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It was late. It was in fact, so late, Napoleon mused, it might even be considered early. He stumbled over a loose cobble, and nearly fell sprawling. He recovered with a strangled gasp of pain and tottered on. His back hurt. His wrists stung. The night air was cold, and the street lights gave only a dim, yellow light. He stopped himself shivering with an effort.
Not much further, Solo, he lectured himself. No falling down before job’s done. Strange how his inner voice had developed a Russian accent, of late. He blamed the Red Peril; Illya had almost as sneaky a way about him as their little chop-shop girl when it came to hiding himself away in Napoleon’s thoughts.
The street was almost deserted, damp and dark as it was. Napoleon did his best to hum cheerily; that and the well-cut suit he’d scrambled back on when the targets had finally, finally let him loose would probably go a long way in rendering him just another harmless drunk holidayer, not worthy of attention from anyone at all, let alone those looking for spies, or thieves.
Carefully, he tiptoed up the iron stairs to the front door of their unusually charming safe house. Hopefully, Illya had turned off the monitors once Gaby had got in and then away clean, the husband and wife targets distracted as intended by Napoleon’s presence in their bed. With such a lovely, willing toy in the bedroom, they had not noticed the opening of the safe in the study.
If Gaby had made it back to their rooms, Napoleon hoped they might both be asleep already; which would give him a few hours to pull himself together. He liked and respected his partners; but if they saw him as he was, it would be harder for them to do the same for Napoleon. That was the problem with playing games as the toy; it was usually fun enough at the time, but the reaction afterward meant he no longer did so recreationally. It wasn’t only the bruises and rope burns, the soreness and aches throughout his whole body that gave him pause; it was the emotional aftermath. However fierce and sweet the highs were at the time, they’d never been worth the low moods that inevitably followed. Napoleon knew he’d be weak, cold, shivering and prone to sadness, for a while. Illya and Gaby had never seen him when he was unable to hide his fragilities, and he was determined that they never would. He closed the door softly behind him.
“You are late, Cowboy,” Illya rumbled from his place at the kitchen table. An empty glass stood by his elbow, and his eyes were dark with an emotion Napoleon hoped was not anger. He glanced down at the floor; but the scrubbed and worn floorboards were no help.
Damn.
“I don’t think we actually agreed on a time, Peril.”
He smiled and wandered over to the windows, tugging the check curtains closed. The little apartment was brightly clean and winsomely decorated; but Napoleon still felt the urge to move, to patrol his faintly chintzy temporary territory… and avoid Illya’s reproaches.
“Late.” Illya narrowed his eyes. “Gaby was worried.” He pushed aside the chess set in front of him. He stood up, and tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, agitated.
Napoleon forced a bright smile. Mentally, he sighed. Stubborn, stubborn Peril, waiting up like a disapproving parent (or so Solo assumed; he’d never had enough of his parents’ attention or time for either approval or disapproval) for the spoiled wild child to come h—come in.
“Well, then. I’m sorry for keeping you both in suspense. You agreed, we had to be absolutely certain Gaby could get in and photograph the files without them realising they’d been copied.” He yawned, a carefully casual display of exhaustion. Illya glowered some more.
“Can I reassure you I’m still a big boy?” Napoleon sighed. “I’ve always taken care of myself.” His fingers twitched. “I’m fine.”
“Hmmm.”
Illya was standing in front of him. When had he moved? Napoleon had to fight to keep himself from swaying into Illya’s sturdy, sweater-clad warmth; he wanted to cling and never let go.
Illya reached for his arm. “I don’t think so.” He pulled back the cuff, and hissed through his teeth at the raw rope burns revealed.
“All’s fair in love and war, Peril.” Napoleon smiled again. It took an effort. His teeth wanted to chatter. “Rather different from our usual kind of injuries in the line of duty. Give me a little time and some salve, I’ll be right as rain, I—”
“Your hands are shaking,” Illya said. “Worse than mine.”
“I’m fine,” Napoleon insisted from between clenched teeth.
“No, you’re not.” Oh, wonderful. “He is cold.”
The tall Russian frowned.
“Now you’ve woken Gaby up,” Napoleon accused. “And for no reason.” Illya sighed.
Gaby advanced out of her bedroom, tying the ends of her silky dressing gown around her body with short, angry tugs. Her eyes narrowed; and for an uncanny moment she looked remarkably like Illya, if a little shorter and somewhat more womanly.
“You said you’d be okay,” she chided. “That they wouldn’t hurt you.”
“They didn’t,” he said soothingly, but Gaby refused to fall for it. “This always happens,” Napoleon said, and wanted to kick himself. “I know what to do, just—I’ll be fine, I am fine. I just need a little time alone.”
“Cowboy.” Illya put one of his huge Russian hands on the back of Napoleon’s neck. “Napasha. You are not fine.”
“I—” Napoleon’s head sank until he was resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. “I—” Illya squeezed, just a little. Something in Napoleon sighed and went limp at the firm clasp. He swayed.
“What do you mean, ‘This always happens?’” Gaby demanded. “When we—“
Napoleon jerked his head up. “Yes, no, not every time I sleep with someon—”
“Someones.” Illya’s smile was faint, but satisfied. “We are your partners. You are not like that with us.”
“No. Yes. I mean, yes, and then no.” Napoleon said fervently. “Just, when, when there are games—”
Gaby tilted her head and let out an inquiring noise. Napoleon realised he was rubbing at his wrists, and made himself stop.
“When there’s more slap than tickle. It’s perfectly normal, and I really am fine, Gaby. Promise.”
“Is not normal.” Illya snapped. His hand tightened on Napoleon’s neck again. “Is not fine! You are hurting!”
“That was the idea, Peril.” Napoleon let his head sink down again. “And it worked.”
“It did, yes. You did well,” Illya said firmly. Napoleon felt a shiver go through him at the praise. Illya seemed to ignore this, fixated on his concern for Solo. “Afterward, after such scenes, there should be caring.”
“Is that the Russian Way? Did they have classes on this in the KGB Academy?” He tried to sound mocking, but Napoleon was uncomfortably aware of his voice wavering very slightly. And it was getting harder not to shake.
“Yes,” Illya said, simply. Napoleon raised his head and stared at the tall Russian.
“You’re kidding me,” he said, distracted. “They. They actually teach—”
“For seductions,” Illya said, massively unembarrassed. “For undercover work. Gaby. Go run a bath. Not too hot.”
“I can take care of myself,” Napoleon told Illya’s shoulder. The Russian snorted.
“So can we, Solo,” Gaby said, and went.
“Come.” Illya led Napoleon toward the cheerfully blue-tiled bathroom, peeling off his suit jacket as they went. “Bathtime.” He dropped the jacket carelessly on the rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen, its crumpled, tailored splendor surprisingly fitting in the homely decor.
“They washed me down before I left,” he protested.
“Kind of them,” Gaby said tightly. “Maybe they should have done a bit more.” Her hands were deft on his belt buckle. “Come on, step out of these.” Illya slipped Napoleon’s silk shirt from his shoulders and hissed through his teeth at the marks he found underneath.
“Do not even try to say you are fine,” he rumbled, tapping one finger on a particularly dramatic—and painful—weal. “Into bath, now.”
“All of it was perfectly consensual,” Napoleon pointed out as he was guided by his very determined partners toward the near-brimming claw-foot tub. It did feel heavenly. Napoleon closed his eyes and sank into the warm water. He opened them to see his partners staring down at him solemnly.
“What?”
“Close your eyes,” Gaby said. He obeyed. It felt good to block the world out, for a moment. “Keep them shut for a bit,” she went on. “Going to shampoo your hair.”
Her small, strong fingers caressed Napoleon’s scalp firmly. He tried not to groan.
“Illya—”
“Hmm?”
“Illya.”
“Of course.”
Napoleon almost opened his eyes, trying to work out what the two were trying to communicate to each other without words, but remembered the soap. And the fact that he trusted his partners with his life.
Various creaking floorboards announced that Illya had left the room. Gaby poured warm water over Napoleon’s head, and ran a soft cloth over his shoulders and back.
“You don’t have to hide yourself from us, Solo,” she said softly. “We’re your partners. If you need something, it’s alright to ask.”
Napoleon swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut tighter.
Don’t you dare cry now, he told himself firmly. Don’t you dare.
Gaby hummed absently to herself as she rinsed away the last traces of Napoleon’s night. Time passed.
“Come on out of the bath now,” Gaby said. He murmured in agreement.
“Napoleon? You can open your eyes,” she added, a few minutes later.
Napoleon wallowed out of the bath and allowed himself to be briskly dried. He ducked his head and let Gaby attack his hair with gentle, bristling ferocity.
When she was satisfied that Napoleon was as dry as he was going to get, Gaby led him shuffling slowly from the bathroom to his bedroom. It was smaller than the other two, but the bed was the most comfortable.
“Get in.” She flipped the covers back, wrecking the neat folds and tucking he’d made earlier.
“But…” Napoleon didn’t need to be tucked into bed like a child. And he didn’t… he didn’t want to be left alone, not quite yet. The chills and the urge to cry were fading fast, faster than they ever had before, but he still felt a little shaky.
“In,” Illya said, looming suddenly behind them, and Napoleon gave up. He crawled obediently into bed, fighting down the shiver as his freshly washed skin touched cold clean cotton. “Gaby, left or right?”
“Left,” Gaby said, cryptic until she started climbing into bed alongside Napoleon. “Move over, Solo—you’re going in the middle this time.”
“Ah,” Napoleon said, tense and smiling. “I said I was fine but I don’t—It’s been a busy night —”
Inwardly, he was fighting not to shudder. He loved sex, loved his partners, but after the exhausting night, he couldn’t—it was too much—
“So, you will sleep,” Illya told him. “Gaby has your back, and I will watch door.”
“Sleep,” Napoleon whispered. Was that all they wanted from him? It sounded too good to be true.
“Just sleep,” Gaby said firmly. She leant up, over Napoleon, and raised the covers. “Get in here, you enormous Russian furnace. He’s cold again.”
Illya set down the plate and glass he was carrying and got into the bed, bracketing Napoleon, keeping himself between the door and his partners.
“Eat,” he told Napoleon. Who stared back at him with wide, bewildered eyes. Illya sighed. “After… that, you needed to eat, to rest someplace warm, safe, with trusted people. They should have known that. Should not have let you leave without caring for you. My teachers would not have been impressed.” He picked a square of cheese from the plate and held it out.
“I—” Illya pushed the cheese into Napoleon’s mouth. He started chewing automatically. Gaby smiled and snuggled closer, delicately avoiding the worst of his bruises. She put out a hand.
“This is for Napoleon,” Illya told her, sternly, but he didn’t move the plate out of her reach.
“I don’t mind sharing,” Napoleon murmured. His eyes were getting heavy. “Really I—”
This time, it was Gaby who fed him a bite of salami. He recognised it; it was from the little deli on the ground floor of the building.
“I don’t need hand feeding,” Napoleon protested. “I’m not a child.”
“But maybe you like it,” Gaby said, as he opened his mouth for another morsel from Illya.
“Maybe,” he conceded.
“Eat,” Illya said again. His voice was a soft rumble; and he was smiling a little.
Full, warm, and safely tucked between his two partners, Napoleon closed his eyes. Gaby twined her fingers through his hair.
“Sleep,” Illya said, and his voice was gentler than Napoleon had ever heard it before. Warmer, almost as warm as he felt.
“Good boy,” Illya added as Napoleon’s breaths began to even out.
“Our good boy,” Gaby said, and Napoleon slit his eyes briefly open to see her smiling at Illya. Illya smiled back at her, sharp and bright.
Napoleon slept.