Chapter Text
He’s not sure why he wakes up again, but he opens his eyes and Gaby is there, sitting at his bedside with puffy eyes.
The next time he wakes up, Illya is there too. They have matching looks of exhaustion, dark circles under their eyes and their hair a rumpled mess. Napoleon watches Illya rub Gaby’s arms softly, trying to keep her warm, neither of them notice Napoleon.
Each time he wakes, his body quickly pulls him back under, and each time, he manages to stay conscious a little longer than the last. When he finally has enough strength to ask questions, they tell him what happened.
The ambulance had, miraculously, arrived in time to bring him back to life, and Waverly’s people got to him in the hospital before their enemy did. Je was transferred immediately to an UNCLE affiliated facility. Illya had tried to save Gaby only to find she was already on her way back, her captors incapacitated with improvised explosives. They’d returned to find Napoleon missing, and Illya had almost destroyed the remainder of the apartment before Gaby calmed him down with reminders that the ambulance may have just taken him away.
Napoleon listens to it all silently, making sure to deliver the right commentary and make the correct expressions at the appropriate times. He cracks jokes about his miraculous survival, and enjoys seeing the guilt and anxiety in Gaby and Illya's bodies disappear little by little.
Illya, looking as though someone had broken his favorite toy, leans in and places a gentle kiss on Gaby’s forehead. It's as though he wants comfort, or affection, and only knows one place where he can find it. Napoleon watches, numb.
Later, he might blame the blood loss, or the drugs being pumped through his veins, for the words that escape his lips.
“Don’t I get a kiss?”
Illya scowls at him, and Napoleon just pouts sadly, with the best puppy eyes he can muster, in the hope that Illya will take pity. He wants it, has wanted it for so long he barely remembers a time when he doesn't. He tries, but he knows better than to expect his words to be taken as anything other than a joke.
Then, Illya reaches one arm toward Napoleon. His long fingers brush against Napoleon's hair, his eyes intent, and Napoleon lies there, eyes wide like a startled cat.
Gaby’s giggles snap them both out of the moment, and Illya withdraws his hand, self-conscious. Napoleon blinks, his mouth dry.
“That was not a kiss,” he says, when he finds his words again.
Illya levels a look at him that says ‘don’t push your luck’. Gaby is smiling.
“I would rather kiss horse,” Illya deadpans, grabbing Gaby’s fingers and holding it between his hands.
Illya’s jibe is no worse than their usual brand of banter. Napoleon shouldn’t be upset, but Illya’s words dig into his chest like knives. He blinks, stares at the wall for a moment because he can’t trust himself to look at Illya. When he turns back, Illya and Gaby both look alarmed.
Napoleon curses himself for allowing his mask to slip. But now both his friends have noticed, he’s not allowed to pretend anymore.
“That hurts, Peril,” he admits with soft eyes and a smile.
Guilt flickers across Illya’s expression, and the same feeling twists in Napoleon’s gut with the knowledge that he is the cause. It’s just the exhaustion, Napoleon thinks, and the cocktail of drugs currently in his system. He’ll be better in a few weeks, back to full form. Illya shouldn’t be the guilty one. This won’t happen again.
Gaby, frowning, releases a soft sigh and leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Napoleon’s heart warms, and he clings to her action to save the situation. His eyes are bright when he turns toward Illya with a twist of mischief to his lips. The gentleman thief, victorious yet again.
Their eyes meet, and the familiar urges push forward, clamoring for Illya to never look away, to take his hand and hold onto it like he does Gaby’s, to come a bit closer. Napoleon ignores it with practiced bravado. Illya sees his reaction, and relaxes, just like Napoleon wants him to. Napoleon’s smile turns genuine then.
He wants to stare at Illya a little longer, but Gaby is there too so he looks at her, and he takes in the redness in her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks. This is his friend, Napoleon thinks, beautiful, strong Gaby with her cunning ways and her caring heart.
Illya made a good choice. Napoleon would die for either one of them any day.
Napoleon is a thief, but he is also an actor, one who sheds disguises and personalities with well-practiced ease. He’s a good enough liar to convince blushing socialites and shrewd widows into believing he’s in love, and he has the perfect masks to sell the lie when he needs to convince people of the opposite. Wisdom says that all the world’s a stage, and Napoleon embodies the phrase in everything he does and says. From his costuming to his lines, everything is perfectly timed and delivered to depict the man others expect him to be.
He’s used to it now, turning the knife inwards instead of allowing any scars to mar a perfect countenance. Carving thoughts into bone, patterns drawn of words unsaid and needs unspoken. Every morning he loops his love around his neck, and tames it as delicately as he would a silken tie, so it does not become a noose that chokes him in the night. The weight of it is a familiar comfort, just another part of him so expected it is forgotten, like a cyanide pill, waiting at the back of his throat, ready and waiting whether it’s needed or not.
“Get some rest,” they say. “We’ll come visit you tomorrow.”
Napoleon is left alone again. Absence is a small, temporary relief. He closes his eyes and prays for dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow, the show goes on.