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Rome
Gaby drives, Solo slides into the passenger seat, and the only option that remains for Illya is to fold himself into the cramped back seat. He has to sit sideways to be able to stretch his legs out and the window crank is digging into his ribs. After shifting around for a few moments, he’s forced to resign himself to the fact that no matter what position he twists himself into, he’s going to aggravate one bruise or another.
Solo looks back over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Comfortable back there, Peril?”
“Fine,” Illya grunts in response and goes still. He’s not about to give Solo the satisfaction of hearing him complain.
They get caught in a traffic jam halfway to the airport. Solo makes a comment about how it would be faster if they got out and walked, but they’re not supposed to report in Istanbul until the day after tomorrow, so they’re not in a hurry. Gaby turns up the volume on the radio and hums along to the music, those British boys that have become so popular lately. Illya leans his temple against the cool window and watches how Rome carries on as usual, completely unaware of the events that have taken place during the past few days.
He can feel the exhaustion in every bone of his body, both mental and physical. He’s barely slept since the mission started and the near-drowning and the motorcycle crash have done him no favours. He’d been looking forward to going home. To lock the door to his tiny apartment, fall into bed, and sleep.
Illya isn’t sure when his complicated relationship with sleep started. It’s possible it was as far back as when they came for his father. At least he can remember lying awake in bed as a small boy, every noise and creak and whisper outside the door heralding the possibility that the men might come back for his mother, for him.
He sleeps. He’d be an inefficient agent otherwise, and the KGB doesn’t take such weakness lightly. The problem is that he rarely sleeps well. He’s trained himself to get by on catnaps when he’s in the field, but letting his guard down enough to actually sleep through the night, well. Those times are few and far between.
Hence, the longing for home, for the relative safety of his own comfortable space. Instead, he’s heading for Istanbul with two foreign operatives, neither of which he’s entirely certain he can trust.
Gaby’s swaying in rhythm with the music, now and then snapping her fingers or rolling her shoulders or tapping her feet in a seated little dance. Solo is calmly polishing his nails while he talks about food, dolmas and lamb and baklava, about the marketplaces in Istanbul. The mid-day sun is getting hot. Gaby cracks a window, letting in the sound of aggressive car horns all around them. Illya wonders if he should learn how to dance. It could be a useful skill to have.
Despite the music and the traffic noise and Solo’s mindless nattering, Illya can feel himself drifting a little. He shifts his weight, trying to ease the pressure of the lumpy seat against his cracked ribs, but it’s doesn’t make much difference. He’s already as comfortable as he’s likely to get. He leans back against the window and closes his eyes. Just resting his eyelids for a second. Just a second...
A light touch to his knee brings him back, and he starts and blinks his eyes open. The car has come to a complete stand-still. Gaby is twisted around in her seat, looking back at Illya. The passenger door is open and Solo is nowhere to be seen, but judging by the sound of someone rummaging around in the trunk, he hasn’t gone far.
“We’re here,” Gaby says. “Good nap?”
Illya is still a little too groggy to figure out if it’s mockery or just simple amusement. He’s amazed that he managed to sleep at all, even less around these two. “Not bad,” he has to admit.
“Good,” Gaby grins, peering at him over the edge of her ridiculous sunglasses. “Because I’m planning to sleep on the plane and it’s your turn to keep an eye out.”
That seems like an acceptable deal.
* * *
Washington D.C.
Istanbul is interesting to say the least. Then comes Hong Kong, and after that a trip to Warsaw. Waverly is working them hard, and Illya doesn’t mind much. He’s used to it. But Solo is complaining relentlessly and even Gaby has started to look a little ragged around the edges when the third month of their unorthodox new partnership rolls along.
Illya wonders if this latest mission is Waverly’s idea of giving them a break, because it’s certainly nothing that would necessitate the attention of three top-notch operatives.
America is loud and bright and garish. This particular affair once again has Illya and Gaby playing the part of a couple and as always, he wonders if he should be concerned with how much he enjoys the cover. In this scenario, they are newlyweds on their honeymoon, in America to visit Gaby’s cousin - Solo.
Gaby takes to the States immediately, uplifted by the shopping and the people and and the possibilities and the sheer size of everything. Solo is high-spirited, content to be home again. Illya himself feels out of place in this country where everything is surface, where he arouses suspicion on principle just by opening his mouth. It gives him a headache and he can’t sleep.
Their hotel room only has one bed. It’s large and plush, luxuriously decadent, and Gaby declares it her new favourite place in the world. Illya spends most of his nights staring at the ceiling, listening to her steady breathing. Her hair is fanned out soft and silky over her pillow, and Illya very carefully does not watch her sleep. He’s simply… watching over her. That’s all.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Gaby asks in the morning. She’s just finished brushing her teeth and still has a little fleck of toothpaste in the corner of her mouth. Illya catches himself half hoping she won’t notice it so he’ll have an excuse to wipe it off for her. He then comes to the conclusion that it’s probably time to start letting Solo play boyfriend or husband when this kind of cover is needed.
They are both aware of his insomnia. Not that he’s told them outright, but they’re both spies and Illya would frankly be a little concerned if they hadn’t noticed by now. It is, however, nothing they talk about, so for Gaby to bring it up, it must be getting bad.
“I slept fine,” he answers, rooting through his bag for a clean shirt.
It’s not a lie. He did sleep for a couple of hours. Not as long as he would have liked, but he slept.
They spend the better part of the day following their mark around, waiting to see if today is the day he’ll finally make contact with the arms dealer they’re after. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and every now and then Gaby will slip her tiny hand into Illya’s, point out some silly tourist attraction, call him liebchen so anyone who might be listening won’t have reason to suspect they’re anything else than a young couple on holiday. They buy lunch in a deli, fruit and sandwiches in a little basket, and follow the mark to a nearby park.
The man sits down on a bench and starts leafing through a newspaper. Gaby and Illya sit down on the grass nearby, spreading out the thread worn blanket Gaby keeps in her car.
It’s a Saturday and the park is full of people, families, couples, children with dogs. More than a few have blankets and picnic baskets of their own. Illya eats his sandwich as he lets his eyes roam over the grass and the flowerbeds, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Solo is due to take over surveillance in a little while, but he hasn’t shown up yet.
“Stop it,” Gaby hisses out of the corner of her mouth.
Illya turns his attention back to her. “Stop what?”
“You look like you want to murder every single person here.”
“Maybe I do.” He makes sure to smile so she can’t mistake it for anything else than a joke.
She shifts around, pulls one leg up under her and stretching out the other before she pats her thigh. “Come here, you need to look like you’re actually on vacation. Relax a little bit.”
She makes him lie down with his head in her lap. He tries to make the sprawl look natural, but he has no idea what to do with his hands and the sun gets in his eyes.
“I said relax,” Gaby all but growls through her teeth, still with that sugar-sweet, newlywed, besotted little smile on her face. She’s very good.
Illya is about to assure her that he’s doing his best, when she starts running her fingers through his hair. The touch is light, gentle, and it sends shivers like electricity down his spine. He hopes she doesn’t notice. But then she slowly begins to rub his scalp, and there’s no way to conceal the way he just melts into her hands. No-one has touched him quite like this in a very long time and it’s like his skin is soaking it up.
He closes his eyes against the glaring sunlight and soon finds himself floating, his entire world shrinking down to Gaby’s fingers in his hair...
“Aren’t you two adorable?”
Illya drifts back to awareness slowly. The sun is warm on his face and he feels loose-limbed and comfortable for the first time since they stepped off the plane at the brand new Dulles airport. He also knows that he shouldn’t be, that he’s been remiss in his duties, and he feels the shame burning hot in his belly at the realization.
Gaby reaches out a hand to swat at Solo’s knee, but he moves aside so her palm only hits empty air. “Be nice,” she scolds, before looking down at Illya. Her fingers are still in his hair and he’s torn between needing them gone and wanting them to remain right where they are.
“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “Nothing interesting happened and if it had, I would’ve woken you.”
Illya’s not interested in her reassurances. He slipped up and he knows it. “The mission…” he begins, lifting his head in search of the mark. The man is sitting right where he was when Illya nodded off, deeply engrossed in his newspaper.
“The mission is fine, and your cover is perfectly intact,” Napoleon says and eases himself down to the ground, sitting on the edge of the blanket. He reaches out to steal an apple out of the picnic basket. “If anything, it’s probably more solid now. What self-respecting spy would fall asleep on a stake-out?”
This time, Gaby’s hand connects, and Solo drops the apple, rubbing his arm in feigned affront.
It all descends into the usual banter and name-calling from there, and Illya makes an effort to put his self-reproach to rest. He has support now, partners to watch his back. It’s still something to get used to, but on a whole, it’s not such a terrible way to operate. Besides, he must admit he feels better than he did this morning, more alert and less testy.
But he can’t quite shake the feeling that sooner or later he’s going to have to figure out what to do about this thing between him and Gaby.
* * *
London
Despite the pathetically huge torch Illya must admit that he’s carrying for Gaby Teller, it’s Solo he kisses first. Or rather, Solo kisses him.
Gaby is off to God knows where, doing something for Waverly that is apparently not for Illya and Solo to know. The two of them have spent the past two weeks holed up in a run-down boarding house opposite a bar that caters to a clientele of certain tastes. They’re supposed to figure out if the Cabinet minister who likes to frequent the place is in danger of revealing state secrets to the people who may or may not be blackmailing him, but mostly they’re just trying not to strangle each other.
Illya misses Gaby. During these long, drawn-out jobs that boil down to sitting around in small quarters, grating against each other’s annoyances, they need her. She’s the buffer between Illya’s sharp edges and Solo’s constant pushing, she’s the one who puts a stop to their habitual one-upmanship when it threatens to get out of hand. Illya has also discovered that, for some reason, he sleeps better when she’s around. He tries not to think too hard about what it means.
The work is boring and monotonous and consists mostly of watching the bar, keeping track of who comes and goes, who talks to whom. Illya has been trying to keep to himself for the most part. His size and nationality both tend to draw attention in this part of the world, and while he doesn’t mind the patrons, he figures it’s best to just let Solo do what he does best and stay out of the way.
Illya learned early on that Solo sleeps with men as well as women. It’s unclear if it’s a personal preference or just another part of the job, but as far as Illya is concerned, it’s none of his business. As long as it doesn’t affect their work, he couldn’t care less what the Cowboy gets up to between the sheets.
So Solo flirts and charms and socializes, which is something he excels at, and Illya looms in corners, which is something he excels at, and they take turns sleeping for fear of missing something crucial.
Well, at least Solo takes his turns sleeping. Illya is finding it difficult to relax enough to get any real rest. The boarding house is not secure. The walls are thin, people are coming and going at all times, and there always seems to be some kind of party happening somewhere. The door to their shared room locks, but according to Solo, they could just as well leave it wide open, since a toddler could pick the lock without even breaking a sweat.
It’s not an ideal situation, but Illya steels himself and grits his teeth and holds out. It will be over soon.
Despite Illya’s efforts to stay in the background, he finds himself with an admirer one evening. The boy introduces himself as Charles, a somewhat effeminate young man who enjoys discussing chess and persists in buying Illya drinks. It doesn’t take long to reach the conclusion that Charles is most likely harmless. He's a little too chatty for Illya's taste, but it’s always a pleasure to be able to drop names like Tal and Botvinnik and Fischer into casual conversation without being met with blank looks, so Illya humours him. Besides, it’s probably not a bad idea to be seen actually talking to people now and then. U.N.C.L.E. has no interest in the patrons of this bar, except for the wayward minister and his potential blackmailer, but you can’t blame them for being suspicious of two strange men turning up out of nowhere, asking questions and hovering.
Stimulating conversation aside, it’s also quite obvious that what Charles is after is not something Illya wants to offer. It’s not that he’s never had sex with someone for a mission before, but it’s not something he’s ever felt comfortable doing, deceiving his lovers that way.
As the evening goes on, and Charles keeps buying him more drinks, Illya is beginning to wonder if he might have to go against his principles this time. He’s not familiar enough with this world, this culture, to know what’s expected of him, but Charles’ insistent hand on his bicep is speaking its own language.
It’s clear that he’s going to have to make a choice soon.
Before he can make his decision, however, a familiar presence sidles up behind him, and an arm snakes around his waist.
“There you are, darling, I thought I’d lost you,” Solo says, his voice warm and affectionate.
Then he leans in, caresses Illya’s face with the look of a man utterly smitten, and kisses him.
Solo’s scent is heavy with whatever cologne he’s wearing, undeniably male, and his hand is large and steady on Illya’s neck. The sensation is not unpleasant. Without knowing why, Illya finds his lips wanting to chase Solo’s when they break apart.
“Shall we go?” Solo asks, one eyebrow raised.
Illya gives Charles an apologetic look, feeling a little bad about the dejection suddenly written all over the boy’s face, but he’s grateful to have been given an out at least, even if it means they will need to make some adjustments to how they are going to play the rest of the mission.
“You looked like you were in need of a rescue,” Solo explains as they exit the bar, a somewhat smug smile in his voice.
The implication that Illya would need to be rescued from some horny boy half his size makes anger flash hot and bright for a split moment. He pushes it back, but apparently not before Solo has noticed. The rest of the short walk back to their room is wrapped in a tense, almost uncomfortable silence that Illya is not used to from Solo.
Once back at the boarding house, Illya stretches out on his narrow bed. He’s had more alcohol than he’s used to tonight, and his head is spinning a bit. With a little luck, he might even be able to sleep for a while.
Solo doesn’t settle down. He walks up to the window, stares out of it for a moment or two, then turns and walks across the room, apparently finding something very interesting on the stained wallpaper, before he walks back to the window, uneasy like Illya has never seen him before.
“Something wrong, Cowboy?” he has to ask. If Solo is planning to wander around like this all night, he can surely forget that anticipated sleep.
Solo clears his throat, clearly hesitant to say whatever’s on his mind. He’s looking as close to flustered as he ever gets. When he finally opens his mouth, It’s almost a little endearing, how hard he tries to be tactful. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not… offended.”
Illya frowns at that. He might have trouble keeping his temper in check at times, but he’d hoped that Solo would know by now that Illya would never willingly harm him. He also has to wonder what experiences Solo might have had prior to this one that he even feels the need to raise the issue.
But Illya also can’t resist giving Solo a hard time. After all, he’s the one who was just more or less ambushed by the man. “Of course I’m offended,” he says. Your technique is awful.”
None of those statements are strictly true, but at least it makes Solo bark out a surprised little laugh. “Well. Glad we cleared that up. I’ll make sure to brush up on my skills until the next time. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Next time? Don’t flatter yourself, Cowboy.”
Suddenly Illya can’t hold back a chuckle at the irony of it all. The many vodka martinis Charles tried to ply him with earlier must have loosened his lips, because he just has to share the source of his amusement with Solo.
“You know, I had been thinking, maybe you play boyfriend in the future. I did not mean for you to play my boyfriend.”
Solo grins, back to his usual carefree self, and tosses him a pillow. “Go to sleep, Peril. I’ll wake you in a bit.”
Illya smiles to himself, grabs the pillow and tucks it under his head. The bed is short enough that his feet are hanging off the edge, but he’s tired and a little drunk and for once, he can easily see himself sleeping for a few hours.
Solo takes up his post at the window opposite to the bar and sits there playing with his binoculars, and Illya closes his eyes and lets the other man’s calm breathing lull him to sleep.
It’s morning when he wakes. He’s been asleep for seven straight hours and he can’t remember the last time that happened. He sits up with a groan, rubbing the cobwebs out of his eyes, disoriented by how much time has passed.
“You did not wake me.”
Solo’s still sitting by the window. He doesn’t look up from the binoculars when he answers. “Wasn’t tired.”
A few months ago, Illya would have been bristling at the suggestion that he’s not able to pull his weight, but he knows better now. They cover for each other’s weaknesses, whatever they might be, and they’re a better team as a result. One sleepless night won’t affect Solo’s performance, whereas Illya has slept poorly for weeks now and he knows it’s beginning to show.
And it seems it’s not only Gaby’s presence that puts him at ease enough to sleep.
* * *
[Location redacted]
Gaby comes back from her mystery trip with intel on a group of abducted scientists and a new kind of chemical warfare that simply cannot be allowed to exist. Illya knows enough chemistry to realize what a disaster it would be if the compound was ever used, and the knowledge puts a jagged lump of dread in his stomach.
With the fate of the world in the balance, personal matters must be put aside. Over the course of this particular mission, Illya has no time to ponder his feelings for Gaby, his new and undefinable and frankly quite confusing fondness for Solo. Despite that, there are still moments in between bullets and nerve-wracking horror that he has to stop and admire the way they are working together now, how smooth and precise and perfect they are at their best. This is the mission where they really, truly shine.
Incidentally, this is also the mission where Illya almost loses them both.
He sits in the infirmary at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in the aftermath. His various pains and aches have been taken care of, but he can barely feel them. All he can think of is his partners, each one of them occupying a bed, both of them still breathing, as if by a miracle.
Solo is sleeping the sleep of the heavily drugged and Gaby only has enough strength to give him an exhausted look over the top of her oxygen mask.
“You look awful,” she rasps, pulling the mask aside. “Get some sleep, Illya.”
“I will, solnishka.” The endearment slips out without his leave, but it only makes her smile tiredly.
“Promise?”
He hums an affirmative, which thankfully seems to satisfy her. She drifts off again, and Illya replaces the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, and leans down to press his lips against her forehead. After all that’s happened, he’s allowed. It was only yesterday that she was dying in his arms, while Solo was too busy making wet, choking sounds not far away to be of any help.
A part of him can’t stop thinking that it wasn’t worth it. That he would gladly have sacrificed every human life on the planet if it meant he would never have had to experience Gaby’s pulse slowing down, getting weaker and weaker, until it stopped altogether. The world can bring itself to ruin for all he cares, its continued existence is not worth the image of Solo gasping in a pool of his own blood that’s been permanently etched into the inside of Illya’s eyelids.
Despite what he just told Gaby, he’s not sleeping anytime soon. His entire body is still trembling with terror and adrenaline and the doctors and nurses are making wide detours around him.
Illya is almost grateful for the reputation of unrestrained violence that precedes him. He doesn’t want anyone too close right now. He wants to be left alone, to sit here in peace and let the knowledge that Gaby and Solo are still alive sink in. Maybe he’ll be able to make himself truly believe it soon.
It doesn’t last long. One of Waverly’s numerous nameless assistants arrives, telling him that Mr Waverly would like to hear his report now. Illya swears at length, first in English, and when he runs out of curses, he switches to Russian (which frankly is a much better language for profanity).
Waverly’s assistant waits until he’s done and then directs him to the men’s room to clean up before going to see the boss.
Illya’s hands are shaking as he runs the faucet and splashes some water on his face. The rage is burning sharp and red behind his eyes. He wants to smash the mirror, rip the sink from the wall, break everything within sight. This could have been prevented. If he’d been faster. If he’d been better.
An episode like that would only serve to get him banned from the infirmary. Besides, his limbs are heavy with fatigue, it’s all he can do to keep himself upright. No matter how much the crimson fog that’s always floating in the back of his mind longs for brutal rampage, his body just isn’t up to it.
He dries his face and his hands and spends a minute or two staring at his own reflection in the mirror. Gaby was right, he does look awful, pale and hollow-eyed, more like a ghost of himself than anything else.
Waverly is sitting behind the antique desk in his office. He barely looks up when Illya lets himself in, only motions toward the sideboard.
“Ah, Mr Kuyakin. Come in please. Help yourself to a drink.”
Waverly keeps a very well-stocked bar. Illya stands in front of it for a long time, staring at the bottles. The gin reminds him of Gaby, the scotch of Solo, and the vodka reminds him of things he doesn’t want to think about. Illya settles for a splash of brandy in the bottom of a glass and sits down in the high-backed armchair in front of Waverly’s desk.
Waverly studies him over the rim of his glasses and says, “Please make yourself comfortable, Mr Kuryakin, I will be with you in a moment.” With that, he turns his attention back to the file on his desk, as if Illya’s not even there.
Illya just sits, sips his brandy, and waits for Waverly to finish whatever he’s doing. The liquor burns on the way down. He’s supposed to make a report, should make an effort to get the facts straight in his head, but his thoughts keep running away from him.
He didn’t always work alone. He used to prefer it that way, but he has had partners in the past. Not like Gaby and Solo, though. At some point during the past nine months, their strange three-way partnership has gone from strictly professional to something else entirely. Illya doesn’t even know how to describe it. Are they friends? Are they something more? He would do anything for Gaby, for the slightest chance to make her smile. He also hasn’t missed the way Solo looks at him sometimes, speculatively, as if he’s weighing his options.
He can’t stop thinking about Gaby, gone limp as a ragdoll in his arms when the extraction team finally reached them. Solo in the transport, refusing to relinquish his hold on Illya’s shirtsleeve, even as he kept blacking out from pain and shock and blood loss.
Illya finishes the brandy and puts the snifter aside, sinking a little deeper into the chair. The soft rustling as Waverly turns the pages in his file is almost hypnotic, like waves rolling over a beach. Illya blinks. It’s getting to be a struggle to keep his eyes open. When this is over, maybe he’ll ask Gaby to teach him how to dance. Maybe he’ll ask Solo.
Illya opens his eyes many hours later to an empty office and Waverly’s woolen coat draped over him like a blanket. He can tell that he didn’t fall asleep as much as he passed out, the inevitable collapse that usually follows after days keeping himself going on bitter desperation alone.
Waverly is nowhere to be seen but a fresh cup of coffee, still steaming hot, is sitting on the desk in front of Illya. He drinks it, wonders if he ought to wait for the Commander to return, and then decides that he doesn’t really give a damn and heads back to the infirmary instead.
His partners are exactly where he left them and he hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been to come back and find them gone until he catches sight of them both and his heart skips a beat in his chest.
Solo’s eyelids flutter and he lets out an utterly wasted, vulnerable little noise. His fingers are twitching with distress, curling around nothing. Illya recognizes the motion from earlier and slips his hand into Solo’s. “I’m right here, Cowboy,” he says.
Solo relaxes almost immediately, sinking back into unconsciousness. Illya pulls up a chair and sits down between their beds. He’s still holding onto Solo’s hand, and he can’t take his eyes off of Gaby. She’s restless in her sleep, still struggling to breathe properly. At one point, her eyes drift open and she meets his eyes, smiling, mouthing something through the oxygen mask. Liebchen. She drops off again just as quickly as she woke up.
Illya just sits there, unable to stop thinking about how Gaby stopped breathing, about the slickness of Solo’s blood.
He will never sleep again.
* * *
London again
Gaby’s London apartment is vibrant and colourful, much like the woman herself. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping from a glass of wine. Solo’s cooking dinner, chopping onions and bell peppers with easy familiarity.
It’s been three weeks since they both almost died. Gaby’s breathing is back to normal, Solo’s injuries are healing, fading into scars. It won’t be long before they’re cleared to go back to duty again. The thought fills Illya with frightful anticipation. He’s not ready. He keeps trying to think of a way to keep them safe, out of harm’s way, but so far he’s been unsuccessful.
Solo serves them and pours more wine. The food is surely delicious, as always when Solo cooks for them, but Illya can barely taste it. He listens to Gaby and Solo talk, tries to follow the conversation. He keeps losing track, unable to make sense of the words.
“Illya?”
He looks up, blinking. What did he miss? Gaby’s looking at him, the wine bottle in her hand and a question written all over her face. “Do you want some more?” she asks. Judging from her tone, it’s not the first time.
Illya’s glass is still half-full when he reaches for it. His co-ordination is off somehow, his fingers won’t obey his commands. The glass tips and the red wine spills over the table, staining the tablecloth, dripping off the edge and onto the floor. He can only sit and stare at the mess.
His partners exchange a glance, and then Solo leans back in his chair and pushes his plate away. “All right, Peril, we need to talk.”
Illya’s face feels hot with shame. He’s out of control and he knows it, and for some reason he’s been hoping they wouldn’t notice. But honestly, who is he trying to fool? They’re spies, of course they’ve noticed.
Gaby reaches for him, takes his hand in both her small ones. “Illya, how long has it been since you slept?”
He looks away, unable to bear the weight of her eyes. “Last night.”
It’s not a lie. He did manage to sleep for a little while, until he gasped awake before the crack of dawn, drenched in sweat and trembling from another nightmare.
Solo raises an eyebrow. “And how long since you slept through the night?”
Illya has no answer to that question. He can’t remember. It wasn’t so bad right after the incident, back then he could at least function. The past few days, however, have passed in a haze. His mind keeps drifting and he can’t focus.
Gaby stands, still holding his hand. “Will you do something for me?”
As if he even has to ask. “What do you need?” There’s nothing he wouldn’t give her.
“To begin with? Get up, please.”
He actually wobbles a little getting to his feet and has to steady himself against the back of his chair. The room spins for a moment before righting itself.
Gaby frowns. “Come with me,” she says and leads him into her bedroom. Illya follows, docile like a sheep. He has no energy for anything else. Once there, she pulls back the covers from the bed and pushes him towards it.
“All right. I want you to lie down with me, and I want you to hold me. Can you do that?”
Of course he can. It’s what he’s wanted to do since the first time he met her. What he can’t figure out is why she’s asking him now, when he’s slow and stupid with sleep deprivation.
As if in a fog, he kicks off his shoes, sinks down onto the bed. Gaby climbs in beside him, pushes and pulls on him until he’s arranged the way she wants him, lying on his side with his arms around her. She tucks her face into the crook of his neck and lets out a pleased little sigh. “Close your eyes now, liebchen. Go to sleep.”
Illya wants to scream with frustration. He can’t sleep, that’s the problem. Every time he tries, he keeps going back to those dreadful hours when his clothes were soaked in Solo’s blood and Gaby’s life was slipping away under his fingers. An hour or two at the time is the most he’s managed to get during the past few weeks. But right now, he can feel Gaby’s heart beating against his own, can smell the scent of her shampoo as her hair tickles his nose. For her sake, he can at least pretend for a little while.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Illya opens his eyes, dazed and confused. He feels drugged, wonders for a second if someone slipped him something. His entire body is heavy and he knows he should get up, but that would mean releasing his hold on Gaby, who’s slumbering in his arms.
The bed dips under Solo’s weight as he eases himself down on Illya’s other side. “It’s just me,” he whispers, voice low and gentle. “Go back to sleep, Peril, we’re not going anywhere.” He settles down, drapes himself against Illya’s back, and wraps an arm around him and Gaby both.
Warm and sheltered between them, Illya fades away. For once, he doesn’t dream.
* * *
Morning comes. Illya wakes up at one point and finds himself wrapped up in his partners, a tangle of arms and legs, Solo’s breath hot against his neck, Gaby making tiny snuffling sounds in her sleep. Something almost painfully warm rolls around in his chest and for a moment, he mistakes it for anger, until he realizes that no, this is different. It’s a deep, joyful tenderness for the both of them, a feeling that makes him want to grin like a lunatic.
It’s still early and he doesn’t want to wake them. He goes back to sleep instead, burying his face in Gaby’s hair, breathing her in, with Solo pressed up strong and solid against his back.
Hours later, he wakes up again, this time with the unmistakeable awareness of being watched. When he blinks his eyes open, it is to find Gaby propped up on one elbow, looking down at him with an appreciative smile.
“Feeling better?”
Illya hadn’t really realized how bad it was before, but now, after almost twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep, he feels like a new man. “Yes, much better.” Her smile is infectious.
Gaby’s expression goes from amused to positively wicked. “Good. Then I can do this.”
The kiss has been ten months in the making and all the sweeter for the wait. Illya is drowning in her, everything she is, and he never wants to be saved. Gaby moans into his mouth. He could listen to that sound forever.
Solo shifts behind them, signalling that he’s awake.
“Shall I leave you two alone?” He’s smiling, but there’s a calm resignation to it, like he’s prepared for rejection.
Gaby simply glares at him over Illya’s shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot. I can share.”
Illya wonders if the two of them have discussed this. He wouldn’t put it past them. He doesn’t really have time to ruminate further before Solo leans in.
“May I?” There is just a hint of a challenge in the question, one that Illya has no interest in backing down from.
“Be my guest,” he says, and then he is being kissed again. He’s prepared for it this time, and while he’s not yet accustomed to the sensation of Solo’s stubble against his skin, he finds that he quite likes it. His body is definitely interested.
Solo pulls away too soon, the unrepentant tease, and Illya twists a hand in his collar. “I did not tell you to stop.”
“Sure you’re not too tired, Peril?” Solo asks, the smirk clearly audible in his voice.
Illya just shakes his head and pulls them both down for more kisses. “No. I have slept enough for now.”
fin -