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Chapter Text

It’s not that Napoleon never considered the possibility of dying. No one who spends as much time as he does standing at either end of a pointed gun won’t spare at least a moment to consider the delicate nature of human mortality. Everywhere Napoleon goes, death stares back at him through the artwork of bygone artists, the clouded eyes of lifeless enemy guards, and long lists of civilian casualties he either does or does not prevent.

Napoleon is a thief, and stealing is what he does each time a bullet intended for him misses its mark and strikes concrete, wood, or the flesh of another. Each time, he pilfers a few more hours, a few more days, knowing that one-day, sooner or later, it’s all going to catch up to him. But each time he uses up the wealth of his big score (a week, in London, some light R&R before the next mission), he dives right back into the danger with barely a thought.

It’s not that you don’t think about dying. You know with a clear certainty that yes, it may well kill you. But the part where your mind trips over itself is in the possibility, the uncertainty behind an inevitable eventuality.

Yes, it might all end terribly, just maybe not today.

The process of self-delusion is one that repeats, ad infinitum. Until NYPD officers are breaking down the door to your hotel room and you have nowhere to run. Or you are left alone in a ransacked apartment, bleeding out from bullet wounds you won’t survive.

Their little hideaway is in shambles, smashed furniture and broken ornaments artlessly strewn about in the fury of half a dozen henchmen who hadn’t found what they were looking for. The tiny crystal birds he’d lifted for Gaby in Milan are chipped beyond repair, their corpses strewn across the carpet with their necks snapped and wings broken. And the forged Manet Napoleon had so carefully selected and hung above the mantelpiece is ripped right down the middle, hanging limply over the remains of their oak coffee table. Illya won’t have anywhere to play chess anymore.

It’s quiet now, the chaos of splintering wood and shattering glass fading into silence along with the ringing in his ears. The only sound that breaks the quiet is that of Napoleon’s harsh, wet breaths. But that too, will soon fade.

At least the chair is soft, Napoleon thinks absently as his blood seeps through the upholstery and drips down the wooden legs, ruining the carpet. It hurts, Napoleon doesn’t remember anything ever hurting this much, he can’t really think past the pain and he can’t really breathe anymore but at least the chair is soft and that is a nice thing.

Those men hadn’t even given him the courtesy of a bullet to the head. When it became clear that no matter how many holes they put in him, Gaby simply couldn’t tell them what she didn’t know, they’d just taken her and left. So rude, Napoleon thinks, and now he has to wait and bleed until his heart gives out. It hurts, it really really hurts and if it’s okay he’d really just like to die now except he can’t because what if Illya comes back?

He waits, and waits some more as the world grows colder and the light grows dimmer. He’s not sure how much time passes, and it can’t be a lot because if it is, well, then he’d be dead. And Napoleon’s not dead, yet, because he’s waiting for Illya.

Illya, who is going to be so angry when he sees what they did to his favorite chess set.

A loud creak pierces the gathering fog, and Napoleon’s eyes blink open. When did he close them?

His senses clear a little, and he hears the sound of his own wheezing breaths, chokes on the coppery taste of blood in his throat. There’s the sound of footsteps, soft, but still recognizable, glass being crushed under a heavy weight

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind Napoleon, and then a huge shadow swoops down in front of him. Napoleon instinctively tries to dodge, but all he manages is a weak loll of his head.

“Cowboy? Hey, hey… look at me.”

He’s still thinking about how embarrassing all this is when something warm gently cups his cheek, and firmly nudges his head so it’s upright. Napoleon’s eyes find focus, and he realizes the shadow is Illya, crouched before him with a terrible expression on his face. His gaze flits from Napoleon’s face to his chest in a panic, back and forth, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Napoleon doesn’t like that expression at all. Fear doesn’t sit right on Illya’s handsome features.

You do care, he thinks, giddy with this unexpected reassurance. Napoleon tries to offer a smile, anything to make Illya stop looking so distraught, so sad. But Illya just looks even more broken. That look would be much more suited to a different situation, say, Illya reacting to the sight of a mostly naked Napoleon. Then it would just be hilarious instead of heartbreaking.

He looks over Illya’s body, studying him carefully, and Napoleon sags a little more when he sees Illya is uninjured. Those men must not have found him. Then Illya stands and moves away so Napoleon can only sit there, feeling confused and sort of abandoned. He tries to follow Illya with his eyes. But it still hurts a lot and he can’t really move, so Illya disappears out of his peripheral vision and then there is a huge ruckus in the background. There’s a lot of loud swearing in Russian and some shouting about an ambulance and at once. The sounds fade in and out, and then Napoleon’s not quite sure if Illya is still speaking in a language he understands.

But soon, Illya is back and he’s pressing something to Napoleon’s chest and the world goes white with pain. Napoleon’s screaming, but he makes no sound, and he bucks weakly against the pressure that doesn’t go away. His eyes find Illya’s, still that perfect blue, and Illya is murmuring something. But Napoleon is not going to be okay, no matter how much Illya keeps insisting. He’s never bled this much before, and he’s pretty sure this is going to be it for him, the curtains’ fall, end of the road.

Napoleon tries to speak but ends up coughing. Warm blood overflows from his mouth before he can finally force the words from his lips.

“They… took Gaby.”

The panic in Illya’s eyes increases threefold, and it is no surprise. But Illya has to have realized that when he came back to find a mostly dead Napoleon abandoned in a comfy chair. It’s terrifying, Napoleon thinks, the thought of the person you love in the clutches of the enemy, being interrogated or tortured or worse. Napoleon had been terrified when he thought Illya might have been captured too. But he’s okay now, because Illya is right here.

“I’ll find her.”

Illya says that, but he doesn’t move, breathing harshly as he holds the towel against Napoleon’s injuries, his muscles straining. The pressure only makes it more difficult to breathe, and Napoleon wonders how many more breaths he has left in him before he drowns in his blood.

Napoleon’s a lost cause. They can both see it. No matter how hard Illya tries to staunch the flow, Napoleon has already lost too much to make it out of this.

“You need to go,” he says.

Dying has a way of reshuffling your priorities, and since Napoleon won’t survive to experience anything remotely like consequences, he thinks he may as well indulge in these last moments when he still can.

So he drinks in the sight of Illya, even with his brows furrowed and his eyes dark with tears, he is still as stupidly attractive as ever. This might be the first time Illya’s ever stared at him so intently, and not out of anger or confusion because Napoleon couldn’t resist poking the bear for that little scrap of attention. Right now, when Illya watches Napoleon, it is with fear, with care. Illya only ever watches Gaby like that when she’s in danger, or when he realizes just how stupidly in love he is. Who’d have thought he actually had it in him to look at Napoleon the same way?

For one delirious moment, Napoleon imagines what it would be like for Illya to take him into his arms, instead of crouching there at arms length. Illya is always so warm, Napoleon thinks, and he feels really cold right now. It would be nice if Illya pressed a kiss to his forehead too, or maybe to his lips, if he can bear the taste of blood. He can whisper reassurances into his ear.

“I’m not letting you die here, Cowboy.”

Illya’s voice is scratchy, and he sniffs, pressing down on Napoleon’s injuries with even harder force. Napoleon feels numb, and this time, he barely registers the surge of pain. Illya is a little blurry at the edges now, and Napoleon stubbornly blinks him back into focus.

“It’s okay,” Napoleon whispers.

Illya needs to go. Gaby needs him, and Napoleon would rather not imagine how broken Illya would be if he lost the love of his life today. They’d get another Napoleon one day, even if his replacement isn’t half as handsome or charming. Good agents aren’t as hard to come by as their bosses like to pretend, but true love, the sort that turned the most hardened, cynical spy into a giant soft teddy bear, that sort of thing is a miracle. Illya can’t let that go to hang around a dead man.

“Don’t speak.”

Napoleon stares at the blue in those eyes, studies the sweep of long lashes, and wonders if it isn’t some strange sort of mercy to never have to see them again.

“Okay.”

He’s not sure if he actually says the word. The entire world has faded to one long, dull note, Illya the only splash of color in a bleak landscape.

“No, no, Napoleon,” Illya says, his eyes widening and his voice rising in volume. “Stay awake. Look at me.”

Except Napoleon doesn’t, he ignores his orders just like he’s always been good at, and closes his eyes. Because he’s stubborn and very tired, he keeps them closed even when Illya’s hand comes up to his cheek again, trying to make him lift his head. Illya’s fingers are sticky with blood and probably leave garish streaks against Napoleon’s face. But they’re warm and gentle and Napoleon misses them when Illya’s hand moves to his shoulders and he shakes Napoleon, once, twice. The shouting is louder now. Illya is angry, so angry. Napoleon knew this would happen. He always makes Illya angry somehow.

Napoleon can’t move, so he doesn’t, and just lets himself sink a little deeper into the blackness. But Illya is still here, and his hand is so warm, and Napoleon holds on a little longer because Illya has never touched him like this and he never will again.

He hears Illya’s frantic breathing, and then the pressure against his chest lessens. A second later, it’s gone.

There’s the sound of footsteps, hesitant, stepping away, then stopping, a pause that feels like eternity but probably lasts only seconds.

Then Illya rushes from the room.

Illya needs to save Gaby, Napoleon thinks, of course he’d go save Gaby. Napoleon is alone.

He holds on until the footsteps fade into emptiness, and then he falls.

Chapter Text

Over the course of eight months and six continents, Napoleon watches as Illya and Gaby fall in love.

It’s such a sweet, awkward courtship, Napoleon thinks. On some days he wonders if Illya isn’t secretly fifteen years old, what with all the shy looks and the puppy eyes he darts Gaby’s way whenever she is nearby. It’s absurd how endearing the Russian giant can be sometimes, when there is Gaby around to bring out his softer side. The scary grizzly bear is really just a marshmallow on the inside.

And the whole marshmallow thing is what leads Napoleon to making his first mistake. The man is too easy to read and even easier to provoke, so Napoleon goes and assumes there is no way someone like Illya can ever bruise Napoleon in the places that truly hurt. He’ll notice an attempt from a mile away, he thinks. So it’s okay to take note of Illya’s good looks and strong hands, and generally appreciate that luck has gifted him a particularly attractive partner. The fact of Illya and Gaby’s burgeoning relationship means that he keeps his curiosity to himself. But he’s only looking, and it’s no harm done.

He’s wrong, of course. He lets down his guard, he indulges too often and too easily, and he doesn’t realize what he’s done until he’s far beyond hope.

In the end, Napoleon can only blame himself.

-

Napoleon finds Gaby and Illya standing very close in Istanbul, the type of close that would leave fathers red with rage and make aunts giggle and gossip. They look like they might finally be going for that kiss, right up until the moment Napoleon plows between them with neither warning nor tact. There are at least three men hot on his tail, and his teammates will have to forgive him for causing another near miss.

Afterwards, Gaby strokes his back soothingly as Napoleon bends over and fights to catch his breath, trying not to throw up. Illya pats down their downed attackers, and pulls the keys Napoleon was supposed to pickpocket from one of the men’s pockets.

“I thought you said you were good thief,” Illya says, holding out the offending object like a trophy.

“I am,” Napoleon gasps in between breaths, though he can’t immediately come up with a defense to justify the assertion.

Illya makes a face and nods, pocketing the keys. “Loving your work.”

Instead of the prickly stab of exasperation, something warm washes over Napoleon. It’s so much like affection he forgets to act unaffected, and he frowns.

“You’re slipping, old man,” Gaby offers, and Illya actually smiles. That wave of warmth surges again in his chest, mingled with something else confusing yet bittersweet. He wonders what it’d be like if it had been his remark that caused Illya to do something so disturbingly affecting.

Illya is already walking away, motioning for Gaby to follow. If they linger here any longer someone is going to walk in on them. Gaby’s hand falls from Napoleon’s back, and she runs to catch up. As they make their leave, one of her hands slip over Illya’s arm.

Napoleon straightens, stretches, and then follows, two steps behind.

-

Handholding happens in Vienna. Illya thinks Napoleon can’t see, but he notices. Specifically, Napoleon notices how Gaby’s fingers curl around Illya’s hand as the two stand side by side, gawking at a gorgeous Amerling. They have the most wonderful matching expressions of awe on their faces, the sort that excellent art always deserves. But it’s clear to any observer that for the two of them, the magic is in more than the painting. Gaby is trying to act nonchalant about it all, but the way Illya’s cheeks tinge pink makes his excitement so obvious Napoleon finds himself hiding a secret smile.

Illya’s hand is truly enormous in comparison, Napoleon thinks, when his eyes drift from their faces back to the joined hands. He studies the two the same way he would a statue of marble or bronze, observing the way Illya’s long fingers form that perfect nook where Gaby’s hand fits so well. Then he wonders how his own hand would compare, if Illya would let Napoleon check or if he’d just punch him for daring to try.

They’re surrounded on all sides by priceless pieces of artwork, and Napoleon knows he should be engrossed by the paintings, should be appreciating the composition and the textures and the ways each painter communicates with color and light. There should be nothing he more enjoyable for him right now than discovering his favorite works and coming up with (purely hypothetical) strategies for relieving a museum of its finest pieces.

But for some reason, Napoleon can’t take his eyes off of those entwined hands, wondering what Illya’s hand would be like against his. Illya’s hands would be rough, probably, weathered and worn with a patchwork of scars painted by years of violence and dedication. Or perhaps soft? Illya does seem like the type who would have uncharacteristically soft hands, flesh and skin still forgiving despite all his hardship. It probably is soft, just because Illya is such a contradictory person.

Napoleon returns his gaze to the neglected art in front of him, his hands slipping behind his back. He holds onto one hand with another as he studies the painting. The artist a man whose name Napoleon doesn’t recognize, and the painting is a still life of blooming flowers, petals tinged with the beginnings of decay.

-

The first kiss, when it finally happens, happens on a rooftop in Cairo.

Napoleon is there to witness it, though he’s quite sure the only reason the kiss happens in his presence is because both Illya and Gaby are both too drunk to remember he’s still there. They’d pulled off their mission spectacularly, and he and Gaby had finally managed to coax Illya into having just one glass of vodka to celebrate. Napoleon, sneaky as he is, refilled Illya’s glass so many times without him noticing, he’s quite sure he turned Illya’s one glass into three, if not more.

Gaby had settled in Illya’s arms, and they are stretched out together on a tattered chaise while Napoleon slumps comfortably on the battered sofa chair nearby. As the night goes on, Illya’s gaze grows steadily darker, and it isn’t long before his eyes stop focusing on anything that isn’t Gaby.

Napoleon looks away for moment, staring up at the glimmering stars that lights up the night sky. When he turns his attention back to his teammates, he finds them kissing.

His instinct is to interrupt with a teasing comment, and resisting the urge is harder than it should be. They’ve earned this, Napoleon thinks, and a tiny part of him pumps the air in victory because finally, it’s taken them long enough. The rest of him is focused on Illya, but Napoleon is too drunk on tequila to dissect the reasons behind this compulsion, so he settles for observing the way Illya and Gaby’s lips move against each other. The world is a pleasant haze and he forgets that this kind of behavior is inappropriate. Instead, Napoleon decides that Illya is definitely not a virgin. No virgin can kiss like that, so gentle and sweet and needy all at the same time.

When his attention darts to Gaby, all he can only think of is how she’s doing it wrong, how she’s not responding the right way. Napoleon would take much more care to savor the taste of Illya, bite down on those lips when they get too demanding, and carefully tease the Russian into a breathless, whimpering mess with his tongue. That’s what he would do, if he is the one Illya is kissing so slowly and tenderly, gently undoing his lover one breathless second at a time.

But he’s not, and there’s nothing wrong with how Gaby kisses Illya. Something twists so viciously in Napoleon’s chest he finds it suddenly hard to breathe. He forces himself to look away, his gut churning with cold realization, and he silently empties the rest of his drink, pretending he is not hard with arousal, praying he will have forgotten everything by morning.

When he finally dares to look back, Gaby is asleep, and Illya’s face is nuzzled into her neck. There’s a tiny, blissful smile on Illya’s face, and Napoleon has never seen a man so in love. Something is cracking inside of him, threatening to shatter into a thousand pieces.

Morning comes, and the memory of last night is seared into Napoleon’s mind. He wants Illya, he thinks as he stares vacantly out into the pale dawn light, he wants Illya more than anything he’s ever wanted before.

-

In Buenos Aires, Illya and Gaby finally sleep together.

Napoleon first notices how relaxed Illya is, how the tight lines of tension in his muscles, the ramrod straightness of his back, are simply not there anymore. Illya is always tense before, during, and immediately after a mission. But that morning Napoleon walks into the hotel room and finds Illya, honest to god, smiling to himself.

Longing hits Napoleon with the force of a runaway train, and for a long moment he can only stand there, staring. They haven’t seen each other since dinner the night before. Napoleon is not the reason Illya looks and acts as though he’s walking on air, as though there is nothing left in the world that can hurt him, which only leaves-

Gaby, when she enters, is styled and dressed impeccably in Valentino. She walks into the room with a spring in her step, and when she sees Illya, she hesitates, and then grins, something devilishly charming in the upturn of her lips that has never been there before. She greets Napoleon with the same happy smile as Illya’s, and a matching light in her eyes.

It is only with sheer power of will that Napoleon hides the sudden, irrational rage that surges up inside of him.

Napoleon and Gaby form the fake couple this time around, and Napoleon wonders if it wasn’t the pretend affection, the sight of Gaby pressed to Napoleon’s side instead of his, that finally pushed Illya over the edge.

Still, he obligingly plays the fool, and offers his arm for her to take as they step out of the room and towards the mission.

In Buenos Aires, with jealousy burning his heart, Napoleon tells himself he is not in love.

-

Napoleon looks up from his book in Sydney and finds Gaby positively sitting in Illya’s lap. He drops the novel and stares at them with sad, accusing eyes from across the room. Curled on the couch, the lovebirds pay him no attention.

“Wait, when did this happen?” he says loudly, his tone bright with bewilderment, because at this point it’s impossible to keep ignoring the obvious.

“A long time ago,” Illya growls, his eyes, dark with desire, never leaves Gaby for a second. “You need to pay more attention, Cowboy.”

The barely restrained lust in Illya’s voice sends a shiver down Napoleon’s spine. His hand on the book tightens.

“Really?” he says, making a play for annoyance, “I’m trying to read here.”

“Then read, Napoleon,” Gaby says with a grin, barely even glancing in Napoleon’s direction as she sips at a glass of whiskey.

Silence stretches, Napoleon can’t pull his eyes away from where Illya’s large hands have settled at Gaby’s waist. Gaby’s fingers are toying with the edge of Illya’s shirt.

“You know what? I’m going to leave you two alone,” he says, ever the longsuffering companion. He stands up in one swift motion, and leaves the book behind as he walks past the couch toward the door. Napoleon keeps his eye on the exit, refusing to pay attention to Illya’s small, doting smile, or the intense focus in Illya’s eyes as he watches at Gaby with such open longing.

“Gaby, I’m taking your room for the night,” Napoleon says, and he flees the hotel room with measured, leisurely strides

The door doesn’t hit him on the way out. When he finally makes it to Gaby’s room and picks the lock to get in, Napoleon thinks of throwing himself off of the balcony anyway.

-

He’s kicked out of their shared hotel room again in Verona. This time, he finds an opened bottle of vodka in Gaby’s room, and makes the mistake of pouring himself a shot.

Another two downed shots later, he’s rifling through the room’s record collection, looking for something to take his mind off of what is going on two levels above. Seven uninteresting covers later, he’s staring dumbly at a copy of Che Vuole Questa Musica Stasera. Gagliardi eyes him from the cover, like he’s mocking Napoleon for just how pathetic he has become.

Napoleon puts on the record and listens to it for the rest of the night, downing the rest of the bottle and thinking that no, he can’t relate to lyrics of lost love when he’s mourning something he never even had. But each time the record runs out, he climbs up off the floor and puts it back on again, because the memory it brings back is one of freedom, of disregard, of being so thoroughly uninvested in the welfare of a blond Russian giant he’d been content to sit and watch as the man engaged in a dangerous chase which ended in a ball of fire. He wants to be that person again, Napoleon thinks as he downs drink after drink, someone who still remembers how to not care that Illya is currently naked and in bed with someone else.

He wakes up on the floor the next morning in enough physical pain to distract from every other form of hurt he might feel. When he starts remembering why he feels like he’s just been lobotomized by multiple screwdrivers, Napoleon curls into a tight ball. He makes himself focus on the throbbing in his head instead of the intrusive thoughts of lazy morning sex and breakfast in bed.

“What did you do to yourself?” Gaby says, mouth agape, when he finally emerges at lunchtime.

He hides his shame behind designer shades and a strained smile.

“I’m allowed to have a little fun once in a while, aren’t I?” Napoleon returns, taking the glass of water Gaby offers him.

Illya looks up from his chess game, and Napoleon glimpses the edges of a darkening bruise poking out from the top of his turtleneck. He looks away too late, his mind already stripping Illya bare, painting more sordid details of the night before. Illya, stretched on the bed, broken apart by need, hands exploring that wide expanse of skin, lips pressed under his jaw, where his pulse is strongest, trailing down his neck, marking him as belonging. Every part of Illya, claimed by touch, by kiss.

“I hope she was worth it,” says Illya.

Napoleon laughs and laughs.

-

In New York Illya frets and frets and frets, not because he’s on enemy soil, or because people’s demeanors change from friendly to suspicious the moment he opens his mouth. But because it’s almost Gaby’s birthday and he still hasn’t bought her a present.

Napoleon laughs at him at first, though he’s probably just laughing at himself for the way things have turned out. Then, he settles to offer Illya serious suggestions.

They’re out on the balcony, pressed tight together on the bench because it’s the only seat available and it is freezing cold. Napoleon has not been so close to Illya since Illya tried to choke him out on a bathroom floor months ago. He can feel Illya’s warmth through the too thin sweater he is wearing, and the air is heady with Illya’s scent. Napoleon breathes deep. Illya shifts uncomfortably, and puts a little bit of space between them so they’re not pressed so tightly.

Something handmade, Napoleon suggests, unique, special to her. Also something she can figure out, can tinker with, she likes to take things apart.

Illya, the huge romantic sap he is, buys Gaby a puzzle jewelry box with a pair of emerald earrings inside. Gaby adores it. The grateful smile Illya points at him lights up his entire face, and makes Napoleon’s want to pin him down and kiss him until they both forget everything that isn’t each other.

When Illya’s birthday is approaching, Gaby comes to Napoleon with a tight frown on her lips. Napoleon takes one look, and marches her over to the millinery store three blocks east, where a beautiful handmade cap in charcoal grey sits on display, in the exact style Illya loves to wear.

When Gaby presents Illya with her gift, he regards her with the eyes of a startled puppy. Napoleon doesn’t think he will ever get tired of seeing that look on Illya’s face. Awe, devotion, that tender affection, and those lingering traces of fear and confusion, all of it transforms a stern Russian spy into something extraordinary. In these moments, Illya looks just like a young man, vulnerable, in love, yet invincible.

None of it is meant for him, but Napoleon is good at stealing beautiful things belonging to others. Illya smiles that tiny, shy smile and Napoleon warms from the inside out, and feels a little dizzy like there’s too much champagne bubbling inside of him. It’s another memory to hoard and savor, when it’s much later and he is alone.

Gaby looks at Napolen in excitement when Illya pulls her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he wraps his arms around her small frame in a gentle hug. Napoleon grins, and returns Gaby a secret, conspiratory wink.

His own gift (a pair of steel cufflinks, disguising a set of trackers) is not as well received. But Illya thanks him with warm eyes and calls him Napoleon, and it’s more than enough.

-

“You’re not sleeping with as many women,” Illya comments, one night in Munich.

“Well,” Napoleon says. Then he falls silent, not expecting the conversation to take the turn it did. “I never knew you were keeping count.”

“You’d tell me if something is wrong, Cowboy?”

The timbre of Illya’s voice, colored with genuine concern, makes Napoleon’s insides churn. He wonders if Illya noticed the bruises, or the slight slips in his usual act when he can’t hide the physical discomfort. Napoleon wonders if he’s being too rough on himself, if Illya’s worry will truly be fixed if he just starts to bed more women.

“Of course.”

Even the cheapest imitation of happiness is addictive to someone going without. The solution, Napoleon finds, is simply finding a reprieve. A reprieve in the form finding the tallest, strongest men he possibly can, and letting himself be fucked senseless in hotel rooms and private clubs.

It works, at least for a while, to make the bone-deep ache inside dim just a little. He feels filthy afterwards, but it’s nothing a good long scrub in the shower can’t handle.

Once they move onto a new city, Napoleon convinces himself to curb his perverted new compulsion, and return his focus to women.

Illya doesn’t raise the issue again.

-

Then, Gaby and Illya are sent away on a mission without him, and Napoleon doesn’t know what to do with himself. The alcohol doesn’t work, and the idea of anonymous sex makes him want to throw up. He’s anxious, fretful, and more irritating than usual to everyone around him. It’s only Waverly’s firm threat of further consequences (I will ground you for as long as I need to, Mr. Solo) that keeps him from hopping on a plane and following after them. It’s not right, he thinks. They are a team, and they work best when all three of them are together.

Instead of chasing Illya halfway across the world, he puts pen to paper and churns out four reports describing incidents he’s already half forgotten. His thoughts are dominated by what ifs, because things always go wrong and he needs to be there to watch out for them. He worries, and then gets angry with himself for worrying. Because Waverly is right, both Illya and Gaby are more than capable, and Napoleon needs to have more faith in the two of them together

Waverly is proved right when Illya and Gaby come back, a week later, without so much as a hair out of place. Illya is practically glowing, and Napoleon realizes with a pang they had used their time alone to accomplish much more than just the goals of their mission. Gaby beams when she sees him again, and eagerly tells him all about Tuscany and the flowers and the ocean and the sun and the delicious pasta they tasted in Florence.

Napoleon listens and smiles, grasping at his fondness for Gaby for all its worth in his efforts to dam the rising panic that comes with realization.

They’d do just fine without him.

-

Things go wrong in Hong Kong.

Napoleon is tied to a chair, fighting back the effects of something that he’s just been injected with. Gaby is tied behind him, her face bruised and bloody from an interrogator who refuses to go easy on women. Napoleon trembles, his eyes glassy. There is an army of ants crawling under his skin.

They’re going to die here, Napoleon thinks. Illya would be alone. They can’t leave him alone.

He’s still silently panicking when Illya arrives in a storm of rage and violence, destroying every obstacle in his path. There’s gunfire, the sound heavy things falling, Illya walks straight past Napoleon towards Gaby.

The ants are eating Napoleon alive, or perhaps they’re bees. Something is buzzing in his ears and it won’t stop.

Illya undoes Gaby’s shackles in moments. He carefully gathers her shivering body into his arms, and whispers reassurances into her ear. Some of the words make it through the gathering darkness, and the pain is a little easier to bear.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Napoleon fades, or maybe he doesn’t. Sometime, much later, the world tilts on its axis, and he feels himself toppling bonelessly into a pair of strong, steady arms.

-

There's an argument in Stockholm. This one not like the dozens of tiny squabbles that happens every other day, but the sort where one small disagreement drags out a chain of unresolved issues, and the shouting pierces through walls and windows and attracts the attention of both neighbors and strangers from the street. In the end, both sides simmer silently and refuse to talk to the other, nursing their hurt and anger, convinced they are in the right.

Napoleon's in the room when it happens, having felt the tension since the moment the three of them reunited after a disastrous attempt at infiltration. His efforts in defusing the situation before either side blows up proves pointless. Gaby throws a snide jibe, Illya returns in kind, and before he knows it, both of them are screaming at each other. Even knowing Illya's inclination to violent episodes, Gaby does not back down for an instant, almost daring him to do something he'll regret.

It had been one of those missions where one unlucky event turned into a string of misfortunes. Neither side is fully to blame, but Gaby yells about Illya's overprotectiveness, about how he does not respect her as an equal, and how he always charges ahead and does what he wants. And Illya, in turn, is furious at Gaby for not following the plan, for being reckless, putting herself in unnecessary danger, and for keeping secrets from the team when she doesn't need to. Napoleon, stuck in the middle, fades into the background.

The next day, the atmosphere is miserable, and Napoleon single handedly fills the silence with inane stories and observations when their work puts all three of them in the same room. He corners Gaby in a nearby cafe and later Illya in the hotel elevator, forcing them both to stop being stubborn idiots and see sense.

"He respects you," he tells Gaby, watching her from across the table, "But he's also terrified of losing you."

"You've seen what she can do," he says to Illya, after pulling the emergency stop and meeting Illya's furious glare head on, "Have more faith in her. She knows what she's doing."

The tension in Illya's posture slowly eases when Napoleon explains that Illya’s interference is only creating more danger for all of them, because when he doesn't focus on the mission it means the entire team's effectiveness will go down. He knows Gaby is more than capable, and if he really wants to take care of her, he needs to make sure that he does his part properly, and trust that his team will get their jobs done.

In turn, the anger in Gaby's expression slowly dissolves when Napoleon explains that the reason Illya lets Napoleon walk into danger instead of her is not because he doesn't respect her, but because he is not the one Illya loves. The thought of Napoleon being injured will never compare to even the imagined pain of seeing Gaby hurt or captured.

"He cares about you," says Gaby, a little heartbroken, a little defensive.

"I know," says Napoleon, "But he loves you."

Chapter Text

He’s not sure why he wakes up again, but he opens his eyes and Gaby is there, sitting at his bedside with puffy eyes.

The next time he wakes up, Illya is there too. They have matching looks of exhaustion, dark circles under their eyes and their hair a rumpled mess. Napoleon watches Illya rub Gaby’s arms softly, trying to keep her warm, neither of them notice Napoleon.

Each time he wakes, his body quickly pulls him back under, and each time, he manages to stay conscious a little longer than the last. When he finally has enough strength to ask questions, they tell him what happened.

The ambulance had, miraculously, arrived in time to bring him back to life, and Waverly’s people got to him in the hospital before their enemy did. Je was transferred immediately to an UNCLE affiliated facility. Illya had tried to save Gaby only to find she was already on her way back, her captors incapacitated with improvised explosives. They’d returned to find Napoleon missing, and Illya had almost destroyed the remainder of the apartment before Gaby calmed him down with reminders that the ambulance may have just taken him away.

Napoleon listens to it all silently, making sure to deliver the right commentary and make the correct expressions at the appropriate times. He cracks jokes about his miraculous survival, and enjoys seeing the guilt and anxiety in Gaby and Illya's bodies disappear little by little.

Illya, looking as though someone had broken his favorite toy, leans in and places a gentle kiss on Gaby’s forehead. It's as though he wants comfort, or affection, and only knows one place where he can find it. Napoleon watches, numb.

Later, he might blame the blood loss, or the drugs being pumped through his veins, for the words that escape his lips.

“Don’t I get a kiss?”

Illya scowls at him, and Napoleon just pouts sadly, with the best puppy eyes he can muster, in the hope that Illya will take pity. He wants it, has wanted it for so long he barely remembers a time when he doesn't. He tries, but he knows better than to expect his words to be taken as anything other than a joke.

Then, Illya reaches one arm toward Napoleon. His long fingers brush against Napoleon's hair, his eyes intent, and Napoleon lies there, eyes wide like a startled cat.

Gaby’s giggles snap them both out of the moment, and Illya withdraws his hand, self-conscious. Napoleon blinks, his mouth dry.

“That was not a kiss,” he says, when he finds his words again.

Illya levels a look at him that says ‘don’t push your luck’. Gaby is smiling.

“I would rather kiss horse,” Illya deadpans, grabbing Gaby’s fingers and holding it between his hands.

Illya’s jibe is no worse than their usual brand of banter. Napoleon shouldn’t be upset, but Illya’s words dig into his chest like knives. He blinks, stares at the wall for a moment because he can’t trust himself to look at Illya. When he turns back, Illya and Gaby both look alarmed.

Napoleon curses himself for allowing his mask to slip. But now both his friends have noticed, he’s not allowed to pretend anymore.

“That hurts, Peril,” he admits with soft eyes and a smile.

Guilt flickers across Illya’s expression, and the same feeling twists in Napoleon’s gut with the knowledge that he is the cause. It’s just the exhaustion, Napoleon thinks, and the cocktail of drugs currently in his system. He’ll be better in a few weeks, back to full form. Illya shouldn’t be the guilty one. This won’t happen again.

Gaby, frowning, releases a soft sigh and leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Napoleon’s heart warms, and he clings to her action to save the situation. His eyes are bright when he turns toward Illya with a twist of mischief to his lips. The gentleman thief, victorious yet again.

Their eyes meet, and the familiar urges push forward, clamoring for Illya to never look away, to take his hand and hold onto it like he does Gaby’s, to come a bit closer. Napoleon ignores it with practiced bravado. Illya sees his reaction, and relaxes, just like Napoleon wants him to. Napoleon’s smile turns genuine then.

He wants to stare at Illya a little longer, but Gaby is there too so he looks at her, and he takes in the redness in her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks. This is his friend, Napoleon thinks, beautiful, strong Gaby with her cunning ways and her caring heart.

Illya made a good choice. Napoleon would die for either one of them any day.

Napoleon is a thief, but he is also an actor, one who sheds disguises and personalities with well-practiced ease. He’s a good enough liar to convince blushing socialites and shrewd widows into believing he’s in love, and he has the perfect masks to sell the lie when he needs to convince people of the opposite. Wisdom says that all the world’s a stage, and Napoleon embodies the phrase in everything he does and says. From his costuming to his lines, everything is perfectly timed and delivered to depict the man others expect him to be.

He’s used to it now, turning the knife inwards instead of allowing any scars to mar a perfect countenance. Carving thoughts into bone, patterns drawn of words unsaid and needs unspoken. Every morning he loops his love around his neck, and tames it as delicately as he would a silken tie, so it does not become a noose that chokes him in the night. The weight of it is a familiar comfort, just another part of him so expected it is forgotten, like a cyanide pill, waiting at the back of his throat, ready and waiting whether it’s needed or not.

“Get some rest,” they say. “We’ll come visit you tomorrow.”

Napoleon is left alone again. Absence is a small, temporary relief. He closes his eyes and prays for dreamless sleep.

Tomorrow, the show goes on.