Work Text:
The radio was playing Solomon Burke’s Cry To Me and Gaby started swaying to it.
‘This brings me memories’, she said idly.
Without looking up from his chess game against Napoleon, Illya mutered.
‘I doubt that’.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’, she complained, stopping her little dance to stare at him with her hands on her hips.
‘You were very drunk’.
Napoleon whistled:
‘That’s something coming from a Russian’.
‘Well’, replied Gaby haughtily, ‘I was bored and you wouldn’t help me finish the bottle’.
‘I do not drink during missions’.
‘No? What’s this then?’, she asked with mock-naivety as she picked up Illya’s cognac tumbler, gave it a theatrical sniff and took a sip from it.
‘We are resting’, Illya mumbled awkwardly.
‘So were we back then. You’re just boring. And Solo’s better at tempting you than I was’.
‘Your queen is in danger, Cowboy’, warned Illya, ignoring the outrageous accusation.
‘Is she?’, said Solo slyly, side-eying Gaby. But before he could deliver his clever retort, Gaby grunted.
‘Ugh! Boring, boring, boring! We should go out, otherwise we’ll die of boredom’, she declared as she let herself drop on the sofa, next to Napoleon.
The men kept to their game in silence. The radio was playing something slow and gloomy now. Gaby stared at their downwards faces alternatively for a while, until their silence and stillness unnerved her enough to stand up like a spring.
‘Let’s go. Come on. Let’s go out!’
‘As much as I enjoy pleasing your every whim, my dear, I feel like having a quiet night in today. But you can take Peril’.
‘Not going to happen’, sing-songed Illya, sliding a bishop to a menacing position.
‘Fine’, bursted out Gaby, ‘I give up. I’m going by myself’.
She grabbed her coat and left the suite at a brisk pace.
‘Was she talking about the night you completely destroyed your room the first time we were here in Rome?’
‘Mhm’.
‘Was it then when you started―’
‘We never’, blurted Illya, fixing Napoleon a murderous stare.
‘Check mate’, said Napoleon as he picked Illya’s king from the board, without looking away.
Illya stood up and offered his hand:
‘Good game’.
Napoleon shook it.
‘Don't you want a rematch?’
‘No, thank you. Good night, Solo’.
‘Solo? I’ve made you angry’.
‘I am just tired. Good night’.
As Illya walked away to the bedroom, Napoleon followed closely and grabbed his shoulder, set on obtaining from him a better explanation to his change of mood. Illya, tense and irritated, took Napoleon’s wrist, twisted his arm, turned him around and put a choking press around his neck. Napoleon tapped Illya’s elbow to indicate he was suffocating, but as soon as Illya let go, Napoleon pulled him over his shoulder and onto the floor, quickly straddling him and pinning his arms over his head.
‘Are you going to behave, Peril?’, said Napoleon more than mildly amused.
‘Let go of me’, spat Illya between his teeth.
Napoleon lowered his head and whispered, a couple of inches from Illya’s face:
‘Show me some manners and I’ll think about it’.
Illya growled, closing the gap between them menacingly, but before he could reply, the door to the room opened.
Gaby stood there, remarkably unbothered by the sight Napoleon and Illya offered.
‘I forgot my purse’, she explained as she took it from the top of a dresser and headed back out. ‘Please do go on’.