes. They let him be a couple years after that, and then he signed on, went to New York for uni, and you know the rest."

"And is Art interested now?"

"Oh, no. I mentioned it to him at the time that they'd asked to see him, and he said he didn't mind not having been allowed to speak with them. And now he's very much interested in environmental work. Cyn seems to be headed that way, as well."

Napoleon nodded. "Good for them. And good for you. In most places, environmental careers aren't quite as risky as Mark's line of work. Depressing maybe, but not as dangerous."

Constance nodded.

"How do you feel about Mark's line of work? Knowing the risks involved and everything."

"I fret, of course, but I know it's what he wants to be doing so, for my sake and his, I try to contain myself. Besides, there's risks in everything, isn't there? He'll likely not be harmed on assignment, just as he'll likely not be mauled by a honey badger. And I rest easy knowing it is nigh well impossible that he'll be mauled by a honey badger whilst on assignment."

Solo smiled drily into his near-emptied cup of tea.

"By any chance, has your line of questioning anything to do with… not having told your parents about your job?"

"You see right through me, Constance."

"You didn't make it difficult. Does that mean you'd like an opinion on that, as well?"

"If you don't mind."

"I don't know your parents, of course, but for the most part I'd recommend telling them. A matter of respect for them and, if something does happen—heaven forbid, you'd not want them to find out upon being notified of your death."

Napoleon hummed.

"I expect you wanted me to advise the opposite but I'm afraid I can't."

"Honestly, no. I've been trying to convince myself to tell them and I thought having someone tell me to do it might be the kick in the pants I need. Thanks for being a pal."

"No trouble at all."

Napoleon got up and stretched. "Well, time for turning in, take two."

"Leave the cup," she said when he started to rinse out the mug. "I'll do it in the morning."

"Thanks." He patted her shoulder and Constance gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Good night, Constance."

Tuesday morning

Illya turned, partway in the process of pulling the sleeve of a turtleneck over his arm, to find a shirtless Napoleon freshly returned from his shower and standing in the doorway. Solo scanned from his sock-clad feet, to the briefs, to the shirt clothing a single arm—and then caught himself, cleared his throat, and sheepishly offered, "Uh, sorry. I…"

"Choose in or out and shut the door," Kuryakin snapped quietly, putting his shirt on the rest of the way.

"Yes… yes." Napoleon stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door. "I, uh, guess I should have knocked."

"No, I should have realized that you'd take a shorter time in the shower while a guest in someone's home. It seems my time management skills need some work as well." He quickly pulled on his trousers, noted the shirt Napoleon had left on the bed, and snatched it up, holding it up in a fully-extended arm with his own face modestly turned away. "Please."

Napoleon mused that it was definitely for the best that they hadn't gone through with Illya's suggestion of remediating Solo's "suboptimal satisfaction" the previous week, seeing as this was the Russian's reaction to their each being half-dressed. He commented, "It, uh, might not bode well that you're so thoroughly offended by my semi-nudity, chou."

"Not offended. To the contrary." Still looking away, he almost clipped Napoleon in the nose as he gave the shirt a light shake to draw attention to it. "Please put it on."

"Then you're… attracted?"

"As you seem set on belaboring the point: yes, Napoleon, I am attracted to you. Our 'The Talk' was most informative and I very much appreciated it, but having the resource of information does not mean that I have miraculously developed the capacity to comport myself appropriately."

Napoleon wisely and finally took the shirt before Illya could shake the garment again and take out a couple of teeth in the process. "Don't overthink it," he advised as he pulled on the top. "The only requirements are that all parties involved give consent and are content. Anything with those qualities is appropriate."

"Thank you for granting me an overwhelming number of options." Illya looked to the American again, then shifted his gaze away upon finding him still in the process of buttoning the shirt.

"It's safe now. All dressed."

Illya grunted and tugged at the collar of his turtleneck.

"I'm sorry for ogling you when I walked in. I know I shouldn't have done that, but it did make me want to say something."

Illya winced.

"Hey, what's that for?"

"I am guessing that you are going to comment on my physique," Illya said, "and am anticipating that it will either be the truth—which is unflattering—or a compliment—which would be untrue."

Napoleon frowned.

"Go on."

"Now that you've taken the wind out of my sails?"

Illya folded his arms and lifted his chin, challenging, "I leave that up to you."

"In that case…." Napoleon wolf whistled.

"That is what you were going to say?"

"Yes. I dare you to argue my point."

Illya glanced skyward for a moment, turned his head, and blew a raspberry before returning to his previous stance, this time with an eyebrow arched. "Counterpoint?"

"Okay: you're damn sexy right now."

His brow furrowed. "Blowing raspberries is… what you said?"

"I meant the way you're standing now. And so I reiterate my original declaration." He whistled. Upon being met by silence, he prodded, "No clever retort?"

"I peaked with the raspberry."

Napoleon stepped in front of the doorknob as Illya approached, the American asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am going downstairs for breakfast."

"No, you aren't. You can't go anywhere right now."

"I cannot?"

Solo hummed and shook his head, taking Kuryakin by the shoulders and biting back a smile at the look of surprise that briefly broke through the indifferent façade as the blond allowed himself to be turned and lightly pressed back against a spot of wall by the door.

"Why not?"

Napoleon slipped a hand round the back of the Russian's neck, enjoying the sharp intake of breath as he leaned in close to speak in his silkiest tone. "You can't—" A slow meeting of lips. "—because—" A lingering kiss to the jawline before he moved up to whisper in his ear. "—your fly is open."

Solo slipped out of the room before Kuryakin could react, and Illya rested his forehead against the once-again-shut bedroom door.

"Pull yourself together," he muttered, then realized he ought to take his own advice a bit more literally and quickly zipped his trousers before he could forget again.

Forehead back to the door. "Your temperature will go up if your heartrate does not slow, and then you will turn red and stay that way as you go downstairs, and—stop talking to yourself, idiot."

He snapped upright as Napoleon's voice travelled from downstairs, "Ilia! Mark's uncle is here! Come on down and be social!"

Illya let out a breath, patted himself down quickly to make sure everything was where it should be, and headed down, arriving in the sitting/dining room just as Cynthia exclaimed, "Engaged!"

She wasn't looking at him or Napoleon, so he followed her gaze to a lanky brown-haired man (presumably Ashley Slate) and a tall strawberry-blond woman next to him.

"Robin Fenster," Ashley said with a squeeze to the lady's shoulder. "We've been acquainted about a year—business associates, don't you know, and we got quite close while I've been away for work and all. Didn't want to tell you over the phone I'd met a keeper so… surprise, hey?"

"Surprise, indeed," Constance agreed. "Lovely to meet you, Robin—goodness, I know you said this was to be a brief visit, Ash, but do you think you could come back again later, when Art gets back from school for the day?"

"Afraid not," her brother said. "Work."

Once Constance had made a disappointed tutting sound, Mark said, "And now I must do my sacred duty of introducing you to the friends I made in 'Murica. Uncle Ash—Robin—this is my best mate Jennifer Edwards."

Ashley Slate promptly offered his hand to shake and, as April took it, he said, "I hope you don't mind Mark calling you 'mate', young lady."

Dancer grinned. "I don't mind. I know it's mostly a dude thing, but I like it. Nice to meet you too, Robin."

Mark motioned to Napoleon and Illya. "And these lads are Francis Bacon and Ilia Davidovich, the affianced."

Ashley had started to offer his hand in their direction at the first part of Mark's introduction, but suddenly stopped upon hearing the words after the comma. He looked to his nephew to ask with a frown, "To each other?"

"Yes," Mark confirmed in a tone that added, 'and why the hell is that expression on your face?'

"This is Ilia? I thought that was a girl's name…?"

Mark said, "Yes, this is Ilia and no, it's a boy's name."

Illya put in crisply, "I assure you, Mr. Slate, that homosexuality is no more contagious than homophobia." The Russian extended his hand.

Ashley Slate shook the hand after another moment of hesitation, then offered his own to Napoleon, saying with a smile that was more condescending than anything else, "I'd not realized those Eastern European websites did mail-order husbands, as well."

"Ashley!" Constance interjected.

Napoleon frowned briefly, then smiled. "Ah, I see! You're saying it's hard to believe that I could land a catch like Ilia solely based on my sparkling personality." He put a hand to Slate's elbow. "I know he's got an incredible charm about him, friend, but don't forget that you have a lovely fiancée of your own, so try to keep your hands and thoughts off mine."

Solo turned to shake Robin Fenster's hand. "You've got a real challenge with this old dog, Miss Fenster. I'd recommend a good strong leash." A chuckle as he cast a sharp glance to the man in question. "Maybe a muzzle."

Napoleon looked to April and Mark. "We're going for a walk around the neighborhood. We'll be back in a little bit."

He draped an arm around Illya's shoulders to steer him away, snagged their jackets on the way out, and handed over Illya's once they were safely outside. Kuryakin's determined lack of eye contact and the quick shake of the head made it clear that talking would not be happening at once, so they strolled in silence, getting only a few yards out before a voice behind them called out.

"Ilia—Francis!"

Illya stopped walking but didn't turn around as Napoleon did to see Robin jogging to catch up with them.

"I wanted to apologize for what happened in there. Ashley… he's not normally like this and I'm sure he's very sorry—"

"He is indeed," Illya commented under his breath.

"—or if he's not just now, he will be soon. He's had such troubles with work lately… but that's not a good excuse, I suppose."

Napoleon smiled dryly. "There are very few good excuses, Miss Fenster, short of being under the threat of bodily harm."

"Yeah," Robin agreed with a laugh. "You are absolutely right, Mr.—ah—S-Speakman?"

"Bacon," the American corrected.

"Of course! Well, I'll leave you to your walk—and, again, I'm so sorry about Ashley. I've no idea what's gotten into him today, dear, oh, dear." Robin rubbed at the rose gold choker around her neck and hurried back to the house.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Napoleon took Illya's hand and asked as they started walking, "Do you get the feeling something weird is going on?"

"In this age? Constantly."

"Fair enough, but I meant with Ashley and Robin, specifically. I'd have thought Mark would be polite enough to warn us—unless, of course, this is out-of-character for the esteemed Uncle Ash."

"As seems to be the case, given that the Slates and Miss Fenster seemed rather shocked," Illya pointed out.

"Exactly. And Robin Fenster—we don't know her, of course, but… she was acting kind of weird just now."

"Perhaps residual shock from her fiancé's sudden-onset obnoxiousness."

"Perhaps." Napoleon nudged the other's elbow with his own. "We'll just have to keep our eyes peeled when they're around, eh, chou?"

"What a disgusting expression, but yes."

"'Disgusting,' says the man who considered conducting autopsies on small animals a fun little hobby. Hey… maybe we should call in and ask Gerry to see if we have anything on them."

Illya raised a brow. "You think it could be that sinister?"

"When people somehow connected with our uncle exhibit abnormal behavior, it doesn't hurt to look into it. How about you call in?"

Illya abruptly produced the radio communicator from his pocket, assembled it single-handedly, and hooked it around his ear. "Hemispheric relay. Open channel S."

"Channel S open, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Gerry. We need a check on two people. Mr. Ashley Slate of Swindon, England, who is Mark Slate's uncle; and Miss Robin Fenster, who sounds to be British and is engaged to Ashley Slate, seems to be thirty- to forty-something-years of age, blond, about… five-foot-nine. Any information suggestive of their being threatened or otherwise involved in underworld activity would be relevant. Additionally, it might be wise to conduct a quick review of any recent activities of Gervaise Ravel. You may contact Mr. Solo with the results."

"Anything else, sir?"

"No, that is all."

"It shall be done. And if you'll pardon my buttinsky-ing, I hope you have a little relaxing penciled in for this alleged holiday of yours."

"I am at my most relaxed as we speak, Gerry. Goodbye."

"Pip-pip, sir."

Illya disassembled the communicator and replaced it before tugging the hand of Napoleon's he was still holding, urging that they resume their interrupted walk.

"So back there…." Napoleon used his free hand to tuck a few strands of blond behind the ears. "I think you handled Ashley's unkind remarks well."

"Well?" Illya echoed. "I was rude, which is something I have been trying to avoid. I failed."

"I disagree. I know you've been anticipating homophobic comments for a while and—"

"And yet I did not dissolve into a puddle of tears. Yes, it is quite the achievement. Huzzah for a petty, limited, selfish joy," Illya concluded with a semi-quote.

"Self-contempt is a serpent, or so I've read." Napoleon grinned at the wide eyes suddenly upon his face. "Whatever might have prompted that expression, pray tell."

"I… did not expect you to read Marx. Certainly nothing beyond a perusal of Das Kapital as part of a well-rounded education."

"Hey, if I'm going to argue with you about socioeconomic systems, I should know all sides of the argument. And Marx is, on occasion, not entirely wrong. See what a terrible influence you are on me?"

Illya scoffed as Napoleon kissed his cheek. He grumbled, "Prynts charivnyy."

"Does that mean 'a devastatingly charming man'?" When the Russian smiled secretively and didn't reply, Napoleon's eyebrows jumped. "Holy cow, does it really?"

"Something like that."

"Say it again."

"Something like that."

"I meant the 'prints-chary' thing. As you know."

"Prynts charivnyy."

"Ukrainian?"

"Yes."

"Prynts…?"

"Charivnyy."

"Prynts char—prince charming?" Napoleon was fairly certain that his chapped lips split a bit as he grinned from ear to ear, but kept up the beaming smile as he guessed, "You called me a prince charming?"

"I already conferred upon you the ability to call me a bunny, a kitten, a sparrow, a small bear, and a sunshine," Illya lamented, "so hell hath already been loosed." So far the American hadn't taken advantage of his recently-acquired vocabulary, but Illya assumed that he was merely biding his time.

"Hell is significantly more delightful than I'd pictured it. Hey, you know something?"

"Occasionally."

"I think I'd like to learn one of your languages. Ukrainian or Russian—one of the things you grew up with."

"My English is generally serviceable enough to allow for effective communication."

"I don't mean as a main language of communication. Just… I think it'd be nice if I could get a handle on some basics. The way people talk in their native language is sometimes different from how they express themselves in a language they learn later, so I'd like to get to know you a little with the benefit of that perspective."

Illya stopped walking.

"What?"

"Ah… ha."

Napoleon offered a bemused smile as Illya gradually broke into laughter. After almost a minute of appreciating the Russian's amusement, he joined in and eventually asked, "What's so funny?"

"I assure you, Napoleon, that I will not make very much more sense to you in any language. Ah." He extricated his hand from Solo's so he could use both sets of fingers to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. "That was quite enjoyable."

"I enjoyed it too. You don't laugh much."

"Yes… I must rid myself of this unfortunate sensation before I act truly bizarre." Illya glanced around, seemed to find what he was looking for—"That will do."—and approached a stone wall by the path they'd been following. He pressed his palms onto the surface and lifted himself into a handstand.

Napoleon put his hands in his pockets as he came over, tilting head around. "Before you start acting bizarre?"

"Yes."

"Rid yourself of what?"

He bent at the midsection to lightly tap Napoleon on one shoulder with the toe of his shoe. "While not entirely unpleasant—" Tap on the other shoulder. "—that little fit was out of keeping with my normal behavior—" Tap on the head. "—so it may have had to do with feelings of mania or agitation, side effects of my medication. I can usually contain it with sufficient amounts of physical activity, but I did not have a run yesterday and I doubt your ability to keep up with me should I take off running at this time."

The American shook his head and grinned as the Russian carried out several multidirectional splits. "Show-off."

"I am not showing off." He shifted his hands and then lifted one. "Now I show off." After returning his free hand to the surface, he did a couple of pushups. "And now I attempt to burn off the agitation."

"Is it working?" Napoleon prompted a few moments later.

"Perhaps. It is hard to tell with the blood rushing to my head."

"You, sir, are a silly goose."

"Gooses are not silly. They are vicious, spiteful, and not to be underestimated."

"Geese," Napoleon corrected first, and then, "Are you speaking from personal experience or is this just general knowledge?"

"Both. And if you will call something silly, the pluralization of 'goose' might be an option."

"Can I call you a strange duck or is that also problematic?"

"That is a more apt expression. Ducks are rather strange."

"I'm glad you approve." As Illya continued his upside-down exercises, he added, "I must say, I'm somewhat tempted to go for a Spider-man kiss. Wouldn't want to throw you off balance, though."

"Whatever that is, I am sure it would not disturb my equilibrium." He swiveled his legs around quickly. "I have an excellent sense of balance."

"In that case…." Napoleon briefly contemplated the best orientation for going into this and leaned in to press their mouths together. He thought it was going rather well until there was a solid thump! and he suddenly found himself face-to-face with nothing.

When Solo peered over the wall, he found Kuryakin sat with his back against the barrier, legs crossed at the ankle and hands loosely clasped in his lap, looking for all the world as if he'd simply plopped himself down for a rest.

"You think we could say you've fallen for me?" Napoleon drawled. Upon receiving only a soft grunt in reply, he clambered over the wall and squatted down, brushing a bit of the disheveled blond hair aside. "Are you okay?"

"As entertaining as that was, let us agree not to make another attempt."

"Agreed. Answer my question?"

"All but my dignity remains intact."

"Think you've been cured of your, uh, agitation?"

"Thoroughly."

Swindon

"They seemed right pissed," Ashley remarked upon returning to his apartment. "I think it went rather well."

Crane grunted, tearing off her Robin Fenster wig as soon as the door was shut. Damn, but she did not suit being blond.

"I don't enjoy seeming a douchebag but—" He cut himself off at the intense look he was shot.

"They're our ticket out, Slate."

"What? Who?"

"Do you know who they are, Slate? Your nephew, his friends—do you know who they really are?"

Ashley frowned. "Based on the way you're talking, I suppose I mustn't. Who are they, then?"

Crane stumbled at that. "Well. I. I'm not sure, exactly…"

She took a moment to see if she couldn't beat her brain into surrendering a few details, found it an obstinate opponent, and gave up. Slate, Bacon, Edwards—no, not Bacon and Edwards—but familiar.

Somehow familiar.

Not threatening.

Not T.H.R.U.S.H.

The opposite of T.H.R.U.S.H.

"…but I know enough."

A/N: The guests in this story are from "Hart to Hart." Max appeared here, April's alias is Jennifer Hart's maiden name, and Jonathan (Jonathon?) Hart will be making an official appearance to round it out. They're mainly here because the actor who played April Dancer also played Jennifer Hart.

I know the flow of my writing kind of comes and goes: it's a little tough to figure out how to balance between taking the time to smooth things out, versus updating before next year. Next chapter should be having one or two action scenes, and hopefully that will also be posted before next year, :)

Thanks so much for reading!