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“I know him,” Napoleon said after Waverly displayed the mark’s face. Thomas Nicholls was a good-looking man, with wavy brown hair just starting to gray around the temples. There were other obvious signs of age, probaby mid-fifties, but he wore it well. The wrinkles by his eyes and on his forehead looked like carefully-sculpted accents. Given the circles Napoleon had run in, they likely were.
Illya rolled his eyes. From her seat on the couch next to him, Gaby scoffed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I wasn’t aware you’d met,” Waverly said, flipping through a small file. He pulled out a few more pictures and set them on the desk.
“Of course you were,” Napoleon said. He was leaning against the desk and looked down to see the new additions.
“Thieving buddies?” Gaby guessed.
“He’s no thief,” Napoleon scoffed, like the implication was an insult to him. “He’s a dealer. A middleman.”
“So he sold the art you stole?” Illya asked accusingly.
Napoleon tilted his head and smirked a little. “Not quite. He deals mostly in antiquities. Artifacts and books and such.”
“And, allegedly, designs for nuclear weapons.”
“You sure know how to make friends, Solo.” Gaby teased.
He smiled at her. “I have a refined taste.”
Gaby snorted. Illya spoke. “That is a lie.”
“Are you quite done?” Waverly asked with a sigh. “Fate of the world, and all.”
“Of course.” Gaby said. “Continue.”
“If I get you to New York, do you think you can restart business with him?” Waverly asked.
“As I was saying, I was never in business with Thomas.”
“How do you know him then?”
“We had, uh,” Napoleon paused in a way that meant he was about to imply something impolite and he wanted to be sure his audience knew it was impolite. “Similar interests.”
That only ever meant one thing, and Illya hated to pretend that it didn’t. “Beautiful women.” He said.
“Beautiful men,” Napoleon corrected, which stopped Illya dead. Neither Gaby nor Waverly even blinked at it, though, and Napoleon continued. “Exclusively, on his part. My tastes aren’t quite so discerning.”
“Can you get an invite?” Waverly asked.
“Probably. I know a few places to look for one, anyway.”
“He means clubs. Dirty, illegal clubs,” Gaby clarified, though for who’s sake Illya didn’t know. He was still reeling, a little, from the direction the conversation had taken.
“Good. Take Kuryakin.” Illya looked up at the sound of his name, shocked that anyone was still paying attention to him.
“Not Peril’s usual scene, I’m afraid.”
“He’ll do it.” Waverly looked to Illya for confirmation.
“Unless you don’t think you can handle it?” Napoleon asked, one eyebrow raised in a taunt.
That startled Illya enough to speak. “I can handle it.”
“Really? Bet you break character before I do.”
This, at least, was familiar territory. Illya felt more settled for all that Napoleon was still poking at him. “Our work is not a game.”
“Sure it is.”
“This is what makes you such a terrible spy.”
“You forfeit, then?” Napoleon asked. It was ridiculous of him, really, to try so hard to pull Illya along on his games.
It was ridiculous of Illya to play along. “Of course not. You will break first.”
Napoleon smiled. “You’re on, Peril.”
Something settled heavily in Illya’s stomach.
***
Illya was staring at the chessboard when Gaby sat on the chair across from him. The safehouse they stayed in whenever they were in New York was extravagant, with two bedrooms and a common area. Illya had spent their first few visits sleeping on the (really very comfortable) couch until Gaby had dragged him to her room one night and convinced him to stay. She could be very convincing.
She could also be infuriating, which she decided to demonstrate by moving the white rook two spaces forward. It was a stupid move. He moved the black bishop to capture her piece. She smiled and reached for a pawn.
Three moves later, she spoke. “You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to. Waverly can find someone else,” she said in Russian. She was learning it well, but her accent was still clipped.
“You are as bad as Solo.”
“Just saying, it’ll do no one any good if you stew the whole time and lose it in the bar.”
“The queer bar,” Illya said, then translated the word for Gaby. She nodded.
“You seemed caught off guard in the debrief.”
“It is just--” Illya paused. “I am not used to talking about such things so openly. It’s not something discussed in Russia.”
“It isn’t anywhere that I know. That’s just Napoleon. You know how he is.”
“Unfortunately.” Illya picked up a knight and smoothly checked Gaby’s king.
“You said…” Gaby shook her head and moved the king. “Does that mean you’ve. Or that you’re--”
That was when Napoleon walked in. Illya silently thanked him for his timing.
He had changed, which wasn’t unusual. Napoleon would change his clothes three times a day even if he wasn’t dressing for a part, which Illya could never make sense of. This outfit, though, was unusual. Napoleon had departed from his usual three-piece suit in favor of dark brown pants and a white dress shirt. Over one arm, he’d laid a lighter brown jacket in a tight plaid pattern than Illya was sure he’d never seen before.
“Ready?” Napoleon saed, adjusting the buttons on his sleeves. Illya knew that they were already perfect before he walked out, and knew Napoleon only did it because he liked how it looked.
Illya stood. He was grateful to have a way out of the conversation, even if it wasn’t an escape. “Yes.”
Napoleon froze. “No you’re not.”
“What do you mean, I’m not?”
“Well you can’t go looking like that.”
Illya looked down at himself. He looked the same as he ever did. “What?”
“It works for the Soviet-Invasion thing you have going on, but I would never dress my man in the clothes you put yourself in.” Gaby snorted and made no effort to hide it. Illya glared at her. “If we’re going to sell this you’ll have to be wearing less--” Napoleon gestured to Illya’s entirety. “Less.”
“Less?” Illya asked, his voice a little higher than he would have liked.
Gaby nodded. “Less.” She stood up and gave him a once-over. “Napoleon, go grab something nicer.”
“Of course.” He smiled.
Once Napoleon had retreated, Gaby spoke again.“Take off the shirt.”
“Sorry?”
Gaby tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows. “Napoleon is right. Take it off,” she said sternly.
It kept happening with Gaby, like this. They’d ignore whatever they’d said or done (nevermind if it had been seconds or days — none of that mattered) and Gaby would tilt her head and demand something of him. He always gave it to her. It was how she got him into her bed the first time, and the second, and why he was sleeping in her room.
It was foolproof, and she knew that. Illya grabbed the hem of his turtleneck with both hands and pulled in up over his head. When he looked back at her, Gaby smiled appreciatively. “Danke,” she said in a way that made his breath catch.
There was a cough from the edge of the room. Illya’s eyes snapped away from Gaby’s. Napoleon was leaning casually against the door frame, grinning like he had the upper hand. Illya looked at the shirt in Napoleon’s hands and considered that he probably did. He was going to kill the man. Or punch something. Probably Napoleon.
Gaby didn’t look nearly as caught as Illya felt. “Thank you, Solo.” She turned to Illya. “Put it on.”
Which meant that Illya had to take two steps forward to grab the shirt from Napoleon. He took it, had to pull a little to get Napoleon to let go, and then realized suddenly what it was.
Illya looked down. It was a pale green polo, with a logo embroidered on the front that he didn’t recognize. It was also Napoleon’s. He stared at it, wondering what it meant that he was about to wear Napoleon’s shirt and why that made his throat feel tight.
He forced himself to unclench his fists and pull the shirt over his head. He started doing the buttons. As he finished the third, Napoleon stepped close and pushed his hands away. “I believe we said less,” he drawled as he undid all three buttons and pushed the sides of the collar flat. Illya’s neck and chest were exposed and Napoleon’s hands were still on him and Napoleon was looking at him with that horrible, infuriating smirk still across his lips.
“Get off of me.”
“Oh, Peril,” Napoleon grabbed his chin and pulled down so they were looking at each other. Illya clenched his jaw. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”
“Not…” Illya forced himself to relax, unclench. “Not here.”
“Alright, then.” Napoleon finally stepped back and Napoleon felt like he could breathe again. “I’ll get us a cab.”
Gaby held the door and smiled like Illya wasn’t still frozen with his fists clenched at his sides.
He thought about what Napoleon had said in the briefing, “My tastes aren’t quite so discerning.” If that meant…
He couldn’t dwell on that. Gaby had already compromised him enough. It was a job, and nothing more.
***
Hours later, Illya was standing in a dark room, feeling suffocated by the people around him and the smell of their sweat. The music was loud and the speakers were blown out, so that all Illya heard was an unrelenting noise that tried to shape itself into a beat. There were lights, small purple ones scattered around the room, but they did little to light up the room.
It was their third stop of the night, and Illya was certain that even if Nicholls was there, they’d never find him.
“You’re going to break first,” Napoleon said, leaning closer so that no one else could hear them over the thumping of the music.
Illya sipped his drink. It was something fruity, far too sweet, but he saw four other men order the same thing and did not want to seem strange. “I will not.”
“Sure,” Napoleon nodded. He was still too far into Illya’s personal space, but that was their cover. Illya was the one who needed to control his reaction.
It wasn’t getting any easier. Not that Napoleon was helping, parading him around with a hand on his back like Illya was something to show off.
“I think I see him,” Napoleon said, as if it weren’t a minor miracle that he could see anything in the room. “Come.” Illya had no choice, really, but to be led.
As they got closer, Illya started to make out Nicholls at one of the booths in a corner. There was a table full of empty glasses in front of him and a man to either side, seemingly hanging onto his every word. Illya and Napoleon didn’t walk directly up to Nicholls. There was an open space at the corner of the bar where Napoleon stopped and pulled Illya in front of him.
The hands on his hips were just to move him so that Napoleon could see and be seen from the table. The face pressed against his, cheeks barely touching, was so that they could hear each other without being heard. That didn’t stop Illya from tensing.
“Relax,” Napoleon said while his hands ran up Illya’s sides, which didn’t help. “Or are you going to break so quickly?”
Illya resisted the urge to shove Napoleon and instead wrapped his arms around Napoleon’s shoulders. He leaned back and forced himself to release the tension in his body. “I already said. You first.”
Napoleon smiled then. It was still teasing, but if Illya didn’t know any better he’d swear that there was something else too. He couldn’t stop looking at it.
“Solo?” Someone yelled from next to them. “Is that you?”
Napoleon turned and pretended to notice Nicholls for the first time. “Tommy?” He moved Illya aside a little to get a better look. He went easily and fell into place behind Napoleon’s left shoulder. After thinking about it a moment, he placed his hand there. It seemed like something he should do, and a familiar enough position to do it from. “Tommy Nicholls?”
“What are you doing here?” He tried to yell over the music and he grabbed two glasses from the bartender. “C’mon, both of you, have a drink with me!”
“Oh,” Napoleon put his hands up. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Please, I insist. I have my own table, with my name and everything.”
“Alright, alright,” Napoleon said, resigned as if that hadn’t been his intention. “Lead the way.”
The booth was stick, dark, and only slightly quieter than the bar had been. One of the other men Nicholls had been with was still there, one leg sitting next to him on the bench. He gave Illya a once-over.
“Heya, handsome.” He said.
“Solo, meet, uh,” Tommy stopped then and looked blankly at the other man. “Jason, was it?”
“Cameron. Jensen just left.” Cameron said.
“Right. Cameron,” Tommy slid into the booth next to him, right into the space his lifted leg provided. “Thanks for waiting.”
“You promised me a drink.”
Tommy set a glass down in front of him. “I keep my promises, darling.” Cameron rolled his eyes but took it anyway.
Nichols leaned back to talk to Napoleon, but stayed touching Cameron. Apparently Napoleon took that as a hint, because as he slid into the booth he sat close enough to place one hand on Illya’s leg. “I never thought I’d see you again. What are you doing back in town? Last I heard you were taking a lot of heat.”
This was the part Illya hated. The talking. They’d need to do a lot of it, until Nicholls invited them to the auction on his own. Or at least, what he thought was his own. Even in his native language, Illya hated the delicate back and forth that such a conversation required.
Luckily, Napoleon excelled at it. “I just got back from a tour in Europe.” It was true, but the way Napoleon said it was laced with all kinds of lies. “It’s a nice place to stay still and quiet for a while, and they’ve got some incredible views.”
“That they do,” Nicholls nodded. He looked over at Illya as if noticing him for the first time. “And who’s this with you?”
“Just someone I picked up behind the Curtain,” Napoleon said as if it were the most casual fact. “Peter, this is my old friend Tommy Nicholls. Tommy, this is Peter Koslov.”
“A pleasure,” Nicholls said. Illya was finding it difficult to respond, because the music was still overwhelming and Napoleon's thumb was tracing small circles on his thigh.
Luckily, Napoleon stepped in. “Forgive him, he’s still new. His English is miles better than my Russian, but…” Napoleon shrugged. It was true, even if he’d never admit it out of character. Illya smirked despite himself and Napoleon squeezed his thigh.
“Eh, we don’t keep 'em around for conversation, do we?” Nicholls said.
“Hey!” Cameron mock-protested. “Are you just using me for my pretty face?”
“You’re just using me for free drinks,” Nicholls said. Cameron nodded and leaned closer, wrapping one arm around Nicholl’s waist.
“And what about you?” Napoleon asked. “What have you been doing?”
Illya took the opportunity to lean back and watch the other people in the room. There was nothing to see, really, but Peter wouldn’t be very interested in Napoleon and Nicholls catching up.
Neither, apparently, was Cameron. He threw back the last of his drink and slammed it on the table. “I’m bored, and I’m going dancing,” he announced loudly. “Are you going to keep paying or should I find somebody else?”
Nicholls grabbed Cameron’s chin and pulled him close. “Put everything on my tab and meet me after.”
“Deal,” Cameron said, and kissed him. It was quick and when he pulled back he looked at Illya. “Coming? We’ll let them talk.”
Illya looked to Napoleon, who nodded. “Have fun, darling,” and the way he said it had to be made to make Illya’s skin feel hot. It was fake, just like everything else here. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Napoleon leaded in then, close enough that they were sharing breath. Illya’s breath caught, which was absurd, because if he was pretending to be Napoleon’s whatever then of course, of course Napoleon would kiss him and he should have already been prepared for that.
But Napoleon pulled away. “Not yet,” he whispered.
When Illya left the booth, Cameron was shaking his head. “I can find you ten guys who wouldn’t tease you like that, if you’d like.”
Illya turned back to where Napoleon and Nicholls had started talking again. “It is alright,” he said. “I do not mind, so much.”
***
The auction was above the bar. They’d scoped it out that morning while the sun was up, when Illya could see the painted-over and crumbling facade. It had “The Vault” written in neon letters over the doorway. Illya thought they looked better off.
“I still can’t believe you’re leaving me outside,” Gaby said. It was dark now and they were waiting around the corner in a small, boxy car Gaby had chosen. She was sitting in the driver’s seat drumming on the steering wheel.
Napoleon shrugged from the passenger seat. “We need someone to do it, and Illya’s too pretty.”
“That we agree on.”
Illya, curled over himself in the back, pointedly didn’t look at them. He was in his own clothes, this time, but looking at either of them still made his skin itch. “Keep track of—“
“—who comes in and out, license plates, yes. I made the plan, Kuryakin.”
“And the audio-“
Gaby hit a button and the car radio gave out a high-pitched whine. Neither he nor Napoleon flinched, just turned to look at her after she turned it off. “Don’t question me,” she said.
“I wasn’t-“
“Stop panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“Sure,” Gaby said. “You should go.”
“We’re fashionably late,” Napoleon said, but he did open the door.
“He just likes to make an entrance,” Illya grumbled to Gaby.
“It’s what we like about him.” Gaby turned around in her seat. “You look good.”
“Solo said so too.”
“Solo was right.”
Just then, Solo knocked on the window. Illya climbed out and tried not to think about the rest of the night, about how Napoleon would place and hand on his arm or his back or his shoulder and they’d have to pretend to be something.
He definitely did not think about how easy it would be to get lost in pretending.
It was a good thing Illya was supposed to be paying attention to the other guests, because if he had been forced to pay attention to what Napoleon was saying to anyone he would have lost it.
They’d made it through the music to the upstairs rooms. It was a large room, with rows of chairs facing a stage up front. About half the room was open space, which was where most of the other guests were. They looked the kind of wealthy that expected you to recognize them, but Illya didn’t know who anyone was.
Except, of course, Thomas Nicholls. “Solo! Glad you made it.”
“Almost didn’t,” Napoleon jokes. “It’s a good touch, making people walk in the front door.”
“It keeps anyone I don’t want to do business with out.” Nicholls threw an arm around Napoleon’s shoulder. Illya couldn’t explain the way that made him want to reach out, so he didn’t. “And look at the faces on these uptight morons! Keeps them from getting too comfortable.”
“You’d also know if the cops show up.”
“Also, that.” Nicholls laughed. “We’re gonna get started in a minute, if you want to find a seat.”
“Of course,” Napoleon said. He wrapped one hand around Illya’s arm and used it to pull him gently toward the chairs.
“He’s drunk,” Illya said.
“He’s always drunk. It’s part of his charm.”
“I don’t find it charming.”
“You’re a difficult man to charm.” He half-pulled Illya into a seat. “Not for lack of trying.”
It was clear in moments that the plans Waverly had sent them for weren’t there. Everything on sale was ancient or made entirely of .
Most of it was lost on Illya, but apparently not on Napoleon. “He’s labeled that wrong,” he said, directly into Illya’s ear, as The woman on stage with Nicholls held up a vase. “It’s Mongolian, and at least four hundred years younger than he’s advertising.”
He seemed genuinely upset, which amused Illya immensely. “No one else is complaining.”
“Even if they were paying enough attention to notice, they wouldn’t say anything. It’s worth more if it’s Chinese and no one here has any integrity.”
Illya couldn’t help but laugh at that, which earned him a glare from the person in front of him. “You are a spy. And a liar. And a thief.”
“Yes, but I have standards.” Napoleon said as the vase sold for several thousand dollars more than it could possibly be worth.
The woman set it down and pulled out a black velvet box. Inside was a simple golden chain. “This, see,” Napoleon said as Nicholls started talking. “This I can understand.”
And then he started bidding.
“What are you doing?”
“We have to buy something.”
Illya didn’t think that was true, but wasn’t going to argue. Not when there were better points. “With what money?”
“Don’t worry, not a penny comes from UNCLE’s pockets.”
“Where does it come from?”
Napoleon looked at him out the corner of his eyes, a small smirk on his face. “You don’t know everything about me.”
“I know your assets were seized.”
“The CIA definitely doesn’t know everything about me.” Napoleon raised the paddle again. No one else did.
When the rest of the auction was over, they walked to the front to meet Nicholls.
“You’re here for yours, of course.” And then, to Illya, “He’s always been this eager, I’m sure you know.”
“I do,” he said, and tried to pretend it meant nothing.
Nicholls led them to the back.
“This seems like a small store.”
Nicholls nodded as he took one of the boxes from the table. “Oh, I don’t keep most things here. You picked one of the few on hand.” He turned and handed it to Napoleon. “Gotta be honest, though, I didn’t think this was your style.”
“It isn’t,” Napoleon said as he opened the box. It was a simple box, but even Illya could tell it was worth more than some houses. “It’s for him.”
Illya froze. It was an act, of course, but as Napoleon pulled the chain out of its container and held it in the light he thought maybe one of them had forgotten.
Napoleon unclasped the chain and moved around him, slowly. “Stand still,” he said calmly. Illya couldn’t see it but he felt Napoleon’s fingers on his neck. The chain was heavier than he thought it would be, or maybe that was in his head. It settled easily, glinting on his chest. He could feel Napoleon moving around him until they were face-to-face.
“Gorgeous,” Napoleon said with one finger still caught in the chain, like he was something precious.
The thought made Illya feel charged, electric. He felt like… well. It would make a lot of sense to be in love with him, actually, if it wasn’t completely insane.
Illya wanted to move. He wanted to shove Napoleon away just to get a little space. He wanted to stop feeling so intensely that he thought he would explode with it.
“I need to step outside,” he said, hoping no one picked up on the way his voice shook.
“I’ll join you,” Napoleon followed him. Illya didn’t have it in him to tell Napoleon not to. “Don’t wait up.” Napoleon said to Nicholls with a wink. Illya sped up.
Illya was almost through the crowd downstairs when Napoleon grabbed his arm to stop him. He spun around, preparing for a fight. That, at least, would be familiar.
“What’s going on?”
“It isn’t real.” Illya said. “None of this.”
Napoleon looked shocked. “I know.”
“Do you? You can’t…” he pulled at the chain. “What is this?”
“It’s…” and whatever real thing had been on Napoleon’s face disappeared, lost in the careful mask he always wore. Illya hated it. “It’s the cover.”
“You didn’t have to-“ Then, Illya saw saw Nicholls walk into the main club. Napoleon saw it too, and stepped closer. They were touching, now, and Illya was about to make a scene. Damn the plan and the bar and Waverly and all of it.
“It worked, didn’t it? I had to know where he was keeping the intel. Now we know.” Napoleon said. He wrapped on hand around Illya’s neck and pulled him down. It was for Nicholls’ benefit, Illya knew. He gritted his teeth against it. “Like you said, it’s not real.”
Nicholls must have left, because Napoleon let him go. The instant he did, Illya made for the door.
He didn’t stop until he and Napoleon were climbing into the car.
“You’re early.” Gaby remarked easily. Her notebook was still in one hand, the page full of her messy scrawl.
“It’s not there,” Illya said. “He keeps the high-profile things at his home outside the city and meets up with the buyers after.”
“And you didn’t already know that?” Gaby asked Napoleon. “I have been sitting here taking notes for hours and it didn’t matter?”
“We didn’t exactly talk business when we knew each other.” Napoleon shrugged. “I just have to get us into his place. Easy enough.”
“You’re insufferable, Solo.”
“Peril doesn’t think so, right Peril?”
Illya looked at Napoleon. His fists clenched. He felt like the chain was superheated, burning and choking him at once. “She’s right,” he managed to say.
“Hah!” Gaby laughed and pointed at Napoleon. “Insufferable.”
“I yield,” Napoleon said to her, but he was looking at Illya. Illya wished he would stop.
***
The chain was still sitting on Illya’s bedside table three days later. The morning sunlight glinted off of it. Illya stared at it for a moment. For the last three days, Napoleon had been avoiding him. Not that Illya had been trying to talk. Whatever was between them had become too much to look at.
Illya pulled himself away from the chain and walked into the main room. Napoleon was in the kitchen and tensed when he noticed Illya. It was subtle, and anyone who knew him less would never have noticed, but his hand squeezed around the pan in his hand. He was cooking something at the stovetop. He wouldn’t leave it alone and Gaby wasn’t there to distract him. It meant Napoleon couldn’t avoid Illya, now. Not that he knew what to say.
Napoleon made the decision for him. “I met up with him. Nicholls.”
“Oh,” Illya said. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Napoleon didn’t look at him, just stirred the pot. “I’m trying to find out where he keeps everything. You know, the job?” He stepped around Illya to open the fridge. They didn’t touch. They didn’t even come close.
“Did you find anything?”
“He invited me to a party at his house tomorrow. Friends only”
“How many times did you fuck him?” Illya said. It came out harsh and biting because he couldn’t figure out how to make the words sound any other way.
Napoleon sighed angrily and slammed the fridge door. “Why do you care?”
“How many?”
“Three!” Napoleon yelled. He turned off the burner and removed the pot. “And it was fun! And you shouldn’t care.”
“It is important to the—“
“No, it isn’t.”
“All week you have been on me—“
“For the job! It was fake, which you made abundantly clear.”
“And then you pull away like you can’t bear to look at me!”
“Because I can’t!” Napoleon yelled. He looked shocked, like he didn't mean to say it.
“What is that—“ Illya moved closer. He loomed over Napoleon, pinned him to the counter. “What does that mean?”
When Napoleon spoke, the rage was gone from his voice. In its place was something sad, resigned. “You have Gaby, is what.” Napoleon shoved him, hard, and Illya was unbalanced enough that he stumbled backward. There was enough space for Napoleon to get past him.
Illya didn’t move as Napoleon slammed the door to his room.
***
“You don’t have to come to the next one.” Napoleon said to Illya in the main room. Gaby was reading on the couch, but shifted enough that Ilya knew she was paying attention.
It caught Illya off guard enough that he knew it was showing in his face. “Yes, I do.”
“No,” Napoleon said. He was fixing the sleeves on his suit, again, because he liked doing it. Illya wanted to stop him. “I can get closer to him alone.”
“Oh,” was all he could think it say. It wasn’t that he wanted to go, just that. Well. He’d expected to. Been preparing for it, to have Napoleon’s hands and eyes and attention on him for another night. “And you’ll be alright?”
Napoleon laughed, just once, and it was heartless. “Always, Peril.” And then, without another word, he left.
He stared at the door until Gaby set her book down and spoke. “What is that about?”
“I don’t…“ he started, before he realized he did know. “We fought.”
“You always fight.”
“Yes,” Illya conceded. “This wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
Illya tried, and failed, to find some way to describe it. He settled on staring at the ceiling. “I think I meant it.”
“You love him.”
“I love you.”
“I never said you didn’t.” She moved so that they were next to each other, almost touching. “Illya. Look at me.” He did. He always caved to what she asked of him. “You should tell him.”
“What would that do?”
“What do you want it to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what I want.” She moved again. Their legs were pressed together and she was facing him, hands in her lap. “I want to track him down, and drag him back here, and pin him to the couch.”
Illya shut his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. Gaby swung one leg over his lap to straddle him and the crawling under his skin felt exactly like it did when Napoleon touched him. He nodded.
“Do you think about kissing him?”
Illya startled and shifted. “I don’t let myself.”
“I do.” Gaby placed one hand on his cheek. “He’d be good at it.”
“Gaby-” she cut him off by kissing him, long and slow and deep.
“Think about it,” she said, and he’d never been able to refuse her anything.
***
Illya ended up sitting in the car with Gaby outside of Nicholls’ house. Napoleon hadn’t met them before they were supposed to be there. They’d had to drive separately and were parked in a line of other cars.
The radio played an audio feed from inside. It was worse, Illya had decided, to hear Napoleon from this far away instead of right next to him. It was worse when he started talking to Nicholls and Illya just had to imagine what they were doing, how they were standing.
“Where’s your boy?”
“You know how those types are,” Napoleon paused then. Illya could imagine what he was doing, the small sigh and the wave of his hand. “He left once he’d had his fill of shiny things.”
“Broke your heart, didn’t he?”
Illya sucked in a breath. He could feel Gaby looking at him, but couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the little radio.
“Yeah,” Napoleon said. He said something else, after, but Illya missed it. He had thrown open the door and was stepping out of the car before he even realized he was doing it. He just— he needed space, needed a place to go before he exploded, even if—-
Even if it was part of the cover.
Illya hit the roof of the car once, hard, almost enough to dent it, and leaned his forehead against the spot he’d hit.
“Illya,” Gaby said urgently. “Illya, look.” He turned to where she was pointing. “Isn’t that?”
“Yvette Orileni,” Illya said. They’d met her a year ago in Hong Kong. She was supposed to be in prison somewhere in England.
“She’ll recognize him.” Of course she would. Napoleon had gotten close to her, snuck Gaby in, and then ruined her plans and gotten her arrested. She’d recognize any of them. “We have to get him out of there.”
Before he’d thought twice about it, Illya was charging to the entrance. Gaby said something behind him but he barely heard her.
He was just behind and five steps from the door Orileni when two security guards stopped him. “Who are you?” One asked.
Illya was considering the scene it would cause if he just tore them apart when someone spoke behind him. “Peter?” Cameron said. He was standing on the edge of the porch, a cigarette in one hand. “I thought you’d dodged this one.”
“I have to get in.”
Cameron laughed. “You really don’t. I thought hey, Tommy can’t be as bad as half the guys I’ve been with but whatever the fuck they have going on in there is way beyond illegal and I can’t-“
“I know what they’re doing, tell them to let me in.”
“You know? How exactly do you—“
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Alright, alright.” Cameron put out his cigarette and walked back toward Illya. “He’s with me, gentlemen.” Once they were through the door, he pointed down the main hall. “Everyone’s through there. I’ll be anywhere else” Illya didn’t wait for him to say anything else.
At the end of the main hall was a large ballroom full of people. This wasn’t an auction; it was a party for Nicholls to show off how expensive and diverse and discretely obtained his collection was. Napoleon was still talking to Nicholls by a life-sized marble statue. Luckily, Orileni hadn’t seemed to notice him yet.
Illya charged toward Napoleon. The look of shock in his face was genuine. “What are you doing here?”
“I have to tell you something.”
“Tell me what?” Napoleon said. “What else could you possibly have to say to me?”
“Privately,” Illya said through gritted teeth. He need Napoleon to leave, soon, before anyone else looked at them.
That, apparently, was not going to happen. “Why, so you can avoid touching me? So you can tell me how fake—“
“All of it was real!” Illya said quickly. And much louder than he’d meant to. People were looking at them, now. “Every moment. I wanted every second, I wanted it to carry on forever, and it tore me apart thinking you didn’t want the same.”
Everyone within earshot was watching them. Napoleon stared at him, agape. “Do you really—“
“Stop them!” Someone yelled. Probably Orileni. “He’s CIA!” Definitely Orileni.
“Oh,” Napoleon said. Realization flashed on his face before he steeled it into something serious and intent. “We should go.”
“I’ve been trying to say, yes.”
They turned and ran. Most of the crowd hadn’t seemed to catch on who Orileni was talking about, but it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. It definitely didn’t take security long, and two men stood in front of the doorway blocking their escape.
“We’ll, now, gentlemen,” Napoleon started with his hands raised in front of him. “Surely we can—“
Illya stepped in, both arms raised. He hit the first guard with his shoulder, slamming him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He slid to the wall as Illya turned to the other. One well-placed hit and he was down.
“That works too,” Napoleon said before continuing out the door and down the steps.
They’d made it two steps down when more security emerged from the building and started firing at them. “Delightful friends you make, Cowboy.”
“We might not have gotten here, if you hadn’t made a scene.”
“You’re the one who started yelling.”
“Me?” He said as they made it to the car. It was empty. “Where’s Gaby?”
“She was supposed to be here.”
Two bullets sunk into the car door next to Napoleon’s hand. “Never mind that, get in!” He yelled. He climbed into the back seat while Illya positioned himself on the driver’s side and started the car. Napoleon found a gun under the seat, rolled down a window, and started firing at the men who were still shooting at them. “There!” Napoleon said, pointing at a corner of the house Gaby had just appeared around.
“Got it.” Illya shot forward and turned the car almost hard enough to tip it. He barely slowed down as Napoleon threw open the back door and pulled her into it.
“You were supposed to wait with the car,” Illya said as he sped up again. The security guards were climbing into cars, and he wanted to be away as soon as possible.
“I was trying to find you two. Since you left me outside with no plan.”
“It all worked out alright,” Napoleon said as another shot shattered the back window.
“Clearly.”
“Speed up, Illya.”
“I’m trying.”
“Here, let me drive,” Gaby said.
“Let you—“ Illya started, but Gaby was already climbing over the back seat. He could either slide into the passenger side or have her sitting on his lap. He chose to move, carefully avoiding her elbows as he did. “You are a menace.”
“Yes. How’d it go in there?”
Napoleon fired two more rounds out the window. One of the other cars went careening off the road. “About as well as it usually does.”
“It would have gone better if this man had just listened to me.” Illya pulled a gun from under the seat. The windows were already a lost cause, so he smashed his with the butt of the gun and started firing at the cars behind them.
“In fairness, that wasn’t our original extraction plan. You went a bit off-book.”
One of Illya’s bullets hit a driver who swerved into a ditch. Two cars left. “Who’s fault was that?”
“It was a good ploy, really, and a great show—“
“It was not a show.”
Napoleon froze and stared at him, still half out the window. “You can’t mean.”
“I do.”
“But you’re…”
Gaby cursed. “You’re being an idiot. Illya, tell him he’s being an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot, Cowboy.”
“What exactly are you—“
Another shot pinged the side of the car. “Can we deal with this first, please?” Illya half-yelled.
“Just trying to multitask.” Gaby took a sharp left turn that brought two of their wheels off the ground. Illya braced himself on the sides of the car. “Get ready to jump.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to—“
“You know me better than to ask that, Solo. Just get ready to jump.”
“Right, of course.” He fired once more out the window before taking a seat and bracing himself on the door. “You realize she’s going to get us killed, Peril?”
“Jumping in three,” Illya grabbed his own door handle. “Two.” He saw Gaby grab hers and crack it open, one hand still on the steering wheel. “One!”
Illya threw himself out the door and hit the ground rolling. He stopped and looked up just in time to see the last of the cars fly straight off the road after theirs. He laid his head down and took a few deep breaths.
“Great job, gentlemen,” Gaby said as she stood up. She walked over to Illya and reached out a hand to pull him up. “Really, excellent.”
“
“Can we get back to what you were saying in the car?“
“About you being an idiot?”
“Can you explain the—“ Napoleon started, but he didn't get a chance to finish because Gaby fisted her hands in his jacket and pulled him down to her level. Their kiss was fast and almost chaste and one of the most beautiful things Illya had ever seen.
“Oh,” Napoleon said softly. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Gaby mocked him, rolling her eyes.
“Gaby, I, uh,” Napoleon swallowed. Illya watched the way his throat moved because he wanted to and couldn’t think of a reason to stop. “I don’t think I fully appreciated that just now. Will you do it again?”
“What, call you an idiot?” Gaby joked.
“Kiss me.”
“No,” she said. “But Illya will.”
Eventually, he’d have to stop doing everything Gaby asked of him. But he didn’t want to, not when she kept having such great ideas.
Illya placed one hand on Napoleon’s cheek and pulled him closer. When their lips met, it was like every pent-up feeling from the last week (years) crashed forward all at once. It didn’t hurt, this time, not when Napoleon’s hands found his shoulders and his mouth opened and Illya could feel him everywhere.
“I didn’t want to do that, before,” Napoleon said against his lips. “Not when you didn’t mean it.”
“I definitely mean it.” The second kiss was quicker and felt like coming home.
Gaby spoke up from next to them when they pulled apart. “I’d say this was a success.”
“We’ll have to find another way in,” Napoleon said. “Waverly isn’t going to be happy.”
“Any why not?” Gaby smiled.
“We don’t have the…”
Gaby held up a data drive. “These?”
Illya smiled. It was going to work out. Probably. Maybe. He ignored the smoking wreckage and the bruises forming on his side and the fact that they’d have to walk back into the city, and pulled his partners toward him again. “You’re a genius, really.”
“I know.”