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Most people have rituals, even if they don’t realize it. Something they do at a specific time or around a certain event. Illya, Gaby and Napoleon had something like that. It didn’t always happen, it couldn’t always happen, but it was comforting when it did. Like now.
They had completed today’s part of the mission, and had several hours of downtime before tomorrow morning. Even though they were staying in separate rooms, Napoleon and Gaby migrated to Illya’s room out of habit. Napoleon frowned slightly at Illya, and went over to the larger man.
“You and ties don’t seem to agree,” he commented, adjusting Illya’s tie. Illya smirked; his tie was fine, but Napoleon was like that. In his opinion, everything could be improved, except, of course, himself.
In return, Illya handed him a magazine he had gotten from the lobby of their hotel. It was slightly wrinkled from its stay in Illya’s pocket, but Napoleon just thanked him and went over to the couch.
Gaby had found a bottle and glasses, so she poured some for herself and Napoleon, bringing them over to the small coffee table. She handed Napoleon his glass, and he shot her a quick smile before returning to his magazine. She placed hers on the table and sat down on the plush carpet, taking out Illya’s chess set and spilling the pieces onto the table.
He had tried teaching her, but she rarely played, since he was “infuriatingly slow” and always won anyway. But she did know how to set up the pieces, carefully placing each one in its designated spot and adjusting it until she was satisfied with the results.
Finished, Gaby stood up and walked around the table to join Napoleon on the couch, flopping down into the soft cushions. She leaned her head against the armrest and stretched her legs out on top of Napoleon’s lap, sighing contentedly and sipping her drink.
Sometimes, though he hated to admit it (even to himself), Illya was envious of them. Napoleon and Gaby had such a comfortable relationship, and Illya was disgusted by the jealousy he felt. But then Gaby looked up and smiled at him, and the resent slipped away like it had never existed. Illya smiled back, shyly, and sat down in a chair opposite them, where Gaby had set up his chess board.
Napoleon set his magazine down, finally finished, and adjusted his sitting position so he was angled towards Gaby. She wriggled her toes at him, smirking, and Napoleon grabbed her feet with both hands, gently massaging the rough pads. Gaby sighed happily, her eyes partially closed, and Illya stomped down a bubble of anger rising inside him. Napoleon winked at him, and Illya glared back, but the American didn’t seem remotely intimidated.
Illya played two games of chess before Gaby came over, sitting down in front of him. She had her back facing him, and he obligingly began combing through her hair, using his fingers to remove the tangles and knots. She leaned back against his legs, contentedly sipping her drink. Napoleon had apparently decided to make himself at home, and was wandering around Illya’s hotel room, opening cabinets and inspecting everything with a mildly disdainful expression.
“How come you don’t brush my hair?” Napoleon asked, pouting at Illya. Illya snorted, ignoring him. Napoleon asked that almost every time Illya brushed Gaby’s hair, and Illya always ignored him.
That was their routine.