Chapter Text
When Gaby had climbed out of the plane back at the airport with Illya, the look of desperation on his face at wanting to get to Napoleon told her that if she didn’t do anything to help them out, she would have failed them as a friend. And she cares for them a little too much to let that happen. That's when she realised what she's dealing with needed Waverly's divine intervention.
Before she had come to the conclusion that their superior must be let aware of the problem they are facing, she had tried to consider all other options but found herself at a dead end. After having an internal battle with herself, Gaby finally decides she could not wait until morning to let Waverly know.
Skating quickly across her room, she lifts her telephone receiver and starts dialling the number she has memorised by heart. As she waits for Waverly to answer her call, her hesitation returned, knowing the last time she had meddled into Illya and Napoleon’s affair, the outcome had not turned out as favourably as she had hoped it would. But this time, somehow, she feels as if she has no choice. Her decision may seem risky because she is about to disclose something to Waverly that could possibly incriminate both Illya and Napoleon if he decides to report them, but she trusts him enough to be able to want to do this. She trusts him enough because she could not bear watch her boys go through what she had seen earlier again. It is too painful and too draining. All she wants is for everything to turn out all right for them in the end.
“Hello?”
Waverly’s voice fleets through the line and Gaby takes in a deep breath before answering him.
“Alexander, I know this is a bad time for me to call you but I really, really need a huge favour from you. And you know me, I wouldn’t do this if it’s not urgent.”
Waverly blinks repeatedly, still in a daze. He checks the time on the clock next to his bedside and cannot believe when it shows two thirty in the morning.
“Who—who is this?” he asks, his voice still groggy from sleep.
“It’s me, Gabrielle, can’t you tell?” she exclaims in exasperation.
Hearing her agitated voice, Waverly sits up at once against the headboard of his bed. He rubs one hand on his face and presses the receiver harder against his ear. What could possibly have happened for her to call him at that ungodly hour?
“Gaby? Where are you? Are you and Kuryakin in some kind of trouble?”
Gaby rolls her eyes. “No, we’re fine. We arrived hours ago.”
There is a mumbled groan at the other end. “Then you better come up with a really good reason why we’re having this conversation now.”
For a split second, she hesitates again, wonders if she is doing the right thing.
“Gaby? You’re not helping me with this silence. Tell me what the matter is.”
Waverly’s urgent questioning voice sounds sincere enough. Gaby knows there is no point in waiting any longer. She has to let him know.
“Alex, I have an absurd amount of trust in you and I want you to know that I’m taking a huge risk here at what I’m about to tell you but please, let me just explain everything first before you say or ask me anything at all.”
Gaby hears Waverly hum in response as if contemplating his answer. Her heart starts to pound. She hopes she has not overstepped the boundary of their relationship by asking him to hear her out but what he says next soothes her fears.
“All right, Miss Teller, I’m all ears. What is this all about, really?” he asks and by the time Gaby has finished her entire story, all his questions pertaining Napoleon’s queer behaviour in wanting the transfer and his willingness to join the memory suppression program as he had suggested, were answered. He starts to piece everything together and quickly formulates what he has to do next.
“You know, I can offer some assistance, but there’s no guarantee that things will be as they once were.”
“I understand,” Gaby sighs into the phone but his answer is good enough for her and that is all she wants to hear. “Thank you, Alex.”
And later, as she lies on her bed thinking of her conversation with Waverly, Gaby knows it had been the right thing to do.
***
Napoleon had woken up to that dream again, that dream where he found himself lost, walking aimlessly through a glass maze, trying to escape that constricted space, grappling in semi-darkness. And then there was Illya banging on the other side of the maze walls which separated him from Napoleon, trying to tell him something he couldn’t understand. His face was both frantic and sad. And then Napoleon heard himself saying, ‘I’m not them, it’s only Illya’ over and over again.
As he looks at himself in the mirror, Napoleon feels like he is going crazy. He rubs his face vigorously and lets out an agonising groan. What Illya had told him last night has stirred something in him, something that has utterly confused him. And if he is being honest to himself, it has left him downright scared. Because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot get the Russian out of his mind. And the kiss. It had been brief and short, but it was all he could think about after Illya and Gaby had left. The feeling of Illya’s body pressed up against him, the feel of those lips on his. At the back of his mind, he had screamed at how wrong the kiss had been when it had happened but at the same time it had felt so damn right.
He has a briefing with Waverly and the team in a couple of hours and he is left unsure how he would take seeing Illya again that morning. Napoleon just needs to prepare for the worst.
***
Only a couple of weeks after meeting Napoleon in Berlin, where they had been unceremoniously partnered together, Illya understood their partnership, relationship, or whatever one wants to call it, would never revolve around the words easy and simple. And just as he had expected, the American would go on to be the most infuriating, insufferable, innately frustrating man Illya had ever had the pleasure of knowing. They would argue and bicker over the smallest things, sometimes Illya wonders whether Napoleon does it on purpose, just so he could irritate the living daylights out of him. But as time goes by, Napoleon, much to Illya’s horror and surprise, had managed to worm his way into his heart. And no matter how hard he tries, he couldn’t deny that familiar feeling inside of him whenever Napoleon gets too close, and he knows he could never let go of Napoleon after the realisation had hit him hard.
Every time he sees those eyes, that smile, it makes his heart ache. All the while Illya had been good, had kept his dangerous, horrendous feelings for Napoleon to himself, but now he is in danger of losing him even before he had the chance to completely grasp the knowledge that all the while, Napoleon too have had feelings for him.
What makes matters even worst is everything that is happening at the moment is out of his hands. Everything that will and can ever happen between them is up to Napoleon and his mind, and Illya wishes he could turn back time, wishes he could go back to that fateful night in Frankfurt and correct the horrible mistake he had made.
When Napoleon had kissed him that night, Illya was furious. He figured Napoleon was toying with him like he always did, treating everything like it was a joke. In Illya’s mind, there were other ways to distract their assailants but Napoleon had resorted to something as preposterous as kissing. The eventual punch that landed on Napoleon’s cheek had been an instant reaction and the scathing words that had come out of his mouth had been his defence mechanism working, to shield him from the hurt that would come after. But the way Napoleon had reacted afterwards had stunned Illya and when he continued to ignore him after that had made him feel bad and it got even worst when Gaby had revealed Napoleon was going for that memory suppression program. It instantly hit Illya the damage he had done. But it had been too late for him to change Napoleon’s stubborn mind and now he is suffering from the consequences of his actions.
As he sits there in front of Waverly, with Gaby at his side, he frets, waiting for Napoleon to enter the room. Will his emotion betray the stoic look he is putting on at the moment? Will Waverly see right through him and what will Napoleon say after the dramatic confrontation they had last night? Will he even want to work with him again after his stunning confession, something he had never imagined he would do if it had not been for Gaby dropping that bombshell on him and his own stupid mistake? The questions swirling in his head would not go away, not until Napoleon could provide the answers. But he is still absent and Illya is unsure whether he would be able to wait any longer.
When the door opens seconds later, and Napoleon finally makes his way beside the empty chair next to him, Illya cannot help but stare at the man who is wearing the exact stoic look as Illya’s. He waits for Napoleon to acknowledge him, just a look, a flicker of his eyes towards his direction, but it never comes. Illya’s heart sinks a little.
“Gentlemen and lady. It’s good to have all the three of you back here again. It’s been a while,” Waverly starts.
The two of them nod at once at the older man, but Gaby only smiles knowingly at him. She is anxious to hear what he has got to offer after what she had revealed to him last night.
“First off, good job Teller and Kuryakin on your fairly successful assignment in Bangkok. Although the bill for your hotel suite had surmounted to an enormous amount, I must say.”
Gaby opens her mouth at once to defend why that is so, but Waverly only waves a dismissive hand at her. “I don’t want to dwell on that, let’s just get down to the next mission, shall we?”
Gaby mumbles something unintelligent, Illya frowns hearing that, and Napoleon just gives a disinterested shrug.
“So where are we off to next?” he asks, breaking his silence, breaking out of his stoic front. Hearing his voice, distant and closed off, Illya feels the need to reach out and grab him in an endless hug. He glances his way whenever he could, but Napoleon’s attention stays firmly fixed on Waverly much to Illya’s frustration.
“You will need to go to where you boys had started off.”
That from Waverly garners Illya’s attention and he gives him a puzzled look. “Where?” he asks. He is not too certain he will like Waverly’s answer.
“Rome.”
Acting self conscious than he normally does, not wanting Waverly’s eyes on him for too long, Illya quickly grabs the folder file the older man has placed before them. He flips it open and scowls at the word Vinciguerra spelled out in bold letters on the paper in his hand.
“Vinciguerra? I thought they are finished. Why are we still investigating their business?”
“Two of Vinciguerra’s former senior executives at the company, a Mr. Dino Aurelio and Roberto Nivola have revived their business again, getting most of their funding from some of the more notorious Italian mob. We’ve learned that they’ve been operating for the past four months. Our intel has been closely monitoring them and so far have not found any suspicious activity.”
“So why are we going there again?”
It’s Napoleon’s turn to ask. There is clear doubt in his voice as if questioning Waverly’s motive in wanting to send them back to that shipyard.
“Previously we know the Vinciguerras have worked with former Nazis in hiding, and we’ve come to believe Aurelio and Nivola are continuing that tradition. As part of the denazification program that’s currently underway, the intelligence community believes a courier will come to meet Mr. Aurelio with a list of these contacts and their secret dealings. Your job, Solo is to intercept this from happening. Get the list for us. Kuryakin will be your backup.”
Napoleon turns to look at Illya to find the Russian’s eyes already on him. He looks away immediately.
“When is this transaction happening?” he then asks Waverly.
“We believe the courier will arrive at Rome’s Termini train station this coming Friday at 1300 hours. And this is the photograph of the man you will need to mark.”
Napoleon takes the picture off Waverly’s hand, raises an eyebrow at him. “He’s just a kid.”
“Then it should be easier for you to get that list from him,” Waverly says.
“What about Gaby?”
During the entire conversation, it seems like they had forgotten her presence in the room but Gaby seems to look perfectly calm, despite the lack of her name being mentioned.
“Miss Teller is needed back here to help me with some important paperwork but could come into your assistance if deemed necessary.”
Gaby lets out a slight cough. “More paperwork? Splendid.”
Napoleon cannot help but grin and gives Gaby a little thumbs up. “You’re good at that,” he teases. But Illya, who is sandwiched between his two partners, only frowns.
“Just me and Solo on this?” he asks, his jaw clenching slightly.
“Yes, would that be a problem, Kuryakin?”
Illya shakes his head, mutters a ‘no’ and then Waverly turns his attention on Napoleon. He sees the American shift in his seat. His decision to employ extreme methods than he normally would do to bring his two agents together may backfire on him once again, but this time he is not hasty, he has put thought into it and he hopes, believes it will work.
“Agent Solo, you are all right with this arrangement?”
Waverly’s eyes dart between Illya and Napoleon as he waits for Napoleon’s answer.
“Yes, I’m fine with it,” Napoleon finally says, his voice calm and collected. If he is uncomfortable at the idea of just the two of them in Rome without Gaby, then he is doing a very good job at hiding it, Illya thinks.
“Then it’s settled. You both will fly out there tomorrow evening. Good luck, gentlemen.”
After handing them the mission dossiers, the two agents immediately stand at once, thanked Waverly and Napoleon is the quicker of the two to leave the room. Before he makes his way out of the room as well, Illya throws a glance at Gaby who could only give him an encouraging smile, as if saying, ‘You can do this, Illya. You can get him back.'
And despite the obvious nerves running through his body, Illya is determined to prove Gaby right.
***
After Illya and Napoleon had left, Gaby decides to stick around Waverly’s office, wants to question her superior’s motive. She is feeling a little apprehensive at his idea.
“Is it right to send just the both of them to Rome? Without any supervision?”
“For heaven’s sake, they are adults, Gaby. And this isn’t the first time they are off on a mission alone together.”
“But that was before this mess,” Gaby argues. If only Waverly had seen how broken Illya had behaved after they had left Napoleon’s apartment, he would understand her worry. She suspects Napoleon had not fared too well either.
“You think this will help them?”
Waverly draws out a sigh. When he had come out with the idea to send the boys to Rome, he was certain Gaby would understand his decision. He had not expected her to question his methods, however.
“Miss Teller?”
Gaby looks up at Waverly. She knows she is asking too much of him, but she can’t help herself.
“I worry about them.”
“Gaby, you must know this is the best I can do. I wanted to have the three of you on another assignment in Dublin but after your phone call last night, I made a few arrangements so Solo and Kuryakin could go and entertain Rome instead. And don’t worry. It’s a legit mission. I just took you out of the equation,” Waverly explains.
“You hope Solo being there could jog his memory back,” Gaby says. It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, and Waverly nods. But he is quick to remind her of his words.
“Like I said, I could offer assistance, but there is no guarantee or promise that things would turn out the way they were. We’ll just have to hope for the best.”
Knowing Waverly is right, Gaby can’t disagree any further. She just hopes they are not making a grave mistake.
***
Illya is startled when he finds Napoleon sitting behind his desk as soon as he enters their office. He never expected to find him there after he had disappeared following their briefing with Waverly. He figures he would try to avoid him like he’d done all morning, but he’s wrong. Now Napoleon is there in front of him and Illya knows a confrontation is imminent. His hand grips the doorknob, unsure whether he should close the door behind him or flee. But when he remembers what he had told Gaby, that he would do anything to get him back, Illya decides against running.
Napoleon, who was busy fiddling with the pen in his hand before Illya had turned up, looks up and acknowledges Illya’s presence with a little nod. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something but closes it soon enough. Somehow, words are failing both men at the moment. Realising how ridiculously awkward things are starting to get between them, Illya quickly moves towards his desk. But as soon as he pulls out his chair, Napoleon breaks his silence.
“Illya, I want to say I’m sorry—about last night.”
The last thing Illya had expected was an apology from Napoleon. He tenses for a moment, wonders what is going on inside the American’s mind.
“It is not your fault. It was me. I should not have imposed myself on you like that. I should be saying sorry, not you,” he mutters in a single breath without actually looking at Napoleon. The truth hurts Illya, but it has to be said. He hated what he had done. He had been irrational and too forward.
“But I shouldn’t have asked you and Gaby to leave like that. And for that I am sorry.”
For a fleeting moment, Illya thought he’d seen the Napoleon he knew, the one that remembers calling him Peril.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. I tried to digest all the things you and Gaby had said to me, about me going to London and that memory program you were telling me.”
Illya’s emotion for the man sitting before him starts to flare up again, his gut twisting in knots, his words bringing a barrage of hope that somehow he would remember his feelings once again.
“I tried to think, Illya. I know I went to London but I can’t remember a damn detail other than that. And I can’t remember us. I’m sorry.”
Us.
Illya feels like he’s being stabbed the way Napoleon had uttered the word. And here he is after everything, saying he was sorry, saying he had tried his best to remember and that look, defeated and lost, just makes Illya want to scream. But he can’t. Even if he so badly wants to. In the end, he just says his own apology once again.
“It’s okay. It’s my fault because I had forced you too hard into thinking something you cannot remember. I am sorry, Cowboy.”
“There’s that Cowboy again,” Napoleon says suddenly, and there’s like laughter in his voice, but it’s broken and then there’s just a sad smile on his face. Illya bites his lips.
“I seem to use it a lot,” he murmurs.
“I suppose you do,” Napoleon smiles.
Illya wants to say a lot of other things but does not want to scare him again like he had done the night before. But when Napoleon stands from his chair, his heart starts to pound hard against his chest. He feels he could have a heart attack at any moment because the American has now come too close, hovers at the boundary of his personal space.
“Waverly’s sending us to Rome,” Napoleon mutters. He holds Illya’s gaze and asks, “Are we going to be okay with this?
Illya nods vaguely, and whispers, answers the only way he knows how. “Yes, we will be okay, Cowboy.”
Napoleon nods, as if satisfied with Illya's reply, and once he turns towards his desk, Illya breathes a sigh of relief. He only hopes he will be as confident as he had sounded when they both fly out to Rome tomorrow.
***
They land in the Italian capital the next day and Illya has settled into his room, has put away his belongings from his suitcase when he hears a knock on his door. It is too late for him to be entertaining anybody. He was hoping he could turn in early after they had arrived at the hotel, hoping to catch up on some proper sleep which he had not had in days. But when he sees Napoleon standing there before him in the hallway, he knows sleep could take a backseat for a while.
“Solo,” he says quietly. It’s almost he is taken by surprise to see him there. “You okay?”
“May I come in?” Napoleon asks.
Illya cannot deny him, even if his insides are screaming, cursing the fact how fate is cruelly toying with him at the moment. Instead of answering, he simply steps aside to let Napoleon in. He wants to ask his reasons for being there. They have their work cut out for tomorrow and Napoleon should be preparing instead of wandering to his room no less.
“This room looks oddly familiar,” Napoleon says without turning to look at Illya, and before Illya could say anything to him, he adds, “That being said, so does mine.”
“That is because we had stayed here before,” Illya replies.
Yes, somehow, Waverly had cleverly arranged the same hotel they had stayed in during their first assignment together in Rome. However, it is such bad timing for Napoleon wanting to talk about familiarities, not now when they are preparing for a mission, when the last thing they need is a distraction. But Illya is willing to take it in his stride if it means Napoleon finding his way back to him. He moves towards Napoleon and stops when he is standing right behind him.
“We don’t have to do this now,” he mutters softly and Napoleon turns, blue eyes staring at Illya.
“Honestly I do try, Illya. I want you to know that.”
“I know, Cowboy,” Illya answers.
Although Napoleon’s honesty breaks him every little time he confesses he’s still not able to remember, Illya’s thankful. Napoleon is acknowledging there is something that he needs to find, to search, to look for, and that’s a lot better than an outright denial. At the moment, that is more than enough for Illya.
After they'd discussed briefly on their tactics on how to approach their mark like they always do before a mission, they say their goodnights, and after Napoleon leaves the room, Illya finds himself wanting the American more than ever. He grimaces.
***
“Solo, what the hell were you thinking?!”
Illya is angry because Napoleon had let their mark escaped when he already had him in his clutches. As planned, Napoleon was supposed to intercept Aurelio’s courier but Illya watched in horror from a distance when instead of bringing the boy in, he had let him go.
“Why did you do it?” Illya exclaims in confusion. “You had the information in your hands!”
Napoleon lets out a shuddery breath as he leans against the brick wall behind him. They are now in an alleyway between two old buildings, hiding from the city crowd, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention their way. Illya is furious, just like he had been in Frankfurt, again because of Napoleon’s doing, this time minus the kiss and the scathing words.
“Solo? An explanation, please?”
“He’ll be dead if he doesn't deliver that thing to Aurelio,” Napoleon says, trying to catch his breath. He looks up at Illya, hoping his partner would understand his reasoning. “He’s just a kid.”
The look on the boy’s face, as he pleaded with Napoleon to release him, sticks in Napoleon’s memory. “There’s fear in his eyes, Illya. Genuine fear. If I’d taken the file, they’d find him for certain. They’d kill him. I don’t want that to remain in my conscience.”
Illya shakes his head, annoyed that Napoleon had let his emotions get the better of him. But that’s the Napoleon he knows, that's what he would do in any circumstances and Gaby would have told him he had done the right thing.
“Now what?” he says after a moment, after he’d let everything sink in. “We have to improvise, Cowboy.”
“We’ll just have to do it the hard way now.”
“How?” Illya asks.
“I got some information off the boy as an exchange for me letting him go. The files should be in the shipyard. I’ll go there tomorrow night.”
“What? You’re not going to the shipyard,” Illya hisses.
“And why not?”
“It’s too dangerous. And because that’s not in the plan.”
Napoleon’s lips immediately curl into a grin. “Aww, Illya, you’re worried about me.”
Illya's heart skips a beat. Is this the old Napoleon trying to tease him into frustration? He decides to ignore the American’s distracting smirk.
“Going to the shipyard is not in our original plan, Solo.”
“You do realise our original plan had gone bust the moment I’d let the boy go?” Napoleon adds, tries to prove his point, and Illya could only let out an exasperated grunt in reply. He knows Napoleon is right. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, mutters something nasty in Russian. Napoleon smiles at his partner.
“Don’t worry, Illya. You’ll have my back, right?”
“Waverly is not going to be happy with this,” Illya says after a moment, glares at the American before him.
“Well, he sent us here, he will just have to trust our judgement.”
***
Later that night, Illya meets Napoleon in the bar of their hotel.
After their mini argument, Napoleon had wanted to make it up to Illya for screwing up their plans by asking him to join him for a couple of drinks. Illya had wanted to decline, saying it’s improper. They are on a mission, but then when had that ever stopped Napoleon before? And when the American turned on his charming persuasive manner like always, Illya simply couldn't say no.
The bar isn’t overcrowded, just a handful of hotel guests lounging in their seats. Napoleon who is sitting next to him, with a glass of scotch in his hand, remains quiet. Other than their initial hellos earlier on, he hasn't uttered a word.
“You’ll be going into the shipyard tomorrow,” Illya says breaking their silence. Napoleon swirls the drink in his glass.
“Yes. Tomorrow night. As discussed.”
"I'm still not liking the idea."
"Don't worry. We've done this before."
Illya hums. He is wreaking his head, trying to figure out what else to say. Napoleon, on the other hand, is a little distracted by an Italian love song currently playing softly in the background. He knows he’s heard it before. The lyrics seem to hit too close to home, a song about someone reminiscing his past, about a long lost love. He gives Illya a sidelong glance. But Illya is not his…could he be?
“You know this music?” he asks the Russian who starts to look at him questioningly.
“No. But if Gaby was here she would be able to answer you.”
Napoleon chuckles and for the first time since they’d sat there that night, Napoleon takes a real good look at Illya. The music in the background is temporarily forgotten.
“I have a funny feeling he had planned all this, Waverly. He’d sent us here, just the two of us on purpose, without Gaby. Don’t you think?”
The thought had crossed Illya’s mind as well but why would Waverly do that, unless, of course, he knows about the predicament they are currently in. Surely Gaby had not told him anything? Surely not.
“I wouldn’t know, Cowboy,” Illya answers truthfully.
“Of course not,” Napoleon murmurs before silence befalls them once again. Illya drums his fingers around his empty glass.
“We could have been on our way home right about now, but of course as always, you like to do everything the hard way,” he mutters afterwards like a grumble, after the silence between them had started to drive Illya a little crazy. Hearing that, Napoleon turns bodily to face his partner.
“So, tell me something, do I always do it the hard way?”
Illya scoffs. He tries to ignore the look Napoleon is giving him, but it gets increasingly difficult. Taking a big swig of his drink, Napoleon then places his empty glass on the counter. When the bartender offers to serve more, he declines, only continues his focus on Illya.
“Illya, tell me, what else do I do that annoys the hell out of you?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know, Cowboy.”
“Try me.”
That small smirk playing on Napoleon’s lips starts to do strange things to Illya’s insides again. This little moment between them has been absent for quite some time and Illya can’t even begin to explain how much he has missed them.
“I don’t even know where to start, if you really want to know,” Illya grins in return.
Since they had arrived there, this is the first time Illya’s feeling at ease, but there is always that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, and he knows this moment will not last as long as he wants. He realises a second or two later that Napoleon is staring at him, with brows furrowed together. He is trying to read Illya.
“Illya, I know that—”
“What?” Illya quickly interrupts him before he could finish his sentence. He is aware their playful banter had taken a sudden serious turn.
“I know you somehow matter—matter to me.”
Napoleon’s eyes are cast down. He’s staring at their fingers placed on the counter, inches apart. He has a good mind to pull Illya’s hand in his, not understanding why he wants to do so. And Napoleon’s words are like a dagger to Illya’s heart. “But I can’t quite place it yet. I can’t—”
“Solo—it’s all right. I understand it.”
“But at least that’s something, right? Better than nothing at all?” Napoleon looks up at him once again.
“Yes, of course, it is.”
Later, much later, they adjourn to retire for the night but Napoleon stops Illya before he could disappear into his room.
“One thing does come to my mind though.”
“What’s that, Cowboy?” Illya asks, hoping his voice hadn't sound too hopeful.
“I know for a fact that I can’t seem to beat you at chess. And I think I hate you for that.”
Illya lets out a low laugh. “Maybe we can play again sometime and see if luck can be on your side.”
“And let you beat me again? No thanks. I’ll skip the chess for now.”
Illya’s heart does a summersault when Napoleon suddenly smiles up at him, with that twinkle in his blue eyes. He wants so badly to reach out, wants to shake him so hard until he could remember his feelings once again. He wants to put his arm around him, do things he'd never imagined he'd wanted to do before. Why had he taken so long to realise what he’d felt for Napoleon? If only he had confessed sooner, they wouldn’t have been in this terrible mess.
“Did we really like each other that much before?”
Napoleon’s sudden question, earnest and innocent, takes Illya by surprise, wants to make him laugh and cry at the same time. He quickly swallows the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Let’s just say we always seem to agree to disagree.”
“So, you're saying you don’t really like me that much before this?”
Illya shakes his head because Napoleon couldn’t be more wrong. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“You said you’d punched me when I’d kissed you.”
Illya’s eyes narrow, wishes Napoleon would drop the topic before it gets out of hand. He’s definitely wandering into dangerous territory at the moment.
“You didn’t give me any warning. I was just shocked.”
“Really? I was under the impression that you’d—”
Napoleon stops, looks at Illya as if he is suddenly seeing more than he should, as if he is noticing something in his partner he hadn’t noticed before.
“Cowboy?” Illya asks, and then Napoleon shakes his head.
“Never mind, it’s nothing.”
Napoleon then looks away, unable to form the words he wants to say. “I better go, Illya.”
When he starts to leave, Illya stops him, grabs his wrist. “Wait, Napoleon. Just wait.”
Napoleon gives him a questioning look. “What?”
At any other time, this might seem like a bad idea, because goddamn it, they have a mission tomorrow and Illya knows he is going to regret this later, but he cannot seem to control this incredible urge in him any longer. The urge to kiss him. Unwittingly, he’s managed to grasp Napoleon’s arms in his hands, brings him a little closer towards him.
“Do you trust me?” Illya asks.
“Yes,” Napoleon answers, unhesitant.
Illya swallows. “Then, can I just—just pretend, like you have not forgotten?”
“How?”
Like something has gotten control of his heart, Illya releases Napoleon’s arms, takes his face between his hands instead and Napoleon knows what he is going to do next when the Russian starts to lean in. “Illya,” he says like a half hearted warning but Illya shakes his head, gestures for him not to say anything.
“Just pretend.”
And then he kisses him, slowly at first, and Napoleon reciprocates, lets him in. Illya’s fingers run up to his hair, pulls him in and a soft moan escapes Napoleon’s throat when Illya breaks the kiss.
“I’m sorry again, Illya, I—“
Illya presses a finger on Napoleon’s lips, effectively shushing him. “It’s okay. Don’t say anything.”
“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”
Illya sees pure honesty in Napoleon’s eyes when he asks him that question. But Illya doesn’t need that, he needs Napoleon, the Napoleon he knows, the one that could easily break him to pieces with just a quirk of his lips. He lifts his hand and caresses his jaw.
“Good night, Cowboy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then Napoleon nods, and with a heavy heart he can’t understand why, leaves Illya standing there by his door.
***
Once he is inside that shipping yard, Napoleon cannot help but feel a sense of familiarity. Yes, of course, he had been there before, he remembers it that much, but there are bits and pieces of his memory that are still missing. He remembers picking a lock, breaking into the complex, and he remembers standing in front of that enormous vault like he is doing now. And then everything else seems like a blur. He cannot remember what had happened next.
“Are you in, Solo?” Illya’s voice filters through their communication link seconds after, interrupting his chain of thoughts.
“Yes,” Napoleon answers. “I’m in front of the vault. Give me a few minutes.”
“Don’t forget to deactivate the alarm this time.”
There. What Illya said triggers something in his memory again. He knows he had been here with Illya. He had broken into the facility with him, remembers seeing him crouched down near the fence outside as he was preparing to break his way in, remembers their little childish argument about some CO2 laser. A sudden jolt runs through his body.
“Illya,” he says as he starts to unlock and open the vault. The alarm does not go off this time. Napoleon smiles.
“What is it?”
Napoleon can hear the slight anxiousness in Illya’s voice. He wonders if it is a good time to let Illya know that he is starting to recall something at this very crucial moment. It might just distract the Russian but Napoleon cannot seem to hold it in. There is a rush of excitement swarming through him that he needs to share with his partner even if the detail is too trivial to feel euphoric about.
“Cowboy, what is it?” Illya asks when Napoleon remains quiet, worries if he has run into trouble. “Talk to me, Solo.”
“I think—I think I remember something, I was here with you and—”
But at that precise moment, their communication link goes off and all Illya hears after that is static. His heart races at once.
“Solo? Can you hear me?!” Nothing.
Panic takes over Illya. Suspecting Napoleon is in trouble, he immediately abandons their getaway car which is hidden a couple of meters away from the vicinity of the shipyard to go after his partner.
***
Napoleon easily disposes a security guard who had jumped on him unsuspectingly while he’d been in the vault. After getting the information he needed, he quickly manoeuvres his way out of the facility. While running out, dodging bullets aimed his way, blinding images of old memories flash through his mind, and he sees Illya’s face in front of his eyes. This is certainly deja vu, albeit he is missing his partner at the scene. As he climbs up a flight of stairs and hide behind a steel cabinet of sorts, he remembers how Illya had shot at the large glass window before jumping out and Napoleon had followed suit, thinking their bodies would meet water at the other side.
Taking a different route of escape, Napoleon's momentum almost carried him over a narrow ledge as he tries to escape two burly men who are starting to close in on him. He could either jump down into the water, where he won’t hurt his hip like the last time, or stay there and get shot at which would probably be worse. But he has not enough time to consider his options when a bullet grazes his temple. He grunts in pain at the contact, loses his balance in the process and falls straight into the water, head first. The impact knocks him unconscious.
***
Illya panics when he cannot locate Napoleon on his trackers and follows the path of destruction he'd left in his wake. A few gunmen had already fallen victim to Illya’s ruthlessness, and seconds later he could hear a couple of gun shots from above him. He runs up the stairs just in time to see Napoleon fall into the dark murky water.
“Solo!” he shouts, shoots with deadly accuracy at the two armed men charging right at him before dumping their bodies onto the steely docks down below.
“Napoleon!” Illya shouts again, this time in desperation as he dives in after him, hoping he is not too late.
***
Napoleon feels strong arms wrap around his body as he is being pulled up onto the surface. It’s Illya, it has to be Illya, his fuzzy unconscious mind thinks. Water has filled his lungs, he is unsure whether he is breathing at the moment and the pain flaring in his head is starting to take effect on him. His head lolls against Illya’s shoulder as his partner swims them to the side of the dock. For a moment, he feels Illya holding him still, not moving, perhaps wanting to ensure no one else has noticed their movement in the water. But despite that, there is a sense of urgency and frantic in him when he senses Napoleon is not breathing. Turning him around so that now Napoleon is facing him, Illya grips his torso hard, and jerks him, at the same time he puts his lips over Napoleon’s and breathes air into his lungs. He repeats the movement a couple of times until a sudden hard jerk and Napoleon is coughing and gasping and water spurts out of his mouth.
“Cowboy,” he mutters, shudders in relief. “You’re all right.”
Urging Napoleon to concentrate on his breathing and swimming, they make their way towards a dock stairs and Illya quickly hauls his partner up onto the waterfront. For a second, Illya catches his breath before leering down on Napoleon who is lying flat on his back, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting around them.
“You’re bleeding,” Illya says, carefully moving his head to the side to check on his wound. Blood is trickling down his cheek and there is clear worry on Illya's face but Napoleon assures him it is nothing too serious.
“Just a bullet graze,” he says, before coughing weakly. “It’s not too bad.”
Brushing strands of wet hair off his forehead, Illya then leans in nearer, cradles Napoleon’s face in his hands.
“Head wounds are never good, Cowboy. We cannot stay here long. Goons will come looking for us.”
His eyes quickly scan the area and notices the trucks parked nearby. “We need to make a run for it.”
Napoleon is leaving it entirely to Illya now. He knows the mission is screwed and it’d been his fault.
“Waverly is not going to be happy with me. I lost the file in the water.”
“I will deal with him, but for now, we have to go.”
He’s about to pull Napoleon up but when the American murmurs, “Okay, Peril” Illya immediately freezes. His head whips towards Napoleon so hard, his neck twinges in pain at the movement he’d made.
“What did you just say?” he then asks, not quite believing what he’d just heard from Napoleon. His eyes are round and wide, his mouth is agape and Napoleon wonders if he had said something wrong.
“What?” Napoleon asks, confused.
“What did you just call me?”
A flare of hope bursts in Illya’s heart as he repeats his question. He can’t quite believe Napoleon had said it but he needs to be sure, needs him to say it again. He clutches hard at Napoleon’s collar, desperate to hear him say the word again.
“Cowboy? What did you just call me? Please?”
Napoleon, his throbbing head still swimming after that fall in the water, is uncertain to what is making Illya so frantic. He tries to push himself up on his elbows but Illya stops him with one hand against his chest.
“Napoleon?”
“Peril, what is the matter? What are you doing? Help me get up, will you?”
But instead of answering his questions, Illya simply exhales and pulls Napoleon into a crushing hug, his arms curling around him in a strong hold. Napoleon is not quite certain what he should do, so he returns the compliment by bringing his arms up around Illya.
Illya pulls back after a while and under the dim light of the docks, Napoleon sees the blue in Illya’s eyes shine brighter than he’d ever seen them before.
“Peril?” Napoleon says again, and then Illya realises he cannot take it anymore, it’s too much for him to hold in, and before Napoleon could say anything else, he crushes his mouth on Napoleon’s, kisses him long and hard, kisses him like it would be the first and last time he’d ever get to do it.
Through the haze in his brain, Napoleon registers, perhaps this is something he’s been wanting all this while too, and he arches up to Illya, arches up into the kiss, his fingers slipping and sliding through Ilya’s wet hair, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head.
“Wha—at? Illya?” he asks breathlessly after Illya breaks the contact between their lips. Illya’s breathing hard, hiding his face now at the crook of Napoleon’s neck and then a choked sob escapes his lips. Napoleon, not understanding what’s happening, curls his fingers around Illya’s neck.
“Peril, you’re scaring me now.”
Illya lifts his face to look intently at Napoleon. “Cowboy—you called me Peril.”
It suddenly dawns on Napoleon why Illya is acting the way he does. His heart lurches as he closes his eyes and leans their foreheads together and murmurs, “How could I have forgotten that?”
Illya doesn’t say anything but simply kisses him again and again and again.
They are supposed to run, to hide. They are not cleared out of the woods yet, still need to make it to their getaway vehicle. And later they would need to report in to Waverly, tell him the mission is a failure, but then there they are still on that waterfront, sprawled together, practically hidden under the dim lights. Illya knows they can’t afford to stay there any longer, it's too dangerous and Illya can’t risk them getting caught, but at the moment, his heart is racing. And not because of the danger they are still in, but because Napoleon has given him a glimmer of hope that he’ll remember all the little details he’d forgotten. He'll remember his feelings for him.
And Illya is willing to wait, for as long as it takes, because he believes Napoleon eventually will remember. And even if he doesn’t, Illya knows they will always have this between them.
They will always have Rome.