Things were going well. In fact, things were going better than well, because back at the office after lunch, Illya had finally been persuaded-- and it took a *lot* of persuading-- to teach Napoleon how to read-- chitajte? He couldn't quite remember-- and write-- he didn't even learn that one-- in Russian. Starting-- and this took even *more* persuasion-- with his own name.

Haπo¬eoH Co¬o.

HC.

He couldn't sit still after that. Luckily, Waverly had handed them a mission, and he hadn't had to. The perfect kind of mission, really. Short, too difficult for a rookie or a courier, but not very dangerous-- well, they only got shot at once, and not by a terribly professional gunman, and even better, he had to-- had to, mind-- throw himself on Illya.

And so now he was home, and still buzzing. Illya might have loved him all along! Of course, while it pays to take chances from time to time, it does not pay to rush into things blind, so the seduction would continue as planned, but with a little more confidence.

And now, he was definitely sure that he would have Illya by the end of the week.

---/-/---

Illya sighed. He tossed. He turned. He gave up.

Sleep would just have to take a backseat to vodka. Straight up. Because Illya was fairly certain that now Napoleon knew. Or would be able to figure it out. That within the next couple of days, realization would hit, and he would lose the only real friend he had, all because he had gone and fallen for him.

Oh, go ahead and say it. Not like your situation's going to get any worse because of it, he thought bitterly. Love. He loved Solo. He snorted at the irony, or whatever. He loved Solo, and he loved alone. A bottle of vodka and too much thinking... it was a bad sign.

And Napoleon was sure to notice that he'd been acting funny the past couple of days. It was painfully obvious to Illya. Had he even bothered to try hiding it? He was disgusted with himself.

A person really shouldn't drink when he's disgusted with himself.

Illya drank anyway. Or perhaps because of, out of some misdirected spite.

Well, he'd always have memories, if Napoleon decided that they couldn't work together anymore. He'd remember Napoleon buying him blini for lunch, and learning to write phrases in Cyrillic that he would never *ever* really need to use, and pushing him out of the line of fire. And landing on him, so that Illya was completely blanketed by the comforting weight of another body, lying atop him, touching all the way from chest and back, down to their feet. And then offering him a hand which he didn't need but took anyway.

And a million other memories, friendship and partnership interwoven, memories of missions and of downtime spent together, and the map he had traced and retraced in his mind, of just how Napoleon looked and sounded and moved, so that if he closed his eyes, he could conjure up some shadow of his American partner. Of chocolate brown eyes, and cupid-bow lips, and the cleft in his chin, and the mole on his cheek, and that lock of hair that came down over his forehead just so...

Illya sighed, putting the bottle away. There would be no more drinking that night. He still needed to go to work tomorrow. Best to try and get even a little sleep.

---

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