Napoleon was whistling as he entered the office.

"Gershwin?" The receptionist-- not the regular blonde. He supposed that shifts had been switched somewhere-- asked, pinning his badge in place. "Let me see... 'strolling in the moonlight, sigh and sigh after sigh', right? Nice Work If You Can Get It? I take it your date went well last night?"

He winked at her. "Well, nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Not without a badge." She smiled.

"If you must know, yes. My date yesterday was... productive."

Behind him, Illya looked unwell. He took his badge from the receptionist, affixing it crookedly to his lapel.

Napoleon turned and straightened it for him. "There. You feeling all right?"

"I don't know." He shrugged.

"Well, try not to pass out in the meeting. Waverly wants to see us about yesterday's mission reports."

"It was hardly a mission." He complained. "Hmph. At least one of us had a good night. Who was she?"

"You sound bitter, Illya." Napoleon grinned, allowing the barest hint of innuendo into his next question. "Did you not get enough sleep, or did you get too much? In my experience, that can be just as much of a problem."

"I slept fine. I suppose it was some gorgeous blonde."

"Ah, yes..."

"One of those dizzy, airheaded-- things you're always taking out." The Russian allowed some disdain into his expression. "Really, Napoleon, I don't see how you could date women whom you couldn't possibly have a decent conversation with."

"Actually, the conversation was quite stimulating, and I didn't even try for first base." He answered glibly.

"Try for what?"

"First base, Illya. You know, bases. When you're out with someone, and you-- oh, nevermind... I'll explain it to you later. Right now we've got a meeting."

Kuryakin sighed and trailed after his partner. Not only was he too *happy*-- and for all the wrong reasons, Illya scowled-- he was even singing.

"The man who only lives for making money, lives a life that isn't necessarily sunny. Likewise the man who works for fame, there's no guarantee that time won't erase his name. The fact is, the only work that really brings enjoyment, is the kind that makes for girl and boy-ment, you fall in love, you won't regret it, that's the best work at all if you can get it..."

Illya scowled all the harder. Usually he *liked* Gershwin. He liked Napoleon's voice, too. But Napoleon singing Gershwin, thinking about some girl... it was enough to make him want to vomit.

He wondered what Mr. Waverly would say if he did vomit.

Probably something along the lines of 'UNCLE agents are made of firmer stuff than that, Mr. Kuryakin.', or possibly just 'disgusting'.

---/-/---

"Loving one who loves you, and then taking that vow, nice work if you can get it, and if you can get it, oh won't you tell me how," Napoleon was still singing as they left the meeting, or had resumed anyway. He hadn't actually been singing during the meeting. Waverly wouldn't have liked it.

"I'm going to go work in the lab." Illya excused himself.

"Oh. Right, yes... Hey, Illya?"

"Yes, Napoleon?" He sighed, rubbing his nosebridge.

"How long are you going to be working down there?"

"Maybe forever." The blond groaned. Noticing the look his partner gave him, he decided to make a quick recovery. "There have been more problems with the compound. Too many scientists are in medical, and Section 8 is understaffed. For once, they've got more people out on injury that Section 2 does."

"Well, I guess I'll call you if I need you." Napoleon nodded, watching Illya leave. He briefly pondered whipping out his communicator as soon as his partner was out of sight, but Illya didn't look as though he was in the mood for any levity.

He did, however, look as though he would be appreciative if Napoleon, say, surprised him with leftovers when noon rolled around. Knowing Illya, he'd get absorbed and work through until he got too hungry to stand. Of course, when he did eat, he'd more than make up for the wait by consuming vast quantities of food, but it would be better if he had someone to remember food for him. Napoleon very much wanted to be that person, and furthermore, he wanted to continue to be that person for years to come.

He headed back to his office, whistling again. A redhead stopped him.

"Date go well last night, Mr. Solo?"

"Ah... well, yes. Lunch date, actually."

"She must be special."

"Exceedingly special, Miss Lawson." He nodded to her. "I'm, ah, sure you're exceedingly special yourself, as well..."

"You can save it, Mr. Solo. I appear to be the one woman in UNCLE New York who's immune to your charms." She smiled.

"Not just UNCLE New York." He shrugged. "Immune, you say? I must be slipping."

"No. I just prefer blonds."

"Ah, well that's perfectly understandable, my dear. So do I."

"I doubt we like the same kind of blond." The girl laughed.

"On ne sais rien. Am I to take it you like yours short, sulky, and with a foreign accent?"

She blushed.

"Oh, I won't tell him. Trust me, the less aware he is of the effect he has on the female populace, the happier I am." Though not for the reasons you suspect, he thought.

He glanced at his watch. Another hour to kill, and then he'd have just enough time to run back to his apartment for the leftovers from last night. And if the old adage 'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach' was true for anyone, it was true for Illya.

Napoleon smiled, bid the girl goodbye, and went on his way, still whistling. Operation: Seduce Illya was in full effect, and step two-- or was it step three?-- would take off a mere hour from now.

---

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