"Did you see him pet his dog?"

"I saw! Isn't he cute?"

Illya rolled his eyes at the two young girls sitting beside him at the crowded airport gate and tried to turn back to the spy novel he had just neglected. After listening to their incessant gossiping for nearly half an hour, he had actually followed their gaze and pointed fingers to the seats two rows down from Illya and the girls.

What he saw made him even more annoyed than the jam-packed airport he was forced to navigate during Christmas. There was Napoleon Solo, the almost infamous son of the award-winning director.

Not that Illya made a habit of learning about bratty troublemaking offspring. But when he was living with his aunt and uncle during his first year in the United States, he was exposed to his cousin's world of movie stars, top 40 hits, magazines and bizarrely, Napoleon Solo. Illya blamed his cousin's obsession on her proximity to Los Angeles.

During his teenage years, the man had started making international gossip headlines for thievery, which Illya guessed shocked the world because his dad was so talented. By the time Illya was able to move into his own shoe box apartment in New York, Napoleon had been caught, started community service and his cousin was lamenting Napoleon's new girlfriends, which he seemed to cycle through every time his dad had a red carpet event.

Now he was just trying to ignore the two preteens as they chatted about Napoleon's dad's latest movie, and how Napoleon might just go into acting himself. He was also trying to overlook the slow burning rage he felt inside when he thought about the pseudo-celebrity. Illya knew he was being irrational but he couldn't help it. Sure he was good looking but Illya despised people who get away with murder because of who their daddy was and basically had everything in life handed to them. His keen eyes had noticed an emotional support vest on the dog. He was willing to bet his meager life savings that it was a fake vest.

Napoleon could hear the voices of the two girls sitting two rows down from him. Their giggles only got louder when he looked up, which was often as he stealthily tried to catch the eye of the man sitting beside them. Unfortunately, the blond never looked up from the novel.

He was used to the stares from the girls and from others walking from security or to the baggage claim. He had made a mockery of his dear dad's fame when the paparazzi caught on to his schemes and it was only the careful intervention of his late mother's parents that stopped Napoleon from losing his trust fund and instead had him paying for his own therapy.

It was the same therapist from those sessions who recommended a private jet when Napoleon flew, which his dad refused during the few times Napoleon saw him during the year, then moved on to recommend an emotional support dog for flights and during university. His dad had finally conceded over a phone call when Napoleon suffered through a panic attack at one of his premiers.

Although Napoleon had named the golden retriever after James Gordon, his mom's favourite comic book character, he was about as tough as a teddy bear. Still, Napoleon was grateful for the solid presence beside him as he tried to distract himself

"Will Napoleon Solo please report to Gate A21?"

A deep sigh left Napoleon's lips. So much for his eye candy and awkward attempts at flirting from across the room. Grabbing James Gordon's leash and his duffel bag, he shuffled up to the desk.

"I'm Napoleon Solo," Napoleon said with his trademark grin. He knew this wasn't about being moved to business class, since he had booked the ticket himself, so he thought maybe there was a problem with his name.

The male attendant turned a critical eye toward him before glaring at his dog.

"Sir, your dog needs to be put in a crate and we can take him to cargo. I don't know why you didn't do this earlier. We are going to start boarding in a few minutes."

Napoleon could almost feel the anxiety creeping up his body.

"What? No…no he's got a vest."

The attendant narrowed his eyes. "Anyone can buy those vests. We have a full flight and your dog needs to go into cargo. If you don't have a crate, we do have a spare."

"No….please I have a doctor's note." Napoleon's bag fell to the ground with a thud and he dropped down to the ground right after, frantically digging and desperately hoping no one around his was taking any shots on their phone. Papers were strewn across the floor as Napoleon hunted deeper in his bag. A sinking feeling filled his stomach as he realized he had left the note in the top pocket of his luggage when he was packing.

"It's…it's in my suitcase but please, he needs to stay with me."

"I'm afraid I can't help you sir."

If the attendant noticed Napoleon's harsh breathing or trembling body, he made no changes in his expression.

"Amanda here will be happy to take your dog."

Napoleon slowly stood, ignoring the mess he made as a female attendant appeared in front of Napoleon, beckoning for the leash from James. Racing thoughts telling him to just say how important he was or how this dog was essential did not help Napoleon speak a single word as his dog was led away, whining.

"You will see him after the flight," said the male attendant, who had turned back to his computer screen.

"We are boarding business so if you give me your ticket and passport, you can get on the plane."

Not wanting to be in the man's presence any longer, Napoleon hastily stuffed before giving the worker his essential documents.

"Have a nice flight."

Napoleon faintly heard the obligatory comment as he raced toward the plane, not wanting to stand on his wobbly legs any longer.

Illya was almost smiling. His habit of boarding the plane last, to avoid all the stalling as people settled in their seats, had paid off. A no-show meant he had been bumped up to business class, with no additional cost. He certainly appreciated the gesture. Illya wasn't a big man but at 6'5" his long limbs and tall stature had been known to annoy some passengers.

His mood soon darkened, however, as soon as he saw who his seat partner was. For once, he put his carry-on in the overhead compartment as slow as he could before he sat down, crossing his arms while the flight attendants did their safety check.

"Do you mind moving your arm so I can have armrest?" Illya's Russian accent grew stronger at his irritation toward Napoleon taking up the large area.

"S-sorry," Napoleon whispered, turning back toward the window to curl up in his seat, arms tucked under his legs.

Illya's eyes widened at the stutter. The man sounded nothing like the suave gentleman he had heard during interviews.

In fact, he looked very different from the paparazzi photographs or even earlier at the airport. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were red rimmed and he looked almost green.

"Are you going to be sick?" Illya asked. He wasn't about to switch seats if Napoleon had motion sickness, but he wanted Napoleon to at least have a bag in front of him.

Napoleon shook his head. "I…I don't know." A hand went up to cover his mouth and Illya could have sworn he heard a whimper as the plane angled upward.

"What's wrong with you?" Illya's aunt always said subtlety wasn't his strong suit.

"Nothing," Napoleon replied, turning his entire face away from Illya.

Illya's own fingers started tapping against the armrest as he joined Napoleon's silence and grew more agitated when he thought about Napoleon rejecting his help.

Another whimper was followed by a short gasp, which made Illya lean forward and grab the paper bag, thrusting it toward Napoleon.

"Take it."

He continued to hold it out until Napoleon turned toward him, shocking Illya with his tear tracks.

"I'm not sick…well not in that way."

Illya nodded, sticking the bag back in the front pocket, but continued to stare at the man he was slowly starting to see as almost cute as he fidgeted in his seat.

"What can I do?"

Napoleon gave a dejected sign, scrunching up his eyes as the plane hit turbulence.

"It's just anxiety. I'll let you enjoy your flight," Napoleon started to turn toward the sun again before Illya grabbed his shoulder.

"Let me help. Do you have medication?" Illya didn't have any experience with anxiety, save the chapter in his psychology textbook. Anger was more his forte. Still, he couldn't just let Napoleon cry silently while he pretended to read a book he wasn't even interested in anymore.

"I took some," Napoleon answered, too panicked to worry about why he was spilling his guts to a stranger.

"Does anything else help?" Illya asked.

"My dog." Napoleon's stomach lurched as he thought of James Gordon in the cargo hold, instead of beside him, head on his lap.

"Where is he?" Illya remembered the golden retriever from when they were seated.

"They put him in a crate. I'm sorry, I have to go the washroom," Napoleon rushed out in one breath, not even checking the seat belt sign as he walked quickly to the front of the plane.

Normally, on solid ground, having someone who looked like Illya sitting beside Napoleon would lead to some charm, a proposition and perhaps future plans.

But all Napoleon could do was grip the sink and try to focus on the breathing techniques he had learned in his therapy session, but he felt like they were buried in the deep crevices in his mind as sobs escaped him.

Someone knocked on the door multiple times, asking him to hurry up.

He had to go back to his seat.

Illya glanced again at his father's watch. It had been ten minutes since Napoleon disappeared and he was just about to get up and check on before the snack cart was beside him, pushed by the man who had been working at the gate.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Illya was ready to shake his head before he thought of Napoleon.

"Could I have a ginger ale for my…" What could Illya even call him? He certainly wasn't a friend but Illya felt a strange pull to protect Napoleon. "Friend…and blanket and pillow?"

The attendant actually scoffed.

"Is that Napoleon Solo you were sitting beside? The spoiled brat?" Illya felt the sudden urge to flip the man over the cart but instead focused on the man's name tag. Alexander Vinciguerra. Illya knew there would be a certain phone call placed to the airline company after he destroyed a few punching bags while he imagined Vinciguerra's face.

"Did you know he wanted to bring his dog on here? Had some stupid vest too. Thankfully my wife caught on to his little plan.

"Be quiet," Illya said through gritted teeth as he saw Napoleon come up behind Vinciguerra.

"We all think he is just a rotten guy who thinks he can get his way. Did you also know his mom died in a plane crash?" And no, Illya could not remember his cousin telling him that, but he felt he understood Napoleon's anxiety a little a better.

"Thought he'd stop flying then and it would just be his dad, who is always great to chat with. Instead, he comes in with his ridiculous dog and ludicrous need for them to sit alone. And I bet he has actually stolen anything from us."

And as Illya looked beyond Vinciguerra so he could try not to visualize hitting him, he saw Napoleon basically crumple into himself, eyes darting as if looking for an exit into the clouds.

But he didn't look surprised, just sad, Illya noted, like he had heard the criticisms before, in various conversations. Illya wondered how many people judged him and his past and suddenly felt ashamed that he was one of those people. Thievery or not, Illya could only admire Napoleon as he stood stock-still, waiting for Vinciguerra to continue.

"Just give me the ginger ale," Illya said, wanting the cart as far away as possible.

"Fine," Vinciguerra said, handing Illya the drink, actually looking disappointed Illya didn't want to gossip.

"I'll get the blanket and pillow for you after I finish."

Finally he moved down the aisle, but Napoleon waited until he entered the economy section before he took his seat next to Illya.

"I'm sorry you heard that," Illya said. He could practically feel Napoleon shivering.

"Nothing new," Napoleon said, confirming Illya's earlier worries. He started fidgeting again as the flight continued.

"I'm not your dog," Illya swallowed, feeling nervous. "I'm not sure how to comfort, but I got you ginger ale." He pointed to the cup, which was now on his tray. "And maybe blanket and pillow."

"Thank you," Napoleon said in a genuine tone. "I know you didn't want to sit near me."

"What?" Napoleon smiled a little as he took the ginger ale from Illya's tray, heart finally slowing down as he distracted himself with the conversation.

"I think I can read looks of disgust um…" Napoleon said. "I didn't get your name."

"It's Illya." The plane suddenly dipped and an announcement to fasten their seat belts came over the intercom. Napoleon was white again, Illya saw with dismay.

"Well Illya," Napoleon swallowed, eyes shut tightly again. "I'm Napoleon."

"I know who you are," Illya said, hoping the conversation could be some distraction.

"That's good," Napoleon continued talking with his eyes closed. "Going to save me from peril?"

His hands were squeezing the metal armrests and Illya could have sworn he heard a crack.

"Take my hand," Illya said.

"What?" Napoleon was now the one who sounded bewildered.

"It hurts less than metal. At least until turbulence stops."

Napoleon looked hesitant until another sharp dip made him reach toward Illya. Both of Illya's hands surrounded Napoleon's shaking ones.

"Why are you helping me?" Napoleon asked.

"You need help," Illya could hear his voice rising as Napoleon looked surprised. "I wasn't going to ignore you."

By the time the blanket and pillow arrived, Napoleon had drifted to sleep, exhausted by earlier events and Illya had settled into a light-hearted western.

Thankfully, it was another attendant who handed the items to Illya quietly. However, Napoleon still stirred.

"What are you watching Peril?" Illya could practically hear Napoleon's smirk at the nickname.

"Western. Here, take blanket."

Napoleon wrapped it around his legs before staring at the screen for a few moments.

"He looks like you," Illya said.

"The cowboy, no way!" Napoleon sounded appalled.

"Yes, cowboy," Illya smiled before he saw the time at the bottom of the screen. "We won't finish movie before landing."

"Maybe we can finish it later?" Napoleon's grin showed no hints of fear this time. "I mean, if you're ever in New York."

"You're lucky I live in the same city as you, Cowboy."