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There’s something that’s making her eye twitch, annoying her nearly to a headache in both of her temples. It could be the weather, the drizzle that has followed her all the way from London to New York or maybe its that she broke her favorite pair of heels the week before trying to escape from impending doom.
Mostly she figures it’s the 6 foot 1 American CIA agent that walks beside her, whistling a tune that is too high-pitched for her liking.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she repeats for the hundredth time at least, stopping in the middle of the path to turn and look at Napoleon Solo.
He mimics her movements, stopping and turning on his heel to face her. There’s that smirk on his lips that sometimes she wants to slap off and instantly her annoyance rises ten fold. “I’m not a babysitter,” he says, also for the hundredth time.
“Then why are you here!” she demands, stomping her foot down on the pavement.
Solo stares at her for a long moment and respects the fact that she’s not backed down from her angry stance. She’s closed her umbrella up at this point and stands with her hands on her hips - Solo can only wince with each drop of rain that hits the Laroche fur she is just allowing to be destroyed.
“Believe it or not, Gabs, I do enjoy spending time with you. Even when you sulk the whole time. If I were a less confident man, I’d take offense to how you always try to get rid of me.”
“Oh yes, thank God you’re not less confident. How would we ever survive…” she mutters, but her tone is softer now and Solo steps closer to allow her to share the space covered by his own umbrella, even though hers hangs on her wrist. Gaby seems to continue to evaluate him, which is no different than usual, but after a moment she falls into the space beside him underneath the shared umbrella and they continue their walk, Solo whistling until she punches him in the side with her tiny fist.
—
She hasn’t had to pose as a fiancé in quite a while, and Gaby thinks that maybe she has forgotten the mechanisms. But no - it’s like riding a bike. There’s nothing hard about being arm candy, no matter how degrading it begins to feel after a while. It’s just that, instead of being on the arm of Illya, an arm she is intimately familiar with, she’s on Solo’s arm while Illya stalks about elsewhere.
Not that it’s a bad arm to be on.
They’re guests at a silent auction, a newly engaged couple who secured an invitation because of their new money. The two of them twirl on the dance floor, eyes taking in each and every guest as they waltz close to each other. It’s strangely comfortable, the feeling of Solo’s hand on her waist as they dance. Gaby tries her hardest not to linger on the thoughts in her mind because they bring tension. And there’s already far too much tension between the three of them.
The tension builds with each shared hotel room, with each lingering touch, with each put upon kiss in front of unsuspecting targets.
Gaby feels it in her own belly when she sees her partners stare at each other the same way she stares at the both of them. This tension can only grow into complication and quite frankly, it excites Gaby.
“Are you listening to me?” he asks, and it distracts Gaby from her thoughts long enough to glance up.
“Not at all.”
Solo hums appreciatively and the fingers on her lower back sprawl wider - wide enough that Gaby takes a step closer to her fiancé.
“I don’t believe our contact has shown. We were stood up.”
Gaby glances around and tries her best to seem nonchalant as she nods. “I believe you are correct, dear,” she replies, allowing Napoleon to dip her low. When he pulls her up slowly, their eyes meet and she smiles softly.
That word ‘complication’ blinks in her mind over and over again and Gaby can’t help but close her eyes and ignore it - they have a dance to finish.
—
Perhaps she’s been avoiding Solo in the past month and a half, but it’s not as if it’s fully intentional. She can’t help it if she’s on her own back in Berlin, using her knowledge of the city to her advantage as she collects intel on a weapons smuggling ring. But her sources begin to run low and she finds herself perched in the window of a dilapidated building watching across the harbor with binoculars for comings and goings.
It’s all a nice excuse to avoid the fact that she found herself in bed with not only Illya, but Napoleon Solo. Together. At the same time. Some goddamn fever dream that she’s still pinching herself about.
And she left the very next day for Germany.
She’s nearly falling asleep despite her supposed surveillance, but she sees a familiar figure, clad in a gray suit and his arms loaded with bags hopping onto the sidewalk in quite a jaunty step. Gaby balks at the image and drops her binoculars, closing her eyes for a quick moment to say a prayer.
She’s already got the door opened and is leaning against the threshold when Solo appears in the hallway.
“You’re not supposed to know where I am,” she says blankly, eyes following his frame as he strode past her into the anything but chic apartment.
“Darling, I’m a spy.”
“My location is confidential,” Gaby adds, closing the door behind them with her hip and crossing her arms.
“I’m also a thief,” he adds, turning his head to wink at her. “Stealing files in the monstrosity that is Uncle HQ is easy even for untrained thieves.”
Gaby sighs, deciding to drop the subject because really, it’s not worth it. She motions to the bags he’s left on the table since he’s beginning to look through cabinets.
“What’s all this then?”
He opens and closes cabinets, growing excessively frustrated.
“I brought dinner for the both of us,” he says, groaning and standing still after a moment. “You don’t have any wine glasses?”
“Because I bring those with me on assignments?” she asks, raising a brow.
Solo turns to look at her and simply shrugs his shoulders. “At least I brought a corkscrew.” He busies himself with unpacking the carryout containers and the room is immediately filled with the warm smell of pasta and fresh bread. She inhales, the smell making her stomach growl, but she immediately swallows the sensation.
“I’m supposed to be working,” she says, crossing her arms.
“There’s no rule against eating while working,” Solo says pointedly as he dips a bit of pasta onto a plate. There are no wine glasses, but he opens the bottle with a loud pop and Gaby cannot help but allow her stomach to take over. When he holds a plate out to Gaby she takes it greedily and stalks over to the window where she was perched earlier. Gaby spears a piece of pasta and eats it slowly, eyes cutting back to Solo moment after moment.
“So…” he trails off, hands steepled on his bent knee. “I don’t see the good in avoiding the rather large elephant in the room.”
Always so blunt.
Gaby hates that.
“Did you come all the way to Germany to have this conversation? Don’t you think it could have waited until I returned?”
“It could have waited, but then you wouldn’t have an opportunity for such lovely food and even better conversation.”
Gaby rolls her eyes and sets the plate down before she approaches him. When she’s close enough, she grabs the opened bottle of wine from the table and takes a long drink. Gaby sets the bottle down after a moment and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand in a very undignified manner.
“Your conversation skills are a bit lacking.”
“That’s a complaint I’ve never had,” he says with a roll of his eyes upwards toward Gaby. When she reaches her hand out to run her fingers along his smooth jaw, Solo cannot help but jerk forward every so slightly, the smile on his lips genuine and full. Gaby smiles and takes another long sip of the wine. She’s supposed to be working - the smugglers have probably made their move and she’s missed it but it’s the last thing on her mind.
“Do you regret it?” There’s no question as to what she refers to, and Solo shakes his head.
“Of course not.”
Gaby doesn’t regret her decision either, even if she tries to. Regret seems like the responsible choice - seems like the right thing to do. She should regret falling for a man like Solo when she’s already got all that she desires in Illya. But of course, it’s not all she wants. She’s always been greedy, why should it be any different with the men in her life.
She can’t ignore the way her partners look at each other, in the same way they look at her and she looks at them and they all look at each other. They should all regret this, but she’s in good company in not having any.
When she wakes in the middle of the night for a glass of water, her body loose and sore and the only sound in the apartment is Solo’s quiet snores, she pulls his button up shirt tight around her naked form and leans beside the window to check the harbor below.
She will have to update Illya when the time comes but for right now she watches figures go in and out of the warehouse across the street, completely aware of her surroundings.
—
It’s months later and the three of them have easily settled into whatever it is that they are now. Partners, lovers, friends, family even - there are so many words to describe it and yet none of them fit.
She sits on the couch in Uncle HQ, in the lounge area where Napoleon is across from her with a newspaper open wide and a new pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. She’s bored currently, abandoned by Illya and Waverly as Illya updates a few databases with not exactly known KGB knowledge to lend a hand to their shared boss. There are new assignments coming she’s sure, but for the time being she has nothing to do but sip from a plastic cup full of coffee and stare at the man who is ignoring her.
Gaby glances around, trying her very best not to notice the giggles and stares of young secretaries that let their eyes linger on Solo. It’s not that she’s jealous, because there is no point in that emotion when it comes to Solo, but it’s not as if it doesn’t rub her the wrongest of ways. Gaby huffs and crosses her arms and she sees Napoleon twitch - sees the smile on his lips grow.
She hates when he knows that she’s annoyed yet does nothing to pay attention to her. Illya gives her all the attention in the world, but Solo is constantly in his own mind or running that mouth of his unless she puts it to better use.
“Napoleon?” she questions and when she receives only a hum in response she stands up and crosses over to the couch where he sits. He turns a page in the newspaper and she realizes it’s in a language she can’t quite make out. Gaby kneels beside him and tries to push the newspaper away.
“Gabs, please,” he huffs, straightening the paper. He pushes the glasses up and readjusts, returning to the article.
Gaby raises a brow and leans closer to Solo, her face close enough to brush her long eyelashes against his cheek.
“Are these for fashion or function? Are you going blind, old man?” she asks, reaching up to dip his glasses low enough on his nose that they nearly fall off.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” he mutters, dropping the newspaper to his lap. His hands find her hips and he grips tightly, much to her pleasure. She places a kiss on the tip of his nose and pushes the glasses back to his eyes.
It’s when he gets pulled closer that there’s a cough from behind them and Gaby turns slowly to greet both Waverly and Illya.
“Quite a tête-à-tête we have here,” Waverly says, no sign of judgment or malice in his tone. It’s mostly amusement as if he has just won a bet that none of them are in on.
—
Illya being shot is a slight inconvenience in their mission, one that’s plagued with a slew of other inconveniences. Getting him into the hotel without too much of a mess is the hardest part. He’s heavy enough as it is but when he’s injured and not offering a bit of help, the two of them can barely get him into the hotel and up to their room without incident.
“Do you think he ate enough vegetables growing up?” Napoleon asks with a grunt as the two of them deposit Illya on the bed.
“Now is not the time, Solo,” Gaby says, her tone rough and breathless. She peels her jacket off and tosses it aside before helping Solo lift Illya enough to pull his turtleneck off. His eyes are heavy and his forehead is sweaty, not exactly a welcome sight. “Get the med kit,” she instructs, though Solo is already digging through their equipment for the thing. He opens the box and moves aside while Gaby goes through the contents, finding what she needs.
The skin around the wound is red and puffy, but the bullet has gone straight through and out the back. There will be no messy extraction of the bullet, which makes her job easier as she cleans the wound and sews him up. Illya only jerks once and by the time she has the wound covered with a large bandage he’s snoring loudly and passed out for good.
“This man could sleep through a war,” she mutters, reaching for the towel Solo holds out for her.
She is trying her very best to stay calm and her face doesn’t betray her emotions, but her hands shake and Solo cannot help but notice. When she goes to hand the towel back to him he takes her hands in his own and holds them steady. Gaby glances up at Solo, a weak smile on her face.
“You did well, Gaby. Peril here will make it. He’s surprisingly resilient.”
Gaby nods and stands up to disappear into the bathroom while Solo finishes cleaning up. When she returns from the bathroom, her hands are bright red and scrubbed clean. Gaby follows Solo out of the bedroom in silence and pulls the door closed behind her. The two of them settle on the couch and Gaby watches him lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. He’s just as tired as she is, and despite Illya being fine, the worry eats away at him just as it does her. Napoleon hides things so well beneath a porcelain veneer that she is surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure.
She scoots to the edge of the couch and rubs her hand along his back gently, scratching through the fabric as his muscles relax beneath her touch. When her hands come to rest on his knee, Solo grabs them and kisses each of her fingertips slowly.
They fall asleep together on the couch, bodies curled up and arms tightly wound around each other.
When Illya wanders out into the lounge the next morning, he stares at his two partners on the couch. It’s quite a sight - one he ruins by sitting down between them without a warning.
Gaby and Napoleon curse sleepily and slip to opposite sides.
“Good morning,” Illya announces, voice a bit worn as he adjusts to the couch and the pain in his chest.
“Looks like you’re on the mend,” Solo says, yawning heavily. He stretches out on the couch and lays his legs over Illya’s lap even as Gaby busies herself with checking the bandages. She curls up beside him once she is finished and lazily pushes Solo’s legs to the floor.
“He’s injured,” she points out when Solo glares at her through sleep heavy lids.
“And I’m tired,” he says without missing a beat.
Gaby rolls her eyes but decides not to protest.
The word ‘regret’ is so far from her mind in this instance that she barely knows the meaning. And she is completely alright with that.