A/N: Chapter 3 and you're still here! Even if it's because it's laughably bad, I'm glad you find it adequately amusing despite the typos and other errors. Once I've gotten the story done, maybe I'll go back and try to fix it, but for now I've already invested way too much of my life in this thing, so… onward! :D

Beware the obligatory Napoleon-invading-Russia joke (it was too easy I couldn't resist sorry), and the general terribleness of this chapter. I tried to make it less terrible but my writing skillz go only so far, and I'm not sure whether I improved it or just made it longer and worse.

Thanks for reading and enjoy(?)…


Act III:

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one."

November

There were ups and downs to this sort of thing. Always were. And when you got past the Ickiness Factor, it was really just your run-of-the-mill surveillance assignment, sort of.

There were your boring parts.

Six hours and forty-two minutes of Kuryakin sleeping every night.

Fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, fifty squats, fifty burpees, fifty lunges—first thing in the morning, then again just before bed.

A lot of reading, writing, typing, and pacing about the room deep in thought.

Many hours of nothing as the student went to classes and other activities.

Then there were your awkward parts.

Kuryakin never left the room in anything but street clothes—not even padding down the hall to the bathroom and showers in his sleepwear—so he changed from clothes to pajamas and from pajamas to clothes in his room. When this routine prompted Solo to almost choke on air the first time he saw it, the others mercifully took on the reviewing of recordings made whenever the subject tended to enter a state of undress. After several nights in a row of Kuryakin sleeping in boxer shorts and a mammoth t-shirt, Solo concluded that the proper pajama set his boyfriend had worn in Montana had been used exclusively for that trip, to keep his bony limbs hidden from the world.

Surveillance also revealed Kuryakin's ringtones. Outside of his room, he kept his phone on mute. Inside, he turned up the volume, and it turned out that the alert for a text from Napoleon was an excerpt from one of the angry-type rock songs Kuryakin sometimes listened to—the part that went "Gimme love—I don't need it, but I'll take what I want from your heart". Solo wasn't quite sure what had prompted that choice, but his instinct was to feel distinctly not flattered.

There were also your frightening parts.

Several times a week, Kuryakin would suddenly stop whatever he might be doing, get into bed, and wrap his blanket around his shoulders; even after listening to the audio multiple times, there seemed to be none of the audio prompts U.N.C.L.E. was so wary of regarding Kuryakin's case. Sometimes he would just sit there, staring blankly forward and breathing very slowly. Others, he ducked his head and fisted his hair in ungentle hands. Once he started crying, eventually switching to rocking back and forth, singing the multiplication table until he had calmed down enough to go back to studying. When that happened, Dancer had to spend a solid hour talking Solo out of bringing up the incident with his boyfriend. ("I know it sucks, but it's a covert operation, Napoleon. Just keep being a nice guy and maybe he'll open up about it on his own.")

And to everyone's great relief, there were your fun parts.

The trio of trainees couldn't resist piling in front of the screen whenever Kuryakin cleared off his desk and carefully placed an open-topped metal box (painted brown as if to mimic cardboard) right in the center. The Russian would proceed to place something inside the box, and it was something different every time.

A zoo's worth of pom-pom animals he'd spent the previous evening creating, complete with googly eyes.

A few water balloons.

A half dozen doughnuts.

On went the safety glasses, then Kuryakin spent a few minutes tinkering on something outside of the camera's vision. The whatever-it-was joined the stuff inside the box, and he grabbed his phone. Their subject then set the desk chair a couple of feet away from the desk, stood up on said chair, and peered into the box from what was apparently a safe distance.

After a couple of clicks to the phone screen, a quiet thump or sizzle came from the rattling box, along with sparks or a colorful puff of smoke, prompting Kuryakin to beam in exultation. The exception was on Doughnut Day, as the blond instead burst into peals of laughter and spent the next hour scrubbing cream and jelly and powdered sugar and chocolate off the walls and ceiling.

Amusing as all that was, however, they had to acknowledge that it was a bit of an issue that Kuryakin was setting off explosions in his dorm room.

Highly-controlled, virtually silent explosions… generated by unknown materials and with remote detonation capabilities… whose sparks and smoke were gone within seconds… and which went unnoticed by the building's smoke alarms and sprinkler systems. Perhaps Kuryakin had messed with those before they started monitoring his room but, whether or not that was the case, his little inventions could possibly hold some appeal for certain organizations.

In addition to this, it was sobering that Illya was much stronger than he claimed: perhaps what Intelligence had suggested were his "past" athletic abilities weren't so past after all. He turned down his friends' invitations to go for a run on the grounds that he was a poor excuse of an athlete, then went home and tossed off a few sets of calisthenics with nary a breath of exertion.

His habit of changing clothes in full view of the camera also revealed a frame that, notwithstanding its rather extreme slimness, appeared mostly to be lean muscle. Perhaps T.H.R.U.S.H. believed he was still in top martial-arts-and-gymnastics condition and, besides his computer skills, anticipated being able to send him out into the field.

It was this revelation of hidden athleticism that emboldened Slate to nag at Kuryakin until he finally caved in and agreed to join him, Solo, and Dancer for a jog at Central Park. At first Illya demurred to the idea of being allowed to set the pace but, soon enough, he relented and took off.

"You'll not escape us that easily, Mr. Kuryakin!" Mark exclaimed, putting on a burst of speed in an effort to match Illya's.

From somewhere just outside Napoleon's field of vision, Illya's voice drifted back faintly, "I already seem to have done so."

Napoleon briefly made a half-hearted attempt to join the other boys, but quickly gave up and slowed down to keep pace with April. The pair jogged together in companionable silence until April fixed him with a dirty look.

"What?"

"Slowpoke."

"I'm not any slower than you are."

"I have menstrual cramps and forgot to take medicine for it. What's your excuse?"

"A soldier never leaves a man—er, non-gender-specific person behind."

"Cute. But T.H.R.U.S.H. isn't quite so sentimental." She took another moment to catch her breath, then increased her jogging pace. "Onward, soldier."


Geography of Dark Tourism, course description: A course on sites such as cemeteries, prisons, scenes of tragedy and torture, and other locations that people find macabre. Presents different interpretational methods and rationales, as well as discussion of visitor motivations.

Napoleon had rather suspected upon enrolling in the course that "new digs for an evil lair" would not be one of the visitor motivations to be discussed, and he was not disappointed in that suspicion. It was, nonetheless, one of the courses that U.N.C.L.E. had listed as being potentially relevant to his future career, and he accordingly applied himself to research projects focused around past or (suspected) present hideouts for certain nefarious personalities.

"There you are, Napoleon! It's been positively ages since we've been together!"

Speaking of nefarious personalities, there was Angelique, waiting for him in the hall as he exited the classroom. He rather envisioned her having Čachtice Castle lovingly restored in the memory of a charming old-timey countess rumored to have had a penchant for bathing in the blood of her servant girls.

Napoleon smiled as she took his arm, and they chatted as they proceeded slowly down the hallway. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my dear Angelique."

"Oh, is that why you took that horrid little friend of yours to Montana? To become fonder of me? How sweet of you!"

"I always aim to please, but I must confess to a smidge of confusion."

"Only a smidge? Darling, you underestimate yourself." She patted the arm that she'd linked through his. "Do tell."

"If my friend is so horrid, why did you go to him to ask for my number instead of coming directly to me?"

"He didn't give a full account of our little meeting?" She tutted a few times. "Well, that reticence is certainly a habit he'll have to be broken of. Thank you for telling me."

He smiled wider. "You're very welcome. In the interest of your not being reticent, why don't you fill in the blanks for me?"

"Oh, of course. I wanted him to get thinking about life beyond the academic. He seems a tailor-made mad genius and, as you know—" She leaned in very close to finish the sentence. "—we're always hiring."

He leaned even closer toward her as they took the stairs to the first floor. "And what, pray, did the mad genius think of your offer?"

Angelique scoffed. "He threatened to sic some cantankerous old professor on me and scurried off into his ivory tower. Really, darling, you must teach him some manners."

His gasped in mock horror. "I should say so! When would you like him to be all mannered-up and ready to go?"

"Not for a while, I suppose. For some reason, the little wretch doesn't seem to like me very much."

Another gasp. "You don't say!"

"I do say. And if he dislikes me, he'll absolutely despise my coworkers. And a grumpy mad genius does so tend to be an unproductive mad genius, you know."

He kind of wished she'd stop calling the Russian mad. "Indeed. Hmm…." Napoleon transitioned into mock pensiveness. "Why do you get to break him of his reticence while I'm stuck with providing lessons in deportment?"

"Well, we certainly don't want him to be anything but reticent until he's safely on my side."

"Ah, yes. How silly of me not to think of that."

She patted his arm again. "There, there, Napoleon, you musn't be too hard on yourself."

"You always know how to make a man feel better, Angelique."

"In many ways, darling. Speaking of…." She brought them to a halt near the exit and the curve of her lips changed slightly, her pout less exaggerated.

He recognized that expression from their last two encounters, which had also been their first two encounters, which had been in the wake of a couple of missions he'd shadowed a senior agent on. And which had ended up in a hotel room with 1800 thread-count sheets, 1 bed, and 0 clothes. And so he was faced with the unusual task of turning down a lady's offer.

"Alas, my love, it is not only my horrid friend who has a cantankerous professor. Homework beckons."

Angelique frowned, pouted, and smirked in rapid succession. "Homework, or is your little friend…" She traced a finger around his lips. "…a little more than a friend?"

Napoleon affected a wounded expression. "My life is about more than sex, I'll have you know."

The smirk intensified. "More than sex, you say? Thank you, darling, our little heart-to-heart has been most enlightening." She kissed him on the cheek and took her leave.

He blinked after her. Enlightening? Did he say something important, or was she just trying to get him worried that he had done so? He didn't think he'd said anything that—damn.

That was the problem.

He hadn't said no.

Solo mentally reran a couple of lines.

"Is your little friend a little more than a friend?"

"My life is about more than sex."

He reran it again, cropping the exchange down to what Angelique might have taken as key points—what she may have inferred or interpreted.

"Are you having sex with him?"

"It's about more than that."

And one more time.

"Is he your lover?"

"I love him."

Napoleon winced. His next debriefing was not going to be fun.


This was not fun.

"You know that I dislike asking people to repeat themselves, but would you mind saying that again, Solo?"

Napoleon clenched his toes in his shoes and smiled politely. "Not at all, Agent Crane. I misspoke when engaged in conversation with T.H.R.U.S.H. Agent Angelique and seem to have given her the impression that I am in a serious romantic relationship with Mr. Kuryakin."

Crane rubbed her forehead and Solo wished she'd just kill him outright. "And who started that conversation?"

"She did, ma'am." Please.

"Did you find out anything useful, or was the entirety of the exchange focused around your declaration of undying love for Mr. Kuryakin?"

"She claimed that she offered a position in T.H.R.U.S.H. to Mr. Kuryakin, ma'am." Kill me.

"Please, Solo, I should think you'd be on a first-name basis with your lover."

"Yes, ma'am." Please kill me.

She raised an eyebrow and he realized that he should really learn how to say no, dammit, I'm not desperately in love with him. "It is true, then? You're involved with the subject you're supposed to be monitoring?"

"Yes, ma'am. Involved but… not a lover in the sense that the word is often used." Bullet between the eyes, if you don't mind.

"Clarify."

"We're dating but haven't… had relations." You should probably put another through the heart, to make sure the job's done.

"And you think that is a good idea? Being involved?"

"I'm afraid there isn't a better idea at the moment, ma'am. We started dating before monitoring began, and now it would probably make it more difficult to keep an eye on him if we broke up." Just be tactful when you notify my next-of-kin.

"That is true." She frowned. "Tell me more about the offer made to Mr. Kuryakin. Did Angelique suggest that he seemed interested? Have you confirmed with him that the offer was made in the first place?"

"Angelique suggested that he showed more disdain for her than interest in taking up the offer. I asked Mr. Kuryakin—"

CEA Crane clucked her tongue.

"—Illya," he corrected, "and he said that she spoke vaguely to him about working in a place that would allow him unlimited resources and creative freedom. He thought it sounded ominous and said that he was perfectly happy where he was."

"Is there anything else relevant to report?"

"Angelique said that, based on Mr. Ku—"

"Ahem."

Napoleon broadened his smile and stayed the course this time. "Based on Mr. Kuryakin's disdain for her, ma'am, she does not anticipate his joining T.H.R.U.S.H.'s ranks right away."

She frowned harder, glaring at her desk. "So they're allegedly intent on winning him to their side instead of forcing him." The glare shifted to him. "How long do you suppose their patience will hold out, Solo?"

What? Who? You're asking me? "I suppose Angelique might try at least once or twice more to talk to him personally," he offered tentatively, "but beyond that, I couldn't guess, ma'am."

Crane nodded. "Probably only once… Angelique tends to bore rather easily. I agree that she'll probably make that one effort, though, in addition to the one she previously made. Of course, now that she knows you have feelings for Mr. Kuryakin—"

He clenched his toes again.

"—perhaps they'll kidnap you and him together. They might threaten you with bodily harm to make him do what they want." She tapped her fingers on the desktop until she decided, "Stay the course in your relationship with Kuryakin: don't break up, don't get more serious. We can't risk rocking the boat and tipping him toward Angelique."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Notify me the next time Angelique makes contact with him, and we'll proceed from there. Dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am." He stood up and headed to the door, marveling at having survived this incident.

"And, Solo…"

Dammit. Solo turned around.

"If you can't resist getting more serious, at least use protection."

He wished HQ hadn't been so enthusiastic about investing in automatic doors. It would have been gratifying to slam something shut.


"I have a video chat scheduled with my parents now."

Napoleon stood up from his perch on the bed in Illya's room, but the blond seated at the desk motioned him to sit down again.

"Since you introduced me to your parents, I will introduce you to mine, if you don't mind—"

Napoleon rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"—and as long as you behave yourself and do nothing to imply we are more than friends."

"I shall be the very definition of discretion."

Illya looked somewhat doubtful. "Stay out of my shot until I introduce you." He turned on the computer, then turned back to Napoleon. "Perhaps I should tell you that they are not Mr. and Mrs. Kuryakin. My mother uses her maiden name and you may address her as Professor Balakhonova. She lives in Russia but is Ukrainian by birth and will not appreciate it if you call her a Russian. My father is Dr. Kuryakin. He is Russian."

Solo raised his brows. First, he repeated Balakhonova to test it out on his tongue, then he asked, "And what might they be professors-slash-doctors of?"

"Professor Balakhonova is a mathematical physicist and Dr. Kuryakin studies physical chemistry." He made a shush gesture with his hand, then opened his video chat app and pressed the Call button.

Two people appeared on the screen moments later and, from his view off to the side, they struck Napoleon as being rather tall: despite seeming trim enough, they had to sit very close together to stay within the screen. Any doubts as to whether they were Illya's biological parents, however, were dispelled through other similarities in their appearances. The brown-haired man's face was quite reminiscent of the younger man's, and the woman seated by him had Illya's hair and eyes.

Just as the constant flow of presumably Russian words set Napoleon's eyes to glazing (the rapid pace of the conversation was more akin to a fast-forwarded debriefing than a family meeting), Illya suddenly switched to English. "Mama, Papa—" (For some reason, Napoleon thought those words coming from his sarcastic boyfriend were sort of adorable.) "—now I would like you to meet one of the friends I told you about."

Taking his cue, Napoleon entered the frame and waved. "Hello, Professor Balakhonova, Dr. Kuryakin. It's an honor to meet you."

"You are one of the first friends our Illyusha has made," Prof. Balakhonova said with something almost approaching a smile on her face. "I hope you take your role seriously."

"Oh, I am very serious about Illya, Professor. Ow!" Napoleon leaned over and rubbed his side, just below his ribcage where the blond had prodded at him with a knuckle.

Illya spared him a bored glance. "Did I ever happen to mention that I am a Russian junior national champion in taekwondo?"

"And two-time champion in judo," Dr. Kuryakin put in with something almost resembling pride in his voice.

Napoleon grimaced. Even though the knuckle-prodding had been more surprising than painful, he new that a deeper or sharper blow would have been quite accurately directly to a kidney. He told his boyfriend, "No but, based on your timing, I assume that's something you'd like me to bear in mind."

They exchanged some more pleasantries—Solo's subject of study, Prof. Balakhonova's subject of study, Dr. Kuryakin's subject of study—chatted a bit about what it was like living in New York City, and eventually Balakhonova commented, "Illyusha, you look a bit pale. Perhaps a short walk would do some good. Get blood circulating."

Illya rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like a disgruntled teenager. "I assure you that I am no more pale than is normal. Perhaps I shall go visit with April." He turned to Napoleon and explained, "They want to talk to you alone." Frigid glare. Watch your mouth.

"Well, I hope I'm not in trouble," Napoleon said lightly. Best behavior, I promise.

As soon as Napoleon waved bye-bye to Illya and turned back to the screen, Balakhonova spoke again. "You are aware that our Illyusha has only just turned eighteen?"

Solo mentally cringed, but kept up his pleasant expression and nodded. "Ah, yes. The little sneak didn't tell us he'd had a birthday until it had already passed so, when we went down to Connecticut to spend American Thanksgiving with April's family, we had a mini belated-birthday celebration."

Dr. Kuryakin looked as if he was considering the possibility of being pleased at the birthday story, while Professor Balakhonova ignored the thing to press on with, "And what might be your age?"

"Twenty-five. Forgive me but I don't see why—"

"Do you make a habit of dating teenagers?"

Napoleon's easy smile twitched. "Of course not, but I still don't see—"

Dr. Kuryakin's eyes shifted skyward briefly. "What my wife is clumsily attempting to insinuate is we believe you are dating our son and we think you are a bit old for him."

"Ah. Now I see."

"You do not deny it?"

"You've not given me a chance to, Doctor."

"Here is your chance."

Napoleon glanced at the door. "I can't. He didn't want you to know, but I can't sit here and lie to you." Well, he could and possibly should, but he had an instinct for who would (and who wouldn't) buy whatever lies he came up with. That instinct was telling him that Illya's parents would believe they were dating regardless of what they were told, so it would probably go over better if he came clean about it.

"As my husband said," Prof. Balakhonova resumed calmly, "we believe you are too old for our Illyusha. He tells us you are well-educated. A man of the classics. Surely you can appreciate that manners dictate you reconsider 'having a fling', as it were, with a young person whose parents disapprove of you."

Napoleon's back stiffened as the casual charm of his smile increased proportionately. "At some level, yes. I can comprehend the idea. However, Illya seems to approve of me, if the fact that my internal organs remain undisturbed is any indication. And perhaps you can appreciate the distinction between a fling and a relationship. As far as I'm concerned, he and I are 'having a relationship', as it were."

The parents glanced at each other for a moment. After a brief conversation of arched eyebrows, frowns, nods, and shrugs, the husband took the next argument.

"Illya is intellectually advanced for his age," he piped up. "That does not mean he is emotionally mature. He is not ready for a relationship."

"Forgive me, Dr. Kuryakin, but I think that's up to him. And not to toot my own horn, but I'm a pretty easy guy to get along with. Illya sets the relationship pace. I would never push him in a direction he wasn't comfortable with." He held up a finger. "And, uh, forgive me for one more thing but… well, is it only the fact that I'm a few years older than Illya that bothers you?"

Prof. Balakhonova frowned. "If you are asking whether it bothers us that you are a male, the answer is no. If you are asking whether it bothers us that you are American, the answer is also no. If you cannot reconsider your… relationship for our Illyusha's benefit, perhaps you can at least act in your own interests. There are many things you do not know about him."

"That isn't a disqualifier for being in a relationship, Professor. From what I've gathered, it's generally more important to grow together and be better people together than to know everything about each other."

"He has celiac disease. And he is a psychopath."

This abrupt outing of one of Illya's psychological diagnoses—and one which Slate had suggested could not be considered definitive—did not particularly endear the parents to Solo. To keep up his end of the conversation, he commented on the part of the revelation that actually had been a surprise, and which he felt somewhat less vile about discussing behind his boyfriend's back. "Celiac's the thing with the gluten, isn't it?"

"Yes." Balakhonova raised an eyebrow as if she'd abruptly remembered something. "Call him back."

Napoleon produced his phone to send a text.

Napoleon: You're allowed back in now if you dare …

About a minute of awkward silence later—a silence filled with Solo attempting to smile, Dr. Kuryakin responding with something that looked more like a toothy grimace than a grin, and Prof. Balakhonova frowning harder—Illya returned and Napoleon slid out of the proverbial pilot's seat. Illya reclaimed his spot and Balakhonova promptly launched into a rapid succession of definitely-not-English words.

"Mama," Illya interjected several times before finding enough of an opening to add, "it is rude to speak Ukrainian in front of someone who does not speak the language."

Dr. Kuryakin smirked. "You only want Mama to speak English since she cannot shout at you as efficiently in English as she can in Ukrainian or Russian."

"I am my father's son, Papa. Perhaps we can discuss this later. Is there anything else you should like to talk to both of us about, or shall we arrange for you to scold me some other time?"

"We will talk later," Prof. Balakhonova promised. "And Napoleon: keep in mind the track record that men of your name have with Russia. Good bye."

The parents' faces promptly disappeared from view and Illya logged out from his end of the connection, remarking mildly, "Melodramatic, are they not?"

Napoleon chuckled and couldn't suppress the wave of passive-aggression that reared its head. "They're something, alright."

Illya shut down the computer, clapped the screen shut, and frowned, "You told them."

"About us? No. They guessed and I didn't want to lie to your parents. I did not tell them: I admitted it to them."

Illya shrugged, so Napoleon assumed he was forgiven. "And then they tried to talk you out of it, yes?"

Nod.

"I suppose they started off with an effort to assert parental authority."

"Something like that."

"They then suggested that your dumping me like the proverbial hot potato would be best for my emotional wellbeing."

Napoleon nodded slowly, brow wrinkling just a bit. "More or less."

"And this was followed by their final appeal that you should, essentially, terminate the relationship to save yourself."

It clicked. Napoleon propped a hand on his hip and used his free hand to shake a finger at the blond. "You were listening in at the door."

"You insult me. I would not be so crude as to stand with my ear pressed against a door." He pushed back from the desk a bit and set himself spinning on the wheeled chair. As he spun around, he explained, "Like anybody with sufficient technical knowledge and a modicum of common sense, I linked my computer to my mobile phone." The spinning slowed. "I loitered in the stairwell and eavesdropped on your delightful banter from there."

Napoleon stopped the rotation by grabbing hold of the armrests on either side of the chair. "Your parents are so desperate that I shouldn't date you, that they're willing to tell me you're a psychopath?"

From his caged-in position, Illya folded his hands over his stomach and stared straight ahead, which landed his gaze squarely on the shirt button three up from Napoleon's waist and was quite effective in keeping most of his facial expression out of the American's view. "Not so desperate as to weave lies out of nothing but… they did exaggerate."

At Napoleon's brief grunt of interest, he continued, "As a child, I exhibited some concerning behaviors. Upon professional consultation, those symptoms proved consistent with psychopathy."

Napoleon tilted his head when Illya stopped speaking. This was a good opportunity to learn more about his boyfriend from the fellow himself. He preferred this way, in fact, since it would give the person in question control over his own narrative. Solo would have to rely on his own instincts to tell if that narrative was honest.

Playing dumb, he prompted, "The implication being that you had psychopathic tendencies as a child? And now…?"

"As a result of the consultation, I embarked upon many years of mental health counseling, and my parents endeavored to be as kind to me as they could, as well as encouraging me to consider the welfare of other people. Continued behavioral therapy sessions suggest that, as more or less an adult, some might justifiably identify in me some… anomalies."

Napoleon did not particularly trust Balakhonova and Kuryakin's tutorials in emotional intelligence based on his limited experience with them. Their interaction with Illya had hardly seemed affectionate, and Balakhonova's repeated reference to him as "Our Illyusha" had seemed more proprietary than tender. Still, perhaps it was a cultural or language gap at play, or maybe frigid efficiency was simply the Kuryakin clan's way of expressing warm feelings.

Deciding that arguing with Illya's version of his parents' kindness would be counterproductive, Solo offered calmly, "So they weren't exaggerating then."

"By dint of their declaring my psychopathy with no qualifications, I believe they exaggerated. Additionally, there is no 'official', internationally-accepted definition of psychopath, and so declaration of one's being the same is, to some degree, subjective."

Keeping his grip on the armrests, Napoleon leaned in for a closer look at Illya's face, which turned down and to one side to keep itself hidden. If he was avoiding eye contact, there was probably something there that Illya did not want him to see. Fear? Anger?

Before the brunet could say anything, the Russian lowered his gaze further and murmured flatly, "Dating an emotionally-repressed grouch with poor manners can hardly be considered the most enjoyable of pastimes. I imagine that throwing in some mental disorder could easily be considered beyond the pale. If you wish to terminate our relationship, I can provide no objections."

Well, that was an unpleasant detour. Napoleon kept his tone even and his hands on the armrests. "There's nothing for you to object to. I don't want to terminate anything. Just…"

Blue eyes flicked up. "Just?"

"Do you want us to break up? I mean, I enjoy being with you, Illya." He proceeded slowly, in the hope of getting through the detour with their relationship intact. "It's just… sometimes I can't tell if you enjoy being with me, as a boyfriend."

"You mean, you think I do not care about you."

"As you heard when I told your parents, I know that, at a minimum, you tolerate me." Napoleon took a deep breath, knowing that Illya would likely prefer if he took the direct route but still wary of causing offense. If the younger man was convinced he was potentially psychopathic, and that this was something worthy of causing the end of their association, he would focus on that concern for the time being. "But if we're bringing psychopathy into this… are we still together because you like me or because it's more convenient for the time being?"

Illya lifted his face and with Napoleon's proximity they were almost nose-to-nose, so he leaned his head back a bit to make it easier to focus his vision. "I went to Montana with you, did I not?"

Not quite seeing what that proved, Napoleon simply blinked.

"I did not particularly wish to go to Montana. I had work to do, air travel is unpleasant, and I was not feeling well at the time—and before you ask, the panic attacks had nothing to do with that."

Napoleon nodded slowly.

Illya let out a displeased huff of breath. "You still do not understand. If I was dating you 'for the heck of it', I would not inconvenience myself. You wanted me to take the trip with you and so, despite not wanting to, I went. Self-expression is not and shall likely never be my forte, and so I find other ways of demonstrating… that I… care."

"Like when you let me decide what TV show to watch, and when I used to drag you to 'insipid' parties?"

"Yes."

Napoleon nibbled at his lower lip, eyes glazing over a bit as his focus shifted somewhere to the right of Illya.

"Napoleon?"

"I appreciate the effort, but—"

"But you cannot stay with an individual who cannot—"

Napoleon's eyes snapped back from the side and he used one hand to grasp Illya by the chin, startling him into silence. "Let me finish before you jump to the wrong conclusion. As I was saying, I appreciate the effort, but I don't want you to continue doing things you don't enjoy just to show you care. You'll end up resenting me, and I'll worry that I'm forcing you into things you don't want."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"We're at an important point in our relationship," Napoleon corrected, removing his chin-grasping hand and stepping backwards a couple of steps to settle on the edge of the bed. "I don't think this is an intractable problem. We can work something out. If you want to."

Illya stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle and frowning at his feet. "Very well. My solution has clearly proven inadequate, so what would you suggest?"

"I don't know. I don't want to suggest something and have you just go along with it."

"At the risk of redundancy, I suggest that we are then at an impasse."

Napoleon brooded for almost a minute. Then he took out his phone and tapped around the screen for several moments. He proceeded to stare at the device for a solid five minutes, at which point Illya's patience wore out and he said sharply, "If you've no ideas—"

Not looking up, Napoleon raised a finger and responded with what sounded like, "Ah-da-da-da!"

Illya puffed out a breath in return and set himself spinning again. When the rotation ended and Napoleon was still deeply involved with his phone, the blond returned to his laptop, figuring he might as well get some work done. It was naturally the very second that the computer came back to life that the American rejoined the world of the living.

"I was looking up psychopathy," the brunet announced.

Not turning around, Illya drawled, "Ah, good. Now you've done an internet search, you are an expert."

"Yes, I know, Mr. Smarty-pants, I know. I just thought I'd try to find some inspiration for an arrangement we might both be able to live with."

"Given the several minutes of devoted effort you put in, one hopes you have not come up empty."

"The internet says psychopaths don't feel bad about lying."

"One does not have to exhibit every symptom to receive the diagnosis, which, again, is subject to variation depending upon the individual making the diagnosis."

"Is a lack of remorse a symptom you exhibit?"

"Generally."

"And may I be so bold as to presume a difficulty in expressing emotion is something else relevant to your case?"

"You may."

"You'd be willing to manipulate my emotions for your own benefit?"

Illya hesitated on that one. "It would depend on how much I would benefit and how damaging the manipulation could prove."

"Was your hesitation just now genuine, or to manipulate?"

"Manipulate."

Napoleon mentally stumbled at the admission, but verbally kept going. "Even though the hesitation was to manipulate, was the response itself honest?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you can be honest with me?"

"I can and I sometimes am, but not as often as I could."

"Do you think you will be honest with me?"

"Not always."

"Could you—"

"How. Do you not. Understand?" With the last syllable, Illya slammed both fists into the desk and whirled to his feet, shoving away the chair he'd been occupying. By the time he turned around fully, Napoleon was on his feet bracing himself as discreetly as he could manage, but Illya stayed by the desk, fists clenching and releasing air almost spasmodically.

"We have just established that I am a remorseless liar," the blond ground out, "and you expect me to respond to this... this interrogation honestly? Are you that impossibly dense? I can lie! I can give you whatever words you want!" His tone turned mocking as his volume decreased further until he was practically hissing, "I love you, Napoleon, of course I'll try to be honest with you."

"Yes, you can lie. With words." Napoleon smiled weakly. "But you can't fake emotions."

The narrowed, glaring eyes widened.

"The only sentiment I've seen you do a good job of faking is indifference."

Illya stared at him for a moment, glanced at the door as if considering a sudden departure, and ultimately dropped back into the chair, turning his back to his companion and swiveling back and forth slightly.

Napoleon reached out to turn the chair, then withdrew his hand and settled for standing a bit closer while letting Illya keep his facial expressions to himself. He tried to keep his voice gentle but not overly so as he said, "You think you've figured me out—that you know how to use me. Maybe you have. But you never considered that I could figure you out."

Illya scoffed. "You think you've accomplished that task?"

"Accomplished? No. Made some headway? Yes. Illya, I can tell your real smile from your fake. Maybe I can't always tell when you're happy but, when you seem happy, I can tell whether it's genuine or an act."

"If you've made such progress on assessing my emotional state, why do you feel the need to quiz me on how honest I can be with you?"

"To make you angry."

No response.

"See? I can manipulate you, too."

"Yes, I see." The lingering ire in his voice was gone, leaving a dull monotone. "Now we can merrily go through life manipulating each other. Charming."

"No. But now you've learned that I'm not some kind of victim."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

Napoleon blinked back his surprise, even though the blond was still not looking at him. Still swiveling to and fro in a narrow arc.

Could Illya have plotted out this entire conversation? Had he been feigning an inability to fake emotions for the past weeks? Was Napoleon being strung along as a fool and a plaything?

No.

He called the bluff.

"You're a genius, Illya. You're clever. But you're not that clever."

No response.

"And you're not that cruel."

Still silence.

"So… bagels, huh?"

Illya finally turned around to raise an eyebrow at the change in topic.

"You're not supposed to eat gluten but you bought seven bagels the day I met you."

"I bought six and the lady at the shop gifted me the seventh. I planned to eat one, as I believed the potential discomforts would be worth the experience of sampling a New York bagel, and offer the rest to other people in the building in order to curry favor with them."

Napoleon grimaced a bit. "And Mark, April, and I threw a wrench into your plan by appropriating the rest of said bagels."

"On the contrary, I seem to have curried quite a bit of favor with you three. You all live in the building, so it still counts."

Napoleon sat down on the bed again. "Why didn't you tell me you have celiac disease?"

Illya smiled. A shark's smile. "It is a weakness. It is always inconvenient and sometimes unpleasant and it controls me. It is another frailty that you have now been witness to, as you were when I had panic attacks in Montana—as you were when I expressed distress over my orientation outside Del Floria's—and as you were just now upon learning of my imperfect mental health. Do you enjoy developing a catalogue of my weaknesses, Napoleon? Do you like my honesty?"

Solo quirked a small grin in return and offered sincerely, "I appreciate the effort." But not the delivery. "And nothing you have described is a weakness. They are challenges. You've been making every effort to meet those challenges. Except maybe with the eating-a-bagel-when-you-have-celiac-disease thing."

The shark-toothed grin softened a bit at the response. His tone, similarly, became slightly less sharp—almost the dry inflection that Napoleon recognized as being Illya's version of a joking tone. "If not for the accompanying deficiencies in nutrient uptake I may have been six-foot-five and solid muscle."

This time Solo risked shaking his head in mock pity as he rejoined, "And instead you're five seven and solid muscle."

Illya spared him a withering glance, and Napoleon knew he was in the clear—for now. "I assure you, the only thing solid about this disgraceful excuse for an adult male body is its skeletal structure. Although that, too, is less firm than would be desirable." He turned back to his laptop and continued bitterly, "Would you like more honesty, Napoleon? I was deceiving you when I mentioned being a martial arts champion. That was before I was pulled from participation in such athletic efforts."

Out of the clear again? Napoleon repressed the urge to face-palm and proceeded with caution. "Why were you pulled?"

"Celiac disease is in part characterized by damage to the intestine, resulting in its failure to absorb nutrients, including those vital in building muscle and bone. I suffered several fractures which doctors attributed to weak bones and my own sloppiness, which was brought on by my general fatigue, which may have been associated with anemia. Now the only part of my anatomy that operates at anything approaching full capacity is my brain."

"Let's not underestimate the importance of the brain. Besides, you seemed to manage our little jog with Mark and April pretty well." And your regular calisthenics routine.

"It is not the same as contact sport, especially competitive contact sport. Or gymnastics."

Solo feigned surprise. "You're a gymnast too?"

"I was."

"I don't suppose you're the junior national champion in that, as well."

"I was."

"If you earned the honor at least once, you keep it forever."

"You have already proven that you can goad me into being angry, Napoleon. I do not enjoy being angry at you and I do not want to yell at you, so please stop attempting to force me back into a rage."

Napoleon frowned at the back of his head. "I'm not goading you; I'm telling you the truth. Hell, it's a complimentary truth!" He sighed a bit. "You're still mad at me."

Illya started typing away at his computer, saying flatly, "Of course not. I was, and now I am not, but I will be if you keep mocking me."

Solo gave a deeper sigh. "Alright, come on." He grabbed the desk chair, pulled it back a bit, and spun Kuryakin around in his seat. "Get up."

Illya looked up dully.

Gesticulating grandly, Napoleon repeated, "Up, up—on your feet. You're moping and feeling sorry for yourself and obviously still angry and we're putting an end to that right now. Up."

Now Illya sighed, thinking that it had been so much easier to mope in peace before he'd let this effusive American into his life. Based on past experience, the most efficient response was generally to go along with whatever Solo wanted, agree that yes, that was very helpful, thank you, and then resume his moping as soon as he was alone again.

So he stood up.

"Thank you. Now flip me."

Well, that was new.

Illya narrowed his eyes. "I beg your pardon."

"You're getting all sulky about not being the athlete you think you should be, so we're going to reaffirm that 'you still got it.' You're a judo champion. Judo involves flipping people." He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Flip me."

Illya shook his head and crossed his arms. "I'll not stoop to physical violence." A pause, and he amended, "I'll not stoop to physical violence against someone I… like. Even if I am still angry with that someone." He had to control a grimace at having admitted his ongoing disgruntlement.

To his credit, Napoleon did not rub it in that he had correctly assessed Illya's lingering anger. Instead, he persisted with, "Think of me as a competitor in a tournament." A second of jazz hands. "Come on, you must've flipped someone sometime to be national champion at it, and they presumably survived the encounter. I've done a dash of martial arts here and there, so I promise I can handle a fall. Let's vent a little frustration, hmm?"

Kuryakin tilted his head a bit, as if considering it, then righted his posture and shook his head again.

"C'mon, flippity-flip." Recalling Illya's having ended his athletic career due to injuries, Napoleon wondered if the refusal was partly out of fear that the former sports champion would hurt himself. After all, while he was a strong runner and could handle strength-building exercises, Illya did not seem to do anything that involved physical contact with another person, as he had pointed out.

Napoleon lowered his arms. "Of course, if you think it would be too hard…"

Next thing he knew, Solo was lying himself back on the floor after having landed on his rear end. He took a second to shake off the surprise and looked to the Russian standing above him.

Said Russian's eyes were glittering with mirth as he positively beamed, "Thank you."

The American quirked a grin. "Anytime."

"I… do feel better, actually." Illya chewed at his lower lip for a moment and the sparkle in his eyes dimmed. "However, much as I enjoyed helping you float through the air with the greatest of ease, I would prefer not to give a repeat performance. I did not hurt you, I trust."

"Only my pride." And my posterior.

"Your pride or your vanity?"

"Whichever is primarily stored in the gluteus maximus."

Illya offered a hand and Napoleon allowed himself to be helped up, then was startled when the blond reached around the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss—the first that the younger man had ever initiated.

Drawing back a few moments later—just when Solo had regained enough senses to get really into the swing of things, naturally—Illya leaned in again to whisper, "Thank you for not leaving me."

Napoleon grinned lopsidedly and reached to place his hands around his companion's waist, but was promptly grabbed by the shoulders, spun around, and pushed toward the door.

"Now go away and let me get some work done."


Napoleon opened the door.

Mark looked up.

Napoleon hobbled in.

Mark's eyebrows went up.

Napoleon closed the door and frowned.

Mark closed his textbook and smirked.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, it's not what you're thinking."

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up." Mark feigned resumption of his schoolwork but, when Napoleon simply grabbed a book and flopped back onto his bed, offering no explanation in the process, Mark leaned way back in his chair and lifted his chin until he was looking at his roommate upside down. "For the record, what is it you think I thought and what actually happened?"

Napoleon spared a glance in his direction before returning to the book. "If you don't know what I think you thought, I don't think I should put those thoughts in your head."

"What I'm thinking now is I wanna punch you."

No response.

"You're holding your book wrong side up." Mark leaned forward again and said to his homework, "If you were nice, maybe I'd've told you that Intelligence got another titbit of intelligence on Kuryakin."

Napoleon looked up, just as a USB dropped into his lap.

Mark's hands returned to the desk, back still turned to the bed as he added, "And if I weren't so put off by your bad manners I'd further tell you that the intelligence is in the form of documents freshly processed through Translation."

Napoleon's thankfulness was expressed in the form of his saying, "What actually happened is Illya demonstrated a judo flip on me."

Mark made a rather high-pitched noise in his effort to hold in a laugh. "If that token of gratitude had any sort of effect on me," the Brit said, getting up and fiddling around the dresser, "I'd bring the stupid computer over for you." He shut the drawer and tossed the laptop over to Solo.

Napoleon caught it in both hands and flashed a grin. "Hey, before I start in on this, can I ask you, O Lofty Student of Psychology, what you think of the psych people at the office?"

"'Course you can, Polo." Mark went back to his schoolwork.

Solo rolled his eyes and specified, "Okay, then, I'm asking you now. What do you think of them?"

Slate spun around, grinning. "In what capacity? As experts regarding the human mind or as people to play videogames with? Doc Boateng slays in World of Warcraft, by the way."

"As people who can be trusted to give Illya an accurate assessment of his mental health and provide or recommend treatment accordingly," Napoleon returned bluntly.

The grin vanished. "That judo demonstration… he didn't attack you, did he?"

A quick shake of the head. "No. We, ah, had a bit of a tiff and I suggested rather insistently that he work off some lingering resentment by flipping me. It was my idea, promise."

Mark folded his arms. "You also promised that this semester you'd make your bed every morning." He shot a pointed look at the distinctly unmade bed beneath his roommate.

Napoleon pulled a face. "I make it every other day. I'm working my way up." Getting serious again at Mark's dissatisfied expression, he added, "If you don't believe me, you can have the honor of reviewing the footage from his room tonight."

Mark sighed. "I will, but I believe you. Since I'll be reviewing it anyway and might not be able to resist listening to the audio at regular speed, why don't you clarify why you want our psych people to work with him?"

"Try to resist," Napoleon said drily. "The basic idea is that he seems to be stuck on one of the diagnoses we heard about last month. I'm not sure if it's because he thinks it's the most likely, or because he was told it was most likely, or because it's what scares him the most.

"In any case, I want him to get the most confident diagnosis possible, so he can work on it and not feel like he's some kind of freak or a menace to society. I know we know that he's been getting some sort of mental health help but, based on the way he was acting, I don't think he's satisfied with where he's at right now." Recalling some of their less comfortable episodes of monitoring Illya's private life, he grimaced. "I'm not sure I'm satisfied with it, either."

"Our psych people are flipping amazing. Even if they can't work with Illya directly, I'm sure I could coax a referral to an equally amazing outsider out of them."

"Thanks. It might take a while for me to work around to raising the topic with Illya, so just talk to them when you can and I'll let you know when he might be ready to make an appointment."

"Will do, Polo."

Solo turned his attention to the stupid computer—"stupid", that is, in the same way that other devices were called "smart", as this device offered no capacities other than on/off, display documents, delete documents. No internet capability, no wi-fi, no document-editing. That was the kind of simplicity Napoleon could get behind, considering that he was a person who had sincerely benefited from the suggestion of try turning it off and on again.

USB in.

Only one document present.

Open file.

According to classified documents from Interpol and law enforcement agencies of Australia, Austria, Canada, El Salvador, Morocco, Romania, Russia,—

Damn.

South Africa, Swaziland, Switzerland, Tunisia, Ukraine, the United Kingdom,—

Had someone Googled "countries of the world" and just started typing?

and the United States,—

Thank god.

Kuryakin is believed to be responsible for multiple security breaches of internal documents for several private corporations. The documents provided evidence of illegal or legally questionable business activities and were posted online for public view.

Napoleon managed not to cackle.

The breaches took place over several years, starting when Kuryakin was twelve years of age, and were not discovered until he was fifteen. Given his status as a minor, his name was not released in press reports of the breaches and he was spared prosecution under the condition that he would not continue the offenses. He appears to have complied with the condition.

Following was a listing of affected companies, and Solo recognized more than a few as shell corporations for T.H.R.U.S.H. activities. Once he'd gotten his fill of the document, he asked if Slate had gotten a look yet and, upon receiving a reply in the affirmative, he deleted the file, removed the USB, and shut down the stupid computer.

"Safe to say we know why the Thrushes are after him, I suppose," Solo mused. "Maybe they're especially bent on winning him over since they know he's starting off with a less-than-stellar opinion of them."

"Agreed." Turning around, Slate informed him, "Our beloved CEA feels it's time to step up our babysitting of Kuryakin, in anticipation of Angelique slithering up to him again." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a plastic baggy filled with what looked like pins for sewing. "First of December, we're to start looking out for any chance to slip into his room and stick these trackers into his trainers."

"Tomorrow?"

"That's the first, December."

"That's a Friday." Solo tapped at his chin in thought. "He spends most Friday afternoons at the library."

"Yeah." Slate rummaged around the desk drawer for a moment and came up with an empty plastic baggy, into which he poured about half of the trackers. "I already gave some to Dancer." He reached way over to hand one of the baggies to Solo. "We were thinking she and you could stand watch at the building entrances while I slip into his room at 1500 hours to take care of it, but we'll all keep some of the things on us in case the day don't go exactly as planned."

"Who'll be tracking him?"

"Crane says we have enough to do, what with monitoring his room and the usual Uni business. He'll be tracked from HQ, and only if necessary. The trackers won't be activated until we get the sneaking suspicion that he's in trouble." Pause. "Well, he's already in trouble since T.H.R.U.S.H. is after his tail. Trackers'll be activated when we get the sneaking suspicion that he's in imminent danger. Unfortunately, we can't spare anyone to actively monitor his whereabouts in real time."

Napoleon sighed and pocketed the trackers. "I wish we could just let Illya in on it," he grumped. "At least part of it, you know? Make sure he's on his guard. He's no idiot and he's no weakling."

"As demonstrated by your damaged derriere. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he's always on his guard." Mark gave him a look. "If you're thinking of going rogue and telling him anyway—"

"Perish the thought, my friend." He flashed a half-hearted grin. "I don't have enough clout to get away with disobeying orders."

Mark smirked. "Yet."

Napoleon's grin was no longer so half-hearted.


Illya managed about two hours of studying before pesky emotion-driven thoughts butted in and banished the pursuit of productive things. Unsurprisingly, this bout of mental uselessness was sparked by Napoleon's goodnight text, accompanied by the reminder to himself that he could neither afford to completely lose his soul to the American, nor be thoughtless enough to drag Solo down: "I'll take what I want from your heart and I'll keep it," the ringtone sang.

Bracing himself for the affectionate sentiment delivered over the phone was a pointless effort, but he did so nonetheless as he scooped up the device from his desk.

Napoleon: Sleep well, my heart

Categorizing Solo's texts was always a trial but, in the wake of their confrontational episode earlier, Kuryakin was inclined to place this one on the acceptable side of "sappy". Considering he'd come perilously close to socking Napoleon in the jaw a few short hours ago, he thought it was quite big of Solo to offer an endearment.

In return for that generosity, Illya tapped open the emoji menu and cringed at the assortment of overly cute cartoons. He picked out an owl since that seemed relevant to the late hour, wondered why it was so hard for him to express emotions even with emojis, then added a yellow heart to the rear of the owl, hit Send, and turned off his phone for the night.

If Napoleon asked about it tomorrow, he could say he confused the yellow heart for the full moon emoji and sent it by accident. In fact, that was probably what he would say if so confronted, even though he knew that his nothing-but-kind boyfriend deserved more and he had promised himself to at least attempt to be more honest and open with the American.

And there was really no rational justification for him not to be honest, as his occasional efforts to be forthcoming had gone well enough.

One such incident was a few weeks back, when he and Napoleon were returning to the dorms after a walk. Their route took them directly past the pharmacy Illya used and he dared to ask the American if he'd mind if they stopped in to pick up a couple of prescriptions.

Not that he explained what the prescriptions were for, of course, but letting Solo in on their existence was a big deal.

And not that Illya had ever gotten around to taking the antidepressants or anti-anxiety medication, of course, but Napoleon had no need to know that, either… unless a rogue cop decided to raid Kuryakin's room one day and found the dozen or so unopened bottles and suspected the Russian of peddling prescription drugs. Then maybe he'd let Solo in on it when he came to bail his blond troublemaker of a boyfriend out of jail.

In any case, regardless of the limits to his disclosure, Solo had unquestioningly acquiesced to the pit-stop in the pharmacy and didn't seem to regard Kuryakin any differently afterward.

Another incident had occurred a week or two after that: he and Napoleon were driving to Connecticut with Mark and April, as April's family had generously invited the lot of them to share Thanksgiving. Illya wasn't overly familiar with the holiday, but he knew that it was enough of a family-focused affair that the Dancers' invitation to April's friends was not nothing.

Seeing as it was her car, April had served as chauffeur, with Mark in the passenger seat; Illya had the seat behind her and Napoleon had taken the awkward middle seat instead of the more comfortable full seat behind the Brit.

About halfway to their destination, April commented that the boys better start thinking of what to get her for Christmas. Mark muttered something teasing about how lovely it was that she appreciated the true spirit of that holiday, and Napoleon declared that Dancer was so hard to shop for that he was perpetually on the lookout for gift ideas, whether it be for Christmas or her birthday.

"And speaking of birthdays," Solo went on, turning with a twinkle in his eye to his backseat buddy, "when's yours, for future reference?"

Kuryakin hesitated briefly before admitting, "It was the ninth."

Solo's brows went up. "This past 'the ninth'?"

When Illya nodded, Mark laughed, "You little shit, why'd you not tell us?"

"Yes," Napoleon added with a grin, "now you have to give us the scoop on what it's like to be an old man of nineteen."

Kuryakin cringed on the inside but promptly corrected, "Eighteen."

"Hm?"

"I rounded up when I disclosed my age. I just turned eighteen." Lifting his chin with some dignity to counteract the uncertainty that only he could hear in his next statement, he said, "You forgive my deception, yes?"

Napoleon leaned in with a throaty chuckle. Apparently buying the front of false confidence, he murmured, "You already know I do," before joining their lips gently.

As they exchanged a series of light kisses, Illya noted with some gratitude that April and Mark had started their own conversation and one of the pair in the front of the car had turned up the music on the radio a bit.

Regardless of whether or not they offered those token bits of privacy, Dancer and Slate were without question the only ones Kuryakin didn't mind having around when he and Solo were demonstrating any sort of affection. Having known from the start that April and Mark happily endorsed their relationship was comforting enough that he was able to relax into Napoleon's ministrations and almost forget that he and his boyfriend were not alone.

Almost, that is, until Solo's tongue prodded tenderly at his lips (now there was a novel sensation) and April's voice called, "Whoa, boys!"

The backseaters pulled apart, the blond more quickly than the brunet.

"I know the back seat is made for smooching, but let's not steam up the windows, shall we? I still need to see out of them to drive."

As it turned out, rather than traveling directly to her parents' house, Dancer took them to a shopping mall. She explained the change in destination with, "Some of us have to get rolling on belated b'day gifts for certain others of us. Right, blondie?"

And despite Illya's protests that this was completely unnecessary, the others proceeded to take turns hanging out with Kuryakun while each of them set out to find a present. Dancer took a little longer than the others, as her expedition included swinging by a bake shop to pick up celebratory cupcakes.

Naturally, since she was unaware of his health situation, they had not been gluten-free cupcakes, but Illya had happily eaten one anyway and was grateful that he was no longer prone to bouts of vomiting and diarrhea as he had been as a child. Accepting the icing-covered offering of friendship seemed worth starting over (yet again) on his efforts to eat properly.

And that confused him.

He who had previously counted his parents and professors as his closest companions.

He who had all the social graces of a blobfish.

He who had rarely considered the possibility of having friends from his own generation, and he who had never thought of himself as having any romantic impulses.

All that was out the window, as he found himself looking forward to meetings with his three fellow dorm-dwellers, who seemed to find his clumsy efforts at social interaction nothing if not endearing. They were, naturally, oddballs in their own right, which was really a precondition of their ever having had a chance at connecting on any level with Kuryakin.

Dancer always wrote with her left hand in an effort to force herself into ambidexterity and enjoyed discussing the latest academic publications focused on chemistry. So devoted was she that she had physical, paper copies of the journals delivered to her—courtesy of a generous uncle, she said—rather than settling for digital versions, and she was nice enough to loan Illya any issue she wasn't currently perusing.

Slate was learning to ride a unicycle and was running an ongoing thought experiment with Illya in which they attempted to construct the perfect socialist society. In one particularly lengthy planning session, Mark had readjusted his position on the floor and accidentally hitched up his trouser leg a bit, unknowingly granting the Russian a glimpse of a small gun holstered at his ankle—just the briefest sliver of a glimpse that a person less observant than Illya would likely have missed.

Solo, too, seemed to carry about a weapon in a similar manner, but he never confronted either man about it since neither seemed prone to violence and it wasn't as if Kuryakin (with his habit of generating explosions on his desk) had much moral ground to stand on when it came to things that went bang.

Regardless of the firearm situation, Napoleon had certainly shot to pieces Illya's assumption that he had no desire or capacity to be emotionally or physically drawn to a fellow human, and that particularly frightened him. While he could generally control his display of emotions, he'd had no previous need to restrain physical urges. Thinking back, Illya could scarcely recall ever having contemplating sex before about a month ago, and he was fairly certain he'd never uttered that little "S" word in any language in his entire life.

Well, the latter was a situation he could remedy easily enough. And the least he could do was say the word, if he was to have any hope of not blushing the color of a tomato whenever Napoleon pet at his hair and said he loved him and kissed him and—if things progressed, as they seemed to be doing—asked for more.

Glancing around, Illya got up from his desk chair and double-checked that his door was locked. Then he wondered what the hell he'd been trying to accomplish by securing his room and sat back down, drumming the fingers of both hands restlessly on the desk surface.

It was just a word.

Not even a remotely difficult English word by any stretch of the imagination.

He closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists…

"Sex."

…and threw his head back with a groan as he felt the flush burning across his face.

Determining that any further efforts in this vein would likely be unproductive at the moment, he checked the time and found that it was early enough to make an attempt at meditation before bed. It was always a bit risky, this meditation business: the process sometimes resulted in him fixating on a worry rather than expelling it from his mind, but he kept up the practice since it did occasionally succeed in relaxing him.

Unmake the bed. Cross-legged on the mattress. Wrap himself in the blanket. Choose a spot on the wall to focus on. Think soothing thoughts. Breathe.

In, out. Easy.

In, out. Calm.

In, out. Peace.

In, out. Joy.

In, out. Love.

In, out. Napoleon.

In, out. Butterflies.

In—over his head.

Out—of his mind.

Dammit, what had he gotten himself into?


A/N: If you managed to slog through that, stayed tuned for the next installment so you can see my trainwreck of an attempt at an action sequence!

The song excerpt used as Illya's ringtone is from "Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)" by My Chemical Romance. I dunno, I just saw Modern AU Teenage/Young Adult Illya heading down the FOB/MCR/P!ATD/TOP/etc. musical pathway at least for a little bit. (Anyway, if you're inclined to YouTube the song, maybe go for the official lyric video as opposed to the music video, so's to avoid some overzealous censorship.)

Thanks so much for reading! :)