A/N: Hey, I'm back! (confetti) And you're back! (more confetti) Some parts of this chapter might even be slightly amusing! (the rest of the confetti) Or so I hope!

Saw an MFU episode which reminded me that, in the last chapter, I probably should have put "overseas relay" instead of "hemispheric relay". Many internal screams of agony ensued.

Also, the "couple of" action scenes I thought I was going to include kind of fizzled down into about half an action sequence, but this version of events hopefully keeps the plotline reasonably coherent. It makes sense in my head, but sometimes funny things happen when I try to translate Thought Words into Spoken/Typed Words, so… :)

Act III: Napoleon's mantis shrimp fetish

Swindon

"Really now, I'd not mind in the least nipping out for some makeup-removing wipes," Ashley Slate asserted.

Crane's eyes met his in the sitting room mirror as he grimaced and she scraped the razor across her cheek. She scoffed and he grimaced harder. "What, you've never seen a lady shave before?"

"No, but I always imagined most ladies keep the razor blade safely within its cartridge and are not attempting to gouge out layers of foundation and suchlike."

"When you invent a faster way, I'm all ears."

Slate turned away, occupying himself with arranging and rearranging throw pillows on his sofa to give himself a break from cringing at Crane's razor-based activities. "You were saying Mark and his friends can help us, you think." Red pillow, white pillow, orange pillow.

Crane grunted.

"We'll have to get on that soon, I reckon. They're only in country for a week. When do we tell 'em?" White, red, orange.

"We're not telling them anything. Too risky."

"How can they help if they don't know?" Orange, red, white.

"They'll stumble into it. We'll just give them a little shove and they'll take it from there."

"And if it doesn't work?" Red, orange, white. "If they regain their feet before becoming aware—" White, orange, red. "—or if Ravel catches on and we catch hell for it?"

Crane rolled her eyes and spelled it out. "That's why we're not saying anything directly. That way, their finding out seems, at worst, due to incompetence on our part. Ravel prefers not to waste people once she has them under her thumb. If she thinks we intentionally acted against her, then yes, she'll get rid of us. If she thinks we're incompetent, she'll lower the caliber of what she has us do, but she'll keep us on."

Slate jumped and finally looked to her again as she cursed loudly.

"Finally, it's fucking off!" She dropped the razor blade to the side table beneath the mirror and used her fingers to rub off the last vestiges of Robin Fenster makeup. "We really lucked out, Slate. Your being a fucking a-hole in an effort to cut ties is going to work in our favor."

Slate snorted. Orange, white, red. "Yes, being a fucking a-hole does so endear you to people you want help from."

"It raised their hackles. They know something's up with you, and hopefully I further impressed the existence of a distressing situation on Francis and Ilia." She frowned. "Ilia… I'm not sure if he can help, but he's blonder than Mark and will probably stick closer to Francis, so we'll need him."

Slate raised a brow upon finding that he'd run out of permutations for rearranging pillows. If he'd been wiser, perhaps he'd have foreseen his present predicament and purchased more pillows to better enable his nervous tic of reorganizing things.

"And Francis, by an act of god, has a red coat."

Slate shook his head rapidly. "I'm sorry, why do we need a blonder-blond and for Francis to—ohhh."

"Welcome to the party, Slate."

"Yeah, I see you there. But what about when they meet up with the man?"

"They'll take it from there."

"What if they don't?"

"They. Will."

Recognizing a 'the question is closed' tone when he heard it, Slate said, "Alright then. How do we get them where and when we need them?"

"We grovel. And by we, I mean you, since you were the fucking a-hole."

Slate pressed his lips together.

Crane rolled her eyes. "Don't give me attitude. I told you: it's working to our advantage."

"Right. Groveling. How and to what end?"

"Call up, apologize, and ask them to join us for lunch as a peace token. Find a place on the high street, ask them to meet us there around two, two-thirty. They're here on vacation so they'll probably arrive early and wander around. Our man only knows we're supposed to meet in the afternoon, so he'll be in the area by twelve, sharp. We'll hang back—I'll keep the wig hidden in a hat and you wear a different color coat—and make sure they run into one another."

"Right. Should I do it now?"

"No, let them have another hour or two to cool off. Might be more willing to see you again if they've had a chance to talk to your family about how you actually aren't a fucking moron or whatever."

"Right… I don't have their number, though."

Crane rubbed her forehead. "Call one of your family. Ask to speak with them. Geez, Slate, I expected a lawyer to be quicker than this. You're about as ethical as I'd expect but—"

"I know I stuffed it up for myself but good," Slate snapped, "but you'll not question my ethics. You and me are in the same boat so let's not get uppity about ethics, Miss Crane."

"I didn't board the ship the same way you did," Crane shot back, shoving the thoroughly rearranged pillows to one end of the sofa and draping herself across the other end. "Fine. Let's keep it nice and simple and civil. You'll call your nephew Mark—if. You. Please," she added with a polite inclination of her head, "and ask to speak with Francis and Ilia…"

Marlborough

The orchestra must've gotten lost somewhere.

There'd been no soaring trumpets, no violin solo, no lilting flute.

Heck, even a kid on the triangle would have been enough to mask the dismal plip that signaled his official confession of love.

Then again, Napoleon wasn't sure what he thought would happen: he could hardly have expected Illya to return the sentiment on the spot. Still, a smile to accept the declaration would have been nice.

And he hadn't expected to be virtually told off.

Told it was a bad idea and then have the topic fizzle in favor of Kuryakin's abrupt sort-of-but-not-really-a-suggestion that Solo disclose his occupation to his parents… which was a bit odd, come to think of it. The Russian had never been one to bring up family matters, preferring instead to let the American start going off on whatever he wanted and then respond as he saw fit.

Really, sometimes he felt as if he was putting out the blond by discussing things as mundane as what his folks had done last Saturday, or where Aunt Amy was vacationing this summer, but Illya calmly reminded him each time that he wouldn't be bothering to listen at all if he didn't feel like it.

Reminded him that he didn't express interest as obviously as others might.

Reminded him that he didn't mind spending extra time chatting if it could help make up for Illya's halting acceptance and expression of affection…

…which made Napoleon wonder if he was mentally complaining about nothing.

Solo said he was in love. Kuryakin brought up the American's relationship with his parents.

Maybe it wasn't reciprocation, but all of a sudden it sure sounded like a very Illya way of saying: yeah, I like you, too.

He glanced to the young man at his side, walking noticeably more stiffly than usual. It seemed more than his dignity had been bruised by his earlier tumble, but he was still putting weight on both legs as he walked, so Napoleon had let the untruth slip by with a couple of tsk's and a rejected offer of assistance.

So what if the orchestra had made a wrong turn? There was no symphony but, if he listened hard enough, it seemed someone was humming somewhere in the distance. Maybe a little off-key, but still.

"Am I?"

Napoleon blinked at the sudden question and the blue gaze on his face. Once he'd sufficiently roused himself from his contemplations, he asked back, "Are we talking existentially or…?"

"Was Cynthia talking about me and is it true, what she said last night?"

"A tease?"

"Yes, and is that the same as a flirt?"

"I think she was and you are and it can be."

Illya frowned as he parsed out the answer, smiled at the resulting interpretation, and cringed at a bad step.

"I can carry you if you want," Napoleon offered—jokingly, but still perfectly willing to carry through.

"And let you tell everyone you've swept me off my feet?"

The brunet affected a wounded expression. "Would I do that?"

Illya rolled his eyes and didn't dignify the question with a verbal response.

"Well, we're almost back anyway. I'm sure you hop along on one foot if needs must."

"Almost back…" Illya trailed off as he slowed his gait, then shook his head as Napoleon made to offer a supportive arm. "No, it… do you suppose they are still there?"

"Ashley and Robin?"

Nod.

"Either they're not, or they're only there after Ash got a good old-fashioned reaming-out from the family."

Illya's brow furrowed again and soon after he asked, "Reaming…?"

"Same as being chewed out."

"Ah."

"And speaking of chewing people out for things," Napoleon said, "you've called me the wrong name a few times. Watch that until we're back home, okay?"

"That qualifies as a chewing-out?"

"It's the level necessary for this situation, I think—although, in honor of my musical-production aspirations, I could burst into angry song. Would that help you remember?"

Illya shook his head emphatically and picked up his pace again, decided that was a bad idea, and slowed again.

"Sure you don't need help?"

"Not that kind of help."

Napoleon paused a moment before prompting, "Were you planning on telling me what specific part of your leg is injured?"

"No."

"Could you tell me anyway?"

"No, because it is not my leg that is the problem." As Napoleon's eyes stayed on him, Illya supplied, "It is my back. Nothing of concern. From past experience I can assure you that it should be returned to its normal state within a few hours."

"Is it because of a previous injury from gymnastics?" Napoleon ventured.

Illya shot him a look. "It certainly was not from repeated attempts at Spider-man kisses. Yes, from gymnastics. I broke a few vertebrae and the resulting treatment was largely successful, but it left my spine a somewhat reduced flexibility."

"Somehow I'm picturing Little You perpetually with a cast on your assorted body parts."

"Entirely inaccurate. Did—did you do sport growing up?" Illya offered in return, making a mental note to severely chastise his ears for heating up at how pleased Napoleon seemed at being asked.

"I did soccer several years running, but it never amounted to anything. It was mostly just to have a steady activity to keep going when we moved to a new place. And there was that one year I did track and field." A dramatic pause. "Until the javelin incident."

Illya raised his brows and debated whether or not to encourage the sharing of this story. If he asked now, the brunet would share a tale that was amusing, clever, and highly exaggerated. If he waited until later and asked after it out of the blue, he'd get a version that was also amusing and clever, but probably closer to an unembellished truth. Before he could decide which option to go with, they were back at the house and Napoleon's attention was elsewhere.

"You there, no loitering," Napoleon greeted the Slate sitting on the front stoop. Based on there being one fewer car in the drive than there had been when they left, it seemed Ashley and Robin had gone.

"I wanted to talk with you guys alone a moment before you went back in," Mark said, no trace of the usual joviality on his face. "You know I'd not have let Uncle Ash meet you if I thought—I don't know what's his deal. He'd never—well, he'd maybe say the mail-order crap if you were his mates, but he'd not say it so nasty."

Napoleon smiled. "We figured this wasn't normal so we called it in to make sure there weren't any birds on his tailfeathers."

Mark's eyebrows lifted but he conceded, "Can't hurt to check, I s'pose. I've seen Uncle Ash pretty stretched, but he's never started spewing slurs as a result of it so… yeah, good call, I reckon." He turned to Illya. "Don't take anything he said to heart, yeah?"

At Illya's frown and brief glance in Napoleon's direction, Mark added, "Francie-boy here acts like he cares what strangers think but, end of the day, he gives precisely zero shits. On the other hand, you look like you don't care but, deep in your heart, you give all the shits."

Illya considered this. He nodded and spoke slowly. "I have no heart. Therefore, vacuously true." The Russian nodded again, approvingly. "Good logic, Mark."

Mark scratched his head as Illya headed into the house and Napoleon offered, "For the record, I might not give a shit, but I do give a damn when I can spare one."

Slate briefly shook his head and stepped to one side to block Solo's path to the front door. He said quietly, "Is he okay, actually? I know he'd not tell me if I asked."

Napoleon shrugged. "He's not thrilled, of course, but I don't think it'll cause a major setback in his self-image, if that's what worries you."

"Yeah… yeah, that's good. I'll have some words with Uncle Ash sometime as well. If he don't have a tyrannosaur-sized thrush 'round his neck, he's got some fucking serious 'splaining to do. And a fair deal of forgiveness-begging." With a grimace, Mark confessed, "He upped the nasty after you left, so right move on vacating the premises when you did, mate."

Solo returned the wince. "Spare me the gory details. I'd hate to have to dig up a damn." He took a seat on the steps and, as Mark joined him, said, "Robin Fenster. Never heard of her? Never met her?"

"Not a hint."

"Does your uncle tend to spring a Serious Girlfriend on you regularly?"

Mark shook his head in the negative. "Not for the past few years, anyway. Before that… as Mum put it, he'd fall in love with a new girl every time Italy got a new prime minister." He moved his hands in what Napoleon assumed to be the Mark Slate version of gang signs. "European politics jokes, yo."

"What do you think of him and Robin?"

Mark shrugged. "From the naught-point-seven seconds of attention I paid her amidst Uncle Ash's apparent mental breakdown, I guess I could give her the benefit of the doubt. It didn't seem as if she was encouraging his comments. She looks his type." He smirked and elbowed the American. "Then again, I'd've never foreseen your being besotted with a lad, so it seems my romantic intuitions ain't all that, hey, Francie?"

Napoleon pulled a face and started to protest, "Besot—" but shook himself out of it and went on, "So what's your uncle's job, that he might be so stressed out?"

"He's a solicitor—a lawyer, I mean. Used to work with a firm, steady. Went in for himself a couple years ago and it's been up and down. Maybe that's why he's not been doing much dating recently: busy, busy. Anyway." Mark stood. "You missed breakfast when you heroically strode out earlier. Let's go on and get something in you."

They went in and Napoleon took in the scene: Illya sat in the middle of the sofa, flanked by Constance and April, and with Cynthia leaning over the couch behind his back as Mark's mother pointed at something on a tablet the Russian was holding.

"Ilia, the ladies' man," Napoleon proclaimed, tilting his head around in an exaggerated examination of the setup. "I leave you alone for five minutes and this is what happens?"

Illya spared him a glance, then spoke to the tablet as he responded, "Yes, you are a rotten influence on me."

"So what are you ladies distracting my Ilia with?"

"It's my penance," Cynthia provided as Illya responded with a quick glare to his now-smirking boyfriend. The corners of her mouth pulled down. "After how Uncle Ash done, I felt crap for eavesdropping and commentating last night so I apologized and now Mum's embarrassing me by showing photos from a rally I attended last year."

"I am not embarrassing you," retorted Constance. "I'm sharing proud moments in your life."

"I had a bad face of acne and it was too hot to keep makeup on," Cynthia said darkly. "Proud enough at the time, sure, but that's not to be taken as meaning I wanted my zits preserved for posterity."

Napoleon smiled. "I'm sure the radiant glow from your positive actions was better than the best makeup, my dear Cyn."

After taking a moment to look pleased at the flattery, Cynthia glanced back to the tablet to remind herself of the cold hard truth. She sighed at the photographic evidence. "How d'you know I'd not been protesting puppies and kittens and rainbows and unicorns?"

"Because Mark would've disowned you by now."

Mark came over to check out the screen. Once he'd gotten a look, he asked, "Was that the rally at McCoy Colliery you told me 'bout last year?"

"Yeah."

"How'd it turn out? Vanquished your foes and all that good stuff?"

Cynthia shrugged. "Got the government to agree to redoing the environmental impact assessment, since they did such a crap job of it the first time. They're having another meeting on it soon, actually."

"You going?"

"'Course, yeah."

"Show 'em what's what."

As the cuckoo clock on the wall chimed the hour, Napoleon turned to Mark. "You mentioned something about food. Did you tell your mom—"

"Mark mentioned about Ilia's diet," Constance supplied. "I told Ilia about my little effort to separate what he can eat away from the rest and he says it's fine."

Now Napoleon turned to Illya. "First, you need—"

"I took it and compelled Jennifer to act as a witness," Illya interrupted.

April gave a thumbs-up to vouch for the Russian's having taken his medication and added, "I can also confirm that he either has wonderful teeth genes or an amazing dentist."

"I do not have a dentist. Francis is the only one permitted to prod around in there."

Napoleon huffed. "Well, I was about to complain about your not needing me, but now I feel better knowing I can devote my energies to talking you into a dental appointment."

Swindon

Ashley let out a breath, hovering his finger just above the name of his sister's eldest child. He glanced to Crane's get-on-with-it-already expression and wished he could be doing this in private, but reminded himself that it was better to have her around to monitor and make sure he didn't mess it up.

At her disgruntled semi-growl, he finally hit the Call icon, then the Speakerphone, and prayed that Mark would answer. On the fifth ring:

"If you're not about to offer a profoundly heartfelt apology to Ilia and Francis, you can hang up now."

"Would you mind putting them on, Mark?"

A pause, and then, "One foul word, Uncle Ash—"

"None."

"—one foul word," his nephew pressed on, "and I don't know that I could forgive you. Not for a time, at any rate. Quite some time." A sigh, then firmly: "So then?"

Ashley swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I am sorry, Mark. And that's what I'll tell them. If I may."

Another pause, and then an American voice took over the other end of the line with a cool: "Mr. Slate."

"Mr. Bacon—may I call you Francis?"

"I'd say whether or not we're on a first-name basis is the least of my concerns, Ashley," the American drawled.

"Is Ilia there as well?"

A dry chuckle. "Not for you he isn't."

"Yes, I… I see. I—it's not enough to apologize over the phone. I wondered if you might meet Robin and myself for lunch tomorrow. You and Ilia. My treat."

Silence.

"I understand if you'd rather not, but I truly regret this morning. I behaved reprehensibly. I apologize now and I'd like to apologize in person as well."

No response at first, but there were a few muffled words exchanged, followed by some background noises that sounded as if the other end of the line was being moved into another room. "Ilia has graciously agreed. We'd be delighted to join you—but in the interest of full disclosure, Ashley, I would not be above asking you to step outside should the need arise. It may be cliché, but I assure you I am entirely sincere."

"In the interest of full disclosure, Francis, I've no doubt that you could thoroughly trounce me, should the need arise."

"That's good." The voice turned more cheerful. "Now that we understand each other, where are we doing lunch, hm?"

"There's an Italian place on the high street. Marlborough."

"Ah, you can never go wrong with Italian, can you?" Francis returned, as if he were talking to his best friend. "What's it called?"

Ashley offered the name.

"Okee-doke, we'll just check out its particulars online and we'll meet you there. What time would be good for you?"

"Will two-thirty do you? I'm afraid I can't get off work any earlier than that."

"That'll do us fine, Ashley, old boy. I'm looking forward to it. Shall I return you to Mark?"

"If you please. Oh—" he added hastily as Crane did a bit of enthusiastic miming, "—and be sure to bring a coat. Been right nippy of late."

"Now that's right considerate of you to mention, Ashley. I can see why Mark's said good things about you. Hope truly does spring eternal."

Ashley smiled. If this hadn't been a ploy to potentially shove Francis into harm's way, he'd have to admire the man's willingness to move on from an abominable first impression. He caught a frantic waving motion in his peripheral vision and took in the words Crane mouthed.

"Oh—Francis, might I have your phone number? If we've trouble finding each other, I can text you."

Francis Bacon recited the digits and Crane scribbled them down.

"Thank you."

"Absolutely my pleasure," and then a more muffled, "Mark, your uncle—delightful man—your uncle would like to talk to you again."

A moment later followed a somewhat wary, "Uncle Ash."

"I've arranged to meet up with Francis and Ilia for a bite tomorrow. Listen, Mark…"

"You listen first."

"A-alright…."

"I know you've been stressed, professionally. And I know you're not a bigot, though you sure as fuck could've fooled me today. If you need to vent, I'm here for the week. And when I'm not here for face-to-face venting, I'm only a call or text or video-chat away. I'm happy to make time for any of that, even if it's sixty minutes of vigorous swearing. But never, never dare to abuse my friends again." A deep breath. "Your turn. I'm listening."

"I am truly sorry—I can't explain—" At Crane's shaking head, he switched tacks. "—that is, there is no excuse. I'll try to set things right with your friends."

"Good." A pause. "It's not me you were ragging on, though, so I'm withholding my forgiveness until Francis and Ilia give the all-clear. Please don't fuck it up, Uncle Ash."

"I want this to not be fucked up as badly as you, Marko. It'll be right in the end, I promise."

"Alright. Bye then."

"Bye."

Marlborough

Tuesday evening

"There's an alright place down in Pewsey. Let's grab some drinks, what?"

"Pewsey?" Napoleon grinned at what sounded to him like the epitome of charmingly British place names. "A place in Pewsey can't help but be alright." He nudged Illya by him on the sofa. "How about it?"

Illya looked doubtfully to the time displayed at the corner of his laptop screen as it lit up. Almost seven in the evening, and most of the day lost to wandering the great outdoors, researching places they could go over the next few days, and tuning in and out as the others reminisced about when they'd last been all together in London. "I should work," he hedged and, noting his boyfriend's slipping smile, added, "but that does not preclude your going."

Before Solo could reply, Dancer agreed, "Only one of you and Mark and me would have to stay here. I have some studying to do anyway, so why don't you and Mark go with Cyn? And Art, if he's going."

Art shook his head and tapped at the book on his lap. "Some of us ain't lucky spring breaking or gap year-ing bastards just now. Fuck off and let us assiduous types to our labors."

At Napoleon's lingering glance, Illya pointed out, "You require neither my supervision nor my approval."

"Right," Cynthia jumped in, "all settled then." She headed out of the room calling, "Mum! Me and Mark are going to offend Sir Francis's American sensibilities by taking him out for a room-temp beer. Would you mind terribly chauffeuring us or shall we be responsible adults and designate a driver?"

"If you can time it so I can be in bed by midnight, I'll drive you," Constance's voice returned.

"And if we can't," Mark quipped, "the pumpkin-mobile it is." He added loudly enough for his mother to hear, "We shall plan accordingly."

In love.

Not "loved him".

"In love" with him.

There was a difference and, of course, Illya was under a solemn obligation to overanalyze the terms until they surrendered their secret and enlightened him on what separated one from the other.

It shouldn't have been so very complex, he acknowledged: in love was for romantic partners, and just-plain love was for anyone and anything else.

But then what separated romantic partners from anyone else? A reasonable difference in genetic material was a prerequisite, of course, but any given person didn't automatically fall for any other, adequately unrelated human.

And, come to think of it, why did anyone fall for anybody? It came down to genetic material again, he supposed. This time, the transfer thereof: perpetuation of the human race. People fell for people because they were attracted to one another, and that attraction was to facilitate—

But that didn't cut it, either. Not everybody had that level of intimacy with whoever they were in love with. And not everybody who had that level of intimacy was hoping to perpetuate the species. He and Napoleon hadn't yet—ahem. And they certainly couldn't—well. That much was self-evident.

He seemed to be getting off-track here.

What was the problem again?

Love. Right.

Maybe the wide-angle view wasn't appropriate. His track record of understanding humans in general was rather spotty, so perhaps he'd do better to narrow his focus to the case of Napoleon and himself.

What had Napoleon said last night, when he was doing such a poor job of trying to explain how he knew he was in love? He said Illya was attractive and special, which meant… what? Aesthetically pleasing and kind of weird? He could describe a mantis shrimp the same way. And that was not helpful unless Napoleon had a mantis shrimp fetish, and he sincerely hoped that wasn't the case.

Narrow the focus again: just Illya. If he couldn't figure out himself, he was really in trouble.

Right, then. What kept Illya drawn to Napoleon? Or was that even a relevant point in attempting to determine what it meant to be in love? Was he in love? And how could he tell whether or not he was if he didn't know what in love meant in the first place?

Arthur looked up from his notebook at a small sound of distress. A quick glance to April showed that it hadn't come from her, as she was already looking to Ilia, slouched in his seat, head bowed over his laptop, glasses shoved up his forehead to make room for fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. It seemed a break might be in order.

He cleared his throat and asked, "So what's that you guys are doing?"

April guessed at the motivation behind this question, assumed the primary target had been Ilia, and waited quietly with Art for several moments before realizing from Ilia's furrowed brow and slow blinks that the blond wasn't going to respond within a reasonable timeframe. She accordingly chimed in with, "I have a chemistry midterm waiting for me when we return."

"The hell of the hard sciences: it requires one to give an actual, specific, right answer instead of allowing things to be swathed in the comforting blanket of personal opinion," Art lamented, then went quiet again to make room for another reply.

At long last, Ilia took note of both April and Art looking expectantly in his direction, and he shook himself out of whatever mental adventure he'd been on. Once he'd recovered from being startled by the eyeglasses dropping from his forehead back to his nose, he supplied: "Classified."

Arthur chuckled at what he assumed to be a joke, but Ilia's flat expression and April's lack of amusement made him second-guess his initial impression, so he stopped laughing and cleared his throat.

"How about you, Art?" April piped up again.

"I'm doing a case study on the McCoy Colliery what Cynthia was talking about earlier…"

An alright place in Pewsey…

"Just like the good old days, hey, Francis?" Mark commented as he and Cynthia took over the only empty stools at the bar and Napoleon leaned in the corner between bar and wall.

Solo nodded and glanced around the room—then stopped himself as it registered in his conscious mind that these weren't the old days. Not the barhopping Friday nights with Mark and April in New York, when he split his time between laughing with his two friends and scoping out each place they stopped at for a lady willing to close out the night with him in a more private setting.

The old days had been good, he admitted to himself, but they had to stay The Old Days, since in these new days he had someone waiting for him back home.

Well. Maybe waiting was a strong word. Illya was probably too busy programming or grading papers or whatever-it-was he was up to, to spare a thought in Napoleon's direction.

Regardless, these were the good new days and Solo firmly reminded himself not to forget that. Not to look over the female population with a purpose. Not to get himself involved in anything more than a casual flirtation, if the opportunity presented itself. Not to allow his brain and other, more southerly organs to build up the expectation that the night would be ending in a very specific manner.

Then the bartender came over and Napoleon just managed to stop himself from going with the Slate siblings' flow and ordering a beer. Even if the night didn't conclude with one very specific activity, that was no reason to give up all hope of getting at least slightly friendly with his boyfriend. He asked for a red wine and, at Mark's surprised look, provided, "I'd hate to go home with gluten on my breath and give my main squeeze the proverbial kiss of death."

"He's rather sickly, isn't he?" Cynthia mused as the bartender dropped off two beers and poured a glass of wine. As the rather offended-looking bartender retreated to another section of the bar, she clarified, "Ilia, I mean. He's awful slim, and then the whatever-it's-for medication Jen had to make sure he took, and he can't eat practically any of the stuff worth eating."

"I always think so," Mark agreed, "but then he runs 5K like he's trying to break a record and the dust he leaves me in clouds my thinker."

Napoleon frowned. "You don't let him out of your sight, do you?"

"'Course not. I'll have you know I'm in the best fuckin' shape of my life, keeping that damn merciless boyfriend of yours within shouting distance," he groused, then muttered, "Pardon my French, sis," and Cynthia flicked her eyes skyward.

"Yeah, I like him, too," Napoleon grinned, nudging Mark's elbow until the Brit wiped the exaggerated aggrievement off his face, then raising an eyebrow to prompt Slate to make a conversational turn.

Mark accordingly took a swig of his beer before asking his sister, "Does Uncle Ash still travel for work?"

"Yeah, he goes up North pretty regular," Cynthia said, "but not all the way up to Scotland, I don't think. France sometimes. Germany once. Ireland. He was just coming from France, I think, when you arrived."

"Long trips?" Napoleon posed.

"Not generally, no. Few days at a time, at most. Usually just day trips. We see him 'most every weekend." She played with her beer bottle for a few moments of thought. "Trying to work out what may've made him so crazy-like today?"

Mark smiled weakly.

"Let a girl know if you figure it out. I'd love a reason to not shun him for the rest of eternity."

At this glum declaration, Napoleon decided to offer an opening for her to go off on something she seemed passionate about. "What was that rally that you were talking about earlier, my dear Cyn, before my hunger-crazed mind became distracted by the prospect of food?"

"There's a coal mine about an hour north," Cynthia explained. "McCoy Colliery. It was shut down about five years ago, not long after there was a landslip what spread around a healthy amount of mining gook. Not that their problem was environmental contamination, of course, 'cause who gives a fuck about that? No, it was the carbon taxes, really, what shut them down. Not financially worth it to carry on, so the mine was closed and a couple hundred jobs lost."

"Did they not clean up the spill properly?" Napoleon guessed at the cause for the rally.

"They did alright, I guess, though the mining company shunted off as much of the cost onto the surrounding communities as they could manage. Spill shouldn't've happened in the first place—company had a record of inadequate safeguards a mile long—but they did take the right remediation measures and whatnot in the aftermath. The thing is, since the town lost the mine, they need the jobs. So the local gov is willing to cut a deal with a corporation what's offered to buy it up and reopen it."

Arthur shook his head. "It's only got at—insert inverted commas—'best' ten years' worth of coal, but the miners want their same jobs back and they want 'em now." He shrugged. "Understandable, I suppose, but that's not gonna do for the long term, and anybody with half a brain could notice the extreme lack of preparation the town gov's doing to line up other employment opportunities and job training."

"And that's just the money aspect," Cyn went on. "So that would be only a ten-year respite in holding onto jobs, followed by the same issue they're trying to avoid now, and in the meantime there's ten more years of carbon being combusted and risks of more environmental contaminations."

London

"As fascinating as I find local environmental and industrial histories," Victor Marton said with a distinctly underwhelming level of enthusiasm, "what has this McCoy ex-Colliery have to do with the storage of these missiles you have developed?"

"The more coal we remove, the more room we have for our stock," Gervaise Ravel declared. "There's enough room now for a start, and those sections will be closed off, so environmental inspectors won't need to nose around those areas too much."

"Closed off, in what way?" Marton pressed. "It is an open-pit mine, is it not? Is it normal to enclose unused areas, or will that draw undue attention?"

"I have given that some consideration, especially as some of the local whiners have been complaining about the mining project being unsustainable. We're going to propose that the mines, once spent, be converted into a bar. Appeal to the hipsters."

"Will you follow through on that, or is that to assuage the dissidents?"

"If a superior storage location becomes available," Ravel said, "we'll move the stock there and open the bar, since it could double as a T.H.R.U.S.H. facility. If not, we'll say our survey of the surrounding area makes the project fiscally unfeasible. Not enough likely patrons or something."

"And you'll be getting paid for taking over the mine, you said," Marton prompted.

"Yes. It's not bad now with the situation at the Hart warehouse, but turning a profit would be better still. We can get financial breaks from the local government to offset carbon taxes, sell the coal at a modest profit, get free storage for our stock, and have police on our side: the environmentalists won't be happy, so we could use that as an excuse to call in the authorities occasionally, if U.N.C.L.E. activity seems to ramp up in the area."

Marton considered the proposal, asking Ravel to flip to a few different slides from her presentation. Just as she seemed to be losing the reins to her temper, he decided: "I like it."

Ravel accepted the card handed to her. Smiled—not out of relief, of course, since it was no surprise to her, given how thoroughly she deserved it. Ran a thumb over the white words printed on the black card.

Gervaise Ravel

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

"Allow me to be the first to welcome you into the fold, Ms. Ravel."

Marlborough

"Hi, sailor, new in town?"

Once a few moments of consideration failed to result in an adequate explanation for Napoleon's greeting, Illya wondered, "What did you have to drink that I am giving you the impression of anything at all nautical?"

"Two glasses of wine." The American pulled a face. "You should be grateful. I didn't want to risk inciting your intestines to riot, so I hung around looking fruity while Mark and Cyn enjoyed some local brews."

"One of us must be terribly drunk. You seem to have ceased making any sense at all."

"I'm not that drunk."

Illya leaned in long enough to take a couple of sniffs. "Four of ten, ten being completely sloshed."

"One," Napoleon countered, rather wounded at being thought such a lightweight that ten ounces of wine could get him forty percent plastered.

"Three."

"Two."

"Two-point-five."

"Deal."

They shook on it, then turned to a review of tomorrow's plans, although Napoleon cheerfully took on more of the conversational onus. Illya preferred to concentrate largely on his own work—he did have to make up for having been distracted earlier by a failed effort to understand love as a concept, after all—and only contributed the occasional grunt of (dis)agreement as seemed necessary. He made extra certain his agreement was loud enough to be appreciated when Napoleon suggested a run in the morning: after today's attempted substitution of handstands as his exercise routine, something that kept his feet on the ground seemed a good idea.

Once April and Mark realized how early they'd have to rise if they wanted to have time for a jog before tagging along with Arthur to Reading, they agreed that Arthur's eleven-thirty bedtime seemed quite reasonable and accordingly headed upstairs along with Constance and Arthur. Cynthia didn't think it seemed quite as reasonable and instead wandered off toward the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Napoleon slid an arm across the back of the couch behind Illya, combing through the blond hair with his fingers and massaging the scalp. Illya studiously ignored the slow effort to completely dishevel his hair for several minutes, before making the fatal mistake of glancing sideways and seeing that the American was staring at him.

Having the poor sense to lock his gaze onto the brown eyes.

Deciding not to protest as he felt the laptop being removed from his lap and heard it being placed on the coffee table.

Wondering at the shiver playing down his body as Napoleon removed his glasses and put them beside the laptop—or, at least, Illya assumed that was where they went. He was too preoccupied with staring into those dark, half-lidded eyes to check.

"God, you look like an angel," Solo breathed, and for some reason Kuryakin went easily as the brunet lightly held his shoulders and maneuvered him down to lie along the length of the sofa.

"I don't think you should say that when you're looking at me like this," Illya offered before Napoleon could join their lips. He wasn't sure how he found the presence of mind to come up with so many words in such a coherent order, but he was glad he'd managed it since he sort of felt funny about being kissed just now.

Not funny in a bad way. Maybe it was the feeling Napoleon had mentioned last night—the one that wasn't indigestion.

Napoleon went along with the diversion for now, chuckling briefly as he redirected his aim from mouth to jawline. "Why? What am I looking at you like, chou?"

"I'm not sure. But it seems distinctly unbiblical and something the Judeo-Christian God would reward with a smiting."

"Mm, but what I'm feeling is very biblical. One of the deadly sins, if memory serves." A trail of kisses up to an ear and a brush of blond hair out of the way later, came the whispered, "Wanna bring down some sheets in the morning?"

Illya's brain was spared the necessity of cobbling together another sentence as a throat was cleared loudly. Napoleon withdrew to prop his chin on the back cushions and say brightly, "Ah, my dear Cyn, we were just talking about you."

"I just bet, Pope Francis," Cynthia's voice sniffed back. "Anyway, I thought I'd let you know I made some Instagram-worthy overnight oats for breaky tomorrow. You're welcome. Oh, and—Ilia?"

Illya squeezed his eyes shut since he knew exactly what this looked like—and it essentially was exactly what it looked like—and hoped he wasn't quite as rumpled and fluorescently red as he felt, then propped himself up on his elbows just enough to peep over the back of the couch.

"I made yours only using the stuff from the containers Mum set up for you. Made it first to ensure I'd not contaminate anything." She didn't quite suppress a giggle. "You suit the tousled look. Carry on," she concluded, leaving them with a wave of her hand.

This interlude having provided a sense-restoring respite, Illya said once he was again the focus of Napoleon's attention, "Perhaps we'd better not. And, now that we know how thin the walls are, I'd rather not do anything that might compromise the sheets."

"I know." Napoleon sighed and kissed along his neck. "It's just you're so beautiful and I'm so horny, I lost my head for a second."

Illya gulped and mentioned, "If it makes you feel better, alcohol tends to inhibit a man's ability to… perform, so you should be happy at the excuse to not put that to the test."

"I assure you, my performance has never been inhibited by two glasses of wine." He finally moved in for a kiss on the lips, smiling when Illya craned his neck a bit to keep them connected just a little longer.

"You taste nice," Illya offered by way of an explanation once they did separate.

"As opposed to usual?"

"Yes." At Napoleon's pout, the Russian pointed out, "You asked."

"I guess so."

At the continued pout, Illya added, "It's not that you taste bad normally."

"No, no, it's fine. Now I know to keep some hard liquor handy when I want to kiss you."

"Wine is not hard liquor."

His only point of reference for Illya and alcohol being when the younger man went on a semi-controlled vodka bender, Napoleon said firmly, "It's the hardest liquor I'm letting you indirectly partake of."

Illya snorted. "Letting me? It's the hardest liquor you can hold, I imagine." He lifted one hand to lightly shove at Napoleon's shoulder, disrupting Solo's mouth's progress back to his neck. "Off, Mr. Bacon, before I send the rest of you to join your mind in the gutter."

Napoleon folded his arms across the chest below, and Illya fell back with an "mmph!" as he took the American's weight. "Only if you promise to close up shop for tonight—" A meaningful glance to the laptop on the coffee table. "—and come straight to bed. You've done enough work today."

"Yes, you are quite exhausting."

Solo grinned. "I have not yet begun to exhaust you." He dropped a kiss to Kuryakin's nose. Getting to his feet, he warned, "If you aren't upstairs in three minutes, I'm coming back for you."

"Is that a threat or a reassurance?" Illya wondered, scrubbing one finger at the trackpad to revive his laptop.

"What does it need to be to get you up there?"

"Neither."

Napoleon furrowed his brow, the picture of suspicion.

"This is a working vacation," Illya countered the other man's disbelieving expression, "so the noun should presumably take precedence over the adjective."

Solo weighed Kuryakin's Workaholic side against his Logical side, decided this explanation seemed sensible enough to beat back any urge to keep working, and left.

Wednesday

"Have fun in Reading," Napoleon offered as April and the Slate siblings trooped out to the rental car, "except you, Art. You go to class and be miserable."

Arthur glanced back with a sour expression. "I happen to like it, thanks."

"In that case, have fun being miserable," the American amended cheerily. "Oh, hey—keys!"

Arthur scrounged around in his jacket pocket for a moment before lobbing over the set of house keys that he'd offered to let Napoleon hang onto for the day.

"Thanks, Art." He shut the door just as his U.N.C.L.E. communicator went off. "Solo here."

"Top o' the mornin', kiddly-o."

"Hiya, Ger. What'd you get for me?"

"Nothing. I got it for Mr. Kuryakin 'cause he asked, but I'm giving it to you 'cause he preferred to be spared my lovely lilting voice."

"Don't sound so gloomy, Gerry-pie. He likes you." At the responding snort, he amended, "Okay, so I don't know that for a fact, but I'm absolutely sure that he doesn't dislike you."

"Best news I've heard all day, Napster, but it's barely in the a.m.'s here, so there's some hope yet." Gerry coughed a couple of times and got down to business.

"Ashley Slate checks out… okay-ish? No criminal record, but his lawyerly enterprises have been struggling for some time so, if he's acting weird… could be he's just stressed out, but maybe something's up. Robin Fenster—is Ashley engaged to a seventy-nine-year-old man from Manchester? Or a woman from Birmingham who's currently out of the country? A Liverpudlian teen who died in a car wreck last week?"

"Not ringing any bells, my sweet."

"Well, that's a representative sample of the Robin Fensters currently residing in England. I checked records with customs and airlines and all that jazz for Robin Fensters entering or leaving the country, but the only one on their records was Birmingham lady. You sure your Robin isn't a fifty-year-old black lady running for Parliament?"

"Pretty confident on that one, Ger."

"I also looked for Roberta Fensters and other variations along those lines, but couldn't find anybody matching the description. Couldn't say what for, but you should probably keep an eye on her, bebop. I for one tend not to trust people who seem to not exist."

"Will do."

"Mr. Kuryakin also asked about Gervaise Ravel and what she's up to. She's been having her fingers in a bunch of mining pies. Across the Eurasian continent for the most part, and precious metals for the most part, but she's also got some goin' in North America and in less-precious minable commodities. She's sold some neodymium and thorium to Victor Marton—one of the bigwigs in T.H.R.U.S.H.-Europe, in case you haven't flipped through your who's-who of evildoers in a while."

"Can you give me some specific countries where Ravel's done business? I want to cross-check some locations with Ashley Slate's movements."

"Abso-tutely." Gerry whistled briefly, over the sound of a keyboard clacking. "Let's see… we got Ireland, England, France, Deutschland, Swisse, India, Russia, China… enough for ya, hotshot?"

"I think so. Thanks, Gershwin."

"Toodle-oo, Napoleon Francis."

Napoleon replaced his communicator just as Constance and Illya came in from the kitchen.

"Oh, Francis, I was just telling Ilia that I hope you'll not be bored, spending most of the day in town. Marlborough's lovely, but none of the big things most tourists might go for. I'd offer you my car, but I've got to go into work soon."

Napoleon shook his head confidently. "Bookstores, old timey churches, and assorted other historical buildings to gape at… I think we'll be fine. Besides, Ilia usually does a fair job of keeping me entertained."

Illya bit down a smirk. "That takes care of one of us, then."

Napoleon briefly affected a wounded expression before wishing Mark's mom a good day and heading to the door. Illya followed suit after offering Constance his most innocent smile, pulling on his black jacket and muttering at Napoleon's red plaid coat, "Lumberjack," as he sidled past Solo and out the door.

"Alright," Solo announced at the end of the driveway, brandishing his phone. "Map, activate."

Kuryakin scoffed, heading down the road. "If you were a real man, you'd let the accumulation of magnetite in your head serve as your natural compass in getting us there."

Solo scoffed back as he quickly caught up. "Why can't you let your iron skull—I mean, biological magnetite deposit—lead us there?"

"Anemia. I'm excused."

"Well, my excuse is that evolutionary migration aids aren't high-resolution enough to guide us along winding country lanes. So: map."

"Are you certain you'd not rather be stubborn and get us lost, then be hypermasculine and refuse to ask for directions?"

Napoleon nudged the Russian's elbow, offering a bemused expression once he had his attention. "Why are you highlighting-slash-questioning my masculinity all of a sudden?"

"I always highlight-slash-question your masculinity." He glanced over to Napoleon's screen. "Are you sure you'd not rather get lost? It would be terribly macho of you." The corners of his mouth tilted up as he leaned in long enough to add in a lower voice, "Perhaps I'd find it… attractive."

Radar sounding off at the blunt effort to appeal to his libido, Napoleon mused, "Someone is trying to get his way without telling me why." He tapped himself on the chin. "Why could you want us to get lost? We're spending the day in Marlborough… going to have a late lunch with—a-ha!"

Illya sighed at the finger thrust into the air.

"You don't want to see Ashley again," the American guessed. The responding silence suggested the affirmative, so he went on. "Hate to break it to you, but Mark's house is less than a thirty-minute walk to the restaurant, and we don't have to be there for over five hours. It would be quite the enterprise for anyone to get that lost."

"I thought you liked a challenge."

Napoleon bumped their shoulders together. "I've got one, thanks. You agreed yesterday to meet Ashley and Robin again. 'Fraid I have to hold you to that, chou."

"I know. This was the easier way for me to express my reluctance, as compared to the option of making such a statement outright."

"Ah." Napoleon smiled gently at the admission. He personally didn't see how this roundabout route of getting him to guess the truth was easier than Illya saying it himself, but if the convolution helped Kuryakin eventually work around to the heart of the matter, that was good enough for him. "He did sound very apologetic over the phone, if that helps. And his movements seem to be in keeping with Ms. Ravel's business operations, so there's at least some chance that yesterday represented a cry for help, of sorts."

"I suppose."

"Hey, look."

Illya followed the gesture to a sparrow perched on a bush along the side of the pavement opposite the street.

"Horobchyk," Solo recalled the Ukrainian name for the animal. He swapped his phone to his other hand, using the nearer arm to drape across the blond's shoulders. "Cute, but nothing compared to my horobchyk."

Illya sighed again. He'd almost forgotten that, for the better part of the cab ride from their apartment to the airport, he had sunk to the level of topping off the American's supply of endearments. "I believe 'shot myself in the foot' is the most appropriate expression for this situation."

"Yes, but I love you regardless of your podiatric health, so hopefully you can find some solace in that."

"Do you think I will forget?"

Napoleon tilted his head in a silent question.

"You… say it a lot."

"That I love you," Solo guessed. At the nod this prompted, he said, "I mean it every time."

"I am not making inquiries into your sincerity. I am curious as to why you feel the need to remind me of it constantly. Or perhaps it is usual to say it with such frequency." He frowned at the pavement in thought, then looked up as an arm draped over his shoulders.

"You've mentioned that, before you came to New York, you didn't have many friends."

"Any," Illya corrected simply and wondered to himself why Napoleon seemed almost to grimace.

"You've further mentioned that your folks never said it, and you don't have many other relatives who could prospectively have said it."

"Any." He almost stumbled as Napoleon stopped walking abruptly.

"Any at all, or any who might be inclined to—"

"Any at all." He raised his eyes as Solo shifted until they were face-to-face, meeting the oddly sad brown gaze with a questioning eyebrow-raise.

"I say that I love you because I do. I say it so often since I'm guessing you haven't heard it much."

"At all." Illya frowned as Napoleon brushed some hair from his forehead and kissed the cleared spot. "Is something wrong with that? It is not as though I've suffered for wont of having certain words spoken to me."

"Everyone deserves to feel loved. I want to make sure you do."

"Everyone?"

"You do."

Illya shook his head and offered stiffly, "No. You are kind. You deserve it."

"Only as much as you—"

"And that is why you have faith in a capitalistic socioeconomic system."

"Uh… what?"

"Because you are kind and generous, you think others are as well, and thus the collective emotional and financial generosity will ensure that everyone has fair opportunities or, in the event that they run into hardship, that they will be taken care of until they can reclaim a grasp on their bootstraps."

Napoleon smirked a bit. "That's what I think, is it?"

"Yes. You are optimistic and have great faith in the goodness of humanity."

"And that's a bad thing because it runs counter to your socialistic ideology?"

"No. It is good for use as a personal philosophy and can play some part in an economy but is a poor basis for overarching governmental policies."

"Alright then, Mr. Lack-of-faith-in-humanity, let us consider the matter of guarding guardians." Even if it did smell like a distraction from their previous topic of conversation.

"Let's."

Marlborough, high street

Afternoon

That was them, he supposed. He'd seen them pass by a few times and taken note of the pair, but he'd held back on making the approach: they'd stuck close to each other but hadn't been making physical contact until now.

As soon as the brown-haired man in the red coat put an arm around his blond companion, Jonathan Hart headed over.

Napoleon gave a start as someone knocked his elbow, then turned to find a man of about average height, without an apology in his face or on his lips.

"William Shakespeare?" the stranger asked.

"Francis Bacon," Napoleon responded to (what sounded to be) his fellow American with a grin, taking this as a guerilla word-association game. Then he responded with a frown to having a small leather bag shoved into his chest. "What's the big—hey!"

Solo hurried after the taller man, and Kuryakin took long enough strides to keep up well enough without adding to the developing spectacle. When the stranger did not deign to acknowledge the small parade building up behind him, Napoleon jogged forward a few more steps and took the man by the elbow.

"Excuse me, sir, but I think you, ah, lost something." Napoleon held up the bag.

The corners of the man's mouth drew downward. "I said Shakespeare. You said Bacon." He pulled his arm away. "Take the damn money and tell your boss to leave me alone."

Illya glanced at Napoleon. "Have you been indulging in a spot of extortion behind my back, Francis?"

Napoleon stepped out to block the man from walking off again. "Look, pal, I don't know what you're up to, but you're up there alone. I don't want any damn money from you and I think my boss would be extremely confused if I told him that some random guy I met in England wants him to bugger off."

"Stop messing with me before I get irked with you," the random guy snapped. "Hart Warehousing. Step off!"

Upon being shoved aside, Napoleon muttered, "Speaking of irked…" before reaching to grab the man on the shoulder, whereupon his nose was met by a fist. He stumbled back a step, then instinctively wound up to return the blow, only to freeze when Illya was suddenly in the middle, manipulating the stranger around until the offending limb was securely locked behind the puncher's back.

"As you have exhausted both fight and flight as options," Kuryakin said, "perhaps we can now reach a more productive stage of our interaction. Is that acceptable?"

"Productive?" the man echoed, wincing a bit when he tried to move and found that that was not the best idea.

"I refer to talking, of course. Perhaps you can explain why you felt the need to abruptly gift my friend with a purse. Perhaps we could serve a higher purpose than as punching bags for you to vent your rage. Acceptable?"

"If the alternative is having my elbow snapped, then yeah."

"Excellent. Then I will hold you to your word and release your arm. Agreed?"

The man shifted his balance, winced again, and nodded, "Agreed."

Illya immediately loosed his hold and took a step to the side, staying close to the sore arm as a (pre)cautionary measure. "Perhaps we talk there," he suggested with an indicative gesture.

Napoleon frowned. "Looks like an alley. You want us to talk in a shady alley?"

"That would be appropriate, as we are presumably about to discuss some variety of bribery or payoff. However, it is unfortunately Oxford Street, not Oxford Alley. Please," he added to the stranger with another gesture to the street that was, disappointingly, not a shady alley.

The trio walked a short way up the street and sat on a set of stairs leading up to a churchyard. Solo set the leather bag next to the man who'd so recently attempted to foist it upon him.

"So." Napoleon tapped at the bag. "What's the idea?"

The man snorted. "I should ask you that. Brown-haired man. With a blond. Responding to the codewords."

"Okay. I apologize for my genetics, this other guy's genetics, and happening to be aware of the irony of my name. Your turn."

"I don't know as I should tell you," the man demurred, picking up the bag. "Sorry for the mix-up. And for punching you in the face. You're bleeding, by the way."

Napoleon put one hand on the bag as an implied suggestion for the stranger to stick around a bit longer. "I do some work in law enforcement. Maybe I could help."

Illya took a tissue from his pocket and pressed it to the slightly bloody nose. "And I would advise that you accept that help. There are several stories we could tell our friends about Francis's nose, and we might be more inclined toward charitability if we can understand your situation."

The man's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Are you threatening to get the police involved? And what do you mean by 'work in law enforcement'? You a cop, Francis Bacon?" At the smile half-hidden behind a tissue, he added, "FBI? Meter maid? Pet detective?"

"None of the above," Napoleon admitted, taking the tissue-holding duty upon himself. "Maybe you can tell us what your problem is, then we can figure out if we can help or if we could at least find someone who can help."

The man shrugged. "Why not? I'm already reduced to wandering the English countryside, punching total strangers in the face. It couldn't hurt.

"My name is Jonathan Hart. I own Hart Warehousing, and I was reviewing our operations in Germany. We discovered one of our biggest clients was storing weapons parts with us—stuff that tends to be illegal more often than it's legal—and they realized pretty fast that we'd noticed it.

"Now they're holding our main building in Germany. Ten employees are being held hostage and our valued customer has threatened to start killing them if anyone calls the authorities or attempts to go in or out of the warehouse. I managed to talk them into accepting a payoff: I refund all the money they've spent on storage with Hart Warehousing, plus help fund the relocation of their little toys, plus twice that as a gesture of my good will, and they'll lay off."

Napoleon lowered the tissue, frowning. "And you had to come from Germany to England to make the payoff?"

"They wanted cash and didn't want an electronic transaction, or to trust the international post. I guess they figured me coming in person would prove I was taking them seriously. Plus, who the hell would believe it before it was too late? I'd get detained for whatever money-laundering activities the authorities would suspect me of, and in the meantime they could clear out the warehouse and kill my employees." He shrugged. "So, Francis Bacon, Fashion Police or whatever you are. You think this falls under your jurisdiction?"

"Might do, Mr. Hart, might do. What happens to be the name of this… temperamental client of yours?"

"Canary Mining Equipment."

"Ca—ow!" Napoleon grabbed the foot that had just been kicked by a Russian and complained, "Haven't I been wounded enough for one day?"

"I did not intend to strike so harshly," Illya said, looking as close as he ever got to appearing contrite. "Now that I have both your attention, however, I can confirm that this case could indeed fall under Mr. Bacon's jurisdiction."

"Could it, now?" Solo returned.

"And just who are you, anyway?" Hart asked the blond.

"Ilia. Davidovich," Kuryakin supplied. "Canary Mining Equipment… I have come across the name previously and it seems the sort of organization that might be inclined to bizarre ransom demands."

Napoleon suggested, "A subsidiary of the known and beloved…?"

Illya nodded once. A company known to have had several dealings with T.H.R.U.S.H.

"Ah. Well, then, Mr. Hart, you're in luck. I'll just make a quick call and we can get started on ending your hostage crisis."

Hart grasped Solo's arm before he could rise to a full stand. "Hold on. I still don't know who the hell you actually are or who you work for. How do I know you're not a Canary spy, and you're not going to call in some goons to beat me up for spilling the story?"

"Mr. Hart, I am not authorized to go around telling people willy-nilly who I work for. And I feel that you can be moderately confident in my not being out to get you, seeing as Mr. Davidovich has demonstrated that he can incapacitate you enough to allow me to freely rough you up without having to call in additional goons."

Hart fixed Illya with a look that clearly questioned how that scrawny guy had managed to incapacitate him in the first place, so the Russian offered, "I would be willing to demonstrate again in the interest of curing your incredulity, if you think that would aid you in placing some faith in Mr. Bacon. However, perhaps you would prefer to take us at our word that it takes less than an army to do you harm."

"Okay, so a stick figure and an Elizabethan writer could do me in," the warehouseman conceded. "How do I know you won't be calling in a windowless van or something to disappear me?"

Napoleon glanced skyward. "Look, pal, if you don't agree to us helping you, we'll just end up helping you behind your back. How about we keep it open and aboveboard so you can help provide any relevant information, okay now?"

Hart glared. "What's open and aboveboard about your running off to call in to your boss or whatever to decide whether or not you can tell me about this alleged law enforcement agency that can allegedly help me?"

"I believe the time for complete openness passed when you opted to pay off a criminal organization rather than alerting the proper authorities," Illya put in.

"If I went to the police, they'd start picking off my people," was the snapped response.

"If you are capable of making the effort of coming to England and following convoluted ransom delivery instructions, you could have made a comparable effort in the direction of surreptitiously notifying someone who could be of assistance."

Hart snorted. "Apparently I did both in one sweep, if you two are to be believed. So, fine then, Mr. Bacon. Go call Big Brother. I'm sure Mr. Davidovich will make certain I'm still here when you return."

Napoleon nodded—"Be right back."—and went a short ways down the street, far enough to ensure Hart wouldn't overhear him but close enough to remain within eyeshot.

"So," Hart commented after a few seconds of silence.

"If you are hoping for small talk, I'm afraid that is not my forte."

Hart nodded and, after a few more moments of quiet, remarked, "I knew a Davidovich in high school. Became a rabbi."

"He did or you did?" Illya enquired politely.

"He did. What I guess I'm getting at is, you don't look like a Davidovich to me."

"Davidovich is not an exclusively Jewish surname, if that is what you are truly 'getting at', Mr. Hart. In any case, if you are truly so interested in my family tree, I will be more than happy to start on a history of my ancestors. In the true spirit of Slavic literature, it will be long and depressing."

"Well, that, uh—that's nice of you…"

Illya raised his brows. "Do you actually wish me to do so?"

"No! No, thank you. Thanks, but no thanks."

A short ways down the street…

"How should we proceed, sir?" Napoleon asked into his communicator.

"See what you can do from your end toward making the payment," Waverly's voice said. "In the meantime, we'll have some of ours in Germany look into the hostage situation and see if we can effect a rescue. Call in again when you have more information."

"Yes, sir."

Lurking in the background…

"Text him."

Ashley Slate side-eyed Elinor Crane. "What and why?"

"Hart was talking like people might be killed if a payment isn't made. We can't sacrifice them for ourselves, so we'll press Francis and Ilia into making the drop and hope they'll still work around to getting us out of this."

"That answers the why, and I agree. How about the what?"

Crane took his phone as he produced it, handed it back long enough for him to unlock the screen, then took it again to compose the text.

A short ways up the street…

"Well, Mr. Hart," Napoleon said upon his return, "the boss gave the go-ahead. The U.N.C.L.E. is at your service."

Hart accepted the card handed to him—Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E. trainee—and then handed it back with half a smile. "Okay. U.N.C.L.E. I've heard of you guys. But I'm not sure which of your names is more believable, Mr.—"

"Call me Francis and bear in mind that I'm here to help you and your unfortunate employees." He replaced the card in the back of his phone case, then looked at the phone screen when the device buzzed.

Blocked: I see you.

Blocked: Follow orders in subsequent messages or HW is done.

Blocked: Stakeholders meeting moved to Friday. Payment on Thursday for EA support.

"HW for Hart Warehousing," Napoleon guessed, "but I don't know about EA."

Illya helpfully listed off, "Exaampere, executive assistant, Environment Agency, Evangelical Alliance, Eusko Alkartasuna, engineering aide, Electronic Arts…"

"And which do you think is actually a plausible possibility, based on there being a stakeholders meeting?"

Illya thought a moment. "Environment Agency. Evangelical Alliance. Eusko Alkartasuna…"

"One way to find out," Solo decided, tapping at the screen and then looking up again. "Euska-what?"

"Alkartasuna. Catalan independence organization."

"Why do you know that?"

Illya shrugged. "I had trouble sleeping one night and fell into a Wikipedia hole. Not the most reliable source, I know, but there seems no reason to suspect an elaborate scheme to manufacture a group of that name."

Napoleon nodded and turned his attention back to his phone as he typed, Where and when? before declaring, "And so we wait." The phone wasn't even back in his pocket when it went off again. "Or we don't."

Blocked: Thurs morning 9. Friends Bridge, U Reading. Final.

"Back to school for us, I guess," Napoleon told the blond, showing him the screen. He added to Hart, "We'll make the payoff for you, and in the meantime some of our agents in Germany will check out the situation at your warehouse."

"I'm going with you," Hart decided.

"Why?"

"Probably no good reason. Probably I can trust you not to make off with the dough. But I was told my people would be released as soon as the money gets where it's supposed to go. This seems like its final destination, so I want to see when it happens and make sure the confirmation text arrives as soon as it does."

"Might be dangerous."

"Then you could use an extra man on your side."

"Allow me to consult with my personal advisor." Napoleon turned to Illya. "You will give me nonpersonal advice, won't you?"

"Would that not then make me your impersonal advisor?" the Russian wondered.

"If it'll make you give me an opinion, sure."

"If we do not welcome him to join us," Illya reasoned, "it seems likely that he will instead stalk us to the meeting. We may as well keep him where we can see him."

"Okay," Solo returned to Hart, "you're in. But we're running the exchange so you listen to us, got it? We're the professionals."

"More or less," Kuryakin parenthesized. At Hart's rather worried expression (the trainee printed on the card was presumably still fresh in the fellow's memory), he clarified, "Him more, me less."

"And you even less," Solo pointed out to Hart, "so don't get any bright ideas about going solo, capisce?" He checked the time on his phone and then continued tapping around on the screen. "Well, I hate to conspire and run, Mr. Hart, but we have a lunch date we ought to be getting to. We'll meet you tomorrow at eight at… this place."

Hart peered at the screen as it was shown to him, making a mental note of Park Eat, not far from Friends Bridge according to the map Napoleon had pulled up.

"To make sure we all get there…" Solo stuck his hand in the leather bag, leafed through the notes within, and produced what felt to him to be about half the money. "…we'll each keep part of it until we meet up tomorrow." He deposited the loose notes in an inner pocket of his coat and handed the bag to Hart. "Then you give back your half at the restaurant and we'll work out how you can keep an eye on us from a safe distance during the exchange."

"Okay." Hart extended a hand, first shaking Solo's and then Kuryakin's. "I guess I'm trusting you on this, so thanks."

Napoleon tried not to smile when Ashley winced at being greeted with a bone-crushing handshake from Illya, and he later tried not to look unnaturally pleased when the Russian stuck the drinks list in his face and asked Solo which one seemed closest to the wine he'd had last night.

Aside from those incidents, Napoleon's efforts were concentrated on delicately poking into Ashley Slate and Robin Fenster's affairs. When did you guys meet? Here's a vague rundown of what I've allegedly been up to as Francis Bacon the Daytime Talk Producer, so how about sharing a little about your work? Done anything interesting lately, outside of work?

The answers were detailed enough to be believable, if not somewhat unenlightening. Overall, he got the impression that they were being rather cagey, but his less-delicate efforts (casually bringing up a case of a lawyer being caught up in a client's underworld dealings) failed to flush out anything resembling beans being spilled.

Towards the end of the meal, Solo considered coming straight out and guessing at the situation: maybe it was like his early conversation with Illya, and they would admit the truth if directly confronted with it. Ultimately, he decided not to, in the event that Ashley Slate was the sole victim and would be endangered by Robin Fenster's realizing that somebody was catching on to his plight.

Swindon

Evening

"Well, pleasant as it was to make nice with Francis and Ilia, they've not seemed to extended a helping hand our direction," Ashley said.

"No, but they're suspicious. Francis, at least. He was about half a step from shining a flashlight in our faces and demanding we fess up."

"Still. Now what?"

"We'll follow them as they make the payoff," Crane decided. "Covertly, of course. Until they start headed back afterward: then we'll make sure they 'catch' us watching and that should settle everything."

Reading

Thursday morning

"Mate, so fucking professional."

April snorted quietly. Huddled together in a bush to keep an eye on the payoff from a slight distance, Mark's whispered comment was half joke, half accurate representation of their duties and responsibilities as U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Their vantage point also allowed them to keep Jonathan Hart (ensconced behind a bench) in their sights, both for Hart's safety and their own, in the event that he hadn't been strictly honest about his intentions.

At nine a.m. on the dot, a figure appeared at the far end of the bridge and stood there for about a minute. Napoleon and Illya stepped up to their end of the bridge and the former waved once, holding up the bag of money briefly. The figure nodded and held up a single finger, so Napoleon muttered, "Wait here," to Illya and started forward, guessing from the other man's motion that they'd be meeting in the middle.

Each man was about a quarter of the way from his starting point when Napoleon slowed his gait. The other guy looked sort of… maybe familiar. The clothes looked like what Mark's brother had been wearing when he darted out of the house that morning—and from beneath the baseball cap a few dark curls were poking out…

"Arthur?" Napoleon ventured, slowing almost to a halt.

The other man came to a full stop, lowered the sunglasses that were possibly too successful in blocking out light on this cloudy day, and returned, "Fuck my life—Francis?"

Napoleon came a little closer before settling himself against the railing to pensively watch as Arthur abruptly half-turned and made several frantic slicing motions across his neck. Solo followed the aim of the gesture and focused his gaze on a tree near the far side of the bridge. A dot of light suggestive of a camera was just visible between the branches from this distance, and it went dark a second later. There was a brief rustling, then Cynthia dropped to the ground and came over to join Arthur.

Napoleon scratched at his temple and was about to start in on a thorough questioning in regard to the meaning of this, but he was distracted by loud footsteps coming from behind. Mark stormed past to steal the American's thunder with, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Cynthia countered.

"Apparently I'm here to catch my family accepting—what the hell do you even have that's worth a payoff?"

"Nothing," Arthur admitted. "We were posing as officials with the Environment Agency. Got into contact with Canary Mining—the company wanting to reopen the McCoy Colliery. Right now, it seems a fifty-fifty shot that the sale will go through. We wanted to cut the chances of that happening by showing that the company was willing to engage in shady dealings for it."

"Do you know where this came from?" Mark snapped, snatching the bag out of Napoleon's hand to violently shake it. "This came from a ransom payment! If this don't go to bribe you idiots, a passel of warehouse workers in Germany will be held indefinitely or murdered!"

Napoleon mouthed, "Passel?" at his fellow man from U.N.C.L.E.

Cynthia looked at Arthur.

Arthur looked at Cynthia.

He cleared his throat.

She smiled. "Oops."

"Oops?" Mark echoed. "Oops? No. No, no, no. You do not get to oops your way out of this!"

As Mark launched into lecture mode, Napoleon looked back to share an exasperated look with Illya and was briefly satisfied in that regard—until the kids these days expression froze on the Russian's face and the blue eyes shifted. Then Solo suddenly dreaded the prospect of turning around again.

He made the turn nonetheless and startled the self-involved Slate siblings with an exclamation of, "Max, fancy meeting you out here!"

The Brits all turned.

"Hi, Francis," Max smiled. "Nice to see you again." He pulled back the coat over his forearm to reveal a handgun pointed down the bridge. "No sudden movements, okay? Hey, Ilia!"

Napoleon glanced (not too suddenly) back to see Illya clearly caught in the act of sneaking off.

"It's nice to see you again, too, Ilia. Could you come over here with your buddies? Then all of you come over here, single file, and give me the money. And no funny business, huh? Hands visible and all that kinda stuff."

A silent sigh and loud eyeroll later, Illya complied. As he drew closer, Napoleon pushed off the railing and stepped to the front, leading the procession of unhappy young people across the bridge.

"What's all this, Max?" Napoleon asked as they approached. "I thought we'd established a friendly little rapport on the flight over."

"Miss R sent me out here to monitor the proceedings and intervene if anything went off from the plan. You and Ilia weren't supposed to be here, you know," Max explained, shaking his head disappointedly, "and none of these other folks look like people from the Environment Agency, so I'll have to take you along back to the office. Gotta make sure everything's on the up-and-up. Well." He rubbed at his chin with his free hand and amended, "Maybe not up-and-up, but how Miss R wants it, see?"

"I think I'm starting to."

A/N: Thanks a bunch for reading! I'd put more exclamation points but this website is kind of a pain about multiple exclamation points!