Chapter Text
It’s not that Napoleon never considered the possibility of dying. No one who spends as much time as he does standing at either end of a pointed gun won’t spare at least a moment to consider the delicate nature of human mortality. Everywhere Napoleon goes, death stares back at him through the artwork of bygone artists, the clouded eyes of lifeless enemy guards, and long lists of civilian casualties he either does or does not prevent.
Napoleon is a thief, and stealing is what he does each time a bullet intended for him misses its mark and strikes concrete, wood, or the flesh of another. Each time, he pilfers a few more hours, a few more days, knowing that one-day, sooner or later, it’s all going to catch up to him. But each time he uses up the wealth of his big score (a week, in London, some light R&R before the next mission), he dives right back into the danger with barely a thought.
It’s not that you don’t think about dying. You know with a clear certainty that yes, it may well kill you. But the part where your mind trips over itself is in the possibility, the uncertainty behind an inevitable eventuality.
Yes, it might all end terribly, just maybe not today.
The process of self-delusion is one that repeats, ad infinitum. Until NYPD officers are breaking down the door to your hotel room and you have nowhere to run. Or you are left alone in a ransacked apartment, bleeding out from bullet wounds you won’t survive.
Their little hideaway is in shambles, smashed furniture and broken ornaments artlessly strewn about in the fury of half a dozen henchmen who hadn’t found what they were looking for. The tiny crystal birds he’d lifted for Gaby in Milan are chipped beyond repair, their corpses strewn across the carpet with their necks snapped and wings broken. And the forged Manet Napoleon had so carefully selected and hung above the mantelpiece is ripped right down the middle, hanging limply over the remains of their oak coffee table. Illya won’t have anywhere to play chess anymore.
It’s quiet now, the chaos of splintering wood and shattering glass fading into silence along with the ringing in his ears. The only sound that breaks the quiet is that of Napoleon’s harsh, wet breaths. But that too, will soon fade.
At least the chair is soft, Napoleon thinks absently as his blood seeps through the upholstery and drips down the wooden legs, ruining the carpet. It hurts, Napoleon doesn’t remember anything ever hurting this much, he can’t really think past the pain and he can’t really breathe anymore but at least the chair is soft and that is a nice thing.
Those men hadn’t even given him the courtesy of a bullet to the head. When it became clear that no matter how many holes they put in him, Gaby simply couldn’t tell them what she didn’t know, they’d just taken her and left. So rude, Napoleon thinks, and now he has to wait and bleed until his heart gives out. It hurts, it really really hurts and if it’s okay he’d really just like to die now except he can’t because what if Illya comes back?
He waits, and waits some more as the world grows colder and the light grows dimmer. He’s not sure how much time passes, and it can’t be a lot because if it is, well, then he’d be dead. And Napoleon’s not dead, yet, because he’s waiting for Illya.
Illya, who is going to be so angry when he sees what they did to his favorite chess set.
A loud creak pierces the gathering fog, and Napoleon’s eyes blink open. When did he close them?
His senses clear a little, and he hears the sound of his own wheezing breaths, chokes on the coppery taste of blood in his throat. There’s the sound of footsteps, soft, but still recognizable, glass being crushed under a heavy weight
There’s a sharp intake of breath behind Napoleon, and then a huge shadow swoops down in front of him. Napoleon instinctively tries to dodge, but all he manages is a weak loll of his head.
“Cowboy? Hey, hey… look at me.”
He’s still thinking about how embarrassing all this is when something warm gently cups his cheek, and firmly nudges his head so it’s upright. Napoleon’s eyes find focus, and he realizes the shadow is Illya, crouched before him with a terrible expression on his face. His gaze flits from Napoleon’s face to his chest in a panic, back and forth, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Napoleon doesn’t like that expression at all. Fear doesn’t sit right on Illya’s handsome features.
You do care, he thinks, giddy with this unexpected reassurance. Napoleon tries to offer a smile, anything to make Illya stop looking so distraught, so sad. But Illya just looks even more broken. That look would be much more suited to a different situation, say, Illya reacting to the sight of a mostly naked Napoleon. Then it would just be hilarious instead of heartbreaking.
He looks over Illya’s body, studying him carefully, and Napoleon sags a little more when he sees Illya is uninjured. Those men must not have found him. Then Illya stands and moves away so Napoleon can only sit there, feeling confused and sort of abandoned. He tries to follow Illya with his eyes. But it still hurts a lot and he can’t really move, so Illya disappears out of his peripheral vision and then there is a huge ruckus in the background. There’s a lot of loud swearing in Russian and some shouting about an ambulance and at once. The sounds fade in and out, and then Napoleon’s not quite sure if Illya is still speaking in a language he understands.
But soon, Illya is back and he’s pressing something to Napoleon’s chest and the world goes white with pain. Napoleon’s screaming, but he makes no sound, and he bucks weakly against the pressure that doesn’t go away. His eyes find Illya’s, still that perfect blue, and Illya is murmuring something. But Napoleon is not going to be okay, no matter how much Illya keeps insisting. He’s never bled this much before, and he’s pretty sure this is going to be it for him, the curtains’ fall, end of the road.
Napoleon tries to speak but ends up coughing. Warm blood overflows from his mouth before he can finally force the words from his lips.
“They… took Gaby.”
The panic in Illya’s eyes increases threefold, and it is no surprise. But Illya has to have realized that when he came back to find a mostly dead Napoleon abandoned in a comfy chair. It’s terrifying, Napoleon thinks, the thought of the person you love in the clutches of the enemy, being interrogated or tortured or worse. Napoleon had been terrified when he thought Illya might have been captured too. But he’s okay now, because Illya is right here.
“I’ll find her.”
Illya says that, but he doesn’t move, breathing harshly as he holds the towel against Napoleon’s injuries, his muscles straining. The pressure only makes it more difficult to breathe, and Napoleon wonders how many more breaths he has left in him before he drowns in his blood.
Napoleon’s a lost cause. They can both see it. No matter how hard Illya tries to staunch the flow, Napoleon has already lost too much to make it out of this.
“You need to go,” he says.
Dying has a way of reshuffling your priorities, and since Napoleon won’t survive to experience anything remotely like consequences, he thinks he may as well indulge in these last moments when he still can.
So he drinks in the sight of Illya, even with his brows furrowed and his eyes dark with tears, he is still as stupidly attractive as ever. This might be the first time Illya’s ever stared at him so intently, and not out of anger or confusion because Napoleon couldn’t resist poking the bear for that little scrap of attention. Right now, when Illya watches Napoleon, it is with fear, with care. Illya only ever watches Gaby like that when she’s in danger, or when he realizes just how stupidly in love he is. Who’d have thought he actually had it in him to look at Napoleon the same way?
For one delirious moment, Napoleon imagines what it would be like for Illya to take him into his arms, instead of crouching there at arms length. Illya is always so warm, Napoleon thinks, and he feels really cold right now. It would be nice if Illya pressed a kiss to his forehead too, or maybe to his lips, if he can bear the taste of blood. He can whisper reassurances into his ear.
“I’m not letting you die here, Cowboy.”
Illya’s voice is scratchy, and he sniffs, pressing down on Napoleon’s injuries with even harder force. Napoleon feels numb, and this time, he barely registers the surge of pain. Illya is a little blurry at the edges now, and Napoleon stubbornly blinks him back into focus.
“It’s okay,” Napoleon whispers.
Illya needs to go. Gaby needs him, and Napoleon would rather not imagine how broken Illya would be if he lost the love of his life today. They’d get another Napoleon one day, even if his replacement isn’t half as handsome or charming. Good agents aren’t as hard to come by as their bosses like to pretend, but true love, the sort that turned the most hardened, cynical spy into a giant soft teddy bear, that sort of thing is a miracle. Illya can’t let that go to hang around a dead man.
“Don’t speak.”
Napoleon stares at the blue in those eyes, studies the sweep of long lashes, and wonders if it isn’t some strange sort of mercy to never have to see them again.
“Okay.”
He’s not sure if he actually says the word. The entire world has faded to one long, dull note, Illya the only splash of color in a bleak landscape.
“No, no, Napoleon,” Illya says, his eyes widening and his voice rising in volume. “Stay awake. Look at me.”
Except Napoleon doesn’t, he ignores his orders just like he’s always been good at, and closes his eyes. Because he’s stubborn and very tired, he keeps them closed even when Illya’s hand comes up to his cheek again, trying to make him lift his head. Illya’s fingers are sticky with blood and probably leave garish streaks against Napoleon’s face. But they’re warm and gentle and Napoleon misses them when Illya’s hand moves to his shoulders and he shakes Napoleon, once, twice. The shouting is louder now. Illya is angry, so angry. Napoleon knew this would happen. He always makes Illya angry somehow.
Napoleon can’t move, so he doesn’t, and just lets himself sink a little deeper into the blackness. But Illya is still here, and his hand is so warm, and Napoleon holds on a little longer because Illya has never touched him like this and he never will again.
He hears Illya’s frantic breathing, and then the pressure against his chest lessens. A second later, it’s gone.
There’s the sound of footsteps, hesitant, stepping away, then stopping, a pause that feels like eternity but probably lasts only seconds.
Then Illya rushes from the room.
Illya needs to save Gaby, Napoleon thinks, of course he’d go save Gaby. Napoleon is alone.
He holds on until the footsteps fade into emptiness, and then he falls.