Napoleon knocked on the doorframe, and Illya sat up.

"Time to go?"

"That it is." He smiled. "You hungry yet?"

"Starved!" Came the expected answer.

"So," Napoleon picked up his partner's jacket, handing it to him. "What do you feel like? Anything you haven't had recently?"

Illya paused. Last night had been Italian, the night before, Chinese. And his meals at home had been rather generic. Macaroni from a box or chicken soup from a can. There was one thing he hadn't had in a while, though.

"Yes." He looked at the floor. "But we could have whatever you like."

"So long as it's food, I'll eat it. It is food, isn't it, Illya?" The American teased.

"It's been a while since I've had Russian." The blond answered, his voice softer than usual.

"Homesick?"

"Hardly." He snorted. "But I suppose that I miss some things."

"Well, do you know of a restaurant? We can go."

Illya brightened. "I know of a restaurant. You will like it, I promise. Here, I can get the directions..."

---/-/---

The inside of the small Russian restaurant was dimly lit, decorated in dark reds and blues and golds. A shelf over their table displayed a matroyshka painted with animals, from a very small bird to a large bear.

"Ah... Illya?"

"Yes?" He smiled.

"I can't read the menu."

"I am disappointed, Napoleon." He teased. "You speak Russian."

"Speak being the operative word. I can't read it."

Illya sighed and got up, moving to slide into the booth next to Napoleon. Huddled together over one menu, he translated the various dishes for his American partner.

"And the beverage list is--?"

"Right here. Water, tea, coffee, Stoli,"

"This one's Stoli?"

"Yes..." Illya looked at his friend, half-convinced the man had gone insane. He was showing a good deal of interest for a man who didn't even drink vodka.

Napoleon smiled and nodded, triumphant. "Well, I guess I'll have... ah, what would you suggest?"

"I will order." Illya said gently, patting the other man's arm as he retreated to his own side of the table. "What will you drink?"

"Water." He shrugged.

"You should try the tea."

"Tea, then."

Illya gave a decisive nod and folded the menu.

"You could teach me to read Russian." Napoleon suggested, perusing the other menu. "We could start here."

"What? Why the sudden interest? And, more perplexingly, why didn't you learn to read it when you learned to speak it?"

"I only learned what I would need to know." He admitted. "My Russian's not that good. Though since our partnership, I've learned to curse fluently."

Illya laughed. "All right. We'll start with the menu..."

They had to move back to one side of the table again, and when their waiter returned, they were laughing at the perogi.

---/-/---

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