Chapter Text
The silence that hangs over them is the sort of silence Illya hopes won't break. He knows what Napoleon is going to say, knows that given the situation it is the next logical step, but until the words are out he can pretend he doesn't have to. He can pretend it hasn't come to this.
But Napoleon meets his eyes, holds up the dress, and breaks the silence. "What do you think?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light. "Is this your size?"
"I can't," Illya says, choking on the words, gaze fixed on the garment in Napoleon's hands. "Napoleon, please, you can't ask me to do this."
Napoleon drapes the dress over one arm, then reaches out and cups Illya's cheek with his free hand. "I"m sorry, Illya," he says, voice soft. "But you're the only one who can." He steps closer, presses a kiss to Illya's forehead. "I'll make it up to you," he whispers. "I promise."
Hands shaking, Illya takes the dress from Napoleon and turns away. "You better," he calls over his shoulder as he walks into the bedroom and closes the door.
He lays the dress carefully on the bed and stares at it. It's a deep red with a form-tailored bodice and a pleated skirt. The neckline has beaded detail and there's lace trim at on edges of the sleeves. It is, Illya can appreciate, a beautiful dress. And Napoleon is right, it is Illya's size. And with Lara out of the picture, they have few options for how best to continue this operation.
But this?
This?
He blows out a breath and turns around, staring at himself in the full length mirror that hangs on the back of the door. He'd dressed casually, slacks and a turtleneck and he takes a moment to admire the look of them on him. He turns to the side, taking in the shape of his chest where it presses against the shirt's tight fabric. The body he fought so hard for.
He glances at the dress again. If he puts it on, he muses, is he betraying himself? If he doesn't is he betraying Uncle? Which is worse?
He blows out a breath and tears off his shirt, toes off his shoes, then steps out of his trousers. He leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor and pulls the dress from the bed, slipping it on over his head. He keeps his eyes closed as he reaches behind his back and hastily works the zipper with shaking fingers.
He opens his eyes and stares at himself, taking in this incongruous image. He has not, as he had subconsciously feared, magically shifted back. He is still very clearly a man. Just. A man in a dress.
He cracks the door open. "Napoleon, I don't think this is going to work<" he calls.
Napoleon is there in an instant. He presses his lips together and circles Illya, who tries not to shift nervously under his gaze, then stops in front of Illya again and cracks a smile - slightly forced, but Illya appreciates the effort.
"I can work with this," Napoleon says. He snaps his fingers and jumps into action, speaking as he moves. "Unzip," he says, crossing to Lara's suitcase where it still rests on the bureau. Illya watches him dig around, coming up with a bra and pantyhose.
"And what do you think that's going to accomplish?" Illya asks, unzipping the dress and slipping his arms from the sleeves. Still, when Napoleon hands him the bra, he accepts it and slips it on, fingers fumbling as he works the hooks into the eyelets.
"Trust me," Napoleon says. With gentle fingers, he wads up the pantyhose and stuffs them into the bra's cups, carefully forming them to the right shape with his palms. "There," he says, stepping back. He gestures and Illya slips his arms back into the sleeves, pulling the bodice back up. Napoleon steps behind him and zips it back up as they both look in the mirror at the subtle change in Illya's figure.
Illya shudders and looks away.
"I'm sorry," Napoleon whispers, squeezing Illya's shoulders. "Can you handle a few more small touches?"
Illya pulls in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and nods his head once - quickly, before he can change his mind.
He lets Napoleon guide him into the bathroom and sit him down on the closed toilet. Eyes still closed, hi listens as Napoleon rummages through Lara's thing, wishing he didn't know what came next.
It was one thing pretending he was a woman when his safety had depended on it, when his body betrayed him at every turn. Now, so far from those days, it feels like a backwards slide. Like everything he's worked for is slipping rapidly from his grasp.
His skin itches like it hasn't in ages and he wants to tear the dress and bra off, rip them to shreds, and never look back.
But Lara is in Hospital. The mission depends on the woman in this red dress. He has to do this. He can do this. He will do this.
He opens his eyes. Napoleon is standing over him, waiting, eyes wide and bright with concern. Illya holds his gaze and, after another moment of toying with saying no, he licks his lips and nods again. "Get on with it," he says, his voice hoarse as he fights frustrated tears.
Napoleon nods once, presses a quick, hard kiss to Illya's lips, then opens Lara's make-up bag and sets to work.
Illya lets his eyes fall closed again, focusing on his breathing while Napoleon works, trying ot distance himself from his body for just a little while.
It turns out it's the hair that's the hardest. Napoleon has learned quite a bit about make-up, it seems, and when he's finished he's hidden Illya's five o'clock shadow, contoured his cheeks, and applied rouge, lipstick, and eyeshadow with an expert hand.
Illya can't look at his reflection.
But no matter what Napoleon tries, he isn't satisfied with Illya's hair. So in the end, he ties a headscarf under Illya's chin and steps back to admire his work.
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
Illya's just thankful Napoleon doesn't say he looks beautiful.