Work Text:
He has not slept enough, that much is apparent from the way his head aches and the darkness still surrounding him when he startles awake.
Wonderful, really wonderful.
He’d thought, when he climbed still half-dressed into his bed and let his face sink into the pillow, that he’d be exhausted enough to get at least six hours of sleep, to wake up in the early morning at most.
But no, of course not, he had to find himself lying on his back, unease creeping under his skin as he can’t help remembering that they are holed up in a safehouse waiting for extraction and, really, there’s always a chance that they will be ambushed during the night. What better moment to get the better of three spies, right? They are tired enough that gunshots probably wouldn’t even wake them.
He shakes his head lightly, thinking You’re being stupid, Solo, you are as safe as you can get, but he stills anyway, his eyes on the bottom of Gaby’s mattress. She took top bunk without asking, as soon as she stepped into the room, and Napoleon was too tired to even argue for the hell of it, as he normally would.
His ears try to tune to the sound of her breathing, light and barely audible even in the silent room but still bringing some comfort: if he can hear that, there’s probably nothing else to hear.
He stretches his legs, his muscles feeling annoyingly numb: he’d like to get up, walk around the safehouse a little, clear his head, but there’s Illya sleeping in the twin bed on the other side of the room, and he’d definitely hear him.
Though, in all honestly, that makes it sound even a little more tempting, because Napoleon is a selfish bastard and he’d really like to chat his paranoia away at the moment.
Before he can decide how much of an asshole he truly is, though, he turns his head and makes out the shape of Illya’s bed, which is very much empty.
Uh.
Well.
No reason not to get up then, it seems he wouldn’t be the first.
(He ignores the instinctive spike of fear he feels at the sight, attributing the shudder running up his spine to Norway being too fucking cold and the safehouse needing some decent heating.)
He walks out, careful to make as little noise as he can in spite of the creaking floor, a small smile twisting his lips and affection blossoming in his chest as he glances at Gaby, curled up on herself with her face hidden behind her forearms.
As he carefully closes the door behind him, he finds Illya sitting in the middle of the couch, a book at hand, a small lamp turned on and a gun on the coffee table in front of him.
Oh, well, at least Napoleon isn’t the only paranoid idiot in the house.
Illya looks up to him as soon as he steps out, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
Napoleon shrugs, flashing him a bright smile and feeling something loosen in his chest as some of the tension in his shoulders melts away with the loneliness. “I fancied a little midnight walk,” he says, lightly.
Illya rolls his eyes, very theatrically, which Napoleon has come to interpret as a sign of affection, if only because it happens too often and he might start to get offended otherwise. “It’s two in the morning,” he says, evenly. “And it is too cold outside.”
“I’ll walk in circles around the couch then.”
Illya huffs and goes back to his book.
Napoleon isn’t really in the mood to read, but he’s even less in the mood to drink a glass of water and attempt to get back to sleep, so he quickly grabs the first book from the small pile on the coffee table, he eyes the empty chair next to the couch and immediately decides that no, he’s going to be annoying instead.
He squeezes himself between the armrest of the couch and Illya, the space barely big enough for him to fit, even if pressed tightly against his partner, who is eyeing him with a look between dubious and mildly exasperated.
“There’s a chair.”
Napoleon gives him his most innocent of innocent looks. “I saw it, yes.”
Illya stares at him for a few moments more. “I’m not moving,” he says, because he’s just as petty as him, deep down. There is, after all, enough space for him to scoot over and let them both be more comfortable, but he is not going to do that, on principle.
Napoleon shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’m cold anyway.” That said, he opens his book – which appears to have something to do with Greek philosophy – and pretends to start reading.
In reality, his eyes keep skimming over the words, though he makes sure to turn a page every now and then, and he spends more time eyeing Illya and that little concentrated frown on his face than he does even trying to understand what he’s reading.
After all, he’s tired, his head aches, who wants to read with crappy lighting in the middle of the night?
He soon even grows tired of holding the book up, and he lets it slip forward a little, towards his chest, as his eyelids grow heavier. He’s shamelessly slumped, the top of his head nearing the height of Illya’s shoulder – because of course he is sitting upright –, and he thinks that this is much better than the bed, warmer and somehow safer. It’s good to make out the outline of Illya’s face through his half-closed eyelids, it’s even better to know that he has a gun at hand and he’s ready to use it.
“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Napoleon asks, over a suffocated yawn.
Illya turns to him, pauses to consider him, and then Napoleon could swear that something on his face softened right then and there. “I will keep watch,” he says, easily. “You sleep, Cowboy.”
Napoleon hums, feeling more relieved than anything else, and lets go of the book, something in him whispering safe and sleep coming more easily than he would have thought.
She hears him walk out, hears the few muffled words that he exchanges with Illya, because the walls are paper thin and so is the door, and as she lies awake and slightly cold in the safety of her bed something in her pushes for her to get up, climb off, join them.
A part of her is scared. She hates being scared, hates feeling like she’s in over her head with no idea how not to drown, and that’s somehow funny, because it’s how she’s been feeling since when this whole spying business started.
Perhaps it is only rational to want to seek comfort from two men who certainly are more used to this life and more competent when it comes to navigating it than she is.
Except if there’s one thing that experience has taught her is that relying on others doesn’t work, not on the long run. They eventually disappoint.
She needs to learn how to fend for herself in this business, and perhaps if she grits her teeth enough she will learn how to stop feeling like she’s spinning out of control.
Still, there must be better places to learn than on an old mattress in Norway, the cold subtly making its way under her bones even as she curls more on herself and pulls the blanket up to her chin.
If Solo had stayed in the room there would at least be two people breathing in that little hole of a room. She wouldn’t be as cold.
The small window, not big enough for anybody to push themselves through, probably not even her, lets out an ominous creak, the kind of thing that years ago might have made her cower under the blanket and that right now makes her go rigid for a few moments, her eyes fixated on the possible entry point as she stupidly holds her breath – it’s not like it will make her any smaller.
Nothing comes, of course. There’s just silence, and cold, and then the sound of Illya’s voice, for a moment, just long enough for her stomach to shrink on itself and loneliness to push heavily behind her eyes.
She hates that sometimes she still feels so much like a little girl looking for protection.
She isn’t sure how long she stayed there, awake and occasionally shuddering, an uncomfortable weight settled in her chest and the fact that at least she isn’t crying serving as her only consolation. Eventually, she pushes herself up.
She’ll just look for an extra blanket, she thinks. She’ll check that they haven’t killed each other, because they’ve been quiet for too long. She’ll make a quick sweep of the house, because she’s a good agent and if she’s awake she might as well make herself useful.
They are both on the couch, Illya sitting in the middle, Napoleon squeezed next to him, using him as a pillow. Gaby envies his shamelessness, her stomach churning at sight of the cosy scene before her.
There’s a gun on the coffee table, because of course there is.
Illya looks up to her, a book on his lap and another in his hand. He must have been awake for a while. “Can’t sleep?” he asks, soft and a little worried and immediately slaughtering any and all excuses that she had repeated to herself as she climbed off her bed. He looks like he’d give her the world, if only she dared to ask.
It makes her want to run, but she isn’t sure in which direction.
“It’s cold,” she says, which is true, in more than one way.
Illya hums, lets his eyes drift for a moment, looks back to her. “Would you like to join?” he offers, tiling his head to his left, to the empty space next to him. “I’m stuck already.”
Every hard-won survival instinct she has tells her to turn on her heels and flee, that even if he is here now he will crumble from under her sooner rather than later, but she’s cold and tired and Napoleon looks so peaceful as he sleeps that she can’t help wanting. She wants to trust him, she wants to let herself have this, she wants to believe that if he hasn’t yet let her down then maybe he isn’t going to.
She starts walking before she can think any better of it, and then she’s easily settling in the empty space next to him, curling up with her knees and arms to her chest. He holds still as she slowly rests her forehead against his arm, grateful for the heat radiating off him, hating the comfort at the same time.
It's just—too good to be true. She can’t help thinking that the rug will be ripped off from underneath her, if she gets too comfortable. She thinks she might bring it all down herself, that maybe even he is too soft for all her sharp edges.
“Have pleasant dreams,” she hears him say, barely above a whisper.
The worst part is that she just might.
Illya knows when Gaby has finally drifted to sleep because she leans a little more towards him, curls around his arm and clutches at his sleeve hard enough that he can feel her nails through his sweater.
It took her a little while, definitely longer than it took Napoleon, who pretended to be reading for perhaps fifteen minutes before he started drifting. Gaby is always a little more guarded, like she’s always a little at war with the world. It prides him that she trusts him enough to curl up beside him on a restless night.
They both trust him.
It’s hard to find a word for the thing that squeezes his chest when he looks at them, feels the heat of Gaby’s cheek against his arm, hears Napoleon’s heavier breaths as he lies with half his weight against his side. He’s rolled over a little in his sleep, after Illya removed the book from his chest, fearing that it’d drop at some point and jolt him awake. Now Napoleon’s hands are tucked behind Illya’s back, probably seeking warmth, his knee is planted firmly against Illya’s and his forehead is pressed against his arm.
It's not the most comfortable of positions, for Illya at least, but he doesn’t dare moving, instead lying a little farther back against the couch, slowly and carefully, afraid that the tiniest movement might disrupt the equilibrium they’ve found.
It brings a fond smile to his lips, and if he’s a little scared of his good fortune, if he fears everyday that something will come to take them away, be it a mission gone wrong or an end to their partnership or his own stupidity, he can easily ignore it for a time, at least when it’s so quiet and peaceful and all he has to do is sprawl the blanket on his legs a little better, so that it’s reaching them both, and keep watch.
They’ve come to him for a safe place to sleep and that, at least, he knows he can provide. His current position might not be the most practical in case of any actual need of reaching for his gun, but he can’t bring himself to mind too much: they trust him, and that is a thought that he cherishes with all his might.