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When Illya was freshly partnered with Napoleon Solo and still wildly unaware how vital that annoying, artificial, egotistical flirt with the painfully capitalist wardrobe would become in his life, by sheer happenstance, Napoleon was invited to the recurring Girls' Night of the office ladies of NYHQ.
The first time had been on a late afternoon during a particularly slow week. Napoleon had been deep in laughing conversation with Heather as the ladies of Girls' Night assembled to walk to their chosen bar, Heather had asked the gathered crowd if they minded Napoleon joining them this time—women rarely minded Napoleon—and immediately Illya had suspected the worst.
He'd seen his partner around women—how could he not? Napoleon knew how to lay on the charm, how to make his target feel like he existed only for her, but his one track mind was obvious from the way he looked at them (the slow once-over, his eyes following them around a room) to the way he pursued dates with no obvious thought to consequence. And now he'd left for the night accompanied by nearly half the office's female contingent at once. Illya knew Napoleon Solo well enough (or thought he did at the time) to dread the breathless recounting in the halls of whatever depraved orgy his partner had managed to instigate, given a party of women positively disposed to his presence.
But to Illya's surprise, the next few days came and went and he heard nothing. Napoleon, unexpectedly, kept his mouth shut either way. All told, the only office chatter Illya unearthed about Girls' Night came from the water cooler talk of what he had taken to calling Solo's Male Jealousy Brigade, which as usual, tended towards disgruntled, lewd, and speculative.
“Think he took turns with them or they took turns with him?” asked Agent Selby, Section 3, general waste of space (Illya's opinion), to the hooting of his fellows.
“Does it matter? Is there a difference?” laughed Agent Peterson, (ibid.).
“If you have to ask…” Further hooting ensued.
Clearly the Brigade were not a reliable source of intel—Illya usually gave them a wide berth. But however pathetic they may have been (and they were, abjectly), he did have the occasional sympathetic feeling. Putting up with Napoleon's track record at close quarters was more than Illya could stand, some days. Though if he had to suffer being tarred with the brush of jealousy, he contented himself that it was, at least, a different brush to the one tarring the Brigade. They didn’t rely on Napoleon in matters of life and death, after all. And it wasn’t any of their heads Waverly would have on a plate should Napoleon’s famous luck give out one day.
…Probably. Waverly remained unpredictable, and while you couldn’t eat hope (as Illya’s babushka used to say), at least it was free.
*
Months passed and Napoleon was invited to another Girls' Night, and then another. Still no wild stories had emerged to stalk the corridors of gossip, to Illya’s relief. He was determined for the matter to remain none of his business. Sadly, that was not to be. The fourth or fifth time Napoleon was buoyed away for the evening in a cloud of perfume and laughter, Illya’s own attempted exit was interrupted by a summons to Waverly’s office.
Waverly barely looked up from his stack of memos when Illya entered. “Go fetch Mr. Solo for me, would you?” A document, it seemed, had rapidly increased in priority. “I need his signature.”
“Yes, sir,” said Illya, heart sinking.
It was, quite frankly, the opposite of what Illya had wanted for his evening. He was growing used to his bastard of a partner—they'd always worked near-perfect in the field, and these days Illya was finding Napoleon could be tolerable for entire stretches out of it—but they didn't socialize. Napoleon Solo was a problem for working hours, and Illya did his best to keep it that way. Especially when it came to Girls' Night.
But Waverly cared not for the whims of mortals, and soon Illya found himself ensnared in Manhattan traffic, burning with the specific and familiar irritation of having to extract his partner from probable debauchery. He spent the drive stewing, made worse by Napoleon's purred confirmation via communicator that the party had moved to the apartment shared by Julie and Fatima in Translations, you do know how to get here, don't you partner? The girls would be thrilled to see you—
None of which prepared Illya for what he actually found when he arrived at Girls' Night that evening.
He could hear the noise from the hallway, chatter and laughter and someone yelling about popcorn, and he knocked cautiously, hoping his assessment of the party's tone was accurate and everyone remained fully dressed. It was only a minute before the door was opened by the day shift Joans, Joan Liu in flowing pajamas and Joan Mayberry behind her in a large flannel robe. Illya stifled a sigh. That’s what I get for being an optimist.
“Why Mr. Kuryakin,” Joan Mayberry said with a smirk that grew as he watched, “What brings you to our little soiree?”
Illya nodded politely at them, ignoring Joan Liu's giggling. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm here for Napoleon?” Beyond the Joans, Illya's first and lasting impression was of a loud, pastel-colored chaos. Pajamas appeared to be the prevailing dress code and the sight of open bottles showed both gin and wine were freely flowing. “Work business, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, of course!” said Joan Liu, stepping aside to let him in. “I think he's in the bedroom.”
Quelle surprise, Illya thought. He tried not to let his frustration with everything—Waverly, this errand, his obnoxiously predictable, unrelenting Don Juan of a partner—show on his face.
Joan Mayberry disappeared with a tipsy salute, leaving Illya to follow Joan Liu through a tangled path of women he only half-recognized with their hair down and out of uniform. No orgies so far, thought Illya, sarcasm aimed at himself. He hadn't been sure what to expect.
On one side of the room, the crowd around a board game in progress appeared ready to devolve into violence over someone’s alleged cheating; on the couch, Gloria Estevez and one of the Wandas had drawn a sympathetic group as they complained about shift scheduling and the way the new holsters rode up; over by the kitchenette, someone was opening a new bag of pretzels and yelling at Doris to change the record.
All fine so far, but Illya couldn't relax yet. At least no one had asked him to dance. One last dodge around Fatima and Peggy's game of dominoes, and they were at the open door to a bedroom.
Illya blinked.
As expected, Napoleon was on the bed with multiple women. Illya supposed he should have expected the pajamas. What he hadn't expected (and what had rendered him temporarily speechless) was the sight of Napoleon sitting fully upright, on top of the covers, intricately braiding flowers into Madeline Stevens' hair. Beside him, Sarah was scolding all and sundry for shaking the mattress, did they want her to mess up Heather's toenails? Heather was laughing, which didn’t appear to help. Illya found himself transfixed by the way Napoleon deftly twirled sections of Madeline's hair together, moving the bundle to one hand to fish out another flower from the shoebox on the coverlet. He had a flower tucked behind one ear.
Smiling, Joan patted Illya's arm and made a beeline for the pretzels. Illya gave her a nod he hoped conveyed gratitude and took another moment unobserved to watch Napoleon's quick fingers turn Madeline's long, dark hair into a crown of flowers.
“Illya!” said Heather, noticing him at last, and Napoleon's head snapped up. Illya wondered if he was surprised to be caught out like this, but his eyes found Illya's without hesitation, and if there was any chagrin in his look it was tempered by a large dose of humor.
“Illya! What are you doing here?” Madeline asked.
“I was just wondering that myself,” Napoleon said mildly, leaning an elbow over her shoulder to rest his chin on it. He did not, Illya noted, drop the strands of the complicated braid.
Feeling more like an intruder than he had all night, Illya stepped into the room and accepted the seat Heather patted for him at the foot of the bed.
“I'm on errand from Waverly,” he confessed to a chorus of groans.
“Let me guess,” Napoleon said with a twist to his mouth. “We have a flight to catch.”
“No, nothing so serious,” said Illya, and saw his partner relax. “He only needs your signature. There's been a development on that item we discussed earlier—”
Napoleon wrinkled his nose. “Ah yes, it would be that thing. I don't suppose he let you bring it with you...?”
Illya snorted.
“Somehow I didn’t think so,” said Napoleon with a sigh. “Well, ladies, duty calls. Sorry Maddy, I'd nearly finished anyway. Anyone see where the hair ties went?”
He added a last few twists to Madeline's hair before securing his work, kissed her hand as she giggled, and slid off the bed. He grabbed a small valise in the corner which must have contained his suit—Illya knew he would never have arrived in pajamas—and disappeared into the connected bathroom, dislodging the contingent of smokers avoiding the cold outside. Illya gave a thoughtful sniff as they filed past. Tobacco, yes, but not only. Interesting. He caught Julie's eye as she scurried by him, raising an eyebrow at her blush.
Napoleon emerged a moment later, pristine once again in one of his usual suits. The flower in his hair had migrated to his lapel. It was the work of only a few minutes to extricate themselves from the party—benefits of it being, essentially, an UNCLE function—and they were soon out in the bracing late fall evening.
They walked in silence for a minute or two.
“Sisters?” Illya asked finally.
kind of, said the half-twitch motion Napoleon made with his face and shoulders. “And cousins,” he said.
“Ah.” Illya let the silence stretch another half dozen paces. “And while Peterson and Selby have been going on about the depravity of Napoleon Solo's Girl Night, you've been braiding hair and painting fingernails.” He watched for his partner's reaction.
“I'm also excellent at charades and Parcheesi,” said Napoleon, face innocent but radiating smugness. “Though Sarah might've, ah, cleared me out last time at the poker tournament,” he added with a wince.
They were approaching the car now. Illya gave him a prolonged Look as he unlocked the doors and they climbed inside.
Napoleon remained unperturbed. “Really, Illya, I consider it a great honor to be invited.”
“You're still dating them though,” Illya pressed, because—
“Obviously,” Napoleon frowned.
“Doesn't that constitute a conflict of interest?” said Illya, waspish, pulling into traffic.
“Oh, I'd never let my dating life interfere with the sanctity of Girls' Night,” said Napoleon, making his eyes large and dark and overly sincere. (Illya snorted.) “Besides,” he added, “we're out of town enough that they get plenty of time without me. And if, heaven forbid, the time should come that they'd rather I didn't attend anymore, that's entirely out of my hands. I won't go where I'm not wanted.”
Something in his voice at the last made Illya glance at him, long enough to see the twist in the familiar artificiality of his smile, the steady way Napoleon met his eyes—
“Of course,” Illya replied, giving it just enough sarcasm to go either way. He focused on the short drive to HQ and let his thoughts churn.
‘I won't go where I'm not wanted.’
Napoleon was a pain, it was true, but Illya was under no illusion he was sunshine and roses himself. Being a successful result of Waverly's matchmaking, they were stuck together for the foreseeable future. Perhaps it was Illya’s turn to extend a little civility.
They pulled up in front of Del Floria's and Napoleon turned to him. “Look, do you want to come inside? This'll only take a minute.”
Illya opened his mouth. “Have you eaten?” he found himself saying.
Napoleon paused with his hand on the door handle. “Just some popcorn earlier, why?”
“I was thinking of getting Chinese after this,” said Illya. “Care to join me?”
Napoleon smiled, what appeared to be a real one for once, and Illya felt it melt under his skin. “I'd like that.”