Archive of Our Own

I. Istanbul, Turkey

The late morning sun fell lazily on Napoleon and his partners. A morning about the town doing some light recon had led them here: seated on the outside patio of a high-end bistro, nibbling away at an early lunch, and acting the part of their covers.

Napoleon was wearing a simple yet classy suit with a blue tie to match Gaby – who was his fiancé, according to their cover. She was perfectly dolled up in her favorite white shades, a sunhat, and a tasteful blue & white blocky mod dress. She looked gorgeous, especially with those elegant, long legs that were made to be shown off with an almost teasing hemline like that. He didn’t say a word, though, because if Gaby didn’t kill him for it, Illya surely would.

Illya looked like he barely even tried to dress up – he was even wearing a turtleneck. Napoleon sometimes wondered if he owned anything else because he could only recall ever seeming the Russian exactly one suit. (It was shame, too; he had the build to pull plenty of nice styles.)

Napoleon couldn’t say anything, though. The outfit worked for Illya’s cover because while Napoleon & Gaby were happy newlyweds, he was simply in town to take care of the affairs of recently passed friend.

The three of them were currently eating lunch together rather than Illya off on his own because it just so happened that Gaby & Napoleon had run into Illya at the hotel, and the three of them seemed to hit things off so well. They decided to meet for an early lunch to get to know each other better and explore more of the city – after all, one of the best ways to learn about a city is through its cuisine.

In Napoleon’s opinion, things were going swimmingly so far. He had honestly expected whatever luck they still had from their last mission to have worn off by now, but if it truly was luck that made them work well together (and not the “potential” Waverly had rattled on about,) it was still in ample supply.

Things were actually going quite well. In fact, if anything, they were ahead of schedule. Waverly was going to be pleased and insist he was correct in his assumptions, and quite frankly, Napoleon did not mind proving him right; he quite liked working for UNCLE so far, and his partners weren’t half bad, either.

The icing on the cake was that he had barely heard anything from Sanderson so far. For once, the man was not constantly breathing down his neck. It may have been the best part about this international arrangement. Napoleon didn’t know if his time with UNCLE would last, but he was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

A waiter delivered them their lunch, pulling Napoleon from his thoughts. He himself had ordered the karnıyarık, a more traditional dish of stuffed eggplant. It didn’t take long for Napoleon to discover that it was as good as he’d hoped it would be. He couldn’t quite say the same for the conversation.

Well, okay. Gaby was a good conversationalist. He couldn’t begrudge her that. She was interesting, witty, and no-nonsense in a way that impressed and intimidated him in equal parts. Napoleon could see exactly why Kuryakin had grown so fond if this was the woman he had hanging off his arm all through Rome.

Speaking of the Russian, he was the one where conversations fell flat. Napoleon wasn’t even sure if what words they shared could even be considered conversation. He thought “posturing” was an accurate descriptor, but Gaby preferred the phrase “pulling each other’s pigtails.”

He couldn’t lie. It could be very fun to talk to Illya. He remembered back to Rome when they broke into that warehouse together. The constant one-upping, the bickering, the showmanship. It was exhilarating & fun in a way Napoleon hadn’t felt in a long time, not since starting at the CIA. Obviously, working on the field with the CIA meant he experienced his fair share of adrenaline rushes, but that night out with Illya topped everything else.

That didn’t mean Illya was good at just normal talking, though. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it was some remark meant to prove Napoleon wrong or prove himself the better spy. It wasn’t that surprising Illya’s not the chatty type, but goodness, it could be exhausting. Fun but exhausting. Thank god for Gaby because Napoleon would’ve been starved of decent company days ago without her.

No, the Russian was more than happy to let Napoleon or Gaby take charge of the conversation, which was fine for now, but it made Napoleon dread the idea of a stakeout, which was currently looking like a necessity. He’d been on stakeouts with some awfully boring people, but at least they would talk to him.

The rush of the city murmured around them as the conversation lulled while they ate. Napoleon dabbed his mouth with his napkin, a proper gentleman, and he opened his mouth to ask about his partner’s meals when a high-pitched, needy meow interrupted him. He and Illya (who was sitting across from him) both looked off their side of the table to find a sweet looking tabby cat with big brown eyes staring up at them.

Its tail swished curiously, and it meowed again, this time slinking over to Solo and curling around his legs. Perfect. The American sighed and looked straight ahead, Illya still peering over to catch a glimpse of the cat.

“I was wondering how long it would take before I got cat hair on one of my suits,” Napoleon mused unhappily aloud. Gaby snickered, and Illya rolled his eyes.

Istanbul. Safe haven to cats everywhere. It really and truly was only a matter of time before this would happen. Napoleon hopes he can get the cat hair out himself, but at the end of the day, it’s his dry cleaner’s problem first and foremost.

Illya, meanwhile, tore a small piece of bread off his food and muttered to himself in Russian, too low for Solo to hear (but almost certainly an insult directed the American’s way, as Illya is wont to do.) Tutting the cat over and away from Napoleon’s legs, Illya leaned down and offered the bread to the stray.

“Вот вам, милая¹ ,” Illya cooed fondly as the cat snatched the scrap of bread from his hand. For a moment, Napoleon could swear he saw the man smile – genuinely smile. Maybe his heart wasn’t as icy as the Russian tundra, after all.

The cat began to rub on Illya’s trousers instead, so Napoleon carefully probed, “I didn’t realize you had a soft spot, Peril.”

The Russian’s genuine smile was gone, now replaced with a look of irritation. Despite himself, Napoleon was a bit sad to see it go. Illya was so uptight, so it made for a pleasant change of pace.

Illya answered, “It is called blending in. I am a tourist in Istanbul, and you expect me not to feed the cats? Besides, she had been patiently waiting for long enough.”

Napoleon simmered in his seat, and not from the heat of the sun. “Hm,” he said cooly. “Hadn’t noticed her there.”

Illya plucked another piece of bread and fed it to the cat. His hands then rested atop its small head, petting it, and he continued with an almost insulting amount of mirth, “You are CIA’s best, and you do not even notice cat.”

Exactly what Napoleon was thinking about earlier. The two of them could not talk, but they could exchange barbs all day long, it seemed. Napoleon smiled, sharp and angled. “I don’t make a habit of noting every pigeon in New York, either. And did I hear you correctly, earlier? Did you call it darling?”

Illya tensed and sat up in his chair. A light pink twinged his cheeks, so subtle it looked more like he had been in the sun too long, but Napoleon knew. Satisfied, he reclined back in his own seat and continued eating. Gaby, however, had plucked some fish off her own plate.

She offered the food below the table and cooed at the cat. As she leaned down, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, she began to pet the cat. “You boys can even find a way to argue over a cat,” she said, and then her attention turned to the tabby. “You’re just a sweetie, hm? I should trade them in and take you home instead.”

Napoleon let himself smile, and he turned his attention to Illya. The man didn’t notice; he was far too busy looking at her blatant fondness. His bright blue eyes gave it away in an instant. Is Napoleon going to have to pretend to be angry with him for ogling his “wife”? Well, if it could give him an excuse to berate Illya in public…

Napoleon felt the cat begin to wrap itself around his legs again, and it made a high-pitched sort of chirp from below the table.

Napoleon was many things: charming, witty, handsome, great in bed, sly, talented, cunning, etcetera. However, even he was not strong enough to withstand a clingy cat with hopeful eyes.

With a begrudging air (that, honestly, was almost entirely for show), he tossed the stray a bit of eggplant. It plopped on the cat’s head comically, and the poor thing had to wobble around and right itself as the eggplant fell onto the ground. Napoleon also wasn’t strong enough to stop himself from smiling and laughing at the display.

Gaby giggled, and Illya smiled as well. The air was light and easy between them. It felt incredibly right, likely in the way that anything this carefree felt right.

“What was that about a soft spot, Cowboy?” Illya teased, but it didn’t have the same bite earlier. The teasing smile had returned, and Napoleon stared right back with a bored look, but he didn’t even try to wipe the smile off his face. It felt too wrong to try and fix his face.

Gaby didn’t say a word, but she had a look that said “play nice” written all over her face. She looked… fond. She wore the look well.

II. Stuttgart, Germany

Napoleon leaned against a doorway in their safehouse, looking onto their meager sitting room. Night had fallen, but the apartment was still well lit from the handful of working lamps they had. This was their home for the last leg of the mission, and while dusty & worse for wear, it served its purposes just fine as place to hide out.

He swirled a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand absentmindedly while he watched Illya play chess against himself, as was custom for the Russian. UNCLE was (somehow) still a thing, and as such, he was still working with Gaby & Illya. He had honestly expected the whole thing to shrivel up by now, but months later, they were still on the job.

He didn’t mind it, though. Waverly was a pleasant man to work with, much more pleasant than Sanders (most people were more pleasant than him, though.) On top of that, the work was interesting, the pay decent, and all in all, he had grown to enjoy working with Gaby & Illya.

They were both competent, which was more than he could say for most CIA agents he worked with, and on top of that, they were surprisingly good company. Even Peril’s icy exterior had begun to thaw, and Napoleon found he enjoyed listening to him – not that he would ever admit that, of course.

Speaking of Illya, he was currently set up on the small, creaky couch, his longs legs perched high from how low the couch sat. It was almost funny, like watching a flamingo try to perch, and the serious look on his face only made it all the more humorous.

One thing that Napoleon had not expected from Illya was just how… emotional he was? No, not emotional. How strongly he felt things. That was a better descriptor. For how cold and stark he seemed on the outside at first glance, there was a surprisingly big heart under the surface.

He was usually angry, which was likely why he seemed so cold all the time, but there was so much more to him. Like now, he was so wrapped up in the game, and it showed all over the serious look in his face. When he was happy, really happy, he seemed to just radiate contentment. When he was upset, sometimes he downright pouted. When his anger finally hit its boiling, he was a walking hurricane. It was fascinating, really. He was so effective, and yet, he wore his heart on sleeve. Napoleon might’ve even call it endearing if push came to shove.

Now, just because Napoleon had started to learn more about the Russian didn’t mean they had grown entirely friendly. Everything seemed to be a competition between them; displays of skills, trading comebacks & barbs, acts of showmanship, and near constant boasting had never really stopped since Rome.

Did it drive Gaby a bit crazy? Yes, absolutely. She has threatened them countless times, and she would likely keep threatening them for the foreseeable future, but luckily for them, the threats rarely stuck. (Rarely. Meaning sometimes she followed through. The two of them have had a few things thrown at them.)

Even if all her threats were serious, it still wouldn’t have stopped Napoleon. He had far too much fun to consider stopping: the push & pull between him & Illya, the thrill of coming on top, the risk of going too far and making a fool of yourself. It was exhilarating.

Napoleon was a gambling man, and this game between them didn’t quite satiate the need to find a seedy backroom hosting backgammon games, but it was the closest he had come in a while. Few things topped pushing Illya’s buttons and watching him come loose at the risk of looking daft.

Since taking residence in the doorway, Illya had not said a word to Napoleon. He knew Napoleon was there (or else he wouldn’t be a spy worth his salt,) but he stayed quiet & focused on his game. Napoleon cleared his throat and took the opportunity to speak first.

“So, you’re a cat person,” Napoleon stated, breaking the peaceful quiet between them.

He lifted the whiskey glass to his lips and watched Illya’s posture tighten in acknowledgement. The man never spared a glance Napoleon’s way, though, too focused on his one-man game.

Illya picked up a knight and held it in his hand, pondering where to place it. “I am not,” Illya answered smoothly. “I am just a good spy. Not that you would know much about that, would you, Cowboy?”

He set the piece down with gentle precision. Napoleon’s eyes traced the movement; fingers delicately curling around the knight, the muscles in his arm flexing and relaxing with each movement, and those large, rough hands being so careful. Napoleon forced himself to look away and back to Illya’s face.

He took a long sip of whiskey and smoothly retorted, “I thought you were going to squeal like an excited schoolgirl back there.”

Illya looked away from his game to the floor, shoulders tight and a flush threatening to spread across his cheeks. Napoleon called his bluff, and he was obviously remembering exactly what he had said earlier.

Their mission earlier that day had been to pull some intel from a banking executive about a bank’s investments in South Africa – and if they were lucky, played their cards right, intel on things they didn’t even know to be worried about yet.

Napoleon & Illya were supposed to be art collectors. Well, Napoleon was. He was the smooth talker, the one meant to butter this executive up. Illya had joined them because quite simply, this man did not trust anyone who came west of Germany, and Solo couldn’t fake a single Eastern European accent to save his life.

With Illya’s imposing yet incredibly Russian presence, the banker’s guard came down just enough that they were able to take a peek at the man’s private art collection.

The executive, a pompous little man, paraded them through his showroom. It was honestly a thing of beauty. Napoleon had even spotted a piece he had once smuggled and sold years ago; he couldn’t help but ask about it, but the executive hadn’t given anything much. Napoleon hadn’t expected him to, but could you blame him for checking up on it?

As such, they let the man show them through the around, and the two of them worked their magic: Napoleon asked when appropriate, Illya when less appropriate. All in all, they had started to make progress.

Started was the key word. The progress was short-lived because at some point, Napoleon seemed to have veered the conversation in the wrong direction (he’s going to be up all night until he can nail down what did it.) The conversation started to gradually spiral into absolute disaster, and Napoleon & Illya both couldn’t dig their way out of it.

As the minutes passed, the executive had only grown more irritated, offended, and red in the face. Talk about anything beyond paintings was nigh impossible, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

It was threatening to be an absolute disaster. They were going to have to leave empty handed, tail between their legs, and fess up to Waverly that they had failed. The two of them had not liked that idea much at all.

Napoleon was certain they were going to be escorted out with insincere wishes for them to have a good night, but then, Illya made a noise Napoleon really had thought was going to turn into a childlike squeal.

“Приветик котяра²,” Illya cooed as a fat, fluffy white cat waltzed in. It sauntered over to the three men, weaving between the odd display and statue.

Napoleon had taken advantage of the distraction to take stock of his companions – the executive looked happy, but Illya looked utterly delighted. He had a warm grin & a sparkle in his eyes that made Napoleon’s heart do somersaults.

It was honestly a rather shocking sight – but not an unpleasant one. Not in the slightest.

Once the cat had made its way over, it first rubbed on its owner, letting him scratch her chin, and then it moved onto Illya. The Russian leaned over to let the cat sniff his hands with adorable curiosity, and soon enough, it was rubbing on his hands, and it had even hopped on its hind legs and placed its little white paws on Illya’s shins. When the cat did that, he almost instantly scooped up the fluffy creature in one swift movement. Napoleon was loathe to admit how pleasant the sight was.

Illya’s smile had grown smaller, but it never left. He looked so at peace just holding the cat in his arms – who seemed to be quite enjoying itself; the cat just melted in Illya’s arms, and Napoleon could hear it purr all the way from where he was standing.

In some ways, it was infuriating how sweet they looked together. Illya, typically so brutal, held this cat with such gentle ease and absolute delight – and again, the cat looked pleased as punch, too. They were adorable, maybe even cuter than the way Illya would scrunch his nose when cleaning a particularly irritating gun or how he pretended to be bothered by Napoleon shoving a spoon in his face & insisting he taste test whatever he was cooking.

While Illya doted on the cat, the banker explained that Freya was his third cat, only ate the freshest fish he could get his hands on, was his preferred companion, and adored being held. Illya listened with rapt attention while still consistently petting the needy little creature.

A switch had flipped in the room. The air was light and easy again, and the executive was talking about anything & everything related to his cat while Illya gave him his full attention. Napoleon couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. They would not be returning empty-handed – not yet at least. The night was still young, but the cat’s appearance had given them a lucky break.

Lucky break might have even been an understatement. Without Freya & Illya’s honest interest in her, Illya would’ve never been able to ask if she joined the banker on vacation or any of his other travels. Getting the executive to talk required a very careful line of questioning, but Napoleon watched Illya handle it with grace. Before his very eyes, the banker spilled detail after detail about his vacation home, company properties, and more – all because of the opportunity that cat offered.

Napoleon knew Illya was competent, above average even, but it was moments like these that really solidified that opinion. Drawing intel out of targets with less violent measures typically wasn’t his strongest skillset, but he had done it; through a careful mix of taking opportunities as they came, spinning the conversation, and careful questioning, Illya had gotten them exactly what they needed. Normally it was Napoleon who did that.

Maybe Napoleon was rubbing off on him. Gaby had been teasing him about that, and it made him feel warm inside. He wondered if Illya was rubbing off on him, too, and if so, did that mean Napoleon might gain some of that inhuman strength? Something to keep in the back of his head.

Unfortunately for Illya, none of his actions saved from being teased about how he reacted to first seeing Freya. At least for tonight,

“I was not going to squeal. It is called acting,” Illya snorted with an annoyed frown.

“No, acting is when you pretend you know the difference between Baroque and Renaissance paintings,” Napoleon answered smoothly, mouth curled into a wry grin.

Anyone looking in would see the furrow of Illya’s brow as angry, but not Napoleon. He knew better. The lines to his frustration weren’t hot & jagged; they were smooth and calculated. Even his icy huff of annoyance was just that – annoyed. The Russian was letting Napoleon have his fun, and if Napoleon knew any better, he might even say Illya was playing along.

Napoleon waited to see if Illya would say anything in kind, but the Russian stayed silent. He honed back into his game of chess, effectively giving Napoleon the last word. The room returned to silence, save for the muted tick of the clock hanging by the door. Oddly enough, Napoleon was not satisfied by Illya’s surrender.

Napoleon slid across, whiskey still in hand, and sidled up behind Illya’s seat; he leaned on the back of the couch and looked down & over onto the game at hand. Almost imperceptibly, Illya leaned back towards Napoleon, but his focus on the game was still razor-sharp.

Napoleon leaned over further, enough to catch Illya’s eyes if he wanted, and he lifted the glass to his lips. “Not going to defend yourself?”

Illya glanced up and over; their gazes met for a moment, but Illya tore his gaze away and back to his game in an instant. It threatened to send a shiver down Napoleon’s spine. There was a beat of silence, but then Illya answered wryly, “What is there to say, Cowboy? I’ve told you the truth. Not my fault you won’t accept it.”

Napoleon laughed and smiled, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. Maybe the whiskey wasn’t quite as cheap as he thought.

III. Barcelona, Spain

Night had crept in under Gaby’s nose. The city was not quiet because cities are never quiet, but it had settled into a subtle drone. Under any other circumstances, she would be content, in bed, and trying to go to sleep. However, that was not the case tonight.

Illya had not come home yet. He was late. Uncomfortably late. Dangerously late, if her rising anxiety had any say in the matter. She did not like that. It made her heart skitter in a way that even wine could not settle. She liked to make Illya dance with her when she got this tipsy, but he was not here. She was missing her dance partner.

She had decided that the best course of action was to take her worries out onto the single alarm clock their safehouse boasted. Their kitchen table had become home to her autopsy of the mechanical creature; there were piles of gears and springs littered about. They were once nestled perfectly inside the device’s plastic casing, but not to worry, the clock would be back in working order soon, all its guts arranged accordingly so it could tick again.

Napoleon hadn’t even blinked when she began the disassembly. He watched her pry apart the casing and poke around inside the clock, but he hadn’t said a word – which was smart. She would’ve only snapped back at him. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to worry about not having the alarm clock back. She’d have it reassembled in no time. It was just a clock after all.

Napoleon was currently lounging in a chair reading some novel he had picked up at the station. He looked unbothered and relaxed, but Gaby knew he wasn’t. The fact he was still awake and up with her was evidence enough of his unspoken worry.

She was halfway through slotting some gears together when she heard their door click open. Both she and Napoleon jolted at the sound, their eyes meeting for a moment as if to say ‘what if that’s not Illya? What if?’

She didn’t have a chance to worry much longer because she heard the familiar, heavy footfall of one Illya Kuryakin that she had long since memorized. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him enter the room.

As Illya stepped inside, her relief was gone, instead replaced with worry and sharp, familiar anger. A bruise was beginning to blossom on the side of his face, and he was holding his stomach in an awkward & tight manner. It made her mind spin with dozens of terrifying scenarios and questions.

“Where have you been? What happened?” She blurted out as her eyes danced across his body, looking for any other signs of injury. She tried to sound angry (because she was), but it came out tinged with worry.

“Small… complication,” Illya supplied. “Not to worry, it is taken care of.”

Gaby glared at him. “Small? Are you sure holding your stomach like that counts as small?”

“Wait,” Napoleon interrupted, and Gaby snapped her glare to him. “Peril, are you holding something under your coat?”

Gaby blinked and looked again. In the dim lighting of the room, she hadn’t noticed at first, but yes, Illya was, in fact, holding something under his jacket. She cocked her head as if trying to get a better look at him.

Illya’s eyes snapped open. Suddenly, he could not meet either of their gazes, and the act made Gaby’s frown deepen. He cleared his throat, and his mouth opened & closed as he searched for words. The sight worried Gaby immensely, making her chest tight and her glare soften. She could be angry with him later.

She sobered up some and gently padded forward. “Illya, what is it? Are you okay?”

Illya was still looking away. However, he took in a tight breath in and unzipped his jacket. He dipped his hand inside and pulled out a… rat? No. Oh, no. It was a kitten; a small, black shaking thing that was further dwarfed by Illya’s large hand.

It caught Gaby off-guard, yet she wasn’t exactly surprised, either. Despite his protests otherwise, she knew he had a soft spot for cats. She’d heard him call them too many pet names to even think that he might not be that fond of cats.

Napoleon quickly broke the silence by asking, “Would you care to explain why you have a cat when you were supposed to be doing recon?”

Illya glared at him. “I was doing recon! Which, for your information, was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary beyond the guard shifts not sticking closely to schedule. We’ll need to be careful about that.”

Napoleon hummed. “Ah. Good to know, thank you. However, that still doesn’t answer my question. Why do you have a kitten? Does it have anything to do with why you’re so late?”

Napoleon took the words right out of Gaby’s mouth.

Illya sighed and looked away from Napoleon, but he made the mistake of looking over to Gaby. She was still equal parts angry and worried, and while she hoped she looked angrier, she was drunk enough to know the worry was gleaming through like a lighthouse through the night.

Illya seemed to debate himself, but then he relented, “Да. Yes.”

He didn’t say anything else, and Gaby cleared her throat. “…Would you care to elaborate?” She prompted, frustration hanging off the edge of her voice. He almost looked like a petulant yet embarrassed teenager being asked why he’s sneaking in so late. He had no right to look like that when she still upset with him.

Was he ever like that? A rule breaker? Or was he a goody two shoes who, like now, does as he’s told to absolute perfection? Did he even have a chance to be a rule breaker what with the knowledge of his father hanging over his head? Tears began to prick at her eyes. No. Be angry, Gaby. No time to be a sap right now.

Illya started, “I… saw some men. Kicking it. Could not find its mother. I couldn’t…”

His face was slowly turning red, and a slow shifting and fidgeting snuck into his posture. The sight of him tugged at her heartstrings. Had he really gone toe to toe with a handful of men just to save a little kitten? Was he really so embarrassed at the prospect of being the one to save a harmless creature?

She sniffled. This is why she preferred vodka. It made her much less weepy.

With a watery smile, she took a step closer and tenderly lifted the kitten out of his hand. It looked so much bigger in her hands than his. She held it to her chest and pet its shaking head. “Poor darling,” she cooed to the kitten, but then Gaby looked at Illya. “So, you decided to play hero tonight? Rescue all the poor little kitties on the street?”

It was meant to be teasing. It did not come out that way at all.

Illya shook his head with a bittersweet smile. “Not all. Just this one… I shouldn’t have risked my cover, but-”

“Peril,” Napoleon interrupted gently. “It’s alright. We understand.”

Illya visibly relaxed and looked at Napoleon with wide eyes. He looked almost desperate for the reassurance, and once again, Gaby’s heart howled. She sniffled again, but she made herself look down at the kitten.

She & Napoleon really did understand. They knew their partner quite well. He didn’t always think things through, but not because he didn’t want to. When he began to see red, and if they weren’t there to calm him down, there was no stopping him. She’s not at all surprised her big softie lost it on some bullies harassing a poor kitten.

It doesn’t matter that he can kill a room of men with his bare hands; she knows he’s got a big heart buried under there. Really, she’s known since that night together in Rome where she got drunk, and he let her dance him around and put her to bed. The thought still makes her stomach fluttery and light.

Napoleon was smiling now, warm, soft & sincere. He looked handsome in the lighting. “Well… what are we going to do with it?” He asked, glancing at the kitten. Hm. That was a good question.

“Follow-up,” Napoleon continued, this time looking at Illya. “Those men are still alive, correct?”

Illya glared at him. “Of course. Do you really think I would-?”

Napoleon held his hands up in mock defense, but the smile had never left his face. “Didn’t think you were,” he interrupted. “Though, I wouldn’t have been upset if you did. I just wasn’t sure if we needed to let you give Waverly a call.”

Illya gave him an incredulous look, and Napoleon elaborated, “Just because I understand doesn’t mean I’m going to cover for you there. That conversation would be between you and the boss.”

Gaby chuckled, kitten now bouncing up and down in her hands as her whole chest bounced with laughter. The poor thing startled, finally broken from its shock, and meowed weakly. She thought her heart was going to split in two.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cooed to the kitten. She held it tightly to her chest with one hand, and she grabbed Illya’s hand with her other. “Come on, let’s go see if our neighbors can spare a bowl of milk.”

+I. [REDACTED], England

Rain pattered against the windowpanes of their cozy English townhouse. Ever since they returned from their last mission, the sky had been dreadfully overcast and dark, but only today did it seem to want to pour. It made the driveway disgustingly muddy, but they had nowhere to be, and Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to care.

The three of them were off duty, but for how long, who was to say? Between rumors of moving headquarters to New York and the hassle of traveling home and back (in Napoleon and Illya’s case at least because Gaby didn’t exactly have a home now that she was out of Germany,) it just wasn’t worth leaving England – especially not when UNCLE had a spare safehouse they could stay at in the meantime.

Their last mission had been… stressful, to say the least, but Napoleon was just glad they all made it out in (mostly) one piece. He has about eleven stitches in his side, and Illya came out with a worrying number of bruised & broken ribs, but they made it out. Gaby did threaten to kill them both if they ever did anything that stupid again, but he hadn’t expected anything less.

Napoleon smiled to himself. It was especially to be expected since they finally got together. Sure, it had taken nearly bleeding out in Illya’s arms, but he couldn’t lie, the drama of confessing his love while being on death’s doorstep made almost dying almost worth it. At least to him. Gaby & Illya begged to differ.

Getting sewn back together wasn’t fun, but they were there when he passed out on the field, and they were still there when he woke in the hospital room, and they were still here now, hanging on the corners of Napoleon’s vision because they couldn’t let the man out of their sight.

Napoleon was currently comfortably curled up downstairs on an overstuffed couch with a view of the dreary landscape, pillow under his arm to keep from aggravating his side. A book lay face down in his lap while he watched the raindrops fall on the glass. The only thing missing was…

A set of heavy footsteps approached from behind, and something inside Napoleon relaxed. Illya. The Russian came around the side of the couch with two cups of tea, and he placed one of them in Napoleon’s hands – no question of refusal allowed. As Illya took his seat at Napoleon’s uninjured side, Napoleon said, “Thank you, Peril.”

The Russian curled up close to Napoleon, all the while acting like it was nothing at all to be so close. It brought a smile to Napoleon’s lips again. He really shouldn’t be surprised Illya is a cuddler, even after all this time, but sometimes seeing isn’t the same as believing.

Napoleon leaned into Illya and sipped at his tea. Neither of them said a word; they let the sleepy silence of the afternoon settle in around them, but Napoleon wasn’t one to complain. Being here, together, with nothing to worry about except maybe what to fix for dinner was… pleasant. Illya was – and he wouldn’t dare repeat it – pleasant company. He made the quiet day so much cozier.

Illya was the first to break the silence. “What are you reading?” He asked softly.

Napoleon pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Oh, this old thing,” he said, lifting the book nonchalantly. “A murder mystery I picked up in France. Not very good, but there’s an interesting enough side plot with a cat that I’m willing to give it a shot.”

It really was dreadfully boring, but the cat brought an interesting life to the scenes, and now that she was wrapped up in a murder, Napoleon just had to see the end of it – even if it would bore him to tears before he got there.

Illya hummed and smiled, plucking the book from Napoleon’s grasp. He kept the page while skimming the back of the book for the synopsis before setting it aside on an armrest.

“I had a cat growing up,” Illya said gently. Napoleon masked his intense curiosity because he knew the importance of such a small statement when it came to his Peril. He knew so little about Illya & Gaby (and they knew so little about Napoleon,) that anything like what Illya was admitting right now was precious – and doubly so given all of Napoleon’s teasing about the Russian’s fondness for cats.

Illya had never really admitted that he liked cats. Even if he stopped fighting the accusations so strongly, he never came out and said that he was a cat person. His actions spoke for him, Napoleon supposed.

Napoleon kept his mouth shut and gave Illya the space to finish.

“Her name was Vasilisa. She was very sweet. I was the only one she let hold her,” Illya said wistfully, a chuckle light on the end of his voice. His eyes sparkled as he spoke & recalled warm memories.

The shine dulled, though, and it was replaced with a bittersweet look. “She ran off one day and never came back. I was… nine? I always wondered what happened to her. My mother said she ran off to the forest to play with the fairies. She used to come up with stories about what Vasilisa adventures went on when I really missed her,” he finished with a soft finality.

The air hung heavy around them. Napoleon set his free hand atop Illya’s. “And… what kind of adventures did Vasilisa go on?” He asked.

The question made Illya smile nostalgically. “Well,” the Russian started, “I don’t remember them well, but she liked to play tricks on the wolves. She even got engaged to a fox once, but it wasn’t right for her, so she never went through with it.”

Napoleon rubbed his thumb atop the back of Illya’s hands. Something about listening to Illya talk about these childhood stories made his heart swell. It was a feeling Napoleon couldn’t quite name, but it warmed him, inside & out. He must be becoming soft because suddenly, he couldn’t care less about that book. All he wanted to do was listen to these stories from Illya’s childhood that his mother had made up.

“Did you ever get another cat after Vasilisa?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head. “No. After my father was… sent away, we were too busy for another. Then, with the KGB, I was away from home too much. I’m still gone too often.”

Napoleon hummed thoughtfully. He slotted their fingers together, and they fit, against all odds. Illya wasn’t wrong. Ever since Napoleon started working for the CIA, he spent as much time overseas as he did back home in America.

He wanted to promise Illya that they would settle down, stay far away from the field, and get him that cat, but Napoleon knew the dangers of false promises. That was a future they probably would never see. Napoleon didn’t want to think about that right now, so he turned his attention back to Illya.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to settle for petting whatever strays come our way,” Napoleon said. The words ‘we’ and ‘our’ settled correctly against his tongue. They felt right.

The smile on Illya’s face that once faded returned gently. “I suppose so, Cowboy,” he said. He squeezed Napoleon’s hands, and the action shot straight through every nerve in Napoleon’s body straight to his heart.

Napoleon looked Illya square in the eye; his gaze was soft and light, wistful maybe even. Without thinking, Napoleon captured the Russian’s lips in a kiss.

He wished he could get Illya that cat or find Vasilisa and plop her in his partner’s arms, but things simply didn’t work out like that for people like them. Their luck had already been spent finding each other in the here & now and actually being able to be together.

So, they would just enjoy the here & now. The sound of rain against glass. Warm bodies pressed against one other.

And maybe, just maybe, they could find more cats in the future, but for now, they had each other, and that was enough.