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Music, soft and relaxing, fills the air effortlessly. Napoleon is sitting in the lush armchair of his hotel room in his silk pyjamas and robe. He is drinking his expensive whiskey in small sips, enjoying the intense smokey taste burning his throat sweetly as it goes down, spreading a warmth so welcome. With his eyes closed, he whispers the lyrics of the song, a tinge of a smile on his face as he enjoys that little moment of self-indulgence.
An irresolute yet firm knock on his door disrupts the soothing ambience. The smile on his face grows bigger, recognising who is behind the door, but he takes a few moments to answer, drinking another sip of his drink.
The figure behind the door seems to grow a little uncomfortable and takes a step back. Napoleon can see the hint of the shadow from the narrow opening underneath the door and shakes his head amused. He has decided that he has teased him enough.
‘Come in, Peril. It’s open.’ The door reveals Illya’s massive figure entering the room.
‘How did you know it’s me?’ Illya asks, his face bearing his usual suspicious expression. But his voice betrays his awkwardness.
‘I could recognize your wooden movements with my eyes closed, my friend,’ Napoleon joshes him while making a gesture for Kuryakin to sit. Illya nods slightly and sits across Solo.
‘Care for a drink?’ Napoleon offers. Illya nods again, his reaction showing his nervousness as his eyes are focused on his hands resting on his knees. Solo observes him closely while letting his tumbler on the coffee table in front of him, the smile never leaving his lips but with curiosity in his eyes. He goes to the room bar and pours a generous quantity of the golden liquor in a tumbler. He steals a glance of Peril. He seems like he is in need of some liquid courage.
He walks towards Illya picking up his own glass before he offers him his drink. The Russian makes fleeting eye contact with Napoleon as he reaches for the glass. Solo’s laid-back ease has always made him a little uncomfortable, but this time is something else.
‘Cheers,’ Napoleon clinks his glass to Illya’s, catching the other man off guard that only the tiniest fluttering of his eyes lets on as he maintains his rigid demeanour.
‘Hmm,’ Napoleon huffs, smiling as he returns to his seat. He lets himself sink in his armchair, his body relaxed, unlike Illya, who is sitting on the edge of his seat, his leg bouncing like he is about to run away.
‘So we’ve established that you need my help. The only thing that is left is to find out for what,’ Napoleon announces, not trying to conceal his amusement to the slightest. Illya’s eyes fly, meeting Solo’s.
‘How..’
‘Oh, Peril. Your discomfort is so obvious that it’s not even amusing anymore,’ Napoleon explains with a jaded tone in his voice. ‘What is it that you need my help for?’
‘I want you…I want to…’ Illya seems like he is searching for the right words. Napoleon lets out a deep exhale, growing tired of his hesitation, so he decides to step in.
‘Is it about Gaby?’ Illya nods, staring at his glass, turning it nervously in his hands.
‘At least, we’ve got a clue, not thanks to your divulging mood,’ Napoleon jokes.
‘Look, forget about it. It was a mistake to come here from the start.’ Illya says in his thick accent, somehow seeming thicker because of his emotional state. He sets his glass on the table with hurried moves and springs up to leave. Napoleon stands up quickly, getting in Illya’s way to the door.
‘Don’t go,’ his face bearing a soft expression full of understanding for the other man, ‘ I promise to behave. Please, sit.’ Illya examines Solo’s face reading the sincerity of his intentions. His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath to ease his nerves and sits down.
‘So what has she done to you this time? I don’t see any cuts and bruises.’
‘Solo.’ Illya warns him. Napoleon raises his hand in surrender.
‘You need to be more talkative, Peril. I’m not a mind reader.’ Illya takes a moment to put his thoughts in order and then blurts it out.
‘I need you to teach me how to flirt with Gaby. You seem to know what women like, so I thought to ask you.’ The grimace on his face is almost one of pain. Napoleon wants to laugh, but he has promised to behave. How much it must hurt him to be in need of his assistance, especially for matters of the heart.
‘That’s all? I thought it was something serious,’ Napoleon shifts in his armchair, trying to find his former comfortable place, bringing his glass to his lips.
‘It is serious,’ Illya points out. Solo could swear that this man doesn’t know how to unwind. Teaching him how to flirt will be a challenge. A really hard one.
‘I hear you. But this is not the place nor the time to do it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Illya asks, already regretting that he came to the American’s door.
‘Dress up and meet me in the lounge in three hours,’ Napoleon instructs him.
‘What for?’ Napoleon takes a long sip emptying his glass. Illya is growing impatient by the second. Napoleon’s long pauses are driving him insane. Solo turns to Illya with a cunning grin.
‘We are going out, Peril.’
………………………………………..
Three hours later, Napoleon is sitting in the hotel lounge, all dressed up in his modish three-piece suit and his hair made to perfection. Everything about him betrays that he is an urbane and suave man. During his wait, he steals a couple of smiles from the ladies in the lounge. Anything that could make things a little more interesting until Kuryakin decides to show his face.
Napoleon checks his watch. Ten past nine. He can clearly picture Illya changing his mind for the hundredth time before he finds the courage to cross the door, which Solo finds sort of comical. The mysterious Russian is full of contradictions: intense yet so reserved, incredibly skilful in combat yet so lacking in social skills, stupidly brave in the face of danger but so hesitant before a beautiful woman.
‘Solo.’ Napoleon hears the strict tone of Illya’s voice from behind.
‘Finally, Cinderella. You made it,’ he jokes as he stands buttoning his jacket and turning to face his friend. His smile disappears when he sees that Illya is wearing his signature black slacks and black turtleneck, matched with his brown leather jacket. He takes in the image of the tall man, disapproval evident on his features.
‘This is your idea of dressing up?’
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’ Solo pinches the bridge of his nose, not knowing where to start.
‘Tell me you haven’t brought your gun with you,’ Napoleon sighs. Illya fixes his stare on Solo, not uttering a word.
‘Is there any chance I can convince you to go back to your room and change?’
‘No.’ Illya responds dryly, not leaving any space for negotiation. Napoleon’s shoulders drop as he exhales loudly.
‘Alright. We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. After you,’ he extends his hand to show the way to Illya. Kuryakin narrows his eyes, observing the American. He straightens his jacket sleeves and starts walking in the typical Peril way like a bull about to charge. Napoleon has to speed up his stride to catch up with him, muttering, ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
Outside the hotel entrance, Napoleon finds Illya waiting for a taxi.
‘We won’t need a ride. I know a nice place a couple of blocks from here. We’ll walk. In the meantime, we’ll profit from some quality time together.’ Illya glances at Solo with knitted eyebrows.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Relax. We are just going to talk. And please, don’t run. I intend to remain fresh until we get there. Sweat and silk don’t bode well together,’ Napoleon explains as he makes way for the bar.
‘I’m not running,’ Illya protests while following Solo. ‘You should indulge yourself more to exercise and less to whiskey.’ Napoleon throws him a glare but quickly finds his easy-going demeanour. He knows what he signed up for. Arguing won’t make it any easier.
‘I must remind you that it was you who came to my door asking for help. So I would appreciate it if you were more polite.’ Illya is focused on the road in front of him, but he acknowledges Solo’s demand and nods.
“Perfect,’ Napoleon comments, smiling. ‘Let’s start then. Rule number one: Women are to be treated with nothing else but respect and affection. Wrestling is out of the question unless it is explicitly requested.’ Upon that comment, Illya stops dead in his tracks protesting.
‘She attacked me!’ Napoleon keeps going unhampered by Illya’s reaction.
‘I’m not going to argue about it. You tried your way, Peril. Now you are going to do things my way.’ Illya rolls his jaw, trying to contain his frustration, and with a couple of strides, he is next to Napoleon. ‘Touching is good as long as it is appropriate. It establishes being comfortable yet flirtatious around someone. Just brush your arm against her once in a while.’
‘Rule number two. Are you catching up?’ Napoleon turns to see if Illya keeps up with his tutelage.
‘Clearly,’ Kuryakin responds with a smug smile on his face. Napoleon rolls his eyes. He is not going to make it a race.
‘Rule number two: Play it right. Be yourself and have a real conversation. Don’t let the fear of rejection discourage you.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ Illya growls.
‘Clearly,’ says Napoleon with a huge grin on his face. Illya clenches his teeth.
‘There’s beauty in simplicity, Peril. A lot of women actually like a guy to just approach them with a simple ‘hey, how’s it going?’. And please, for the love of God, don’t utter anything about fallen angels!’
‘Why? I think it’s a good line.’ Now, it’s Napoleon’s turn to stop in his tracks, his eyes going round with a “you must be kidding me” look. Illya turns to face Solo laughing softly. Napoleon laughs too, relieved that Peril is just joking and that he finally lets himself go.
‘Oh my, Peril. Is that humour I detect? I could swear you were a robot,’ Solo teases him pretending to be shocked. ‘Careful there, I think I start rubbing off on you.’
‘You’d be surprised, Cowboy, to find out that there’s more to me than you think.’
‘Strangely Kuryakin, I’m certain there is.’ Illya’s features soften to the American’s comment offering him a sincere smile. Both men resume walking after that moment of bonding.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Illya speaks.
‘By all means.’
‘Have you ever thought of making a move on Gaby?’ Napoleon can sense the insecurity in Illya’s voice, so he tries to play it down.
‘What kind of a man do you take me for, Kuryakin?’
‘For exactly the one you are, so don’t act offended, Cowboy.’
‘Are you trying to hurt my feelings?’ Napoleon gives him a playful look.
‘Is that what you call them? Feelings?’ Kuryakin puns. Napoleon grins widely. He always enjoys good banter with the Russian. He can’t but recognise that he’s got the wits. Now, what’s left is to convince him to put them to good use.
‘Don’t worry, Illya. Gaby is on the ‘do not touch’ list. I never go after a friend’s woman.’ Illya steals a glimpse of Napoleon nodding as he acknowledges that there’s more to him than he thought. Behind the playful facade of a womanizer, there’s a man with principles.
‘So what’s rule number three?’ Illya asks as the bright flickering lights of the bar appear in front of them.
‘That one is going to be really hard for you, Peril: Always keep a charming smile on your face.’ And as instructed, Napoleon bears a warm grin on his face opening the door for Illya. Kuryakin looks at Solo, discomfort creeping back on his features. He can’t help but wonder how he does it. It’s not a secret that Napoleon has his way with people. Out of the two men, Solo comes across as the more accessible and straightforward. Illya draws a deep breath and enters. Both men stand at the entrance, as Napoleon searches the bar for the perfect spot.
Inside the bar, there’s a flow of good vibes, people smiling, drinking, chatting and generally having a good time. Solo weaves through them like a pro, with a mischievous grin on his face like a Cheshire Cat. Definitely in his comfort zone, unlike Illya, who is trying to keep up with him and bumping into people, apologising constantly.
Napoleon stops to check on Illya, watching him walking through people like an armoured tank. He shakes his head. Illya notices him.
'What now?’
'Gotta love your ways, Peril.’
Once seated, they order their drinks. Whiskey for Napoleon and vodka for Illya.
‘Going Russian style, Kuryakin?’ Napoleon leans his elbow on the bar scanning around for an interesting “target”. Illya’s body faces the bar, both hands resting on the wooden surface.
‘There’s beauty in simplicity, Solo,’ he comments, raising his glass to Napoleon and taking a long sip.
‘Indeed,’ Napoleon smiles at Illya’s choice of words. He brings his glass close to his face nosing it first, getting acquainted with the subtle notes of fruits and spices before he drinks.
‘So, where were we? Ah, yes. Rule number four: Always observe the woman you’re flirting with. Observe how she gestures, what her body language is like, the way she talks, what she does subconsciously. It helps you know your moves a little bit in advance, depending on your astute powers of observation, that is. Just don’t stare.’ Illya notes that the American’s voice is drifting off like his attention is caught by something else than their discussion. He turns to face Napoleon, seeing that he aims at a small company of two pretty women across the bar, reciprocating his interest with playful glances and smiles.
‘Don’t you ever turn it off?’ he asks in exasperation.
‘When you’ve got it, you’ve got it, and I’ve got it. Now, hold my drink,’ Solo responds tongue in cheek, switching on his easy smile, straightening his jacket and making his move.
Illya watches how Napoleon approaches the women, smoothly talking his way into their company. It’s only a matter of minutes before everyone is laughing, all relaxed and welcoming.
‘Unbelievable,’ Kuryakin mutters, shaking his head. After a while, he notices that Napoleon excuses himself and returns to the bar.
‘Time to put what you’ve learnt into practice, Peril.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You wanted to learn how to flirt. So flirt.’
‘With whom?’
‘There’s two of them. Pick one.’
‘No! It’s not right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…’
‘Hmm. Somehow I predicted that we would find ourselves in such an impasse, so I took some initiative.’
‘Initiative?’
‘One more to your liking,” Napoleon looks past Illya towards the entrance of the bar. He checks his watch. ‘And punctual as always.’ Illya snaps his head to the door recognising Gaby, who’s searching the crowd for her friends. He feels his heart beating in his throat.
‘What have you done?’
“Relax, Kuryakin. You are in a public place. She won’t bite.’
‘And what about your new friends?’ panic creeps upon him like he is caught redhanded.
‘Surely, I’ll work something out, don’t worry. Have fun, Peril. I know I will,’ he waves at Gaby, who has spotted them and is on her way. Illya clenches his fists, his body tensing like he wants to punch Leon in the face. Napoleon grabs Illya by his arms, grounding him. With a serious look on his face, one that isn’t seen often on Solo, he says:
‘The time is here and now, Illya. Don’t wait for the right moment. This is it.’ Then back to his light mood, he turns to greet Gaby with a gentle peck on her cheek.
‘Gaby, darling, welcome.’ Illya nods shyly, avoiding her stare and blushing like a schoolboy.
‘What are you, boys, up to?’ She senses there’s something going on and tries to find out by reading their faces. Although Napoleon doesn’t give away anything, that’s not the case with Illya.
'Nothing really. Just two friends having a drink.’ And on cue, he raises his glass to drink.
'What will you have?’ Illya asks Gaby, his voice gentle, brushing his hand softly over her arm. For a moment, Gaby seems pleasantly affected by his gesture before she speaks. Napoleon is watching them through his glass and smiles proudly for his student’s progress.
'Vodka, please,’ Upon her answer, Illya grins at Napoleon with his eyebrow arched. Solo winks at him.
'Unfortunately, I can’t stay to enjoy your company,’ Napoleon interrupts the moment to make his exit.
'Why is that?’ Gaby asks, finally picking up what’s going on.
‘Let’s say I find myself otherwise engaged,’ Napoleon darts a glance at his new company and Gaby follows his eyes.
'Impressed, Solo,’ she returns.
'You two have fun and don’t do something I wouldn’t.’ Napoleon kisses Gaby’s hair, always appreciating the taciturn understanding he shares with her.
‘That definitely leaves us with very slim pickings here.’
‘Ouch, Gabs, that almost hurt. Almost,’ he wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she laughs.
Gaby and Illya stare into each other’s eyes tenderly, excited for what the night promises.
‘How did you do that?’ he asks her in a sultry voice. Napoleon stares at him with his eyes throwing daggers, already knowing where this is going. But Illya is long lost in Gaby’s presence.
‘What?’ she flutters her lashes to him, her voice going all soft and mellow.
‘Look so good…’
‘Oh my God!’ Napoleon breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose.