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Illya is a good spy. He always has been. But more than that, Illya is an obedient spy. That is what makes him good after all. That is what had been drilled into since he was practically still a boy.
Do as you're told, be who they want you to be, that will make you good.
It has been a very long time since he felt he is good. Not a good spy, but a good person. And as he watches the flames eat up the tape of the computer drive, he realizes that, finally, he does . Despite this disobedience, he feels like he has made the choice a good person would make. His eyes flicker to Napoleon’s face, the thief’s face unreadable as he sets down the bottle of scotch and grabs for his glass, holding it out for Illya to clink his own glass against the rim.
“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril,” Napoleon says, his tone light as he surveys the sprawling Italian city before them.
He will make you good.
The thought rises unbidden and entirely unwelcome. Illya turns his gaze to the picturesque scene as well.
“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy,” he murmurs back, decidedly ignoring the unfamiliar prickling that starts in his eyes, blurring the buildings in his sight ever so slightly.
***
All Illya knows is searing pain. It is bearing down on him from all sides at this point, with no beginning and no end. He doesn’t know how long his captors have had him anymore, locked in this windowless, concrete room where the only light dangles from the middle of the ceiling, the single bulb flickering weakly. He can barely hear anything over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, and his eyes are damn near swollen shut from the repeated punches to the face he has been subjected to over too many hours. He had given up all hope of being rescued long ago, putting all of his focus into keeping his mouth sealed shut. He had been beaten, burned, and electrocuted repeatedly, but he had not released a single peep since his unlucky capture.
That’s why he is so surprised when the next time he feels hands on his skin, they are soft. He feels someone freeing him from the shackles, the gentle touch against the tender skin of his wrists - rubbed raw from pulling against the restraints - making him jump and gasp.
“Peril,” he hears, the word sounding like it is coming from a million miles away.
“I’ve got you, Peril.”
He cannot make out Napoleon’s face, his already obstructed vision rendered useless by the welling of tears in his eyes.
***
It takes three months for Illya to recover from his injuries. He spends that time following Napoleon around headquarters like a lost kitten. After Napoleon and Gaby’s outright refusal to go out into the field without their partner, they are saddled with the brunt of the organization’s grunt work. Gaby revels in it, spending her working hours in the garage, upgrading the cars agents are sent into the field with. Napoleon, on the other hand, becomes restless from the lack of excitement. He has been assigned to instructing the agents with heavier combat experience in the subtle arts of safecracking and thievery. It is a task he finds very much beneath him, if his constant complaints are to be taken at face value.
“Why don’t you just take a solo mission, if you’re so bored?” Illya asks, interrupting Napoleon’s grumbling about one of their fellow agents' inability to figure out a simple lock pick. The smaller man looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Not without you, Peril,” he says firmly, no hint of his usual lighthearted teasing, blue eyes blazing with indignation. The sight makes Illya’s throat clog with emotion, his vision clouding and making him look away from the intensity of his partner’s gaze.
He is very happy when he is cleared for active duty, because Napoleon whoops like his favorite American baseball team has won the World Series and grabs him by the hand to drag him to the nearest bar for a celebratory drink.
“You are only happy to be getting away from headquarters,” Illya mutters into his drink after Solo’s exuberant welcome back speech.
“You wound me,” Napoleon says in mock offense, gripping at his heart dramatically.
“You exhaust me, Cowboy,” Illya responds with a roll of his eyes.
“That’s the goal, Peril.”
Illya swallows his whole drink, ignoring the way his cheeks heat at the words.
***
They return from their next mission relatively unscathed, having retrieved sufficient evidence that the Prime Minister of Portugal had been taking bribes from trafficking groups in the country to look the other way in regards to their insidious plots. The only injury sustained is on Napoleon’s part, who had thrown himself in front of a bullet that was meant for Illya, which had lodged itself in his shoulder. It isn’t too serious of a wound, at least in their line of work, but it still makes Illya see red. He clears a path through their attackers with the ease of a wrecking ball through a brick wall, with Napoleon following close behind, and when they meet Gaby at the rendezvous she doesn’t even get a chance to start yelling at the headstrong American before Illya is laying into him.
“Stupid, stupid man,” he practically snarls as he pushes Napoleon none too kindly into the bathroom of the small cottage settled in the rolling hills of western Spain. Napoleon hisses and grabs at his injured shoulder when Illya shoves him down to sit on the toilet, making the Russian click his tongue at him in irritation before he scrambles about under the bathroom sink in search of a first aid kit.
“Would you have preferred this bullet to be lodged in your throat?” Napoleon snaps out, making Illya stop his searching to glare at him.
“Gaby had evidence, was safe, the mission complete. You endangered yourself for no reason,” Illya says sharply. Napoleon looks at him like he’s crazy.
“No, I endangered myself for a very important reason, thank you very fucking much,” he says, blue eyes electric in their intensity, forcing Illya to look away as he keeps searching for the first aid kit with shaking hands. When he finally pulls it out, a soft hand encircles his wrist, making him look back up into that blue storm.
“I won’t lose you again, Peril.”
The words hit him like blows to the chest, his vision going fuzzy with extra moisture almost immediately. He pushes himself to his feet almost violently, stumbling backwards out of the bathroom and shoving the first aid kit into Gaby’s chest as he passes her just outside the doorway. He doesn’t stop moving until he is outside, where he falls to his knees and, for the first time since he was a boy, allows his tears to roll down his cheeks and onto the earth below.
Hours later, after Gaby has successfully navigated Napoleon into the only bed in the cottage with threats of cutting up his favorite Cardin suit if he doesn’t rest, she joins Illya on the couch with two glasses of vodka she had dug up in one of the kitchen cupboards. Illya takes one of the glasses without drinking from it, already feeling vaguely numb.
“It took you three days to wake up after the last mission, Illya,” she says after several tense moments of silence.
“I know,” he says gruffly, staring a hole into the floor.
“Did you know he didn’t leave your side once?” she asks, and that is when he swallows the drink whole, focusing on the burn of the cheap liquor instead of the wiggly feeling in his chest those words inspire. He says nothing.
“He made me promise not to tell you, but I thought you should know.”
“Why?”
“So you can understand where his loyalties lie.”
Illya stands up abruptly, setting his glass on the coffee table and walking away without a word. He finds himself standing in the doorway of the single bedroom, gazing over Napoleon’s sleeping form.
“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy,” he whispers.
***
Upon their return, Napoleon is taken out of the field until his shoulder is fully healed. Gaby and Illya make the same insistence of remaining out of fieldwork until Napoleon is cleared. They work together or not at all. Illya doesn’t think he will ever get used to being able to make demands to his bosses, let alone to having them granted. Illya is assigned to training new recruits in physical combat, and Gaby is sent back to the garage. Napoleon sits in on all of Illya’s training courses, and for the first time in his life, Illya feels self-conscious. He does a satisfactory enough job, at least according to Waverly, but Napoleon’s ever present gaze leaves him feeling clumsy and exposed.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell him to leave, though. He doesn’t really want him to.
***
The day Napoleon is cleared for duty, they are briefed for their next mission. It’s a honeytrap, and when Illya opens the folder his stomach drops into his stomach.
“The mark is a homosexual?” Napoleon asks, sounding as if he is asking about the weather that day.
“Unfortunately, yes. I do hope that isn’t an issue for you, Solo,” Waverly responds, and Napoleon just shrugs.
“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he says, and for some reason that makes Illya’s jaw clench. Napoleon seems to notice, his expression contorting into something almost apologetic. It just makes Illya angry.
“When do we leave?” Gaby asks, sensing the danger brewing.
“Right now, we need you in Greece by tonight.”
Illya leaves the room without saying anything, ignoring the pleading look in Napoleon’s eyes that follows him as he goes.
***
Illya is a bad spy. It goes against his very nature, but he can’t help it. He should have met Napoleon down in the lobby ten minutes ago, but he can’t make himself move. He is supposed to be acting as his chauffeur, driving him to the event where he is supposed to seduce the mark. He doesn’t want to. The very thought of it makes him sick to his stomach. For the first time in his life, the thought of being disobedient comes to him as naturally as breathing.
There is a knock at the door of his hotel room, making him jump where he sits on the edge of his bed. He still can’t make himself move. After several tense moments, the faint sounds of a lock being picked reach his ears, before the door is swinging open. He listens to the sound of familiar footsteps crossing the room, until Napoleon is standing right in front of him, expression unreadable.
“What’s going on, Peril?” he asks, too soft. Illya’s vision blurs, his breath catching in his throat.
“I cannot do what they ask of me,” he whispers, voice cracking. “And I don’t want you to do it, either.”
Napoleon’s facade cracks, blue eyes sparking bright in the low light of the room, and he falls to his knees at Illya’s feet.
“I don’t want to do this either, but that’s the mission, Illya,” he murmurs. The sound of his real name falling from those plush lips breaks the dam, tears racing down his cheeks.
“Fuck the mission,” Illya gasps, reaching out before he can stop himself to grip at the lapels of Napoleon’s ridiculously expensive suit. Napoleon offers no resistance, allowing himself to be reeled in, until their lips are inches apart.
“The mission doesn’t change anything, Illya,” he says gently, reaching out to cup Illya’s cheek, making the Russian gasp at the tender touch . “I will come back to you.”
“Promise me,” Illya chokes out, pride and propriety be damned.
“I promise, Peril.”
***
The mission is successful, despite the fact that Illya feels like he is breaking inside as he listens to Napoleon with the mark through the bugs in his shoes. They get what they need and get the hell out of dodge, meeting Gaby back at the hotel just after three in the morning. She goes to her room to debrief headquarters, leaving a visibly shaking Illya alone on the couch with Napoleon. Almost as soon as the door clicks shut behind her, Napoleon is on his knees in front of Illya once again, reaching out to grasp his face in both hands.
“It’s over, Illya, I came back,” he whispers, the tip of his nose brushing against Illya’s, his breath dancing over Illya’s lips. The tears come quickly, sliding down in fat droplets. Napoleon is quick to swipe them away with his thumbs, before closing the distance between them, slotting his lips over Illya’s like they belong there. Illya whimpers in the back of his throat, grasping once again at Napoleon’s lapels to pull him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss without even a second thought. Napoleon tastes like hope, like freedom, like everything good in the world.
He will make you good.
“I hate working with you, Cowboy,” he gasps against those plush lips. Napoleon chuckles, fingers sliding up into Illya’s hair.
“You’re a terrible spy, Peril.”
And Illya can live with that. He’s in good company, after all.