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Gaby comes home exhausted, her limbs heavy enough that she just pushes the door closed with her whole body, standing there in the dark for a few moments. She breathes in the smell of home, fighting to resist the urge to lower herself to the floor and not move until morning.
She only refrains because there’d be hell to pay tomorrow, and she’s already sore enough as it is. Instead, she reaches for a lamp that they keep by the door precisely for this kind of situation, so that the poor bastard coming home late enough at night that the others are sleeping doesn’t have to either stagger around in the dark or wake everybody up with a show of lights.
The door to the bedroom is only slightly ajar, not a sound coming from inside.
Gaby kicks her shoes off first and foremost, locks the door because Illya is going to kill her if she forgets, and already she can feel exhaustion dawning on her more than ever, unfortunately accompanied by an unjustified sense of alarm, her brain kicking back into gear enough to go back to the mission, to all the little mistakes that could have turned out to be disastrous, to the unsettling feeling shadowing her as she thinks that she could have done better—she’s fine, she’s at home, she did okay, but her body is being slow at realizing it, all of her senses perking up in alarm and pushing through her exhaustion. Her eyes feel more open than ever. Dammit.
She inhales deeply, realizing too late that she’s been taking shallow breaths that are doing nothing to calm her down, and she heads to the bedroom, hesitating as she slowly pushes the door forward enough to take a peek inside.
They are both asleep, as she figured from their silence – though there was always the chance of them having heard her and just being too lazy to get up to greet her at the door—maybe she’s a little disappointed.
Solo is lying on his stomach, spread like a starfish and taking up way more space than necessary, one arm literally sprawled over Illya’s neck and one leg somehow tucked between Illya’s – how he can sleep like that, she has yet to wrap her head around –, whereas Illya sleeps on his back, one leg bent and one arm under the pillow, leaving plenty of space for her to join.
She considers doing just that, her stomach twisting longingly even as she lets herself smile at the sight, but she knows the signs, she knows that lying down will only make her feel more alert and restless, and if she started twisting and turning she’d wake them up too.
There’s no need for that, she reasons. She’ll be fine.
She turns back half-waiting for someone to stop her, but she makes her way to the couch undisturbed, recovering a blanket and a pillow in the hopes that, in spite of every sign pointing in the opposite direction, she will manage to fall asleep.
A good amount or twisting and turning lands her in a more or less comfortable position. Then—her arm, tucked between her and the backrest, starts itching to move. Everything in her just wants to yank it free, and her legs are numb from staying still, and though it’s dark and there’s nothing to see there are bright spots dancing behind her eyelids and she feels her head floating, like she’s going to lose her grip on herself if she doesn’t open her eyes, and—
She kicks the blanket away, abruptly turning to her side with her eyes wide open and frustration eating at her stomach. That leaves her arms aimlessly sticking around, one uncomfortably crushed by her weight, so she decides to try and hug the pillow. She feels thirsty. The blanket is tangled with her legs now, and there’s a chill running through her. She really should get some water.
Normally, she’d try to take the edge off with a drink, ease herself into sleep, but she’s already feeling slightly nauseous and she took some painkillers for an headache she-doesn’t-remember-how-many-hours-ago, and, really, the only thing that sounds more unpleasant than this is retching in the bathroom.
Though that would probably wake someone up, at least.
Actually, she isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing: the idea of climbing in their bed and squeezing herself between them sounds horribly appealing, enough that she can feel her chest filling up with longing at the thought, but at the same time the idea of them hovering, of hands all over her and worried stares pinning her down—it makes her stomach churn in annoyance, it makes her feel claustrophobic.
Leaving them be is probably the most reasonable course of action.
Still, she isn’t getting anywhere by lying in the dark, somehow growing more awake with each bit of exhaustion that adds itself to the pile, and eventually she pushes herself up, heading to the kitchen and turning on a light.
They are less likely to hear her if she’s in there, keeping herself occupied. She takes out an old radio, which Solo gave to her because he knows that she likes dismantling things, and somehow he has an endless supply of useless stuff to sacrifice to the cause.
At least she’ll have something to do with her hands, and she can already feel each breath coming a little more easily as her mind readjusts to account for something clear and possible to do.
Hopefully, she will tire herself out eventually.
-
Napoleon is woken up by someone shaking him, a pleasant dream about pastries and tilting spoons lingering at the edge of his consciousness for a few moments.
The first thing he feels is cold, and it brings a wave of annoyance through him, his eyelids still sealed and every intention of chasing after his dream, because he is not ready for the dawn of a new day.
“Cowboy, wake up.”
If Illya could so kindly stop shaking him—
He huffs. “Is the house on fire?” he asks, lazily, but he can’t smell any smoke and, really, even if that were the case Illya should just be a gentleman about it and carry him out while he keeps napping for at least another hour or two. He can lift him with relative ease, why is he even bothering him with this?
“Yes,” Illya says, sharply, giving him another shake. “Get up.”
Still not a convincing argument. Napoleon hums, curling his toes and stretching his back a little to chase away some of the uncomfortable numbness in his muscles. “Hold on,” he sighs, his eyes still closed. “I need a minute to decide how badly I want to live.”
In the silence that follows, Illya probably plots to murder him and get rid of the body, whereas Napoleon is disappointed to find that he’s a little more awake with each second that passes and he’s actually pretty thirsty, his throat is so dry—dammit, he is going to have to wake up, isn’t he?
When he cracks one eye open, Illya is staring at him with huge, worried eyes.
Okay, that is a little troubling.
“Gaby isn’t here,” he says, before Napoleon can even ask the question, the slight tremble in his voice telling him that it’s a miracle that he didn’t wake him up by tossing a bucket of water on his face. By the looks of it, he’s about to crawl out of his own skin and he still took the time not to give him a heart attack first thing in the morning. That’s love.
Napoleon frowns, realizing that Gaby was supposed to be back somewhere during the night, and he pulls himself up on his elbows to check that yes, her side of the bed is indeed empty and it doesn’t look like anyone slept in there either.
“Uh. That is weird,” he says, slowly.
Illya glares at him. “She is supposed to be here.”
“Yes, Peril, I’m aware.”
There’s no need to panic just yet. There’s a number of reasons why she might not have come back: spy schedules are only schedules in name, really, they are more like general guidelines, she will probably show up soon, or they will get a call that will be half explaining and half German curse words.
Still, Illya doesn’t seem to have come to the same conclusion, because he looks like he’s planning to personally go to Waverly and make him reveal where exactly Gaby is, what she is doing and why she isn’t back yet.
As much he’d like to see Mr Duty And Obedience defy authority in the name of love, he should probably try to defuse the situation.
“Come on, she probably just got delayed a little,” Napoleon assures, reaching out to give him a friendly pat in the arm. “She’ll be here in no time, deep breaths, Peril.”
Illya glares at him like he’s trying to incinerate him – which, possible – but he does take a deep breath as instructed, so he will count that as a win.
“Good,” Napoleon says, giving him his best smile. “Now, since you so rudely woke me up—” He makes sure to insert a dramatic pause and sound as petulant as he knows how to be, purely so that Illya can get irritated and glare at him—yep, there is it, the death-stare. If he’s plotting his murder he isn’t worrying, right? “—I believe that I’m entitled to breakfast.”
There isn’t much that can distract Illya while he’s gotten himself all worked up like that, but Napoleon is nothing if not persistent, so he scoots closer, grabbing his arm and giving him a shake.
“Come on,” he insists. “Up, breakfast.”
What he gets for his efforts is some grumbling followed by a sharp: “Fine.”
They don’t make it far: they are heading to the kitchen while discussing the merits of pancakes first thing in the morning, when they hear the front door open. Napoleon’s muscles tense for a second, and as he turns towards the unexpected sound he instinctively moves a step closer to Illya.
Then, of course, his brain catches up with his body and he sees Gaby entering, freezing on the spot and looking at them with wide eyes when she notices them. “Oh, good morning,” she says, quickly. “You are awake.” She looks a little like a kid caught with her hands in a cookie jar, and the sight is more than enough for Napoleon’s shoulders to drop in relief.
He might not have been making up worst case scenarios, but it’s still good to have her home.
Illya’s way of welcoming her consists of disappearing in a blur and magically reappearing all wrapped up around Gaby, holding her tight enough to drag a surprised oof out of her. Still, she wraps one arm around him in return, and Napoleon can hear the smile in her voice when she jokes: “Hello to you too—why the warm welcome? I wasn’t gone that long.”
“Oh, he was already busy planning your wake,” Napoleon cheerfully informs her, walking up to them to insert himself in the happy picture and lay a quick kiss on her head. “You know, since you were supposed to be back last night.”
“Right, yes, I was, actually,” Gaby says, nonchalantly and confidently enough that Napoleon is pretty much certain she’s trying to hide something. Illya still has one arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she’s leaning against him with her cheek pressed to his chest. He thinks her smile looks a little weird. “I just didn’t want to wake you up, so I slept on the couch.”
Napoleon raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing awake then? It’s early.” It’s definitely too early for someone who came home late at night to have already woken up. Unless she didn’t sleep at all.
A quick glance at Illya tells him that he’s thinking the exact same thing.
Gaby shrugs. “I was hungry.” She holds up a paper bag. “And since I’m that nice, I went out and bought you two breakfast.”
Napoleon quickly decides, probably a little bit influenced by the inviting smell, that he’ll allow her the obvious out. “Forgiven!” he announces, moving to grab the bag off her.
They can just—let her tuck herself between them on the couch: she’d die before admitting it, but she loves it, so that should be more than enough to her catch some sleep.
After breakfast, though.