When Napoleon entered the science lab, Illya Kuryakin - his newly assigned partner and latest U.N.C.L.E. recruit - was in the process of being introduced to Field Agent Saunders' gun. And a thorough introduction it was.

"You see how sensitive the trigger is, Illya? The lightest touch and it goes off." Saunders - a large but fairly clumsy man with a shock of mouse-brown hair - was hovering well inside the boundaries of the Russian's personal space. "And that slim body!" he gushed, stroking the gun obscenely while looking at the other man from the corner of his beady eye. "It gets quite hot when you fire it, but boy, does it do the job." A large hand landed on Kuryakin's kneecap.

Napoleon, who was known to be the very picture of calm composition, saw red. "Get the hell away from him, Saunders." He lunged for the gun, throwing it into the nearest corner and doing his best to send Saunders off to join it.

A knock-down drag-out fight ensued with the two agents going through the motions of attempting mutual strangulation, mangulation and suffocation in quick succession. At first, Saunders seemed to have the upper hand on account of sheer bulk, but once Napoleon got going, the fight's dynamics quickly changed. It wasn't long before he wound up crouched over Saunders limp body, the tip of one polished shoe dangerously close to the man's crotch and a fist holding tightly onto a scrunched up shirt collar.

Saunders looked seriously concerned, as one would in the circumstances. His air supply was dwindling rapidly, and he was weighing up whether pointing this out might not worsen his situation. Angering Solo further didn't seem advisable.

"He's spoken for." Napoleon hissed it into the man's face, before releasing Saunders from his hold long enough to allow him to get up. One more dark look, and the man beat a hasty path out of the lab.

Illya had been watching the entire scene with mounting fascination. By the time he had decided to point out to Napoleon that killing a fellow agent was probably not considered good form, his new partner had let go of Saunders and was left standing hunched over, breathing heavily and holding his side. Illya approached him carefully.

"I am?" he asked.

Solo looked at him in confusion. Then, he collapsed on the ground, the kick in his kidneys finally making itself felt. He lay flat on his back, panting.

Illya knelt by his side and began to feel for any permanent damage. Apparently, Solo was alright, just a little bruised. Inside and out. "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Napoleon?"

"Such as?" Napoleon was breathing heavily. He realized there was little point in trying to dodge an explanation.

Illya smiled at him. "Such as - who spoke?"

For a moment, Solo was worried. "You heard that?" When Illya nodded, he struggled. "Well, we're partners, Illya. And as such, it's my duty to protect you from unwanted advan..."

Illya interrupted calmly. "Who spoke, Napoleon?"

Only then did it dawn on Napoleon that Illya was smiling. "That would be me," he admitted, grinning back. And before he had even managed to lift his sore arm to reach for Illya, his supposedly icy new partner was upon him, ignoring the muffled gasp of pain in favour of kissing Napoleon's breath away.