Although he'd be hard pressed to admit it, Napoleon Solo didn't hate this aspect of his job. He watched the milling crowd with a practiced eye. While he stayed alert, watching for their courier, he wasn't about to ignore the more-pleasant aspects of the Embassy Ball either.

He watched the ladies in their gowns appreciatively, smiling when one of them happened to cast an eye in his direction. He sipped excellent French champagne and sampled tasty hors d'oeuvres. He danced, made small talk and laughed frequently—this was his idea of Heaven, at least for a little while. If he'd had to survive on a steady diet of this, he imagined he'd become as blas about it as the staff was.

And all the while he scanned the room, his attention always came drifting back to his partner. The Russian was not exceptionally happy with events like this. It wasn't that Illya didn't enjoy a good party, he did, but he preferred them a little less structured and without a monkey suit. That's because he has no idea how good he looks in one, Napoleon thought as he lifted his glass to his partner. Illya grimaced and nodded, obviously distressed by the lateness of the courier...or was there something else?

Napoleon had detected a small change in Illya lately. Nothing he could put his finger on, not really. In the last few weeks, Napoleon had noticed Illya standing just a shade closer to him, studying him surreptitiously when he didn't think Napoleon was watching. At first, Napoleon just chalked it up to a close call in England, but now he wasn't sure. It was if the Russian was studying him in preparation for something, gauging him for something.

And Napoleon wouldn't deny that he'd been doing his own looking as of late. He'd always thought of his partner as a capable and resourceful agent, but lately Napoleon was discovering other aspects of Illya's personality that he found, if nothing more and not to put too fine a point on it, attractive.

Not that Napoleon was inclined that way, well, not as a rule. He loved women, he really did. He loved the way they felt in his arms, their softness, the sounds they made when he made love to them, but lately, Napoleon had found his mind wandering at possibly the worst times. Climaxing, he'd suddenly become aware of another image flashing before his eyes, a different person, a certain...blond, and what it would be like to...

Napoleon shook his head to clear the image now. He knew that Illya was fairly casual when it came to sex. When he got an itch, he scratched. Granted, that wasn't often, but Napoleon had seen evidence in the locker room and shower after such events. That coupled with Kuryakin's languidness afterwards was fuel to Napoleon's fire. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of partner the Russian took to his bed.

But no matter how intrigued he was, he wasn't being sent any signals, at least not of that kind. Sure, he would admit to an occasional 'accidental' grope when the two were forced to share a single bed, but he'd not gotten anything more than a forget about it from Illya.

So he sipped his champagne, thought his naughty thoughts and flirted like an insane person with any woman who would lock eyes with him. He was startled when he felt someone touch his arm. How Illya had gotten across the room to his side in so short a time was beyond Napoleon. He was always amazed at how fast the Russian could move.

"Something?"

"THRUSH is here." Illya spoke softly, just loud enough for Napoleon to hear.

"Where?"

"Directly over my shoulder. The swarthy gentleman with the scar running down his face."

"Hmm, I don't recognize him." Napoleon immediately began running through dossiers in his head, matching faces and names of known THRUSH agents.

"He's not likely to have forgotten me. I put that scar there, Napoleon. If he sees me, it's game over."

"So you exit graciously stage left and I'll rendezvous with the courier." Napoleon smiled and lifted his glass to someone over Illya's shoulder.

"And thereby hangs the rub. I was briefed, you weren't."

It was true. Napoleon was merely along as backup on this mission, one of Waverly's steps to pushing Illya further along in his eventual assumption of top Section 2 duties. Napoleon didn't like to think about the day that he'd have to step down as CEO, but at least he knew he'd be leaving it in good hands.

"So, let's find a quiet spot and you can bring me up to speed." Napoleon glanced around the room and nodded. "There's a likely spot off that way. I'll meet you there in ten."

Illya followed Solo's gaze and nodded once, sharply, before sliding back into the horde of milling bodies. Once Napoleon was satisfied that his partner was unobserved, he began to make his way across the floor.

Abruptly, the dark-haired man was before him, the scar on his face blazing like a fire-kissed morning sun. "The Russian, do you know him?"

"Who?"

"The little shit you were just talking to."

"No, can't say that I do," Napoleon lied smoothly. "Just wanted to know if I knew where the Gents was." The man took another step forward and Napoleon retreated one back to keep the distance between them. "I just gave him directions, that's all, my friend."

"Tell me."

The man's hostility rolled off him in waves and Napoleon pointed towards distant hallway. "Down that hall and turn left. It's a bit isolated, so you'll have to walk fast if you want to catch up with him."

Immediately, the man was away and Napoleon moved in the opposite direction, anxious to meet back up with his partner. As expected, Illya was waiting, watching the crowd.

"Trouble?"

"Your friend was looking for you."

"I was afraid of that. I'll talk fast. The courier will be looking for a Black Russian. The code phrase is Captain America. Just take the package back to HQ. Drummonds is expecting it."

"Black Russian, Captain America, got it."

"Shit," Illya cursed. He grabbed Napoleon by the shoulders and maneuvered him around. "He's coming this way. Kiss me."

"What?" Napoleon tried to glance over his shoulder, but Illya grabbed his chin.

"Kiss me...like you mean it."

Hell, yes, I'll mean it, Napoleon thought, clamping onto that mouth he'd watched and admittedly fantasized about for a long time. He had no trouble pulling the man into his arms and ravishing those lips, sliding his tongue into a warm and welcoming abyss.

"Perverts," Napoleon heard a voice nearby grind out, but he didn't really care much. He'd been wanting this a long time, so much so that the next moment came as a complete shock to him. Suddenly he was shoved away, his mouth still gaping from the kiss.

"Napoleon, what the hell are you playing at?" Illya wiped his mouth, his blue eyes sparking with anger. "No, don't answer that!"

"I thought..."

"I know what you thought," Illya snapped and put even more distance between them.

"I'm sorry...mixed signals," Napoleon muttered. Really, really mixed signals apparently, he thought.

"Apparently so." Illya's features relaxed. "The courier should be here any moment. Go!"

Escape seemed the better part of valor now and Napoleon slipped back into the party crowd, his eyes searching for someone with 'that' look about them. Had he paused a moment longer, he'd have seen the swarthy man approach his partner and, with a grimace, peel the fake scar from his face and hand it back to the Russian. Illya in turn, clapped the man on the shoulder, shoved the appliance into his pocket, and whistling softly, and left the party through a rear entrance. Step Two was complete...