A/N: For InSilva - Happy Birthday, mate! You asked for a house full of deadly puzzles, and I feel this delivers two out of three. :)

Napoleon tilted his head back, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on his face. It was a perfect day to be out of the city. There was a nice breeze here that was a welcome change from the hot city streets.

"We need to try and find THRUSH plots that take us into the country more often," he smiled.

Illya scowled as he slammed the car door shut. "As long as we are back by this evening," he said.

Huh. He raised an eyebrow as he followed his partner up the drive towards the very large, ivy-covered house. They'd intercepted a coded message suggesting that some unspecified but major THRUSH project was about to come to fruition here. The code was legitimate enough, but it was one they hadn't seen used for several months, so they weren't exactly worried that this was an imminent threat. "What, do you have a date or something?" he asked lightly,

"Yes," Illya said, glancing at him briefly.

Really. He grinned to himself in anticipation. "Who with? How come I didn't know about this?"

"Because we are not fourteen year-old girls?" Illya suggested. "And you do not need to know everything about my life."

"Everything, no," Napoleon agreed. "But you can't expect me not to be interested when you have a date."

"My dating is not so unusual as to cause comment," Illya said. "I admit, compared to you, I might look like a monk, but...wait." His tone turned seriously sharply. "Look."

He looked. The door to the house was wide open, which wasn't a good sign. Worse, he could make out a figure lying slumped on the ground, just inside, and a smear of red blood on the wall. They exchanged a quick glance and then drew their guns and started running.

The door opened onto a small, round antechamber. He knelt at the body while Illya stood over him, gun trained at the far door, ready in case it opened. "It's a dummy," he said, in puzzled realisation.

"And this is paint," Illya added, turning his head to look at the blood smeared on the wall.

"Well, this is either a trap or performance art," Napoleon said, rolling the dummy over to look for clues.

"Don't!" Illya shouted, and he saw the wire just a little too late. It snapped.

He jumped to his feet, grabbing Illya's arm, and heading for the door, but again, it was all too late and a metal shutter slammed down across the doorway in their face, leaving them trapped.

Still, at least nothing had exploded.

"I'm guessing that wasn't a bomb," Illya agreed, taking a step back towards the dummy.

Just as he spoke, there was a loud grinding noise, and the floor suddenly collapsed beneath their feet. Frantically, he grabbed at the wall, searching for something to hold onto, but his hand just slipped away and he found himself falling into darkness. It wasn't a long drop, but he had time enough to brace himself, hitting the concrete floor and rolling with it, ending on his back and staring up at the hatch closing above.

"And this had been shaping up to be such a nice day," he said with a sigh. He sat up and looked round, peering into the gloom. There wasn't much to look at; he could barely see a foot in front of his face.

He could see Illya sitting up and rubbing at the back of his head, glaring across at him. "Ow," he complained. "Did you really have to do that?"

He sighed. "This wasn't exactly my plan. Where are we anyway?"

"Underground," Illya said, pulling out a flashlight and shining it into the corners.

"You're always so helpful in these situations," he said, matching Illya's actions. Ah. They were in some sort of basement by the looks of things. There was a set of stairs in the far wall, but right in front of them... Well. "That's some interesting décor," he said, gazing up admiringly at the portrait. The redhead seemed to gaze straight back at him, her hands resting on her widely-spread hips, proud and unashamed, a sapphire necklace the only thing she was wearing. He might normally prefer something that left a little more to his ample imagination, but he had to admit, he liked what he was looking at.

"Hello, there,darling," a woman's voice purred from somewhere nearby. They both spun round, looking for the source but there was no one there. Exchanging a glance, they started prowling around the room in search as the voice continued. "Remember me? I had this portrait commissioned especially for you, since I remember how well you liked the way I look. Of course, that wasn't enough to keep your attention, was it? You told me I was beautiful. You told me you cared for me. You told me we should seize the moment together – and oh, boy, we did, didn't we? You persuaded me to betray THRUSH and then you left me, bereft and abandoned and I have to resort to kidnapping you to even catch your attention. Well, darling, if you're only happy when you're playing games, then games we will play."

"A tape recorder," he said, finding it set into a crevice in the wall just as the voice came to an end.

Illya was staring at him, an unfriendly look on his face. "Really, Napoleon? Your amorous adventures have got us kidnapped now?"

"Now, hold on a moment," he protested hotly. "I've never seen that woman before in my life."

"She certainly seemed to know you," Illya said.

And that wasn't fair at all. "How do I know she wasn't talking about you?" he demanded. "I tell you, I don't know her."

"All that means is that you have now slept with so many women you have forgotten some of them," Illya said dismissively. "Really, 'seize the moment together'? Those are most definitely your words."

"I don't hold the copyright on them," he snapped. "I've never - "

A loud gurgling sound interrupted them and cold water suddenly started pouring in from all around them. "I suppose this would be the start of the games she was talking about," Illya said with distaste.

"Right," Napoleon agreed, heading quickly for the stairs.

Unsurprisingly, the door at the top was locked. Rather more surprisingly there was a complicated series of pipes interlaced across it.

"There are sections missing," Illya said, examining it carefully. "I think, if the pipes were completed, it would take the pressure away and the door would open. There are some pieces...here!" With difficulty, he slotted a piece of pipe in a handy gap in the network.

"Alice Vansen," Napoleon said suddenly.

Illya didn't even turn round. "What?"

"That cute little brunette in the cryptography department," he explained. "She brought you the decrypted message personally. That's who your date is with tonight, isn't it?"

"No," Illya told him. "You're not even warm. Though in light of your taste for gossip, I am revising my earlier statement about us not being fourteen year old girls. Let's try and focus on getting out of here, shall we? There must be some more of these pieces around somewhere, see if you can find them."

He looked round unhappily. Already the water was swirling around the bottom of the stairs. "Ah, my suit - " Illya turned and gave him a dark look of warning. " - is not important in the circumstances," he finished gloomily, hurrying down into the water. "This is more than a little cold," he called, squinting around, looking for any spare bits of pipes.

"With any luck, it will have a dousing effect on your libido," Illya told him.

Charming. He scowled, and then something caught his eye. Huh. "You said that we just needed to reduce the water pressure, right?"

"That's right," Illya said.

"Well, then." With a flourish, he turned the valve and immediately the water stopped. "Try the door now."

Illya did, and it opened immediately. He turned and looked at Napoleon. "What did you do?"

Napoleon smiled brilliantly. "Turned off the mains."

"Ah." They exchanged a long glance, and he could see the same wry amusement in Illya's eyes. This was hardly the work of a mastermind.

"Shall we?" Napoleon invited, gesturing through the door.

"Of course," Illya said ironically. "I am eager to meet your lady friend."

"She's not my lady friend," he protested, already knowing it wasn't going to be of any use.

The door opened out onto the kitchen where another tape recorder was already playing. " - so you see, my dear, this time you quite simply trifled with the wrong girl's affections. I want you to know what it feels like to be toyed with so cruelly. To feel reality's harsh burn."

Illya gave him a pained look and he explained again – expressively, yet silently – that he had no idea what she was talking about. Guns in hands, they inspected the room carefully. There were metal shutters over all the windows and the other door.

"Rachel Weir," Napoleon suggested, prodding the flagstones with his foot, looking for any hidden switches or pressure pads.

"The biochemist with the mole?" Illya asked, carefully examining one of the gas ranges.

"It's a beauty mark," Napoleon told him patiently. "It adds character to her face. You lack refinement."

"Nonetheless, I am not dating her," Illya said, opening a cupboard and brightening noticeably as he pulled out a block of chocolate.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "You really want to bet that the puzzle here doesn't involve poisoned food?"

Illya put it back with a sigh. "You are determined to ruin my day."

"This isn't exactly my idea of fun either," Napoleon said, just as a jet of flame erupted from the floor and came worryingly close to singeing his eyebrows. "Well."

"I suspect poisoned food is not the answer," Illya commented as two more fires flared in quick succession, luckily near neither of them. "Unless she is expecting us to roast marshmallows."

"There must be something with these flagstones," Napoleon suggested. "Look, there's a pattern of sorts. Almost like some sort of gameboard. I suspect if we can work out the correct moves, the door will open." He winced as the fire roared up briefly almost directly in his left ear.

"Oh, I can open the door," Illya said casually.

Napoleon stared at him. "So is there any particular reason we're still here?"

"I was hoping the threat of being trapped might be enough to jog your memory with regards to what you did to that poor girl," Illya explained. Flames raged at both sides of him and he turned aside smartly.

"Uh huh," Napoleon nodded. "Well, that poor girl is trying to roast us alive right now, so if you don't mind, tovarisch, I would like to get out of here a bit sharpish."

Illya actually seemed to consider for a moment before nodding, and reaching for the pipe at the back of the gas range. "Very well. Pass me the pressure cooker out of that cupboard, will you?"

Ah. So this wasn't so much a solution to a puzzle as a controlled explosion. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers, and he'd never really been one for hanging around kitchens at parties. He watched as Illya quickly put something together with the pressure cooker, the gas supply, and a line of baking powder and he already knew the moment to take shelter and cover his eyes.

The door blew outwards dramatically and this, at least, appeared to have lightened Illya's mood somewhat.

"Any chance we can use that to get out altogether?" he asked hopefully.

"No," Illya said, shaking his head regretfully, replacing the pipe and following him to the door. "There is too much chance of the explosion getting out of hand if I let the gas run too long."

Unfortunate but logical.

They walked out into a hallway with seemingly all the doors closed off with those metal shutters. It led up and round the corner. "I guess we're supposed to go this way."

"Good," Illya said. "Let's try not to take too long."

"Right," Napoleon said. "We wouldn't want you to be late for your date."

"At least my date is unlikely to kidnap me if I am late," Illya said sharply.

He sighed. "Honestly, I don't know who this woman is," he said plaintively.

He didn't, but at the same time he was wondering whether he did know her after all. He'd never completely forgotten anyone he'd slept with before, and certainly he tended to remember any THRUSH agents he slept with, but even he had to admit, this all sounded more like him than like Illya. Maybe she'd dyed her hair? Or maybe the portrait was painted to be especially flattering? But there wasn't anything about her that was even the least bit familiar. A name would really help right now.

Had he had any head injuries lately that might have triggered some very specific amnesia? Heh. If he had, he couldn't remember...

"And this must be the way forwards," Illya said, his hand poised over the only available door.

Napoleon frowned. "Can you smell bleach?" he asked.

The smell grew stronger as Illya pushed the door open and they saw the room sized swimming pool lying beyond. There was a narrow ledge on this side and a similar set up on the far side with another ledge and another door, but there was no way around to reach it. "Is that swimming pool full of bleach?" he asked incredulously.

"That will truly ruin your suit," Illya said gravely.

"And my skin," he agreed. Ah. There was something off to the side... They walked into the room to get a closer look and the door promptly slammed shut behind them, covered with another one of those annoying shutters. Terrific.

There was a large red button set into the wall. And just beneath it was yet another tape recorder which promptly clicked into life.

"You're doing very well, darling. Not bored yet, I hope? I know how short your attention span can be. You might be wondering why your partner is here as well. Since you made it clear last time that he was more important to you than me, I thought it only fair that you both get a chance to share in the hurt together. Maybe that will finally teach you a lesson."

Alright. Really, this was sounding more and more like him, he couldn't deny it. And yet "I really don't remember her," he said.

Illya looked at him. "Maybe you might want to avoid telling her that?" he suggested. "I doubt she would take it well."

Good point. "Okay," he said briskly, and in the interests of experimentation, he reached out and pressed the button, snatching his hand away immediately as a sharp jolt of electricity snapped across his hand. "Ow," he complained.

Illya examined his hand for a second, and it hadn't been bad enough to leave any marks; it was simply an extremely unpleasant stinging sensation. "There is another button on the other side," Illya said, pointing across the pool. "I suspect that they need to both be pressed at once to avoid electric shocks and open the door. I suppose this is why she picked this point to mention me."

"And how are we going to get across to the other side?" he asked unhappily. "Because I don't think going through that bleach is altogether healthy."

"There," Illya said, pointing up, and he glanced at the ceiling to see a series of bars, ropes and wires that stretched all the way across the pool.

"That looks rather more your speed than mine," he said, frowning slightly. Some of them looked rather far apart for his liking. "Can you do it?"

Illya gave him a flat look. "Of course," he said, already removing his socks and shoes, sensibilities seemingly mildly offended. "Although it would help if I could borrow your tie."

Silently, he passed it over and watched without saying a word as Illya pulled out his pocket knife and cut it in two before binding it quickly round his palms. "You know," he said though when Illya was finished. "'Borrow' generally implies the intent to return."

"I never said I was not going to give it back," Illya told him. "Now..." He looked with a clinical eye at the first bar above his head.

This was all too easy. "Wait..." he said, and he jumped up himself and touched it lightly. The electric shock had him wringing his hand.

"That is electrified too?" Illya asked. "Oh. Wait..."

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Illya stepped towards the button and pressed it while Napoleon leapt up and touched the bar again. This time, there was nothing. This time, all the electricity was going into Illya.

"Clever," Illya admitted grudgingly, stepping away, shaking his hand lightly.

"Very," he said. He sighed, staring up at the bar ruefully. "I don't suppose you could do it while being shocked?"

"Of course," Illya said with the same intonation as before.

His lips quirked. "I bet you could as well." But that wasn't an option here. Certainly, it wasn't an option Napoleon was willing to entertain. He sighed again. "Olga in the Slavic languages translation department?"

Illya raised an eyebrow. "You do know that the things she calls me are not terms of endearment, right?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But I also happen to know she has a soft spot for you."

"One that she keeps very well hidden," Illya returned. He looked at the button unhappily. "It is no one in UNCLE."

"Ah." Napoleon brightened. "A clue at last."

"I don't know why this matters to you," Illya said. He rubbed his hands together and looked up. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Napoleon agreed, his hand hovering over the button. "Try and move quickly, won't you?"

Illya nodded and jumped for the bar and at the same moment, Napoleon slammed his hand down on the button.

The pain was sharp but not unbearable, and at least in watching Illya swing and climb his way across, he at least had something to take his mind off it. "No showing off," he complained as Illya swung right the way round one particular bar, ending with a straight handstand.

"Believe me, this is not as easy as I am making it look," Illya grunted back, pushing himself higher still, practically balanced on his fingers, his foot outstretched to hook around a rope that was just a little too high and too far.

He didn't really have any doubt of that, and he held his breath as Illya let himself fall forwards, all his body weight very briefly hanging from the one bare foot he had tangled in the rope before he swung back up and grasped it, climbing down, monkey-like, before grabbing onto the next bar.

"Not bad," he managed to say, his other hand clenched tight against the pain. "But I'm going to need to deduct points for style."

"You would not recognise style if it jumped up, performed a backwards somersault and slapped you in the face," Illya rejoined, sprinting across a set of bars before lightly jumping down onto the ledge at the far side.

With a sigh of relief, Napoleon took his hand away from the button. "Alright," he called. "8.5. And that's my final offer."

"You are never satisfied," Illya said deadpan. "On three?"

"On three," he agreed. "One..two...three."

They both pressed their respective buttons at the same time and immediately a metal cover swung out, covering the pool, and the door at Illya's side swung open.

Illya was already looking through before Napoleon had managed to catch up, stopping only to grab Illya's shoes and socks. "A library?" he asked, puzzled. "Who keeps a library with a swimming pool?"

Napoleon stared at him. "Out of everything we've seen so far in this house, that's the architectural faux pas that has you worried?"

"I assume all the traps and puzzles are THRUSH additions," Illya explained, pulling his shoes back on. "The library and the swimming pool are presumably original features."

"Whatever you say..." He shook his head and wandered out into the library. It didn't really deserve the name; it was more of a reading nook, perhaps. A dozen or so book shelves, a desk, and a set of spiral stairs leading up and out of it...and next to them a large board with all the numbers from one to a hundred assigned to their own button. It looked like something someone had stolen out of an elevator.

More puzzles. Of course.

"I thought you would enjoy this room," their captors voice purred out of the ever-present tape recorder. "Books have a way of making a man feel clever, don't they? I remember the poetry you recited to me.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectively is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart."

She sighed. "Oh, darling, even remembering your voice makes me come over all tingly. Such a pity you had to try and be clever. Well, here is the perfect moment to prove how clever you are."

"Do you think there is any point in trying the stairs?" Illya asked.

Napoleon shrugged and picked a book off the shelves at random and threw it onto the third step. Immediately a series of whirring blades span out of the walls and ceiling, at just the right heights to cut anyone trying to climb the stairs into bite sized chunks. "That would be a no," he said.

"So we must have to put in the right sequence," Illya said, stepping forwards towards the numbers board with a frown. He shrugged and pressed 1, 1, 2, 3, 5...

Napoleon just managed to pull him out of the way before a saw blade tore through where his head had just been. "You want to not try pressing buttons at random?" he demanded.

Illya looked at him sulkily. "It was the Fibonacci sequence," he explained.

Right. Napoleon stared. "And what in the world made you think the Fibonacci sequence would be the right answer here?"

"It's always the Fibonacci sequence," Illya said grouchily.

"Apparently not this time," Napoleon pointed out. He sighed. "There has to be a clue in what she said. She's been leaving clues all along. 'Share the hurt' ,'Reality's harsh burn'...there has to be something there." He thought for a moment, brow furrowed. Oh. He wondered... Apprehensively, he stepped forwards, ready to leap back at a moments notice, and pressed 1, 1, and 3. Nothing happened.

Illya grabbed another book and threw it at the stairs. Again, nothing.

He smiled in relief. "I guess that's it."

"What was it?" Illya asked.

"She quoted a Shakespeare sonnet," he explained, pleased to have been the one to figure it out. "The code was the sonnet number."

Illya shook his head. "You do date an interesting kind of woman. Shall we?"

They did, taking their time on the stairs and checking for any additional traps. "That girl who rescued you in Oklahoma last month," he suggested. "The musical, I mean, not the state."

"Lena Morrisey," Illya supplied. "And I spent most of that affair trying to dodge her affections, remember? What makes you think that I would later succumb to them?"

Nothing in particular. It had been something of a long shot.

They found themselves in what had maybe been a ballroom or something at some point. It was two storeys high, and there was a mezzanine with the only other door on the far side. There were no stairs leading up to it, but there were a series of four blocks cut out in the floor that looked like they might just raise up. There was also a monitor with yet another board with buttons attached, these ones labelled A through D. Rather more pressingly, in Napoleon's mind, there was a glass tank filled with long ants with snapping, dripping mandibles and sharp, cruel pincers. He recognised them immediately.

"Bullet ants," he told Illya with a shudder of memory. "They're used as a method of torture in certain parts of central America. They have a bite that hurts worse than a bullet."

"Lets hope they stay in the tank then," Illya said, his voice not containing any noticeable trace of

hope.

"Oh, darling, you're so close now," the voice suddenly started, coming out of the tape recorder on top of the monitor. "Do you know, I believe I am looking forward to seeing you. Just think, you've gone through all this hardship just to see me again. It makes a girl simply swoon. There is only a little more for you to get through now. A few questions to test you. I wanted to remind you that whatever you might think; I'm not easy."

The monitor flickered into life, white writing appearing on the black screen. "Q1/30: Name the world's largest desert. A: Kalahari, B: Sahara, C: Antarctica, D: Arabian."

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate multiple choice exams?" he asked.

"Deal with it," Illya advised. "Oh, and the answer is C."

He gave his partner a look. "I know," he said, pressing the right button. There was a shuddering sound, and the four platforms raised themselves a couple of centimetres. He cast his eye up to the mezzanine. "Oh, this could take a while..."

It did. In fact, by the time they got to question 29/30 (In which war was the Battle of Agincourt), the platforms were still only about halfway up. Either this puzzle was simply broken, or there was something they were missing. "Last question," he said grimly, as it flickered up on screen.

Oh. Oh, that wasn't fair.

"Q30/30; Darling? What is my favourite colour? A) Scarlet. B) Black. C) Fuchsia. D) Blue."

Illya looked at him. "I don't suppose - "

" - I don't remember meeting her, but you think I might remember her favourite colour?" he asked incredulously. "I don't even know your favourite colour."

"Of course you do," Illya told him. "It's - "

" - black isn't a colour," he said. "It's a lack of colour."

"True," Illya said. "But in this context, it would count as a colour. I don't think we can dismiss it as an option on that basis."

Probably true. "She sounds like she'd like red," he suggested. "I can picture a voice like that in a scarlet dress."

"But she was wearing a sapphire necklace in the portrait downstairs," Illya reminded him.

Napoleon looked at him. "All that on display and you were focused on the jewellery? How did you even get a date tonight again?"

"I am not going to dignify that with an answer," Illya told him. "So it comes down to red or blue?"

"Let's face it, we have a one in four chance here," Napoleon said. "Oh, is it Katie from the coffee shop? The one who always gives you free pastries?"

Illya sighed. "Why are you so convinced it's someone you know?"

"Because if it wasn't you wouldn't be putting so much effort into not telling me," he explained matter-of-factly. Unless... He stared. "Is it someone famous?" he suggested. "Catherine Deneuve?"

"Now you are really letting your imagination run away with you," Illya told him. "Pick a colour."

Blue. He liked Illya's thinking on this one.

Immediately, there was a harsh buzzing and the monitor went dead. That would be the wrong answer then, he guessed. He looked at Illya. "I blame you," he said, as the lid of the tank slid slowly open and the ants surged up.

"There must be a mechanism that connects the board to the platforms," Illya said, crouching down in front of the board and using his penknife to prise a panel off. "Perhaps I can trick it into believing you input the right answer."

"Okay," Napoleon said conversationally, watching the first few ants creep over the lid of the tank and start to crawl down towards the floor. "If you need me, I'll be standing on a table screaming with my skirt hiked up around my ankles."

"What an unappealing picture," Illya said, not looking up.

Contrary to his words, Napoleon stepped forwards, in between where Illya was working and the ants, and as the first few reached the floor, he stamped on them viciously. He wouldn't be able to get them all, but maybe he could hold them off long enough for Illya to finish. "Hurry it up," he called.

"Almost there," Illya told him.

He leapt sideways to crush a lone ant that was apparently trying to flank them, but there was too many of them now, the ground was dark and seething "Ah!" He gritted his teeth and just about managed to stay standing as one managed to crawl up his pants leg and buried its pincers into his calf.

He heard Illya cry out in pain as well, but then a second later "There!"

The four platforms juddered up until they had formed what could, at a pinch, be called a set of stairs. "Come on!" he said, grabbing Illya's arm and dragging him towards safety. The top of each platform was at shoulder height and they had to pull themselves up one at a time, but at least they were tall enough that it would likely take the ants a while to climb it.

"You're right," Illya said, when they were at the top and safely through the door, rubbing his arm in obvious pain. "That was more painful than a bullet."

Napoleon nodded, busy inspecting each of them for any stray ants that might be clinging on to them. "I think we're good," he said at last, and he turned to see exactly where they were. A long hallway leading up towards a single door. Huh. This had an ominous feeling about it. "Think we're coming to the end?" he asked.

Illya had already drawn his gun in readiness.

He nodded. "Alright then. Let's go."

To his faint surprise, the door opened at a single touch, and they walked out into a large, opulently decorated bedroom. He couldn't help but notice that most of the furnishings were in a vivid shade of pink. He glanced at Illya significantly. "Fuchsia," he hissed.

"With her hair?" Illya grimaced. "A poor choice."

There was a throne-like armchair in front of a roaring fire and he could just make out a mane of curly red hair before she stood up and turned around, a revolver clasped loosely in her hand. "So here you are at last, darling," she said. "I was beginning to...wait." She frowned, and stood there staring between the two of them. "You're not Jim."

They exchanged a quick, incredulous look. "Ah, no," he agreed. "I'm not. My name is Napoleon Solo and this is my partner - "

" - I don't care!" she cried sharply, stamping her foot in anger. "I was expecting Jim. Where is he?"

"Jim who?" he asked carefully.

"Jim Danvers," she said impatiently, as though she thought he was particularly stupid. "My love...my nemesis. I laid this trap especially for him, and I made sure my coded threat was bad enough that UNCLE would be certain to send their very best."

"Jim Danvers," he repeated trying not to sound too disbelieving. Jim was a junior Section II agent – a skilled agent, but hardly someone Napoleon would expect to provoke this kind of reaction. "Well, I'm afraid Jim was unavailable today so you'll have to make do with us."

He did his best to keep the smugness off his face. So none of this was his fault after all. He'd known he hadn't slept with her. Well, he'd been at least ninety percent certain, anyway.

"Am I the only one in this organisation not sleeping with the enemy?" Illya demanded disgustedly.

Napoleon glanced at him. "Well, at least I know your date tonight isn't with Angelique," he said.

"Please," Illya said, rolling his eyes. "Credit me with more taste than you. Or Jim."

He took quite a lot of exception to that remark.

"Quiet!" she screamed, stamping her foot again. "You've ruined everything. I've already lost so much...I was going to make Jim pay, and then we were going to run away together. Why are you so - "

Illya shot her. "That's quite enough of that," he said severely.

Napoleon stared.

"Sleep darts," Illya explained laconically, catching the look.

That was a relief.

"I want to make sure she lives long enough to sit down in a room with Mr Danvers," he added contemplatively.

"Sometimes I think you're just cruel for cruelty's sake," Napoleon said with a wince.

"It is now quarter after seven," Illya said. "It will take us at least two hours to get back to New York, and this has all been a colossal waste of time."

"Agreed," he said with a sigh. Then he turned and waited expectantly. "Don't you have something to say?"

"Something like what?" Illya asked, eyebrow raised.

"Maybe an apology?" Napoleon prompted. "For doubting me?"

"Please," Illya said with a snort. "An apology would only be due if you can honestly tell me you wouldn't have seduced her, given half the chance."

She really was very beautiful...

"That's what I thought," Illya said. "Come on. Perhaps if the traffic is in our favour, I may yet be able to make my date."

"You know," he said as they drove back into the city, ignoring, as they had been for the last ten miles, the angry muttering coming from the back seat. "I could drop you off and take La Belle Dame back to headquarters by myself."

Illya looked at him doubtfully. "And what would the price tag be for such consideration?" he asked.

Napoleon smiled easily. "You writing my report on this affair?" he suggested. "Tomorrow, of course."

"Hmmm." All too clearly, Illya wasn't fooled. "You want to see where it is I ask you to drop me off, right? Very cute. Anyone would think you were some sort of spy."

"Would you rather I know where, and possibly who your date is?" Napoleon asked. "Or would you rather miss it altogether."

Illya sighed resignedly. "Very well," he said. "Drop me at the stage door of the New York State Theatre."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really," Illya said firmly.

"Alright. But now my curiosity is really piqued," Napoleon said.

He pulled up by the kerb. "Thank you," Illya said as he got out, and Napoleon watched with interest as he walked towards a tall woman in a trench coat, waiting by the door. She stepped forwards when she saw Illya, leaning forwards gracefully to kiss him, and just for a moment, her face was clearly illuminated in the streetlight.

Huh. Napoleon turned and glanced at the large billboard advertising the Bolshoi Ballet tour. Now that was a very familiar looking face. He smiled. Brilliantly. This had to be worth a certain amount of teasing.

"So," he said, looking cheerfully into the back seat. "Just you and me."

She huffed crossly at him and said nothing.

He'd deliver her for debriefing and then, maybe, if Louisa was still on duty, he'd take her out for a late supper. The Twilight Piano Bar could be just what he needed right now.

"Say," the redhead began suddenly, leaning forwards as far as the cuffs allowed, and eyeing him thoughtfully. "You know, you are pretty cute. And you did get through my traps. How would you like to be my new nemesis?"

He grinned to himself. "Sorry," he said as he drove off. "I have enough nemeses to be going on with."