Illya looked up from his microscope as the door to the lab hissed open.

"Hey, there." Napoleon grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

Illya's heart leaped. Why, oh why did he have to be partnered with someone so... so effortlessly good-looking? So at ease in a very nice suit, fitted perfectly over a very nice body, resting casually between Illya and escape, unaware of his devastating presence. No, not quite. Napoleon was very aware of his devastating presence. He just didn't seem to notice its effect on Illya.

"Hey, yourself." It sounded a little lame to his own ears, but it should pass for casual.

"I brought you some of the leftovers from lunch yesterday."

"Oh, but those are your leftovers, Napoleon. I finished mine."

"I'm not in any danger of running out of food, Illya. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten lunch."

"I am getting rather hungry..." He relented, scooting his chair back from the lab counter. He followed Napoleon to the commissary, listening to the American's small talk.

"So... any closer to fixing that unstable THRUSH compound?" Napoleon asked. He was walking backwards in front of Illya now, devoting almost all of his attention to the other man.

"I think so. Be careful, Napoleon! You nearly ran into someone."

"Oh. Sorry." He managed a contrite look and turned around, falling into step beside Illya. "So? The compound?"

"Ah, yes. We are still uncertain as to the desired effects. However, if the compound is merely another explosive mixture, THRUSH has done quite well."

---/-/---

Napoleon payed Illya more attention than he was accustomed to, asking questions instead of telling stories, and frequently touching the younger man's arm during the course of conversation.

Illya wondered briefly if he should check his partner for signs of fever. He was acting somewhat out of character. However, it was flattering, almost intoxicating, and so he decided to ignore the little voice of reason in the back of his head. It wasn't often enough that Napoleon was more interested in him than in some woman.

"Hey... what about yours?" Napoleon asked suddenly, during a pause in conversation.

"What about my what?" Illya replied, puzzled.

"Name. You showed me how to write mine, I want to see yours."

He blushed, very much in spite of himself. "Well, for the Cyrillic 'I', you need to write a backwards English 'N'. This is an 'L'..." He demonstrated, writing on a napkin.

"And a 'Y'?"

"Nyet. When the 'Y' is followed by an 'A', it is a seperate letter. Backwards 'R'."

Napoleon nodded, wondering if he would ever remember this outside of the context of Illya. "And a 'K'?"

"Is the same. 'U' is a 'Y'."

"Which 'Y'?"

"Cyrillic 'U' is Enlish 'Y'." He clarified.

"Okay... 'R'?"

"Cyrillic 'R' is English 'P'."

Napoleon now had 'Kyr' written on the napkin. "And the backwards 'R' again?"

"See, you can be taught." Illya teased. "And you remember 'K', 'I', and 'N', correct?"

"Correct." He nodded, finishing off his partner's name with a flourish. "Now what?"

Illya shrugged. "I hadn't made any lesson plans."

"Remiss of you, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, now you know why my teaching career was cut short." He grinned. "Here,"

He wrote out '3Ha4ok'.

"Right." Napoleon copied it. "And that says...?"

"Znachok. Badge. And this is 'ubijtza'. Assassin."

"You always teach me such useful words, tovarishch."

Illya shrugged, smiling, and wrote out another word. "Tell me what this says."

"I-- can't."

"You know the letters now. Come on, you can do it."

"Kniga. Kniga?"

"Book." Illya explained. "Now this."

"Sotryasenie mozga."

"Concussion. And before you say anything else, that one is useful. For me, anyway."

"Okay, now tell me if I'm getting this right." Napoleon nodded, scribbling furiously. He then passed the napkin back to Illya.

"Vsegda." He nodded. "Always. Very good."

"And this?" Napoleon wrote several more.

"Krasivyj... yes, that is right. Blondin... Ot vsejdushj... From the bottom of my heart? I thought you only knew what Russian you needed for work."

"I decided I needed to know that one." He shrugged. "Recently. I had one of the girls from translations help me."

"I see." Illya sat back, putting more distance between himself and Napoleon. "You couldn't have asked me, of course."

"Well, if I had done that, you might have wondered why I wanted to know things like 'Obozhatv', or 'Vozlyublennyj',"

"Little wonder." He snorted. It figured. For words like 'adore' and 'beloved', Napoleon would go to the girls in translations. His mind taking a masochistic turn, Illya wondered how many, and how pretty they really were.

"And 'sparivatvsya'." Napoleon continued, looking fixedly at his partner.

Illya choked. "Honestly, Napoleon! That's a filthy thing to ask them! Well, no, I suppose if you're brazen enough to ask for a demonstration, it evens out somehow."

"I hadn't, actually. However, if you'd care to demonstrate, I might be open to it."

This time, Illya spewed his water out over the table. He reached for the napkin, but Napoleon had snatched it out of the way of the spill, instead offering his handkerchief.

"Napoleon, did you just--? You didn't just--!"

"I'd ask you to spit it out, but you already did. Literally."

"Vy hotite kopulyatziya so mnoj?"

"If you're asking what I think you're asking, then my answer would have to be very much, please."

"Do you want me to ask it in English? In the middle of a crowded room?" Illya said pointedly.

"Ah, no. That might not be such a good idea. But we are talking about the same, ah, kopulyatziya, right?"

"Napoleon, I don't think-- I mean, you--" Illya looked around for a combination of the nearest exit and the fewest people to pass on his way out. Everything seemed to be happening at once, and it made him feel as though he was drowning.

"It's not all I'm asking for." Napoleon put a hand on his friend's wrist, not holding onto him enough to keep him from bolting if he wanted, but enough pressure to remind him that Napoleon would rather he stay.

"What are you asking for?" Illya asked, trying desperately to close himself off. He was going to get hurt, he just knew it...

"Correct me if I'm saying it wrong now, but... nmetv roman s moy zakadychnyj droog?"

Kuryakin was floored. A love affair. An honest-to-goodness relationship. With Napoleon. It was a dream, it had to be...

But if it was a dream, he was going to dream it for as long as he could.

"Da." He nodded. "I will."

Napoleon smiled, his hold slipping from Illya's wrist to his hand. Just then, the Russian looked down at his watch.

"Oh!"

"What?"

"We've been here for an hour. I really should get back to the lab..." He chewed his lower lip, somewhat torn. The lab was understaffed, the work important. But it would mean being seperated from Napoleon, and he was afraid that, once they had parted, the little dream which had woven its way around them would melt, leaving him more alone than before.

"Okay. I'll catch up with you later. In fact, if you want to come over tonight, I was going to stay in, make dinner... we could spend some time together, have a couple of drinks..."

Illya felt some of the apprehension leave him. "I would like that very much."

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.