Chapter Text
Sanders looks just like Napoleon remembers him, he same trench coat, the same hat and the same condescending smirk. His arms hang relaxed down his sides, Napoleon’s ring on his right hand, as he steps forward looking around him.
Peril stands still, holding on to Napoleon, but his body is tense and ready to spring. Napoleon sees Gaby, standing halted at the doorway, looking warily between Illya and Sanders.
Napoleon’s eyes meet Sanders’. Cold dread settles in Napoleon’s stomach. Even if he only has a few weeks left, or even days, Napoleon knows he can’t go back. He can’t live under Sanders’ Commands again, the constant choosing between forcing himself or being forced nonetheless. If he goes back, it will kill him.
Sanders’ gaze flicks past Napoleon as he narrows his eyes at Illya.
“You’re Oleg’s special boy, aren’t you?”
Illya’s hands twitch in his fur as Sanders’ gaze wanders up and down the Hunter’s form.
“You don’t seem that special to me, but you certainly have the nerve to take what belongs to the Circle.”
He turns his head towards Gaby.
"Snatching Miss Schmidt just as our agent of choice went missing was definitely a good move."
Napoleon can barely keep his claws from coming out. He knows what comes next.
Sanders gaze turns to him and Peril again.
"But it looks like he achieved his purpose anyway. You can let go of him now."
Illya narrows his eyes at the man and tightens his grip around Napoleon.
Sanders’ smirk drops with impatience.
"Come here, Solo."
The Command takes hold instantly. His body struggles in Illya’s hold, surprising the Hunter into using his second arm to hold on to him. Napoleon feels like he sinks his teeth into his own hand as he bites Illya hard, making the Hunter drop Napoleon to the floor.
He can feel Peril's gaze on his back as his body walks stiffly towards Sanders. His confusion won’t last long. Peril is too smart not to understand what is happening.
Sanders is his master. He’s not free.
Reaching Sanders’ feet, he turns just in time to see understanding flash across Peril's face, then betrayal, before it loses all expressions altogether.
Napoleon never felt so awful in his whole life.
He turns to Gaby, who took a few careful steps towards Illya.
I swear I didn't know.
He doesn't get the chance to see if she believes him as Sanders opens his mouth again.
“Change.”
His body complies mercilessly.
He doesn’t know if he screams. The ringing in his ears drowns out everything else.
Next thing he knows he's lying naked on the ground in a heap of unfamiliar limbs, shivers running over his body. He can’t open his eyes, even breathing hurts. His skin is on fire, stretched too tight about his aching bones, his muscles twitching and burning.
Bile rises in his throat and he just hopes he can hold it down until he can move into a position where he won't choke on his own vomit.
“Kneel.”
His body is forced upright, spine straightening and arms resting limply on his thighs. The nausea worsens. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets his head fall onto his chest. There are still ears on top of his head, a tail, fangs in his mouth. Humanoid then, not fully human. Of course.
He was never human in Sanders’ eyes.
There is silence apart from his ragged breaths.
He feels Illya’s and Gaby’s eyes on him and feels sick for a different reason altogether.
Gaby’s voice cuts through the noise of his own blood rushing through his ears.
“How did you find us?”
A condescending chuckle.
“I knew about this house. When we located him in Rome, it was just a question of when you would turn up here.”
Napoleon doesn’t need to look up to know that Illya’s gaze just hardened. He knows what the Hunter thinks and he doesn’t blame him. Napoleon, shapeshifter and liar, led them right into a trap.
Sanders even told him, that he knew about his stashes. He should have been more careful.
He knows it’s too late now to explain himself to Illya, but he wished he did.
Maybe he earned this.
Sanders voice snaps Napoleon out of his thoughts.
“You really had no idea, had you boy?”
His eyes sting with the effort of opening them, his neck screams when he lifts his head a little.
“So Miss Schmidt left you in the dark as well. Maybe she’s not that against coming with us.”
It seems appropriate that Napoleon manages to raise his eyes at Illya, just in time to see another wave of betrayal wash over his face.
Sanders seems to be enjoying himself.
“Of course she knew. She’s fey after all.”
Fingers twist into Napoleon’s hair, tilting his head back, exposing his throat. The pain from the pull against the oversensitive roots of his hair is unbearable, making him almost lose consciousness. When he sees Illya’s expression, he wished he had.
“We could just ask him.”
Illya refuses to look at him. The trembling of Napoleon’s limbs intensifies.
“Did Miss Schmidt know you’re with the Circle, Solo?”
His mouth falls open and there is nothing he can do to hold the words in. “She knew.”
Sanders loosens his grip but not his Command, still leaving Napoleon on his knees.
“Well, your little stunt cost us enough time already, Solo.” He stretches his hand out towards Gaby.
“Mrs. Schmidt, please accompany us. I promise you, the Circle will reward you generously for your cooperation.”
Gaby’s eyes flash once in Napoleon’s direction before she drops her glamour. Her wings are fanning out behind her, the copper swirls on her skin dance on around her limbs like flames.
“Thank you, but no. If you would unhand Mr. Solo now.”
The temperature in the room rises, her markings grow brighter until they’re glowing like molten metal. She’s getting ready to fight.
Napoleon strains against the Command’s hold in panic. She can’t fight Sanders. She doesn’t stand a chance. She doesn’t even have to fight. She’s going to walk free after this is over. Harming her would cause dispute with the Courts, even if she’s a half-breed.
Unless she attacks first.
“Gaby-“
“Silence, Solo.”
His mouth clamps shut.
“Leave her alone.”
Illya puts himself between her and Sanders. Napoleon’s shout of frustration stays trapped in his throat.
This is not some scuffle with unprepared Circle novices. Immunity against magic won’t help him, if Sanders decides to collapse the building and burry Illya beneath it. Napoleon has seen him do it before.
Illya needs to stay out of this, but Napoleon already knows the Hunter won’t, even before he opens his mouth again.
“I know what you want with her. You can take me instead. I am of more use to you.”
Napoleon can only look at Illya in disbelief, mirroring Gaby behind the Hunter.
Her hand closes around his biceps, trying to turn him around to her, but Illya doesn’t move.
Napoleon always suspected that Illya was deep down just an idiot in shiny armor waiting to happen. Taking in the stray cat that scratched him was clue enough. But nothing is going to keep the Circle from taking Gaby. Maybe it will give her a few more days while the Circle is busy frying Illya’s brain for information about the Guild before erasing his memory.
Except the spells won’t work on Illya.
Instead he will be tortured and killed.
Napoleon’s hands slowly ball into fists as his eyes drill into Peril, trying to convey that this isn’t worth it, but Illya isn’t even looking at him. This is stupid and useless. Peril has to know this.
Maybe he does.
Sanders does, definitely.
“Alright.”
Without another word Illya detaches Gaby’s fingers from his arm, never taking his eyes off the sorcerer.
There’s the snap of fingers directly next to Napoleon’s ear, making him wince at the noise.
“Before we go, get that painting.”
Napoleon’s body jerks. A flare of anger shoots through him, almost stronger than the pain of moving, but he knows it’s useless, just like everything else.
His body stands up from the floor and stiffly walks over to the painting. When he removes it from the wall, Napoleon considers if he has slack enough to destroy the painting instead of bringing it with him. The Circle doesn’t need money. This is just another small demonstration of power, when Sanders hangs it up in one of his offices for Napoleon to remember the time he fooled himself into believing he could leave the Circle behind.
When he turns around Illya has walked over to the sorcerer.
There’s a slight twitch in Illya’s shoulder, before he leans in. Napoleon notices tension in his neck, the way he stands, anticipating something.
Their fingers brush and a sudden burst of magic erupts between them.
The air is punched from Napoleon’s lungs. There’s the sound of shattering glass from the windows. His hands twitch, dropping the painting. His eyes dart after it, startled and staring. He is under Command. He can’t drop the painting. Yet he did.
Napoleon turns his head to see Illya gripping Sanders’ hand tightly.
Choking sounds are coming from Sanders, his eyes widened in shock as they stare at Illya. Illya stares right back, expression hard.
Sanders’ mouth works through a number of words, only for one to be voiced.
“…How?”
Illya’s fingers tighten around the man’s hand and it starts falling apart, just crumbling like sandstone.
Napoleon can only stare in wonder as cracks break out all over Sanders’s face as his arm disintegrates. He can hear Gaby gasp somewhere behind them, but Illya just stands there, watching Sanders literally fall apart with no indication of surprise. And then Napoleon understands.
Illya broke the spells around Sanders that prevented his aging. How did he know?
The Commands on Napoleon collapse with Sanders.
The muscles holding Napoleon upright give out and he crashes to the floor. A lightness settles into him which is completely at odds with his aching body. Raising his head from the ground is both easy and excruciating.
The windows are shattered. Illya and Gaby are still on their feet, apparently unharmed. On the floor in front of Illya there’s a heap of clothes mixed with what looks like a pile of dust.
All the chaos in his mind resolves into one single thought.
This is his chance, maybe his last. His body screaming in protest doesn’t matter as he forces himself to move. It hurts too much for him to care about pride. He bites his lips, his fangs nicking the soft skin, and crawls to the pile of clothes and ash that used to be Sanders.
His fingers shake as he digs through it frantically. He needs to find his ring, it has to be in there somewhere. The dust he blows up makes him cough and nearly gag with the realization what the dust actually is, but he doesn’t stop. A new cold, sick feeling makes his gut clench, when he comes up empty.
A scream of frustration tears from his throat. This is his only chance of ever getting free. What did he miss? Did Sanders place a spell on it as a failsafe? Or teleported it to his second in command or someone else in the Circle? He feels bile rising in his throat. Napoleon can’t do this again, he just can’t –
“Solo?”
Gaby’s voice startles him. His head jerks up to find her crouched before him, Peril standing above them. Gaby is looking at him with compassion and worry, but Illya’s eyes only flick at him once, before his gaze returns to his hand.
The Hunter’s fingers are still balled into a fist. The hand with which he gripped Sander’s hand and killed him. Sanders’ right hand. None of them move for what feels like an eternity, then Peril uncurls his fingers. Dust trickles down as he turns his hand. Napoleon knows before he sees it. His ring shines in the palm of the Hunter.
And suddenly the last weeks don’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter how Peril treated him, that Gaby might consider him some sort of friend. In this moment it all means nothing to Napoleon. Someone else holds his token and he’s too weak to fight for it and by the time he wakes up, new Commands will be in place.
His eyes flick from his ring to Peril’s face, the Hunter’s expression unreadable.
“Please I-“
He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what will help him this time. His throat is too dry to form words. His eyesight gets blurry around the edges and the room starts to spin. When darkness comes over him, he doesn’t try to fight it.
* * *
There are voices.
He is not alone. Not being alone means he needs to be on alert. He doesn’t know how many or who they are. He tries but can barely blink open an eye. Millions and millions of needles are prickling across his body, agonizing in their numbers.
The voices get closer. He should make himself smaller, curl into a ball, but it’s too hard to move.
Someone calls his name. He should acknowledge them or else he’s in trouble. His eyelids twitch, but still stay closed. His breathing gets more ragged as he tries fails again and again.
Suddenly a hand is on his head, fingers in his hair. He tenses, expecting to be pulled up by it, but instead it moves slowly over his head. The touch is soft but the movement only irritates his skin to the point that it feels like it’s getting ripped off. It’s nothing like the gentleness he remembers from Peril and Gaby and that somehow makes it hurt worse. A sound of pain escapes his lips. The fingers disappear.
He isn’t sure if the shushing is directed at him, but he takes it as his cue to slip into the blissful darkness again.
* * *
“You knew.”
His voice is calm, but the accusation in it is still palpable.
“Yes.”
A heartbeat of silence.
“He thought he would be gone before-“
“I understand.”
He doesn’t sound like he understands.
* * *
The next time he wakes, the ground is shaking below him. He’s covered in some kind of fabric, which feels like sandpaper on his sensitive skin. He would scratch all his skin off except he’s too exhausted to move.
It takes several minutes before he realizes that he’s in some sort of vehicle, from the relative expanse of where he’s lying, probably in the backseat of a car.
He needs even more time to blink one eye open. He was right, he’s in a car, wrapped in a white sheet.
Gaby sits behind the wheel, Peril next to her. The radio is on, playing an Italian song Napoleon knows from somewhere. He can’t stand the brightness, the intensity of the colors, and lets his eye fall shut again.
He concentrates on the song, trying to block out the ever-present pain. As he drifts off to it, a thought occurs to him.
They didn’t leave him behind.
He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.
* * *
“You’re acting like he means nothing to you.”
“He doesn’t. I don’t know him.”
“Not true. You cared then and you still do.”
Wood and metal creaks, heavy footsteps receding.
“At least he cared about you.”
The footsteps stop.
“How would you know?”
“Why do you think he stayed with you?”
* * *
He is not in a car anymore. Or maybe it’s not moving. He’s lying on his side and his body is still aching, but at least he can think now. The sheet is still wrapped around him, but there is no cushion against his back, so no car then.
He’s too comfortable to be lying on the floor. There’s a soft breeze of air and in the next moment he is shivering. Maybe he was cold all along and only notices it now, but he can’t seem to stop. He groans as he curls in tighter, may have been a mistake, because a split second later he hears footsteps.
“Solo? Are you awake?”
He knows the voice. Sunshine and shared dinners and wings. Gaby, friend.
“Cold-“ he breaks off in a cough that shakes him even more.
He feels the – what is he lying on? A couch? A bed? Maybe just a mattress on the floor? –dip beside him. At the first touch to his forehead he flinches. A soft shush, then her palm lies flat against his forehead. It’s only for a few moments, gentle, endurable.
“You feel hot. Are you sick or is it the change?”
He wracks his brain for an answer. The change interferes with his body temperature. Maybe his body is still trying to warm him up to Cat, but given his luck he might as well have caught a cold.
Before he can answer, a heavy blanket is spread over him.
“Better?”
Napoleon nods and buries his face under the blanket. Gaby stays sitting next to him, but he doesn’t mind. It’s nice actually. He doesn’t fall asleep again, but decides to stay under the blanket until the shivers subside.
It only occurs to him, that the blanket appeared without her moving at all, when he hears Peril’s voice.
“This happens every time?”
Napoleon takes a deep breath. At some point he needs to deal with them, the empty spot on his finger, everything. His muscles protest as he draws the blanket down a little, so that his face is uncovered. Gaby shifts slightly next to him. When he looks up to her there is a small smile on her face.
“Are you back with us?”
Napoleon gives her the tiniest nod and for once the movement doesn’t hurt.
“Do you want to sit up?”
He huffs once. His voice is so full of gravel he can only hope that Gaby can understand him.
“Don’t know if I can.”
He tries anyway.
It’s a very slow process, his muscles are on the verge of cramping up, but somehow he manages to get halfway upright. He straightens the blanket a little, looks up and meets a familiar pair of blue eyes across the room.
Peril regards him calmly, leaning in the far corner. He looks normal, as if he didn’t kill the head of the Circle with a simple handshake, which is probably the most unbelievable kill Napoleon has ever witnessed.
For the first time in Napoleon’s life, he finds he doesn’t know what to say.
Hello Peril, this might come as a surprise, but I’m not your cat but a slave of the Circle, though I’m not really sure about my membership status right now. And thank you for giving me free food and shelter, even if the first few batches of cans left something to be desired. By the way would you hand me the ring Sanders’ was wearing for no particular reason?
Somehow he doesn’t think this will cut it.
His eyes flick back between Peril and Gaby. He clears his throat once.
“Where are we?”
Peril speaks up first.
“Still Italy.”
But not exactly where. Illya doesn’t trust him enough him to tell him that.
That doesn’t surprise Napoleon. What surprises him is the sting of it.
He involuntarily glances at Illya’s fingers. His ring is not on them.
Peril gives him a long look before stepping away from the wall and leaving the room, which is far from the confrontation Napoleon had expected. He watches with Gaby as the door shuts behind the Hunter.
Gaby sighs quietly beside him.
“You know, he’s been brooding since we left your house.”
Napoleon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“He didn’t take the whole shapeshifter-business too well, I guess?”
“Can you blame him?”
The I-told-you-so isn’t exactly silent and she’s right, he knows. Peril took him in and cared for him in, when he didn’t have to, and all he got in return was a proverbial punch to his face. Peril has been lied to for weeks in a way that was unforeseeable and personal. Napoleon had his reasons, but that doesn’t necessarily soften the blow.
“Not one bit. I’m just glad I’m missing no limbs.”
Gaby draws her eyebrows together.
“Do you really think he would hurt you?”
Napoleon opens his mouth, closes it again. In all this time he spent with Peril, the Hunter would rather have cut his hand off than laying it on him, but things are different now, aren’t they? He’s not the harmless pet, he’s an enemy agent, despite Peril having now fled the Guild and Napoleon’s being outcast from the Circle. Neither could have known that it would turn out this way when they first met. He doesn’t know what Illya’s original mission was at the theater, but Napoleon’s escape alone probably didn’t make Peril any more popular with Oleg.
And now Napoleon is still bound to his ring and Peril has every reason to distrust him.
Avoiding Gaby’s inquiring gaze, Napoleon takes a look around the room he’s in. Rundown carpet, little furniture besides the bed they’re in, most likely a random, cheap motel.
“How long was I out?”
“About a day.”
Gaby’s eyes stay on him thoughtfully, before she gets up from the bed.
“You should try to rest a little more while you can. Maybe the fever will be gone by the time you wake up.”
Napoleon hums and lets himself slide back down on the mattress, curling in on his side. Maybe everything will make more sense by then. He’s more exhausted than he ever remembers being. Forced changes were never pleasant, but this time was especially bad.
He eyes the empty spot Gaby leaves beside him and he has the strange urge to call her back. The idea of sleeping alone in a bed feels somehow wrong.
He watches her make the way to the door, where she pauses.
“Do you need anything else?”
His ring.
“I’m fine.”
She regards him for a moment.
“The ring is your token, isn’t it?”
Napoleon’s head snaps up at that.
“It’s safe, don’t worry. We took it with us when we left.”
With his finger still ringless, it’s not that reassuring.
* * *
It’s half a day later that he feels well enough to leave the bed. As he rises, he slings the sheet around his hips in an afterthought. Modesty is a strange concept when one spends enough time without needing clothes
Walking is still difficult. He stumbles twice, but refuses to use the wall as a constant support on his way to the door.
The door isn’t locked. Napoleon didn’t hear Gaby lock it behind her when she left, but a small part of him is still surprised when he is able to push it open.
Carefully he shuffles into the simple living room, where Gaby is lounging on a couch reading a newspaper in her hands. Peril leans against the far corner as if he just waited for him to make a move. He probably was.
Gaby lowers her newspaper eyebrows raised.
“Are you sure that you should be up?”
He most likely shouldn’t. His eyes flick to Peril shortly, who just stares at him with an unreadable expression. Gaby is probably the safer bet to ask for anything.
“I need to clean up a bit.”
Gaby face softens and she tilts her head to a door on her left, a few feet away from Illya. “The bathroom.”
Napoleon murmurs his thanks and continues his way carefully.
Peril’s eyes still rest on him as he wills his feet to reach the door without stumbling.
The bathroom is nothing but a small shower tucked in one corner and a bar of soap on the counter, which is after so long all he dared to hope for.
He closes the bathroom door behind him. When he reaches down to turn the key, his eyes fall on his bare finger, hesitating to lock himself in. Was there any use to it, when he could be forced to open the door anyway?
Dismissing the thought, he grabs the soap and fumbles a little at the shower dials before he turns it on. The water turns hot in only a few moments and the pressure isn’t half bad. Napoleon feels a smile tug on his mouth as he steps under the spray.
Folding his ears close to his head, he closes his eyes and just lets the water run down over him.
His body still doesn’t feel quite right. It’s too tall, its limbs feel too long, the fingers too complex. He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the drops hitting his skin. Although his body is still sore and hypersensitive, he missed this. Who would blame him if his first shower in what feels like forever takes a little longer?
The temperature of the water slowly starts to drop. The hot water supply of the motel is probably not the best.
When he starts to use the soap, his fingers feel clumsy and uncoordinated and he drops it almost instantly.
With a small sigh he blinks his eyes open and bends down to pick up the soap.
When he straightens up again, the edges of his vision starts to blur. Instinctively, he braces his arms against the wall and manages to sink down somewhat gently instead of crashing down, when his legs finally give out.
The tiles are hard against his knees. He reaches up to stop the water, but black spots begin to dot his vision, making it almost impossible to keep his eyes open. Bracing himself on his forearms and knees, he crouches down and tries to wait it out.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but every time he tries to get up again, a new, stronger wave of dizziness washes over him.
The darkness behind his closed eyelids starts to tilt, making him sick.
The water is cold by now.
He dimly hears the door slam open behind him. He should have locked it.
He can barely make out a tall form through all the water hitting his face. His knees and arms give way and he collapses on his side. He doesn't quite know if he passes out from his head hitting the tiles or if it's the other way around.
* * *
He wakes up in the same bed, his head pounding, wrapped in a few towels.
It takes a few moments for Napoleon to push past the confusion.
Illya must have dragged him back here, after he passed out.
A groan escapes him, both because his head won't stop hurting and bit of embarrassment.
When he props himself up, next to him is a glass of water and a white pill, painkiller probably. Taking a chance, Napoleon pops it in his mouth and swallows. Why would they try to drug him, if they could just Command him.
Waiting for the effects to kick in, he settles back against the pillows. To his surprise, he finds a pile of clothes left at the foot of his bed.
Curiously he reaches for it. It's a black turtleneck and slacks. Napoleon hums quietly, not really sure what it’s all supposed to mean.
His entire body still aches as he dresses himself, the painkiller kicking in slowly. The turtleneck is a little tight around his shoulders and the sleeves a little long. His tail still sticks out between the shirt and the pants, but it will do for now. He combs his fingers through his hair, attempting to flatten his curls against his head, but without a little product the battle is lost.
There’s a knock on the door.
Napoleon hesitates. Maybe he should ignore it, giving him a little more time to think.
For a few moments nothing happens, then another knock.
With a sigh Napoleon calls out and the door opens.
Gaby sticks her head in. “Can we talk?”
He nods silently. Gaby enters the room into the room, Peril following behind her. Peril stops at the foot of his bed, crossing his arms over his chest, contemplating him. Gaby settles on the edge on the bed.
“Please don’t pull another stunt like that.”
Napoleon shakes his head. Probably not anyway.
Gaby smiles a little. “Are you well enough to get up? We need to leave soon.”
The question is, if we includes Napoleon, or not.
He glances at Illya. The Hunter’s eyes are still fixed on him, but they lost their hardness.
After a few moments, Illya reaches into the pockets of his pants.
Napoleon's ears perk up as Illya approaches, his hand beginning to rise out of his pocket.
Illya holds out his palm. In it is Napoleon’s ring.
He always imagined a chance of being just clever enough, fast enough, and he would steal his ring back and disappear before anyone could stop him. He never expected to have his ring within such easy reach now, openly offered to him.
Somehow he can’t move.
He forces his eyes away from his token and looks up to Illya’s face. A voice inside him screams at him to just take his token and run as fast as he can. He ignores it.
“Why?”
Illya knows what this is, what he could do with it. He’s surprise with how calm he sounds. His mind is racing. Illya already knows what this is, what he could do with it.
The Hunter avoids his eyes, his shoulders falling a little.
“You were a friend.”
Napoleon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the statement. Illya glances back at him. His accent in English is just as strong as it is in German.
“You were a friend, when you did not have to be. So take it and go.”
Too stunned to move, Napoleon just keeps on staring at him, watching Illya’s fingers twitch, his eyes avoiding him.
A few moments pass, before Illya simply drops the ring to the bed in front of him. Without another word the Russian turns on his heels and walks swiftly out of the room.
Napoleon can only blink as he watches him leave the room.
Only the door falling close snaps Napoleon out of his stupor. His ring is still lying on the bed. Cautiously Napoleon picks it up.
The metal feels cold and familiar against his palm. He can see the engraving he put there himself. Holding his breath, he slips it on his finger. It fits perfectly.
He lowers his hand, still aware of the ring’s weight. The moment is surreal. He’s free now, but the rest of him doesn’t quite believe it yet. Creating this token was the worst decision of his life, but he can't change that. Truly destroying a token is nothing anyone ever accomplished. He isn't sure if he should bury it somewhere or keep it in sight.
“He means to say that you are free to go anywhere you choose.”
Napoleon flinches at Gaby’s voice. He turns to her guiltily, he had all but forgotten her presence.
“We are now in Venice and plan to set over to Yugoslavia. If you want to, you can join us.”
It’s not a bad plan. Snuffing out Sanders with all his spells would have been noticed by any magic users within a significant radius. Rome and the small village will be crawling with the Circle once they find out what exactly happened there. Yugoslavia is turf of the Hunters, the chances of them following are a lot less likely.
He glances down at his ring. It’s still on his finger. He’s free. He swallows once before looking up.
Isn’t this what he wanted just a few days ago? He never thought that he would get the chance. Strangely being free became such a vague concept, that he’s not sure what to do with it now.
The only thing he’s sure about is that he owes Gaby and Illya his sanity and his life. Despite everything, they made him feel like there is a place he can belong beyond the Circle. He doesn’t want to leave them, but he’s not staying on the expense of their safety. He glances briefly at the door and then at Gaby.
He’s not as mobile as he’d like to be and holing himself up in one of his houses is out of question, when he doesn’t know which ones have been compromised.
He already cost them almost two days. They are running out of time.
“I’m going to slow you down.”
“We know.”
Gaby looks at him unwavering.
Napoleon hums lowly. There’s still something else he needs to know.
“Is that invitation from you or Peril?”
The question makes Gaby chuckle a little.
“From me, but he didn’t object when I told him about it. Don’t worry too much.”
Not objecting and agreeing are not exactly the same though. From Napoleon’s point of few, Illya for sure is understandably not quite thrilled about the new situation. Only time will tell, if they can work this out. If it comes to it, Napoleon will make his way on his own. Still he hopes that Gaby is right.
“I’ll come with you then.”
A smirk lifts Gaby’s lips.
“Good. We’re leaving now.”
Napoleon raises his eyebrows at her as she stands up from the bed. Well, that is fast. It doesn’t seem like Gaby actually considered that he would turn them down. Maybe she was right about that as well.
Making his way out of the bed is easier than the last time, the painkillers doing their job quite well.
He’s still a little uncoordinated as he steps out of the bedroom. Peril is waiting for them at the door, his jacket and hat already on. Their eyes meet across the room and Napoleon recognizes the look on his face. He saw it back in Berlin, when Illya was studying Gaby’s file, he saw it on the train after Illya covered Gaby with his jacket, in Rome when Illya chose to sleep in his turtleneck. He is worried, unsure what’s about to happen, how this will turn out right.
A few days ago this would have been Napoleon’s cue to go over, offer him comfort and it is strange that he can’t anymore. Napoleon guesses he has get used to not being the beloved pet, just as much as Illya has to.
There’s another jacket and shoes at the door for him. Putting them on is a struggle, but neither Illya nor Gaby show any impatience.
When Napoleon turns to the door, he comes face to face with Peril. The Hunter has his arms crossed in front of his chest and a small frown on his face, effectively blocking his path. He also looks him up and down, eventually settling on up.
"You can't go out like this."
Napoleon blinks once in surprise, feeling a little affronted.
"Excuse me?"
He’s about to comment on Peril’s taste in clothing, when he sees Peril gesture at the top of his head.
“You did not have those in Berlin.”
Napoleon needs a second to realize what Peril is referring to. His ears twitch once.
Well, he still needs to get used to this body again.
“I was in a different form.”
"Can you make them disappear again?"
The mere thought of shifting right now, even voluntarily, makes his stomach drop.
"I'd rather not."
Peril hums once.
With a shrug he takes off his cap and plops it firmly on Napoleon’s head, too quick for Napoleon to duck away.
A little dumbfounded Napoleon stares at the Hunter.
There’s a small twitch at the corners of Peril’s mouth before the Hunter turns back to the door.
"Coming, Cowboy?"
Illya notices the slip-up the same moment Napoleon does, the Hunter’s hand pausing shortly on its way to the door handle.
Now that Napoleon has actually the chance to correct him, he isn’t sure that he minds the nickname. It feels familiar by now, comforting in a way.
He straightens the cap on his head, checking that his ears are covered.
“After you, Peril.”
Illya turns back around to him, looking mildly confused.
“Peril?”
“Only fair.”