Chapter Text
He doesn't know when he started to go soft on Napoleon, but Illya is posing for him now, his hand loosely wrapped around another one of his novels about the place. To be fair, Illya wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. The bastard had happily asked him in the middle of sliding his lips down his cock, and Illya wasn't thinking, yes, but how could you blame him?
"I must say, Peril, that if I'd knew that sex was how you'd be persuaded to sit for me, I'd have done that a hell of a lot sooner." Napoleon is balancing his sketchbook on his legs, the muscle in his thighs clearly defined. He lets himself look, this time, remembering their grip on his waist and how they were slick with sweat—
"Really," Illya rolls his eyes, careful not to tilt the angle of his head. "I thought it was because you had no balls."
For a moment, Napoleon stops drawing to look up at him, contemplative. "I'm pretty sure you've seen them, Peril. Just now, rather."
Illya gives him a look, and Napoleon winks at him, gleeful. It's tempting to lean in and press his mouth to his neck, to pull him onto his lap and slide his hands up the sides of his thighs.
Napoleon seems to catch what he is thinking, and drops both his pencil and his sketchbook to the floor. He takes the book from his hands and leaves it on the nightstand, swinging a leg over Illya's hips to straddle him. His hands automatically move forwards to steady him, and Napoleon grins, running a finger to the scar on his face.
"Cowboy," he says, allowing himself to watch the curve of his lips, resting his thumb over them. Napoleon looks up at him, eyes half-lidded, and takes it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it.
Illya curses. "You're impossible," he gently removes his thumb, pulling Napoleon in to kiss him, feeling the the ridges of his teeth and thinking that he still wants more.
When they finally break apart, Napoleon rests his forehead against Illya's and smooths his hands over his back. "You were right. I was scared. I knew, but I didn't do anything about it."
"Why?"
Napoleon shrugs. He looks at him like he did in Istanbul, in New York, in Moscow, and Illya wants to ask himself, what have you been doing without him, all this time?
"Cowboy," Illya says, and kisses him, thinking all the while of finally being able to lose control.
***
When Gaby finally comes for dinner, Napoleon is back to his high spirits. Illya doesn't miss the raised eyebrow that she directs his way when she sees the rather deep bruises all along his jaw.
As of his usual fashion, Napoleon charges on, pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary.
"You're an incredible sight for sore eyes, Gaby," and pours her enough alcohol to drown five horses in.
She tilts her head at him and squints, smirking. "Are you sure that your eyes are the ones that are sore?"
Napoleon fixes her a surprised look, but no one is fooled. He turns his head away to raise an eyebrow at Illya, only to look back at Gaby.
"You are relentless, really." Gaby grins at him, and Napoleon downs his drink in one go, turning to head back to the kitchen. He slaps Illya's ass on his way, but he thinks he'll let that slide. Illya will reciprocate later.
He turns his attention back to Gaby, who is already halfway through her glass. "You look like the cat that ate three canaries," she says, and Illya takes that to mean that he's being smug.
"I think I'd be happier if the canary was better at cleaning his own house," he looks around, despairing at the amount of jackets and socks he sees in a glance.
Napoleon pouts at him from the kitchen, and Illya squints his eyes at him, mocking.
"Peril. Didn't you say that I looked much better with your clothes off?"
Illya spots Gaby rolling her eyes and pouring more scotch into her glass. "I changed mind, Cowboy. You are better with clothes on."
"Is anyone going to remember that I'm still in the room, or do you want to serve me my dinner and talk about fashion on your bed?"
Napoleon grins at him and Gaby audibly sighs in the corner. He thinks that this could be a place that he'll call home, if only to remember the soft affection he's feeling now.
"I'm sure Cowboy would only come out and spread the contents of his entire closet everywhere if we did that," he says, arranging the plates on the table. "Dance around drunk in his underwear, maybe, if you two are planning on getting alcohol poisoning."
Gaby pointedly pours more scotch into her mouth, and Illya chuckles. When he looks back up again, she's standing before him, fingers circling his wrist.
"Do you know what you're doing," she asks, giving him the warmest smile he has ever seen from Gaby.
"I do," he says, sure of it, and helps Napoleon carry the rest of the plates to the table.
***
"Are you ready to go back to U.N.C.L.E.?" Illya asks when Gaby had returned home in a taxi. Napoleon is attempting to pack a bit too many of his suits into one suitcase.
"I think so. It's better than going back to the C.I.A.," he says tightly.
Illya goes over to him, sitting at the edge of the bed. "Do you want to?"
Napoleon shrugs, and touches a few fingers to the scars on his torso, tracing the edges of them like they'd go away, if he did that long enough.
"You'll be there, won't you?"
"Yes," Illya responds, and Napoleon kisses his mouth, lightly.
"Would you come with me if I ran away?"
He freezes, and looks up at him, watching the lines of his face in the dark. Even with the absence of light, he still sees the openness in his eyes, the drop of his guard.
"I would," he says, and it's a promise.
***
When they leave, Illya looks towards the fireplace, and thinks about coming home.