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It’s four months and eight days after, and Napoleon feels like the worst piece of shit to ever walk this Earth. And that is saying something, considering the kind of scum he meets on the job.
Gaby won’t look at him, won’t talk to him, if not to tell him to raise his arm or stop moving, and he doesn’t think that the ugly cut between his ribs has much to do with how he can’t seem to breathe right.
(He almost starts joking about scarring and his vanity, but he bites his tongue just in time. These days, his tension-breaking jokes rarely land as they used to, and now she’s probably the less receptive that she’s ever been.)
“Listen—” he begins instead, quiet and already penitent, but she doesn’t let him go any further.
“Shut up,” she says, curtly, and she still won’t look at him.
He closes his mouth, swallowing and staring at her with as much intensity as he can, as if that could force her to turn. The only thing that he gets out of it is a slightly less delicate touch as she patches him up, though that probably wasn’t on purpose. He hopes.
He lasts one minute and twenty-two seconds beyond the moment he realizes she is not going to speak. Then: “Gaby, I’m—”
“What did I just say?” she snaps. This time, at least, she does look at him. It’s a burning glare that promises him hell if he doesn’t stop testing her patience, and he thinks that perhaps he owes it to her to let her be angry in silence for as long as she likes. Even if he feels nauseous with the need to fix it.
He looks away first, swallowing all the justifications burning in his throat and trying not to feel like she’s perhaps resenting him for the wrong reasons. It would be understandable, to see him escape with his life and wonder what right he had to it, why it had to be him who managed. It was always her and Illya before anyone else, it all started with them, and if she resented a little having been left with him he would understand, he wouldn’t begrudge her for it.
(Alright, he would, the same way he couldn’t help begrudging Illya for treasuring her just a little bit more than him, but he never claimed to be a good man.)
Gaby finishes his bandage with efficient precision. “Too tight?” she asks, her tone measured, eyes on her work.
“It’s fine,” he says, though he’s suffocating already, he isn’t sure he would know the difference.
The silence that follows grows between them, and he could swear something was trying to push him back, farther against the chair, trying to crush him. He wonders if he should try speaking again.
“Just how selfish can you be, Solo?!” Gaby bursts out without warning, startling him half to death – which, he supposes, she would not find particularly funny.
“I don’t think you really want me to answer that,” he says, a teasing note in his voice, even though he knows that it’s probably a bad idea. Maybe he’s just stupid. Or maybe he thinks she deserves another reason to punch him in the face.
“Oh, I don’t need you to answer that—” she spits out, her voice trembling with anger, even if she makes no mention of his tone. She might not have noticed it in the first place: she looks like she can see nothing but red.
His eyes drift down, to his hands, to his shirt abandoned on the ground, to her hands, and there’s blood everywhere. His stomach twists on itself and he feels himself getting yanked back to months before, desperation choking him like he’s still there.
“What were you thinking—you—you absolute—”
She’s shaking and on the verge of tears, which he’s sure she will later attribute only to her anger, and he reaches out with his less bloodied hand, clasping hers. She lets him, which has to be a good sign.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I wasn’t thinking.” He maintains that knife wounds are part of the job and that he couldn’t have avoided them forever even if he had been more careful – he can admit that his levels of recklessness have risen somewhat lately –, but he certainly could have avoided playing dead. It was the first thing he had thought of to get himself out of the tight spot he was in, and though he’s still somehow not used to not having Illya as back-up he’s sure there were other ways. He should have taken Gaby into account.
(He can be very, very selfish, but she’s always known that.)
Gaby sucks in a breath, looking at him like she’s thoroughly unimpressed and still beyond angry. “You are not going to leave me here alone,” she says, and it would have been authoritative if her voice hadn’t broken right on the last word. The tears quickly gathering in her eyes don’t help either. “You can’t, alright?” she adds, a little more pleading.
He nods, his eyes burning as he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Come here,” he says, quietly, tugging at her hand and opening his free arm as an invitation.
She blinks as she stands up, tears falling all over her cheeks while she lets him pull her on his lap, burying her face in his shoulder as she shakes. She’s always quiet when she cries, but that doesn’t make him feel much better.
He wraps his arms around her as best as he can, ignoring the way the movements pull at his wound, and since he doesn’t have any words of comfort to offer, he does one of the few things that he’s really good at: he lies through his teeth.
With the confidence of someone whose life expectancy isn’t ridiculously short, he begins talking about the best places to retire, somewhere near the sea, possibly, because it’s a cliché for a reason. He’s always had a weakness for Italy, but he’s willing to negotiate. They will have a pretty house, two stores, which they will complain about when they will be old and grey and they won’t want to take the stairs anymore. They will be so bored that they will pick up ridiculous hobbies, like knitting, because he can’t imagine her knitting, and they will turn it into some insane competition to spice it up a little. He thinks the prize should be cookies.
She lets him talk, laughing quietly into his shoulder and clinging to him harder with every passing minute, and eventually she stops crying.
(And if those fantasies were always meant for the three of them, well, that’s his own problem.)
It’s three months after, and Gaby isn’t thinking about it. She is walking up the stairs, carrying an insane amount of chocolate and some flour – they had that at home, but Solo said that you never know and she was mostly glad to be on groceries duty, because he gets bossy when he’s baking and she much prefers joining in when at least he has already set everything up; that way, he can’t complain that she put the blue bowl on the wrong side of the table, or that he needs the water closer to the centre, or any number of other ridiculous things.
When she reaches their apartment, unlocking the door as quickly as she can before gravity destroys her poor wrist, tasked with holding the bags, she slides in and closes the door with her foot, keeping an ear out for music or whistling. She internally groans when she hears neither, because it means he hasn’t gotten started yet.
Ah, well. Time to face her fate.
She walks into the kitchen immediately after shrugging her coat and shoes off, announcing herself with: “Hey, I got you what—” She cuts herself off when she sees no sign of him. “Solo?” she calls, a note of worry slipping in her voice as she slowly sets down the bags and reaches for her hidden knife. She steps back from the table, beginning to circle the room looking for a sign of—her partner, who is currently sitting on the ground, with his back against the oven.
He looks distraught, looking up to her with shiny eyes and tears all over his very red cheeks, and her heart immediately leaps to her throat.
She scrambles to put down the knife and dive for him at the same time, frantically wondering what happened, if he’s hurt, if there’s some alarming phone call that she missed in the time that it took her to go buy some stupid chocolate—
“Hey,” she says, ushered and worried, as she kneels next to him and her hand settles on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze, while her other hand lands on his knee. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
He sniffles miserably, his lips curling in a humourless smile. “I—” His voice breaks, more tears falling on his cheeks when he blinks. He gestures helplessly somewhere in front of him, which is when he notices that, bundled up within throwing distance, there’s one of his aprons, one of the stupid ones, to be precise.
Napoleon used to buy them to piss Illya off, because he always looked like he lost a bit of faith in humanity at the sight of them. He always used to complain about how for someone that insists on always wearing three-piece suits, regardless of practicality, it should be impossible to wear something like that and not drop dead on the spot.
This one apron is covered in cowboy hats of various colours.
“I think I miss my stupid—stupid nickname,” he strangles out, breaking into a sob before he’s even done talking, and she can only stare at him, her mouth slightly open. She has the distinct feeling that her heart just broke.
“Okay,” she says, quietly, trying to breathe through the giant weight in her chest. “I understand.”
He stifles a sob into his palm, his shoulders shaking with the force of it, and she scoots closer, pressing herself against his side and sliding her arm around his shoulders, to pull him towards her. She lets him hide his face in the crook of her neck, and though he’s already awkwardly crutched he only tries to make himself smaller, crying and sobbing like he will never stop.
Each miserable sound he makes tears her heart out some more, and she feels stupid and useless, sitting there and running circles on his back without making a sound. There is really nothing to say, no way to fix it, and she hates it.
Solo hasn’t really cried before, not like this, not in front of her at least. She had her – well deserved, she thinks – breakdown shortly after it happened, the day when they came home just the two of them and Solo disappeared to take a shower. It was a long one, and she was left alone sitting on the couch and feeling small and battered. When he found her, she was crying and she had no idea how to stop. She doesn’t remember if he said much, just that he joined her on the couch and he held her the whole time.
He was the one to deal with the preparations for the wake, and also the one to give the eulogy, because, he said, he’s much better with words than she is. He didn’t cry then either.
She’s pretty sure that, a few times when they held each other at night and she let herself cry, he let a few tears fall too. But she cannot be sure, and it was never—this.
It’s probably good that he’s letting himself feel it, for once. She’s still enough of an asshole that she keeps wishing for him to stop, because every sob escaping his throat shakes her to the core and she’s one second of weakness, one wrong thought, away from joining the crying.
She still holds him, tight like she’s trying to shatter him, and she can only think that it’d be so easy, to lose him too. Just a distraction or a plan blown to hell or just plain bad luck—sometimes she hates Waverly for forcing all this on her. She could have been content without knowing this, without knowing them—if they had never seen one another again after Rome she might have always wondered, occasionally thought of them and of what might have been, but at least it wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn’t have been left devastated and desperately clinging to the other poor bastard in her same situation, praying not to lose him too.
She couldn’t take it.
Or worse—she could. She doesn’t think she knows how not to, because that’s just the way it is: she loses people, they leave her, and she keeps going. Alone.
It’s just that she’s realizing that she hates the thought of going there again, after letting herself believe, if only for a little while, that she wouldn’t have to do anything alone ever again.
Turns out that no one is indestructible and they have a thankless job.
Solo calms down, eventually. He stills in her arms, slumped against her like he has forgotten how to hold himself up, and she just lets him breathe until he wants to speak. To be honest, she still doesn’t know what to say herself.
“Sorry,” is the first thing he mutters, because of course it is.
She swallows, trying to force some levity into her tone, because he’s always joking around, so—maybe it will make him feel a little more at ease. “I didn’t hear that,” she announces, teasingly. “But I hope it wasn’t an apology, because I would have to firmly reject it. Possibly push you off for good measure.”
He snorts, a pitiful little sound that still feels like a wonderful conquest.
They sit quietly for a few moments, even if Gaby at this point is certain that her legs will never be the same again after this, then he takes a breath, his fingers clasping more tightly around her shirt as she waits for him to speak.
“I keep thinking that I need him to give me a hug,” he says, barely audible.
She bites her bottom lip as she nods, tears filling her eyes as soon as she dares to think to herself that yes, actually, that would be—pretty much what she needs as well.
“Yeah,” she says, quietly, her breath catching as she presses her cheek on top of his hair. “Me too.”
It’s two weeks after, and Gaby is angry, slumped on her cold and lonely bed, the one that exists only because they have three rooms. It’s mostly for show, a little because Solo would cry if he didn’t have his own wardrobe, and a little more because every now and then one of them just needs a break from the others.
She supposes that now that it’s just her and Solo, this will become a more common occurrence than she’s grown used to: it would seem that they can do nothing but being at each other’s throats, these days.
Or better, she is at his throat, he—jokes. He’s fucking joking all the time, with that toothy grin plastered on his face at the most inappropriate of times, and Gaby is already angry enough without this.
It’s easy to be angry at the world, because she’s been harbouring it in for so long that at this point it’s just background noise for her. It’s easy to be angry at Illya too, because he is not here to be offended or to remind her that he didn’t mean to go anywhere. He is not here and she can hate him for it all she likes.
But Solo—Solo is here, and if screaming at him makes her feel so much better for a few seconds afterwards, she also has to deal with his face as she does so. Not that he would look particularly hurt to any random on-lookers, but sometimes knowledge is a curse, and she does know him.
She knows, deep down, that he doesn’t mean to be an idiot, or a jerk. That him joking around is not actually him thinking that there’s anything funny about this, that he is not spitting in the face of her pain.
Yet, when she says shit like what he did today…
Waverly wants to send him as back-up for another agent, for a quick mission in Scotland, and though there’s nothing particularly dangerous about it and she’s been assured that Solo will literally only have to sit in a truck, merely as a precaution, she couldn’t help her worried frown, which Solo apparently took as plea to joke.
“Don’t worry, I’ve updated my will, everything I own goes to you,” the bastard said, with a wink and not a care in the world, like it’s not a possibility, like she isn’t terrified—there was a lot of yelling, after that.
She remembers demanding if everything is always just a fucking joke to him, pushing and pushing until he just asked, huffing like he had any right to be exasperated by her: “What do you want me to do about it? Cry?”
“Maybe!” was her answer, still above normal volume. “At least I would know that you give a shit!”
She can still see perfectly clearly the way his shoulders sagged for a moment, a flash of shock and hurt passing over his face before he schooled himself back to neutrality. “Maybe I don’t.”
She left then, too angry and shaken – but not yet guilty – to say anything else, and now—she knows he cares, of course. It’s not even a question, it never was, and she knows that there’s a reason why he jokes around as much as she yells, that they are just both trying to stay afloat, but—god, she was just so angry, and he was there. He’s always there, which makes him an easy target, and if she lets herself be rational she can admit that he’s had to bear her nerves just as much as she’s had to bear his humour.
It's—it’s just part of the package. The ‘navigating this mess together with no directions’ package.
He never pushes her away just because she’s unpleasant and, she realizes now that she’s lying on top of the covers with no hope for sleep in sight, she isn’t so sure she wants to run from him either. He’s all that she has left, and she wants to keep him – she needs him to keep her.
She slides back into their bedroom like a thief, unsure if she’s hoping for him to be asleep or if she’s waiting for a sign that she can move forward.
Regardless, what she gets is a tired hum and an ‘Are you coming in here or not?’.
The bed is still too empty, but at least it’s warm. When Solo scoots closer and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest like nothing even happened, it feels warmer still.
Gaby shifts a little, so that her back is comfortably set against his chest and she can grab a fistful of his sleeve. She waits for Solo to get settled as well, for the weight of his chin on top of her head and the content hum that means he’s as comfortable as he’s likely to get, and then she takes a breath and she just—goes for it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quietly, pulling his hand under her chin. “I didn’t mean that. I know you care.”
He’s quiet for long enough that it makes her nervous, her thoughts raging from the prospect of being thrown out of their bedroom to the doubt that he’s somehow already fallen asleep.
“Don’t worry about it,” is what he eventually says. She can’t tell if he’s sincere, and maybe he knows, because he follows it up with a quiet ‘Love you’ murmured into her hair.
Her eyes immediately begin to sting, and she has to press her lips together for a few moments before she can return the sentiment.
Please, she keeps thinking what are probably hours later, still unable to fall asleep. Please, let me keep him.
It’s a day after, and Gaby has a newly discovered hatred for debriefings. The only thing keeping her from finding something to help her break down the door is self-restraint, and the suspicion that Waverly would make her sit through a third debriefing if she did.
She never wants to talk about Gruissan ever again. She doesn’t think she will be able to hear the name without feeling nauseous, and she can only hope that they won’t have to set foot in France for a while.
Crossing her arms tightly and letting out a frustrated sigh, she closes her eyes for a moment.
She just needs to wait a little more, until Solo is done with his second debriefing, and then they can go home. She just wants to get out of headquarters, restlessness choking her and expectation twisting her stomach like she thinks she’s going to find something to quiet herself down at home, and—she knows that that is unlikely to happen, that she will get home and she will feel just as frustrated and uneasy, but at least she won’t be here, leaning against a wall and hardly resisting the urge to beat her head against it until she passes out.
Finally, thank god, the door swings open and Solo walks out, looking just as put together as always, the unhappy curve of his mouth the only thing betraying that he would have preferred to bite his own hand off rather than sit through another debriefing.
She immediately walks up to him, and she’s rewarded with a bit of a relieved smile as soon as he spots her, some tension leaving his shoulders.
“Hey,” he says. “I told you you didn’t have to wait for me.”
She shrugs, positioning herself at his side and sliding her arm around his waist, because she wants him close and some tension melts from both of them at the contact. “It’s not like I had anything better to do with my time,” she says, flashing a quick smile his way just so she’s sure he knows she’s joking.
He huffs, his arm tight around her shoulders as they walk, and after a few moments his expression turns calculating, his eyes getting lost the way they do when he’s mentally running through a list.
She waits until he’s done and he looks down on her for a second, his eyes slipping away suspiciously quickly.
“I need to go order the flowers,” he says then, looking ahead and giving her shoulders a squeeze. That, she supposes, explains it.
She isn’t sure how she feels about it—she doesn’t think she feels much about it. The fact that there’s a wake coming feels very distant and a little surreal, and hardly being involved in the preparations, because Solo took over everything and she didn’t even think about stopping him when he firmly refused Waverly’s offer to take charge, probably doesn’t help in this regard.
Being a little numb still is probably a blessing. She thinks she should feel some shade of devastated, knowing what the flowers are for and being reminded that they need to be bought, but it doesn’t really register.
“You don’t need to give me a ride,” Solo adds then, probably taking her silence the wrong way. His voice is kind and his smile seems honest, and there is no way in hell that she isn’t giving him a ride.
She thinks he’s offered – or better, demanded – to take care of everything because he wanted something to do, because he wanted it to be done right and also because she didn’t want her to have to do it. She supposes she appreciates it, because now that she’s picturing getting too close to the preparations she’s beginning to suspect that would have ended with her actually realizing that this is it, and—she thinks she’s more comfortable with her numbness and denial.
“No, it’s alright,” she says then, because the least she can do is not letting him go through it alone.
He doesn’t look convinced, worried and clearly about to protest.
“I’ll wait outside,” she adds then, and it relieves her just as much as it does him.
Napoleon can say with no reservations that the day has now officially gone to shit.
The weather would already be hindrance enough, with the chilly wind slapping him in the face and either trying to peel his skin off or push him flat on his back, but now he also has to carry a ridiculous amount of pounds of unconscious Russian, holding him tight against his chest so that he can keep pressure on the bullet hole on the right side of his chest – definitely in the top five worst places to get shot – and letting his feet drag in front of them.
“Anytime you want to pitch in, Peril,” he mutters between gritted teeth, though he doubts Illya will even hear with the noise surrounding them.
He was still conscious when they started, but there was an appalling quantity of blood and he was making very worrying choking sounds, so Napoleon figured that waiting and praying for Gaby to immediately come looking for them – instead of sensibly waiting at the rendezvous point for a while before panicking – would be a terrible choice. He decided to forgo a fireman carry as well, figuring that keeping pressure on the wound was too important and not wanting to risk getting knocked on his face by the wind: at least this way he’s facing it and it’s giving him a bit of an helping hand moving forward.
“Almost there,” he says, though his definition of ‘almost’ is currently pretty broad. He tries to listen in for the sound of an engine announcing that at least things ran smoothly on Gaby’s end, but he can hardly hear anything above his pumping blood and the roaring of the wind.
A few times, he tried to make sure that Illya was still making some sort of sound, but if at first he had his head over his shoulder, close enough for him to hear his ragged breathing next to his ear, he has by now let him slide down, and Illya’s head is currently limping at the height of Napoleon’s chest.
It's a worrying picture, but at least it makes him move a little bit faster every time he notices.
“I’m putting you on a diet as soon as we’re back in London,” he pants, because really, if he weren’t the one cooking most of the guy’s meals he’d bet he feeds on rocks. “Just salads. Forever.”
He’s positive that he has imagined the unhappy grumbling in response, but it’s a little bit reassuring anyway.
Then, a few feet farther and a lot of pain later, there’s a voice, first a little lost in the wind and then moving closer and closer, until he can make out Gaby calling out for both of them and he grins, relieved beyond words.
Which is also, of course, when his heel catches on something and he trips, dragging Illya down with him as he falls flat on his ass.
He curses under his breath, throwing in a quick apology too because he’s polite like that, and then there are hands on his shoulders and Gaby comes into his field of vision, face twisted with concern.
“What happened?” she all but shouts above the wind, her eyes trailing down to Illya and widening in horror.
“Help me up, he needs an hospital,” he says, thinking that it’s risky and Illya will chew him out for it later, but he doesn’t really have a better option here.
Gaby isn’t looking at him.
“Gaby!” he scolds, because he has no time to be gentle. He can coddle her later. “Help me up!”
She doesn’t. Instead, she presses her lips together, glances at him once and then she’s reaching out for Illya, keeping his head tilted up and pressing two fingers to his neck. It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize what she’s doing, much less why.
The whole time, there has been a possibility there, a disturbingly likely outcome that he’s refused to contemplate, but now he has no choice but seeing it written all over Gaby’s face when she looks back at him and says nothing. She makes no move to help him up.
No, is the first thing that he thinks. Absolutely not.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he spits out between gritted teeth, something heavy stuck in his throat as he manoeuvres Illya off him and onto the ground, because this is not acceptable, he didn’t drag him all this way for this, he is not letting this happen.
He stubbornly ignores that Illya’s face is slack and white as sheet and that in spite of his best efforts the bloodstain on his chest has spread too much, and Gaby doesn’t try to stop him, shifting away and sitting herself down as he gets to work.
His eyes are fixated on his hands, but he can still catch sight of her, still as a statue, and he vaguely thinks that maybe he should tell her something, or ask her to help, but—he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that this makes no sense and chest compressions don’t fix bullet wounds or blood loss, that maybe a field transfusion would be marginally more useful. Except they don’t have the equipment for that, and even if they did Illya is O-, while he and Gaby are both A+, which figures, what kind of asshole has O-, what kind of a stupid blood type is that—
An undefined stretch of time later, his reason catches up to him, and he lets himself fall back, his whole body aching as helplessness wraps itself around his neck like a rope.
Too late, taunts a voice in his head. Too late, too late, too late—
He looks up to Gaby in search for something to help him keep the pieces together, before that saw currently tearing through his chest can finish the job, and he’s vaguely surprised not to find her in tears.
“I already asked for an extraction,” she says, her voice trembling only slightly.
He nods, and he isn’t sure how he feels about the fact that they now only have to wait.
She stays where she is, kneeling in the dirt and with her hands balled on her thighs, her eyes going directly from him to her own lap. He thinks she might simply be smart, pointedly refusing to look at Illya: the sight is perfect nightmare fuel.
Napoleon, on the other hand, has always been greedier than he is smart, and for some reason the only thing that he can think is that this is going to be one of the last few moments he will get to look at him, and he just can’t keep himself from doing it.
Illya’s hand is conveniently positioned next to Napoleon’s knee, and he doesn’t think before he takes it into his own, shuddering at how limp it is and how his skin feels like ice – that’s acceptable though, he thinks distantly, Illya’s hands are always cold.
Slowly breathing in and out as some sort of reflex, to keep himself from giving in to panic, he stares and stares and stares, thinking maybe I shouldn’t have moved him, and for a second he’s convinced that he felt Illya’s fingers moving between his own – he didn’t, but his heart fluttered all the same.
He mentally calculates the shortest route to the nearest hospital, taking into account Gaby’s unsafe driving and assuming, for the sake of the argument, that they wouldn’t have encountered any trouble on the way. He looks at all the blood and he replays Illya’s choked breathing and he pictures holding him tight against his chest in the backseat, muttering reassurances into his ear the whole way, and eventually he concludes that, even if Gaby had immediately found them and she’d brought the car with her, they probably wouldn’t have made it in time, short of a miracle.
It's not much of a consolation.
+ 1
It only takes Napoleon approximately thirty seconds back in the land of the living to realize that he doesn’t want to be awake right now.
He feels vaguely nauseous, the ship tilting to the side every now and then likely responsible for it, and his head begins pounding as soon as he realizes how tired he is. He squints at the light positioned almost directly over his head, thinking that it should be illegal to force your teams of spies to take two missions back to back, even more so if you are going to saddle them with last-minute tickets and no cabin.
He's currently arranged on an armchair, with his legs stretched out over their luggage and Gaby curled on his lap, seemingly still asleep. Illya is, needless to say, wide awake, sitting on the chair next to their own and reading through the information they have on their target.
Hopefully, Napoleon will be able to convince him to give him a summary of the relevant information and avoid the extra reading.
“What time is it?” he asks, stretching out his arms and flexing his fingers, his movements as slow as he can make them in an attempt at not waking Gaby up.
Illya doesn’t glance at him nor does he seem at all startled by his question. “Almost five. You have three more hours.”
Napoleon hums in acknowledgement, thinking that a couple of hours don’t sound half bad and that he just needs to stop thinking about his aching back or his head or the fact that he’s ridiculously thirsty—alright, that one at least he can do something about.
His attempt as reaching for the water without jostling Gaby too much proves to be a failure, leaving him with the tip of his fingers brushing against the bottle. Illya turns to him, eyebrows raised and that vaguely judgemental attitude of his clear in his expression.
“Peril?” he whispers, with a quick motion to the bottle. “A little help here? If you don’t mind?”
“I mind,” the asshole says, of course, going back to his reading. He does keep it up only for a few seconds, but still, that’s just mean. Which is why Napoleon, who is tired and petty, decides not to thank him when he finally hands him the bottle.
He relaxes back against the armchair, shifting a little so that he has a better grip on Gaby and letting his eyes fall shut as he yawns.
“How is it looking?” he still asks, because apparently there’s at least a tiny part of him that is interested in the mission. Or maybe he just wants company while he tries to fall asleep, though that one sounds a little less dignified.
“Doable,” Illya says, after a few moments of contemplation. “It could be done with by the end of this week.”
“Fantastic,” he sighs, all too sincerely, because really, they have been on mission for the past month and an half, a trip back home would have been much appreciated. At least he can hold onto the hope that they won’t be long, because honestly, he’s running on fumes here. “And if Waverly doesn’t leave us be after this, I will personally set his office on fire.”
Illya gives him an unamused and vaguely disapproving look, because of course orders are orders and all that, but if he meant to say something he doesn’t get the chance to.
“I will set you on fire if you don’t stop talking,” Gaby grumbles, her voice sounding like it came straight from hell. She’s still tucked against his chest, her cheek pressed against him and her fingers clasping his shirt, but he knows better than to dismiss her threats just because she looks adorable. Especially when she’s tired.
“You might want to get off me first,” he suggests, amicably, without bothering to fight off a smile.
She doesn’t even open her eyes, huffing. “Don’t make me. I’m comfortable here.”
“Sorry for waking you,” Illya intervenes, quietly, even going through the trouble of standing up and leaning forward to kiss her temple. It’s always a good apology tactic, because it tends to make her melt a little.
Case in point, Gaby’s lips twist into a small smile, and she nuzzles against Napoleon’s shirt. “Forgiven,” she says, warmly.
Illya returns the smile, though she isn’t watching, and moves to sit back down.
“Hey, where’s my kiss?” Napoleon just has to protest, even at the risk of reawakening Gaby’s ire. He doesn’t think Illya will actually kiss him, not in public, even though he supposes that most of the people around them are asleep right now, but he finds that most of the time, when he sees an occasion to torment him a little, he can’t resist. He thinks that it’s because the look on Illya’s face is always too funny to deprive himself of it.
Illya snorts at him, shaking his head like he does when he thinks he’s being ridiculous and annoying, and he sits back on his chair. Except than he reaches out, his fingers trailing up the back of Napoleon’s neck and moving to his hair, drawing soothing movements that make him close his eyes and hum in appreciation. Definitely better than a kiss.
“Sleep,” Illya says, sounding a little fond.
Napoleon would very much like to do that, but they’ve all been running around for a while, and he thinks he should at least try to be considerate. “Are you sure?” he asks, lazily blinking a few times in the hopes of appearing more awake. “I can keep watch, if you want to be paranoid but get some sleep anyway.” The yawn that he can’t suppress towards the end of the sentence probably undermines him a little.
In fact, Illya looks downright amused. “I’m certain you would keep diligent guard,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm, which, rude. Then, his face softens, his fingers still rubbing his scalp. “It’s okay, sleep. I’ll wake you when we are almost there.”
Well, alright, he won’t beg to stay awake until morning.
Napoleon hums in affirmative, closing his eyes and thinking that it’s nice of him to help him fall asleep and to keep watch. He blindly twists his head, planting a kiss somewhere on Illya’s arm, and he’s pretty sure he heard a stifled chuckle in response.
He drifts off thinking that they should be heading home right now, but at least Gruissan is on the coast: maybe, if they play it right, they can squeeze a trip to the beach into this one.