Work Text:
Like a moth to a flame
[Saying]:
Inescapably allured by something harmful.
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd ?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned
-From ‘ Two Years Later’ by William Butler Yeats
Illya had always known this would end badly.
With the smoke stinging his eyes, as Napoelon crashes to the ground at his feet- wings smoking and charred. What little remains of the thin glossamer spans like broken window glass between the brittle black fingers that spring, spindly and spidery, from his bloodied back. The ruin of once proud, massive artworks of shimmering spun silk and secrets.
His slightly pointed ears spear through the black nest of his curls- mattered with smoke and dust as he tries to drag himself up, hissing with his elongated canines on full display. But he can’t. Illya hears Napoleon choke on a breath of air- heavy with the thick dust of iron filings, and his throat bleeds- staining his teeth claret. A macabre grimace of gore.
Illya can’t breathe either- the smog choking him as he stumbles back against the wall- the fire of the bullet wound in his shoulder a dull ache throbbing in time to his heart. He hears the steel thunder as the door slams shut- trapping them in a rush of wind.
He thinks he can feel Gaby- thinks he can smell her perfume on the air that whips past his nose; taste her lipstick on the blood that flecks his lips when he coughs- thinks distantly, she’s safe, because she has to be. She has to be, because Illya and Napoleon have fought for so long to keep her hands clean. To stop those gloves of grime and violence from quilting her skin...
It has to have been enough.
And he can die. As long as it was enough.
Napoleon hacks a vicious cough, trembling on his hands and knees, waistcoat torn and stained with oil and grime. Pale skin freckled with blood- both his and Illya’s. His beautiful eyes are tearing up- glazing over, the iron in the air no doubt steering him towards blindness. He rasps, flinching as Illya manages to make his way to the American’s side, a large hand falling onto his back.
Illya wants to kiss his pain away. Wants to hold him until that powerful body relaxes. He wants to spin Gaby around until she laughs, her eyes shining. Wants to hold both of them tight as he can and never let them go.
Wants everything to be alright.
“...Peril...” comes the whisper, before another cough sends blood misting the stone. Napoleon collapses with a shudder as the lights flicker overhead: ghostly and weak.
What fools they were, to walk into such a trap. Illya’s only consolation is that they have taken the THRUSH agents with them. Their bodies a trail of grisly breadcrumbs leading up the hall.
The lights strain, blinking like the beat of a diseased heart, as the room pitches deeper and deeper into suffocating. Yet more iron falls in a fine dust from the tiny vent in the ceiling and Napoleon wheezes through the blood in his throat. The remains of his wings twitch limply, scratching at the stone.
Illya eases himself down, sitting with his knees drawn up to his aching chest, watching as Napoleon shudders with every breath. And he can taste it too- that sharp tang of the iron, even if it does not affect him at all. But between the metal and the slowly vanishing oxygen... Illya cannot think straight.
He finds his gaze turning inwards, a ghostly figure of Gaby dancing in a yellow dress swaying through his unraveling mind. Her long, dark hair floats behind her, face serene and peaceful as she spins under a tree.
Leaves fall around her like stars, her lips a smiling curve, and Illya takes a halting breath- heart knotted with a bittersweet ache.
She is safe. Safe with Waverly and the rest of U.N.C.L.E.
She will go on. Finish what they had started. She will meet another, he hopes; someone who will love her just as much as he does. Someone who can give her a family if that is what she wants one day.
Perhaps the lack of oxygen is making him delirious, but he swears he can hear her voice in his ear, a sweet, soft whisper,
“It’s alright, Illya. You’ll be alright.”
He appreciates the lie.
Napoleon’s breathing shudders in a hoarse plea. His skin dotted with faint red burns- courtesy of the iron. He chokes a painful-sounding cough, weakly tries to raise his head, but doesn’t fight when Illya lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Save your strength, Cowboy,” says the Russian.
A pointless statement. But a kinder one than he would usually offer.
Gaby nods in agreement in the corner of Illya’s mind. Her dress flares about her knees as she moves. Her lips are pink as a rose. “Listen to Illya, Solo.”
Her voice is hypnotic, her brown eyes ringed with gold. Ears tipped with molten starlight. She wraps a curl of her hair about her hand, and Napoleon seems to settle, a small groan of pain his only complaint.
“Shhh,” says Gaby, and Illya is no longer sure whether she is a spectre in his mind’s eye.
The world is growing dark at the edges, spinning in a slow, dizzying angle. Lights dance at Gaby’s heels. A breeze tugs at her dress. She reaches a hand out to him, inviting.
“Just a little longer, Illya.
“Just a little longer.”