Chapter Text
Horseback riding? Me?
On their ramshackle journey that was half transport, half education, dancing and languages and history had already been covered. Another key skill for any young Russian royal: horseback riding.
So they commandeered three horses (and put them back where they found them afterwards). As one might expect from one who had begun aged three, Illya took to horse-riding like a duck to water. It was, apparently, like riding a bike.
Gaby and Napoleon paused to watch him as he galloped effortlessly, rising-trotted expertly, all the while whispering little endearments and encouragements to the horse.
“Illya, you’re a dream come true,” Gaby whispered like a prayer.
Napoleon, who had mostly been watching Illya’s thighs as they worked tirelessly around the horse, was inclined to agree.
The Hair Cut
Illya’s hair was growing out, so Gaby decided to cut it before he met the Dowager Empress. When he saw Napoleon minutes after with a desperate plea in his eyes, Illya was dragged to the bathroom. No one thought anything at all about the possible implications of this. No one. Stop it.
Napoleon did a remarkable job of fixing the disaster on Illya’s head, while Illya did a remarkable job not reacting to the sudden proximity in the very small bathroom, and the two of them agreed not to tell Gaby a thing.
It’s like she’s trying to make you look bad, Napoleon had said while he worked miracles. I mean maybe she’s right, he had mused, maybe the Dowager Empress will take one look at you and wonder how on earth we thought those inbred royals could have produced such a perfect- he looked at a quite-pink Illya then, mid ramble. Produced you, he’d finished lamely, and the (second) haircut was done.
He'd have talked like that about Gaby or Waverly like that, Napoleon reasoned to himself later. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary or non-platonic sounding there, he thought. Probably.
The olive incident
Of the trio, Napoleon loved olives, Gaby liked them, and Illya wasn’t so sure, so when they came across a tree with olives just growing on it- what better way would there be to try them? These must be the freshest, Gaby reasoned, and who was Napoleon to argue with that?
Oh no, Napoleon had said, I already like olives. These are for you to try. The other two should both have known better from his tone, but still they picked an olive each and began to chew.
Napoleon could only hold his laughter for so long when they realised something was very wrong. It’s the brining process, he’d said through fits of breathless laughter. Helps with the bitterness.
It was too late for that, Gaby and Illya knew, as they desperately spat the bitter remnants from their frothing mouths. Illya decided he didn’t like olives after all.
The Waverly Flirtation
You’d be surprised, Napoleon had said once with glinting eyes, for all Waverly’s chatter, they’re actually a world-class secret keeper. Gaby had found this a deeply unsettling thing to hear and had vowed to confront Alex the moment she next saw them, but forgot. She forgot enough times that it became quite frustrating, but always seemed to be otherwise occupied from almost the moment she arrived at Alex’s Paris home.
She was surprised, then, when Napoleon decided to explain it one day over dinner after holding out for so long.
It began with Illya joking “If Gaby’s not in town Waverly might be available, if you fancied going back.”
Napoleon, who was very publicly so in love with Illya that he could throw up, said “I’m alright, I think,” and continued to eat his dinner with a smile.
“Our Lee-o never was one for a second round when it came to flings,” Gaby said offhandedly, to which Napoleon responded by catching an intrigued Illya’s eye (this will be good, the look said) and folding his napkin delicately.
“I mean we never actually slept together,” he said airily, “so I suppose there’s still time.” Illya thought back over all the times the ‘flirtation’ had been mentioned with eyebrows steadily creeping skyward.
Gaby scoffed. “What? Of course you slept together.”
“I think I would know,” Napoleon said.
Gaby watched his eyes for signs of- anything but that amused honesty, then spluttered a bit. “What the hell do you mean you didn’t sleep together?”
“Reasonably self-explanatory, I think,” he replied calmly, with an appreciative sip of wine. Illya was entirely content to watch them volley back and forth.
“But- but- your ‘flirtation’-”
“Was exactly that. A flirtation. Nothing more.”
A furious understanding was building in Gaby and Illya wondered if she was going to explode. “They never told me. That’s what you meant about the secret. Illya where are my car keys? Someone get me my damn keys, I need to go and kill them!” She spent a moment breathing heavily, but the little rant appeared to be all the venting she needed, and they all returned to their food.
“Why?” she said suddenly, during dessert.
Napoleon smirked softly. “They said I was too young. That I would find the love of my life, and was then expected to come back and flirt with them well into their stunningly well-preserved old age.”
Gaby huffed irritably. “That is so believable. I hate this. I hate it when you tell the truth and I hate it when they’re right.” She let out a guttural sort of groaning sound that had Illya and Napoleon looking at each other, if only to check they were both hearing the same thing, and then she appeared to be exorcised of the entire ordeal.
-
On a less emotional day, Napoleon relayed the approximate specifics of the conversation, which had been thus:
The year after Gaby had first slept with Waverly, in which she had been twenty-eight years old and they had been forty-one, a gloriously confident twenty-year-old Napoleon had propositioned a now forty-two-year-old Waverly.
Waverly: As much as it pains me to say this, and you must believe me, it does pain me, I’m getting little regretful shooting pains already, all over, you know. I do think, my dear, that you are simply too young for me to, in good conscience, you see, you must understand, I would feel quite like I was taking advantage of your pretty youth.
Napoleon: In summary, I encouraged Waverly to take advantage of me.
Waverly: I should rather be a friend that admires you and tells you embarrassingly frequently, I swear I will tell you, on my life, you know, although I fear I will lack the shame I deserve, of course, as ever. I should rather that than a regretted dalliance, young Solo.
Napoleon: In summary, I complained about it but agreed.
Waverly: I do, however, expect to be flirted with outrageously and shamelessly well into my exceptionally well-kept old age. I insist upon being seventy years old, oh yes, I do intend to live an excessively long time, my dear, but that must seem inconceivably old to a young thing like yourself. Yes indeed I will be very old, and exceptionally attractive still, naturally, owing to my genial countenance and fortunate lifelong lack of hardship, very grateful I am for it of course, very grateful indeed.
Here I shall be, old and lovely, and then I insist that you appear, young Solo, for young you shall still seem to an aged creature such as myself. You will be fifty, remaining strong and smooth and lovely, no doubt of course that you will find delightful little ways to fund the lifestyle we both deserve, so good at these delicious schemes you are.
I, for one, hope you find some patron who will lavish you with all that you desire, my dear, until you are soft and spoiled as I am. I regret that it cannot be me, of course, but I have a feeling, pretty thing. You have an epic love in your future, dear heart, I do have a sense for these things, you know, a keen eye for those destined for great things. You and your exquisite companion will then come to me as the oldest and fondest of friends, and shall flirt with me unrelentingly, maintaining my reputation and my indomitable self-esteem.
In my natural state of perfect selflessness and perfect selfishness, for perfection is all I can claim to, I will turn you now from my doorstep towards the one you’d give it all up for, only for them to return it to you many times over. I insist you be outrageously happy, and that you then return to lavish me with the attention I deserve.
Napoleon: That was almost certainly the longest rejection I have ever heard.
Waverly: I do not suppose that you have heard many in your time.
Napoleon: That is true, although you really ought not to mother me after I propositioned you for sex.
Waverly: I am not attempting to parent you, and the fact that you think I am speaks volumes about your upbringing.
After a conversation that excruciatingly frank, they had begun a friendship uninhibited by typical social awkwardnesses. Napoleon had found something rather liberating about having a friend he could flirt outrageously with while knowing that neither of them expected anything more. And a little inside joke never hurt anyone.
Why is Illya so bad at French?
On a fateful visit from Tuscany to Paris to see their dear Marie, Napoleon said “For a man who learned the entire Russian royal family in an evening, it is taking you a remarkably long time to learn French.”
“You haven’t struggled like this with Italian,” he continued. “I can’t believe this is the French you use to address a Dowager Empress.”
Later, while eavesdropping, Napoleon found out why, and burst dramatically into the room to address it.
Marie sighed. “Mr Solo, a little decorum please.”
Napoleon ignored her. “Were you ever actually bad at French?” he asked Illya accusingly, who looked horrified. But more importantly, he looked guilty.
“I-” began Illya, “yes. No, I was bad at the beginning.” Please note that this conversation was taking place in French, with none of the butchered grammar that had become so endearingly distinctive of our dearest Illya (French version).
“You’re still not good,” Napoleon said flatly. Illya had the gall to look affronted, because he was very good, actually. “You lied!”
Illya rolled his eyes. “Oh, I lied, did I? I am the liar, hm? Right.” Napoleon looked suitably chastised and Illya felt a bit bad, so he admitted “…I liked you teaching me,” to which Napoleon gaped and Marie took a steadying breath.
“I could have been teaching you better! You’re not done you- ach, durak,” he spat, skittering between languages. “Idiot!”
“I am not an idiot,” Illya said indignantly. “I learned the entire Russian royal family in an evening.”
Napoleon was going to lose his mind. Marie thought she might already have done so. “You’re literally related to them! It was probably written into your stupid scaled-up brain at birth!”
Marie, unaccustomed to being forgotten about, especially in a room containing only three people, considered feeling sorry for Gaby. Of course, she then remembered the indiscrete behaviour she’d had to discuss with some poor household staff member all those months ago, and decided that Gaby would have to manage on her own.
In Memoriam Count Adrian Sanders
Some years later, after many happy but quiet visits from her grandson and unconventional son- and daughter-in-law, Marie heard a most disturbing rumour.
It was important that the last living Kuryakin remain a mystery to the minds of the public if he was to have the safe, private life that he wanted. That he deserved.
And yet there was that most unpleasant man, Count Sanders, insistent on spreading dangerous rumours and digging where he ought not to be digging. Someone was going to get hurt, Marie was sure of it.
So sure of it, in fact, that when Count Sanders was announced missing from his governmental duties, from society, from his home, she did not appear to be the least bit surprised. Her royal upbringing, no doubt, the unshakeable poise of a Dowager Empress.
So sure was she that someone would get hurt, that when Sanders was found to be not missing but dead, face down in the Seine under most mysterious circumstances, even in the face of such horrors she remained composed.
A quite remarkable woman, Paris’s high society agreed as they pretended to mourn the loss of a most unpleasant member.
They were right. She was quite remarkable.
The language barrier
Illya (in Sofia Vergara voice): do you know how smart I am in Russian?!