Illya fumbled for words nervously as his partner watched with a smile.

"Oh, no, I couldn't-- I mean, the imposition is-- After all, it's--"

"Illya, it's not an imposition, it's an invitation. Learn to recognize the difference. Spend this Thursday night with me."

"I couldn't, Napoleon, your Thanksgiving, it-- After all, I am sti--"

"I'm not seeing any family this year. Please, Illya?"

"It's *your* holiday, you know, and I--"

"Yes, and you wouldn't want me to spend *my* holiday alone, would you?"

"Well, I..." He crumbled. "I would love to, Napoleon."

---/-/---

The aroma hit him the moment he stepped through the door. Napoleon's apartment smelled delicious.

Napoleon himself merely looked delicious-- at least at this distance-- as he stood before Illya, smiling warmly. He was dressed down, tie loose and shirtsleeves pushed up. A dishtowel was thrown over his shoulder, and-- the piece de resistance, Illya smirked-- he wore an apron which read 'Kiss the Cook'.

"I don't think," Illya looked pointedly at the three words. "That I have had nearly enough wine."

He wondered briefly if he *could* have that much wine, and then Napoleon would call it a mistake and forget about it.

Napoleon let out a clear, loud laugh. "We'll remedy that in just a few. For now, help yourself to the vodka in the freezer while I make sure everything's ready."

Illya poured himself a small drink, his eyes following as his partner bustled around the kitchen.

"Sit down, be comfortable!" Napoleon urged.

"If you would like a hand anywhere..."

Napoleon smiled, eyes twinkling. "Actually, Illya, I'm almost done. I ordered everything mostly prepared, it just needed a little oven time. But if you want to help, that dish over there is the cranberry sauce. Could you set it on the table when you go in?"

Illya complied with alacrity, finding the table already well-laden with sides. A small casserole, some stuffing, mashed potatoes, a basket of rolls... He sat down, still feeling somewhat uneasy. He was still, several people around work reminded him, a foreigner. As such, he had never celebrated this particular observance. He knew only the cut-and-dry textbook facts on Thanksgiving, and he wasn't accustomed to seeing this much food at one table, certainly not for two men. And Napoleon had invited no one else, only two places were set.

Napoleon appeared in the doorway, carrying a large platter. The turkey breast was wreathed with carrots and potatoes.

"It doesn't look as good as the full bird, but I figured that much meat would be somewhat... excessive." He shrugged, almost apologetically.

"It looks wonderful, Napoleon. It smells wonderful."

"Well, it looks all right... we always had the whole turkey when I was growing up..."

Illya nodded. "Oh. I-- I've never-- I mean, I came to America early this year, I have never seen Thanksgiving, outside of a Norman Rockwell painting."

"That's right, isn't it? It just seems like I've been working with you for so much longer."

Illya smiled, looking down. "Yes, we do get on rather well."

"Well, look, it's not a difficult holiday to understand. It's not religious, and there are no dead presidents. It's just-- basically, you remember what it is you're thankful for."

"Yes, I've read all that in books. I still don't really understand it."

"Well, what are you thankful for?"

"My job." He shrugged. He meant 'my partner'. "My education." A wistful look at the table. "Food."

"See, that's all it is." Napoleon grinned.

"This is not a holiday we would have had... when I was a child. We remembered our thankfulness every day we had food. Sometimes even more on the days we didn't."

Napoleon fell silent for a moment, feeling a sad ache at the thought of his friend's old pain, and at the thought that he may have been somewhat more insensitive than he'd meant to be.

"So you must give thanks for yours?" The Russian questioned. "And then we eat? This is the tradition?"

He laughed. "Well, I'm thankful to be here-- I wouldn't be, I mean, I almost wasn't, after that last affair... And I'm very thankful for-- the particular reason that I am alive." He held Illya's eyes. "Especially when that reason happens to be the kind of friend who'll keep me company on my otherwise-solitary holiday."

"Cheers." Illya managed, his throat suddenly feeling dry and constricted.

Napoleon wiped covertly at one eye with the dishtowel that still rested over his shoulder, and poured the wine, lifting his glass. "Cheers. Go ahead and serve up whatever you like while I carve the turkey. Oh, but save room for dessert!"

Illya's eyes widened. "There is more than this?"

"Well, there has to be dessert, silly Russian."

"I assumed the sauce-- the cranberries-- served that purpose..."

"Only if you don't want pumpkin pie." He smiled, placing the first slice of turkey breast on Illya's plate.

---/-/---

Illya polished off his first helping of casserole quickly, pausing to take a drink of water before starting on anything else.

"Good?" Napoleon asked, still smiling broadly.

"Excellent." He affirmed, digging into the stuffing.

"Good, I'm glad you're enjoying the meal. You know, now it seems almost silly, but a while back, I thought I'd be looking at a month of leftovers."

"I have a quick metabolism..."

"It's okay, Illya. I'm happy to have your quick metabolism helping out." Napoleon laughed. "Turkey moist enough?"

"I haven't gotten to it yet... It looks delicious."

Solo nodded, trying it himself. "Not too dry..." He decided. "Might be better with the sauce..."

Illya got through the stuffing and started in on the potatoes, ignoring the gravy boat that Napoleon had pushed across the table to him.

"So..." Napoleon laughed again as he refilled their wineglasses. "This is a toast--"

"Another toast?"

"Another glass, another toast." Napoleon shrugged.

"And this is American tradition?" Illya asked, mouth full. "Mm... the turkey is perfect, Napoleon."

"Not an American tradition, as far as I'm aware... We'll make a new tradition of it."

Illya felt a warm tingle come over him. He and Napoleon had a tradition, one that didn't involve fighting, being captured by, or rescued from THRUSH.

"To your first Thanksgiving!" Napoleon said grandly. Their glasses clinked.

"The best." Illya returned.

There was a quiet stretch where both focused more on their plates, and then Napoleon paused to watch Illya eat.

"So..." He smiled. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

~FIN~