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Chapter Text

His interest, Napoleon told himself, was purely academic.

As much pride as Napoleon took in his ability to read people, despite his best efforts, Illya Kuryakin remained much of a mystery. Too violent to be called gentle, and too sensitive to be called brutish, the man was a knot of walking contradictions that Napoleon itched to untangle. Finding the point where the Red Peril’s hard edges gave way to squishiness was more of a challenge than Napoleon would prefer, but one he took on with giddy enthusiasm.

Gaby, for example, could bring out Illya’s softer side with infuriating ease. A teasing smile, a casual touch, sometimes her presence alone was enough to command Illya’s attention. The Russian looked at the tiny terror with the type of affection most people reserved for baby animals, and pride shone in his eyes whenever Gaby’s instincts and efficiency saved a mission from the brink of disaster.

When it came to Napoleon, however, Illya comprised stern stares and cool calculation, would bristle like an angry kitten when Napoleon needled him the right way. Their friendship, for they did become friends, if only through the inevitability of partnership, seemed perennially one step away from violent disintegration.

It’s not quite jealousy, the feeling that Napoleon nursed. The assumption that Illya would prefer Ms. Teller’s company over Napoleon’s in any occasion that did not involve a direct threat to their lives was accepted from the beginning of this engagement. On most days, Napoleon even thought he deserved the animosity Illya directed towards him. On others, he felt as though nothing short of transforming into a cute brunette woman would make it possible for Illya to let down his guard in his presence.

Most of all, Napoleon wondered if it wouldn’t take far less than a miracle for him to bring out their giant’s gentleness.

-

Greed, and lust, those were the two sins that defined Napoleon Solo, and Illya Kuryakin aroused the two precise desires in Napoleon he never chose to resist. With his stoic gaze and chiseled jawline, Kuryakin was as beautiful and inscrutable as a Greek statue, and Napoleon had never been one to leave works of art undefiled.

Seducing the Russian into bed was the easy thing. Illya had looked more confused than scandalized when Napoleon let his jokes and digs slip from teasing banter into blatant innuendo. When he finally made sense of what Napoleon had been offering, he’d looked at Napoleon with that guarded, inscrutable gaze for so long Napoleon wondered if he’d broken him.

But then Illya reached forward and pulled him into a kiss, and all of Napoleon’s doubts melted away.

-

Sex with Illya, it turned out, was about exactly as Napoleon imagined it. In fact, it had been hard not to imagine it, especially when the Russian regarded him with those startling blue eyes, called him cowboy with that rumbling baritone, and cut such a fine figure in a bespoke suit. Illya fucked like he fought, with such intense focus and precision Napoleon found himself wondering, in the aftermath, if Illya hadn’t been trained for this.

After their first night together, the other man had simply climbed out of bed, got dressed, and walked away with barely a glance over his shoulder. The next morning Illya returned to business as usual, as though the two of them hadn’t just spent hours getting to know each other in the most pleasurable ways.

It’s not that Napoleon expected a confession of love or wounded hysterics, but the lack of acknowledgement hurt more than just a bruised ego. For the first time he could remember, Napoleon was left feeling strangely empty inside.

-

He brought a waitress back to his room the next night, a young blonde from the hotel bar whose shift ended just as Napoleon was preparing to leave. He told her she had the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen, and she giggled at the clichéd compliment and said the same of Napoleon. That night passed in a pleasant blur.

His success made him feel a little better about Illya’s cold exit from before. In the morning, Illya’s expression was unreadable as Gaby teased Napoleon about his womanizing ways. Napoleon paid no attention, his sights already set on a stunning brunette sitting alone in the café.

He slept with two more women before they completed the mission. Waverly commended their teamwork, and more intelligence was needed from a different city. Life went on.

-

He didn’t stop teasing Illya, the man’s deer-in-the-headlights reactions and tense frustration too intoxicating a sight to give up easily. But the fact that the sex happened a second time left Napoleon reeling.

To be fair, it was probably more to the credit of the finely aged whiskey that Napoleon finally made his move, instead of just staring at Illya’s hunched form over the rim of his glass. But when Napoleon’s hand came to rest on Illya’s shoulder, when his fingers found his way between the soft strands of Illya’s hair, instead of shoving Napoleon away or punching some sense back into him, Illya had leaned into his touch. He’d allowed Napoleon’s fingers to trace the line of his jaw, let himself rise with the force of a gentle nudge under his chin, and when Napoleon leaned in for a kiss, Illya had pressed closer.

Napoleon wondered if it wasn’t some sort of achievement, to entice a chess master into abandoning a half finished game.

-

It happened again in Buenos Aires, and again in Melbourne, Osaka, and Mumbai. Somewhere between Egypt and Australia, Napoleon stopped being taken by surprise and started to interpret Illya’s longing in his body language. Despite the Russian’s serious demeanor, Illya was an open book to those who understood his secrets. A nervous tic in one finger, a gaze held for one second too long, a moment of hesitance before he opened his mouth to speak, all of it betrayed his emotions, and best of all, his lust for Napoleon.

Unsurprisingly, Illya, who had always been too good of a spy, had also learned to read Napoleon. Somehow, Illya seemed to know instinctively when Napoleon’s thoughts drifted towards him and away from whichever woman he was flirting with that hour. On those nights when the itch inside became hard to bear, Illya would materialize at his door like a dream with two glasses and a bottle of scotch that was impossible to turn down. Napoleon didn’t quite know what to make of it, the possibility that Illya may have observed more about Napoleon than he had willingly let show, but the consequences were so pleasant he found himself letting it go.

-

In the field, Illya and Napoleon’s teamwork was seamless. They complemented each other without flaw, Napoleon’s yin to Illya’s yang, a perfect balance of skills and experience. Illya’s observant nature and combat experience made up for the physical demands of the job wherever Napoleon faltered. In turn, Napoleon’s charm and sleight of hand got them out of more than one sticky situation that could not be overcome with force alone.

In bed, their roles reversed, and Napoleon was the vicious, demanding half. Somehow, he could never get enough of Illya’s lips, his taste, the slide of their skin together. Napoleon was the one who backed Illya onto the bed and trapped his wrists above his head, the one who bruised Illya’s skin so he could delight in their colors, who ground his hips hard against his partner as he categorized every way to drag out the most delicious sounds out of his Russian spy. Napoleon was the one who wielded his experience to light fires, and hoarded every breathless whisper as a dragon hoards his gold.

Illya, instead, was the one who held back the pace, tightened the leash so Napoleon could never be allowed to get ahead of himself. His wondering hands teased Napoleon into distraction, and his kisses were slow, hungry, and intoxicating. Illya dragged out their affairs with agonizing patience, whether he was on his knees or pressed against the wall. He could challenge Napoleon into trying something unprecedented just with just a mocking smirk and a quirk of his brows, and the fire in his eyes always took Napoleon’s breath away.

It was unprofessional, Napoleon thought. It was messy.

It was perfect.

-

Once, after they escaped from an underground bunker through a particularly ingenious act of teamwork that involved the combination of chess and explosives, Napoleon joked that they completed each other. Illya had regarded Napoleon with such a bizarre mix of pity and fondness Napoleon found himself falling back, the confusing weight of guilt in his gut.

-

In Kabul, the beautiful woman Napoleon took to bed turned out to be the mastermind behind the entire criminal scheme they were sent to investigate.

It was only when Napoleon found himself sat in a dark cell, tied to a chair in an ironic reminder of his first mission with Peril, that he realized he had not so much been the seducer than the one being seduced. He could have, should have, kept his wits about him and paid attention to his drink, instead of the way the candlelight caught on the woman’s diamond earrings, or fine line of her elegant, exposed neck. Gaby had told him to stay put, repeated that the woman had a viper’s reputation and a trail of missing spouses.

But danger had only increased her allure, and with one glance at her dark, smoky eyes, Napoleon was gone.

They hurt him, but not enough to leave any permanent damage. When Illya turned up three hours later with fading panic in his eyes, and untied Napoleon with trembling hands, they both ignored the obvious joke. Illya laid waste to their enemies with brutal efficiency Napoleon had never before seen. As they fought their way out of the facility and finally made their way to a waiting Gaby and their escape vehicle, neither remarked on the reason for Napoleon’s capture.

That night, when he kissed Illya and pressed his shaking hands to bare skin, Napoleon closed his eyes and told himself that it was just another night of sex. There had never been any strings attached when it came to him and Illya, and that was the way things should be. They moved so well together. He didn’t want to watch the steel in Illya’s eyes turn to liquid, didn’t want to notice how Illya chased his lips when they parted, how he touched Napoleon so carefully, as though he was something to be treasured, to be protected at any cost.

But the way Illya melted under his touch made Napoleon’s breath catch, and he scrambled to hide understanding as desire.

-

If life were fair, Illya would be with Gaby.

In that world, they would both be happier. Gaby was young, tempered, and her strength kept her unbroken despite the world’s tragedy and horror. Despite her pretense of experience, her innocence was blood in the water that attracted all manner of sharks. Illya could have been her protector, and Gaby his conscience, the maiden who tamed the feral beast with a single touch.

It was one thing to know of the best reality, but life rarely followed the path of fantasy. As weeks passed, then months, they completed more missions successfully than Napoleon had fingers to count. Illya did not kiss Gaby, and Gaby did not force his hand. For all their flirtations, the tall Russian spy and the tiny German agent meandered along the path of romance until their sizzling chemistry dulled into sibling fondness.

Napoleon sometimes wondered if he should blame himself. If he had been less of a flirtatious crook, if baiting Illya hadn’t become half an addiction, perhaps it would have still been Gaby on whom Illya’s gaze would linger. Yet neither shame nor regret were useful qualities on a man who lived as he chose, and Napoleon had shaken both sentiments as he had his old, honest life. They were just another part of him traded away to satisfy more materialistic urges.

Illya’s handlers should have warned him about men like Napoleon. Or perhaps they did, and it was Illya’s hot-bloodedness that got him into trouble like this.

Chapter Text

One morning, Napoleon woke naked in a hotel room in Amsterdam, with his back pressed against Illya’s chest and Illya’s arm thrown over his waist. That morning, half asleep, Napoleon pressed even closer, closing that tiny pocket of space between him and Illya, and trailed his lips along the Russian’s arm still trapped under his neck. One morning, Napoleon, floating at the shores of consciousness, found himself wishing he could live in this moment forever.

Then the haze lifted, and Napoleon’s eyes snapped open, taut with alarm.

Displeased with Napoleon’s movement, Illya’s arms tightened around him, and he nosed at Napoleon neck, murmuring something in Russian Napoleon couldn’t catch.

That feeling from a moment ago, the warmth in his chest, the sensation of being lighter than air, all of it was wrong, Napoleon thought. The weight of Illya’s arms around him, which to his sleep-addled brain had inexplicably felt like comfort, like security, and they transformed into shackles in Napoleon’s mind.

Napoleon clenched his teeth against the rising bubbles of panic in his throat.

This was a problem.

-

Napoleon interrogated himself for the next week, wondering where those stray thoughts had originated. Sleep had made him vulnerable, or perhaps it was only Illya. Illya who had watched him that morning with the soft eyes of a puppy, Illya with his gentle lips and firm hands and murmured endearments that Napoleon always enjoyed despite himself.

Illya Kuryakin was an attractive man, that was a given, and Napoleon’s lust was only to be expected. The Russian’s keen intellect and dry wit aside, the packaging alone wasn’t something to be ignored. With his Olympian build, handsome profile, and those stunning eyes, the man was a gorgeous creature in any language, only more so when he took off that dreaded cap and stepped into proper clothes. Napoleon had always made a habit of collecting gorgeous things, and having the Red Peril so close to him every single day had been a test in self-control he eagerly failed and often.

Sex was simple. Sex was his currency. And Napoleon had gambled away his bag of tricks for the thrill of bedding a contradictory man. At first he had thought he’d won the jackpot, commandeering the affections of someone whose masters had designed to hate almost everything Napoleon stood for.

But now, as he fought back unwelcome fantasies of Illya everywhere he went, he wondered if he hadn’t made a grave miscalculation.

It was one thing to ruminate on thoughts of Illya bent (or bending him) over a desk. Yet Napoleon found himself staring at concert listings for famous Russian composers, browsing books and noting titles that would suit Illya’s taste, and ogling expensive chess sets in shop windows and wondering if a present would be considered too capitalist. If his fantasies didn’t also come with images of him at Illya’s side, and if his wayward thoughts didn’t also arouse warm flutters in his stomach, Napoleon could almost pretend that his musings were of the normal sort for a close, personal friend.

His habits had grown so naturally Napoleon had never thought to pay attention to it at first. Only now, when he thought to take a step back and consider the whole image, did he realize what he had allowed to take shape.

It was only then that he realized it had been five weeks since he last slept with someone else.

-

He forced himself to put distance between Illya and himself, turning his attention instead to entertaining Gaby with his stories and his jokes. Uncharacteristically, he stumbled a few times, his usual smoothness stripped away by unfamiliar self-consciousness that might be called awkward on another person. He returned friendly jibes from Illya with single syllable responses, and focused on being defeated at chess instead of allowing their nights its natural progression. Napoleon decided that Gaby needed more practice with her hand-to-hand skills, and dedicated chunks of his free time to acting as her trainer.

It didn’t take two days before Illya caught onto what Napoleon was trying to do, and after disappearing for five hours without explanation, the Russian returned with scraped knuckles and bruises on his face. And Napoleon could only watch as Gaby fussed over him.

Illya had sat in their hotel room without expression, barely blinking when Gaby put too much pressure on one of his cuts. Napoleon accidentally cracked his glass of Cointreau.

Aside from that single incident, Illya took Napoleon’s wordless rejection with a surprising amount of grace. The next night, Napoleon brought back to the hotel a cute receptionist with lovely hazel eyes.

-

This was the thing. Napoleon didn’t do love, he didn’t fall in love. He fell in lust, frequently, and happily indulged in those desires. But he was not someone who fell in love. To be completely honest, Napoleon still wasn’t sure if he was really capable of genuine attachment to another person on that level.

Lust was an old, familiar dance, a game of give and take, and Napoleon knew all its rules. Napoleon’s conquests never went to bed with him assuming anything more would come out of their relationship than one pleasurable night together. Moving away from an occasional lover shouldn’t be so difficult. So it made no sense that when he saw the first flash of hurt in Illya’s expression, he had to purse his lips to keep the platitudes from falling.

-

Not sleeping with Illya wasn’t so bad in the end, or so Napoleon thought. The constant presence of the other man on Napoleon’s mind was not preferred, but a certain level of guilt was to be expected, especially now that Illya barely talked to him. Napoleon was sure that given time, the entire affair between them would fade into history. Maybe Illya would even start talking to him again. They were partners, after all, and he couldn’t very well spend the next few years ignoring Napoleon's existence.

They still worked seamlessly in the field, which should have been one small relief. Illya and Napoleon watched each other’s backs without fail, and were so practiced in reading each other they could communicate their intentions with barely a glance. Together, they took down enemy after enemy, and saved the world time after time.

For a strange reason he could not place, Napoleon found himself almost wishing they could have fallen out of sync, if only so he’d have an excuse to-

To what?

-

Eventually, to Napoleon's relief, Illya began to talk to him again. Sometimes, Illya would even almost smile when Napoleon said something particularly witty or charming. They never went back to their easy camaraderie, but still, Napoleon thought it was enough for him to go on.

Yet when he had a soft, curvy redhead on his bed one night in Dublin, Napoleon couldn’t find any of his usual interest. That night, his only thought was of Illya, of how they had spent an entire night in this very hotel five months ago, of how Illya had grinned impishly at him in the moonlight, his usual emotionless façade falling away when Napoleon pressed him against the wall by the door. The knife of the memory slipped between his ribs, and the twisting pain in his chest took his ability to breathe. All that was left was a sudden, violent longing for a man Napoleon had so carefully cut from his thoughts, unlike anything he had ever felt before.

He made up for his incompetence with his mouth, making sure his guest at least enjoyed herself before they parted in the morning.

The guilt never went away.

-

Gaby cornered him one night. They were in Milan, and it was one of the rare lulls between impending disasters that meant the entire team got a few nights to themselves. Napoleon had charmed his way into a fancy gala, and was eying the wealthy heiresses and widows on offer when the small German girl appeared before him in a devastating silver gown.

“We need to talk,” she’d said, a concerning undercurrent of fury in her tone, “About Illya, and what you’re doing to him.”

He didn’t get the chance to sleep with anyone that night, and when Gaby left, it was with one final, venomous command.

“You need to figure it out.”

-

Napoleon couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit it aloud to himself still. He wasn’t supposed to be scared of anything, he powered through life or death situations on a near daily basis, stared in the faces of men and women who had no intent for him that was not murderous. Yet when he stared at Illya, terror seized his throat, and each time he tried to say what was important, the words dried up before he could speak them.

He could ask Illya to join him in his bed again, Napoleon thought, sate at least part of him that wanted Illya more than anything Napoleon has ever remembered wanting. But another part of him knew that even if Illya said yes, Napoleon would lose him forever, would trap them indefinitely in this limbo of not love and not quite lust.

And that's not what Napoleon wanted.

So Napoleon, the snake, the sweet talker, the charmer with the devil’s grin, shrunk into himself in Illya’s presence, and pretended he was still the unaffected wild child who cared for little but himself.

Life went on.

Indecision, it turned out, was a decision in itself.

-

They broke into a seaside mansion outside Los Angeles, and though Napoleon remembered to take out the main alarm, he forgot to check for a backup. Illya had looked up in exasperation when the ringing began, and glared at Napoleon, who could only shrug and offer his most disarming smile in apology.

It turned out that none of it mattered, because they were waiting for them.

In the chaos that followed, they were first surrounded and then separated, each of them fighting for their lives against the seeming endless flow of attackers. Dodging away from two men, Napoleon lost track of Illya for two seconds.

A window shattered under a spray of gunfire. Napoleon turned in time only to see Illya falter, and topple over the edge.

Time stopped, and cold horror washed through Napoleon as he watched Illya disappear before his eyes. Beneath them was the bay, and the sound of a distant splash drove Napoleon to dig for his most brutal and lethal moves. His attackers stood no chance.

The instant he broke free, Napoleon sprinted toward the water with his heart in his throat. Terror ripped through his chest with claws of ice. There were men shouting behind him, the sound of reloading guns. Napoleon feet pounded against the concrete and the edge drew closer. Without hesitation, he dived forward, reaching desperately towards the water.

He broke through the surface, and the sky above him burst into color, Gaby’s explosives finally completing their objective.

He couldn’t lose him, Napoleon thought, and he wondered if he was already too late. He couldn’t lose Illya, not Illya. Napoleon would die first.

-

He was cold. Illya was limp and cold and not breathing and it was all Napoleon could do to fight down the hysteria and pull him back to shore. The last time Illya had coughed out the water with a few thumps to his back, the last time Napoleon had almost driven away and left him to die. The last time was a lifetime ago, and Napoleon couldn’t remember the man he used to be, the one who had come so close to leaving Illya behind.

Struggling with the weight, Napoleon laid Illya on the grass. His lips were already blue, and his fair skin almost translucent, Napoleon’s fingers found no pulse.

There’s a whimper, the broken sound of a wounded animal Napoleon didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking back panic as he desperately dug his palms into Illya’s chest and forced Illya’s heart to keep beating. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, Illya.”

He pressed his lips to Illya’s, pushing forward air Napoleon could barely remember to breathe for. Illya did not react, and Napoleon’s breath stuttered.

“Don’t do this.” He resumed his efforts with gritted teeth. He stared at Illya’s closed eyes, willing them to open. He couldn’t lose him, not like this, not now. “Don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know how long he spent on his knees, trying to force life back into Illya, into his partner, into someone he realized too late he didn’t want to live without. Yet Illya only lay on the grass, a lifeless ragdoll, unresponsive to every one of Napoleon’s pleas. There was a blood oozing from a bullet shot in Illya’s gut, and another in his shoulder, but he could have survived both injuries. They’d both come out intact from worse, and Illya had to survive this, he couldn’t die now, he couldn’t. Napoleon wouldn’t let him.

“Please don’t leave me.”

He was close to giving up, logic telling him that it was over, that Illya was dead and his eyes would never open again even as his mind shouted for him to keep going. In that moment, all of his fears and reservations seemed so petty, so insignificant. So what if he had gone and fallen in love? So what if the unexpected feelings had seemed so terrifying? So what if he couldn't bear the guilt and shame? None of it would compare, none of it would mean anything if Illya died here, died thinking Napoleon didn’t care.

Illya coughed once, and Napoleon froze, eyes wide, hands scrunched into fists on Illya’s chest. Illya coughed again, and relief flowed through Napoleon, who sagged forward. Illya curled into his side as his body purged the water from his lungs, and Napoleon was dizzy, he was laughing.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon choked, carefully brushing Illya’s hair from his head. His other hand pressed against Illya’s torso, moving uncertainly from one place to another, telling Napoleon that this was real, that Illya was still here, still whole. His vision blurred and he blinked away the water in his eyes, stared into the blue eyes thought he’d never see again.

“I love you.”

The admission, when it came, was easy. The sky did not fall, and the earth did not split open and swallow him whole. There was only Napoleon, and Illya, pale, soaked, but both so very alive.

Illya’s eyes found his, and his gaze, behind the pain, was so soft. Napoleon tried to smile, and instead he choked back a sob, curling closer to Illya, his fingers stroking his cheek. Illya tried to smile, even though he struggled to breathe.

“I know.”

-

In the first few days, when no one was entirely certain if Illya would pull through, Napoleon barely moved from Illya’s bedside, curling over the bed to sleep when exhaustion pushed him beyond his breaking point. It was Gaby who made sure Napoleon was kept fed and watered, and took at least one shower.

When Napoleon fell asleep, he dreams were filled with loss and terror. In some, Napoleon couldn’t find Illya in the water, no matter how desperately he tried. In others, he couldn’t pull Illya from the bottom, and drowned at his side when oxygen finally ran out.

When he woke, it was to the sensation of someone running their fingers through his hair, stroking his head softly. Napoleon blinked, opening his eyes, and found Illya’s gentle eyes staring into his.

“You have beard,” Illya said, his voice barely a rasp.

He forced his lips into a smile. “Yes,” he coughed, realizing how hoarse he sounded, “I thought it was time for a new look.”

For a moment, Napoleon just stared at Illya, feeling himself fall all over again. How had he ever thought it’d be a good idea to deny himself this?

“I’ve been an idiot,” Napoleon said.

Illya’s lips pressed into a small smile, with a look that said he already knew.

Napoleon sat up, and reached for the pitcher of water on the bedside table, pouring a glass for Illya. Illya took a few small sips, before he pushed the drink away.

“So, when I almost died," said Illya when the water was back on the bedside table. "You said something.”

“I did.”

Illya said nothing more, and it took Napoleon a moment too long to realize Illya was waiting for his response, was giving him a way out if he still wanted it. Shame and guilt crashed over him. It should never have taken Illya’s death for Napoleon to admit those words to himself, for Illya to hear him say it.

“I meant it,” Napoleon said, his voice somber.

Illya blinked sleepily.

“Oh,” said Illya, “That is good then.”

The lightness of Illya’s reaction had Napoleon laughing, as though a heavy weight lifted off of his shoulders. Because it was always this easy? Wasn't it? Napoleon had been the one who had to go and make all of it so difficult.

He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Illya’s forehead, and told him to go back to sleep.

“I’m fine,” Illya grumbled, even as his eyes slipped closed.

Something cold touched Napoleon's hand, and he looked down to see that Illya’s hand had found his. Napoleon grinned, and tangled their fingers together.

He never wanted to let go.

-

In Lisbon, Gaby handed him a ring.

Napoleon didn’t realize what it was, not right away, and when Napoleon finally remembered where the piece of jewellery was from, he stared at Gaby with his mouth open.

Gaby matched his gaze, with that knowing and conspiratorial smirk, challenging and flirtatious all at once. It was the smile that had stolen Illya’s heart in Rome, and it was now her trademark weapon of mass distraction.

Napoleon pleaded for her to take it back, feigned ignorance for the reason she gave to him in the first place. Then, when Gaby threatened to throw it into the harbor, he withdrew his offering hand like it’d been bitten.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked after Gaby shot down every one of his protests with diminishing patience, “Illya gave this to you.” You specifically.

“A lifetime ago,” she said dismissively, “But life rarely follows the path of a fantasy.”

Napoleon looked up with a moue, almost certain she was mocking him with her flowery language. But Gaby just stared at the street, her eyes following the movements of the pedestrians with practiced vigilance. Napoleon felt a surge of pride.

“If you break his heart, I will kill you,” Gaby stated simply.

A sarcastic retort was on the tip of his tongue, but something made Napoleon swallow back the words. He studied the ring, with its circle of real diamonds surrounding a fake pearl hiding a tracker. It was made for a woman, one with hands far smaller and daintier than Napoleon’s. He imagined Illya, waiting for them back at the hotel, and thought about which local dessert he wanted to bring back to him, imagined the surprise and faint blush on Illya’s face when Napoleon tried to feed it to him with his most charming smile. He imagined curling up with Illya in bed, practicing Portuguese together with the book they’d found in their hotel room, and waking up beside him in the morning, watching the way Illya’s eyes would shine when he caught Napoleon staring.

“I’m counting on it,” he said.

Gaby stared at him, and then broke into a real smile.

Chapter Text

“I bought zeppole.”

Illya’s voice sounded from behind them, and Napoleon’s hand was half way to his gun before recognition kicked in, and his outstretched fingers curled into a fist.

“Don’t…” Gaby gasped, her hand moving away from her purse, “Don’t do that.”

They levelled angry glares at Illya, who paid them no attention, instead offering the box of pastries in his hand.

“Want one?”

Their gazes flit from Illya to the box, and Napoleon stuffed one hand into his pocket, wondering when they corrupted this Russian agent so thoroughly with their decadent capitalist ways. Then, he reached forward, and plucked Illya’s half eaten zeppole from his fingers. He was unapologetic as he stuffed it into his mouth, moaning around the taste of sugary pastry and custard. Illya frowned at Napoleon.

“Stop tracking Gaby,” Napoleon said with a glare in between bites. “You should still be resting.”

Illya blinked at him, then looked away, pretending not to have heard him. Yet there was a suspicious upturn to his lips one that said he knew something Napoleon didn’t. Gaby reached forward, and Illya let her place her hand on his arm. They turned from Napoleon and began to walk away, abandoning a chagrined Napoleon to finishing his pastry without so much as another word.

Napoleon stuffed the rest of the zeppole into his mouth in a hurry, licking the icing and custard from his fingers, and chased after his teammates.

“What are you-”

Too late, Napoleon remembered one neglected detail.

The tracker was actually an audio bug.