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Mission somewhat completed, the three agents made their way back to the safe house. Illya was not amused as opposed to Napoleon, who almost had a spring in his steps. His usually perfectly combed hair was twisted into different directions, his forehead was sporting a bloody gash that still dribbled a little and the grin on his face showed that he was absolutely having the time of his life.
Even Gaby had a smile on her face, although her dress was torn on the seam, one of her heels was broken and her hair was a mess.
Illya was as composed as ever and Solo had to admit to some jealously. The Russian looked like he was coming back from a stroll through the park. Only his hair was slightly less combed. And he was scowling. Darkly. "This was a disaster."
Napoleon went straight to the small bar and poured himself his favourite medicine. "Au contraire, Peril, the job was done."
"Yes. Disastrously." The Russian watched him drink in disdain.
Gaby let out a huff. "Now now, boys, no need to fight. If you'd excuse me, I have a meeting with Alexander." Walking into her room in the safe house, she came out changed about five minutes later, bid them farewell and left the house altogether.
Illya looked after her with a frown and Napoleon, who noticed slumped his shoulders slightly. "She will be fine, you don't need to worry so much, you know."
"I do not worry about her." The Russian threw him a glare. "She is capable of protecting herself."
"You are very fond of her, though. It's only natural." Solo tried to make his voice as normal as possible. Which was actually easy considering who he was. Only his hand was too right around the tumbler.
"I am very fond of her." Illya observed the hand tighten even more. Interesting. "Not in way you may think. There is nothing between us."
The tight grip didn't waver and Napoleon merely sighed. He didn't say anything else and just went into his own room. Actually puzzled, Illya looked after him but quickly shook his head. He didn't bother to change, simply took off his jacket, his holster still on and sat down at the kitchen table. With sure hands he started to disassemble and clean his gun.
When Napoleon came out again, he looked up for a second longer than he normally would. Seeing the man dressed down in casual slacks and a cotton shirt was still weird for the Russian. His hair was slack and wet from a shower and he didn't have his usual smirk on his face.
Illya looked down again. He didn't like the way his knee started to jump whenever he saw the dressed down Cowboy. It was... Disconcerting.
When he felt a sudden touch against his shoulder, he stiffened even more. "Cowboy?"
"Relax." His hands didn't stop cleaning the gun while Napoleon started to strip off his holster. "You, my friend, are way too tense." He scolded, letting the equipment fall to the floor.
"What are you doing?" The Russian's hands started to tremor barely noticeably, his shoulders hard and unyielding.
Solo put his hands on either side of his neck and slowly started to knead the muscles with his long fingers. "It makes me uncomfortable when you always look alerted."
"It is my job to always be on alert." Illya's hands stopped shaking and he continued as if he didn't feel any touch. He wouldn't take the bait. Any bait.
"Mmmh." The rumbled sound was close and immediately Illya stiffened again, the barrel of the revolver sliding out of his fingers. Napoleon had leaned down at some point, his mouth almost on Illya's ear. When he went to grab the gun part again, lips met his neck and he jumped up, twisting out of his loose hold.
"Solo!" Napoleon grinned at him. Not his usual smugness but a playfulness Illya had only seen on the job before. His fingers started to twitch. "I am not one of your marks, Solo."
The grin dimmed slightly and a bit of confusion entered his eyes. "Why I know that, Peril?"
The Russian sneered and grabbed him by his shirt. "Do not play games with me, Cowboy." When the grin vanished completely and Napoleon lowered his gaze almost shyly, Illya struggled to keep his composure. What was the American playing at?
Solo slowly raised his hands in surrender. "No games. Just... Laying it all on the table so to say." Illya tightened his grip on the shirt in confusion, keeping silent. Napoleon looked him in the eyes, no easy going smile, so smirk, face relaxed if slightly… nervous? "Look at me. I'm practically naked here. No weapons, no nothing."
"I have seen you in action. The only weapon you need is yourself." The Russian argued, his grip tightening and loosening again, not really knowing what was happening.
Napoleon gritted his teeth in frustration and sighed, driving a hand through his hair. "I'm not in action right now, Illya." The Russian let go. It wasn't the first time Solo had used his name, but the effect was always the same. His hands went slack, heart skipping a beat. "This is nothing planned, this is none of my games. This is me trying to be honest about something."
Illya pressed his teeth together angrily. He didn't like this situation. He didn't understand the situation. "Honesty doesn't suit you."
Napoleon actually flinched at the words, his eyes widening a little. The usual smug grin slowly returned to his face and the Russian got the feeling that he had done something very wrong. Solo huffed out a short laugh. "You're right. It really doesn't." For the first time Illya noticed how differently Napoleon had held himself. How open he had actually looked. And he only noticed because the American changed his stance completely right there in front of his eyes.
And suddenly it was the typical thief again. Shoulders straight, easy grin on his face, head slightly tilted in a challenging look. With a last dip of the head, he was about to step around Illya, when the Russian snapped and grabbed his wrist in a tight hold. "I am asking last time, what are you-"
And he was silenced. Silenced by hands on either side of his neck and surprisingly soft lips on his own. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, Napoleon stepped back, breaking every contact between them. "Not playing any games, as I said." The American once again raised his hands in surrender. "But honesty doesn't suit me, so think about this what you want."
There was something haunted in his eyes and when he turned around to leave this time, Illya let him. He couldn't have moved even if he wanted to anyway.
---
It was already night time when Illya couldn't take it anymore. He wasn't a patient man. Anything but, actually.
Gaby had come back around three hours ago and already excused herself to bed. That was an hour after Napoleon had gone into his room. Which made it four hours after the kiss. And Illya could still feel the tingle of it on his lips.
He slammed his book close and stood up forcefully enough to make the chair almost topple. With determined steps he walked towards Solo's door and barged in. The man himself was sitting on top of the covers, his own book in one hand, the other on his bare stomach. He had changed again into soft cotton pants to sleep. And nothing else apparently.
Illya immediately noticed the surprising amount of lean muscles on his stomach. Then he quickly looked up again, eyes finding Napoleon's, who's eyebrows were raised. "Do come in."
"Shut up." He didn't really flinch. No one normal would've noticed any reaction at all. But Illya wasn't normal. He saw the way his fingers tightened around the book, the way his back ever so slightly straightened and his eyes clouded with... something. He let the door fall shut behind him and stepped closer. "Just shut up. What was that?" He thrust his finger at the door.
Solo sighed and put the book to the side, shifting his legs over the edge of the bed to sit up. "Am I supposed to shut up or explain? You've got to choose, Peril."
"You infuriating man!" That actually owned Illya a small smile. "You can't just… You-" Crossing his arms over his chest, he let out a long breath. "What was honest about anything you did there? Explain yourself, Solo."
“Okay, fine. If you really need it broken down.” With a huff, Napoleon leaned back on his hands, his neck starting to ache slightly because of the angle he needed to look at the Russian. “I am very much attracted to you and what happened out there was me being an idiot because of some childish jealousy. Satisfied?” The words were as dryly said as his voice allowed, his eyes looked bored almost. And yet there was still a weird emotion in them that Illya couldn’t place.
After a moment the actual meaning of the words reached him as well and his hands fell to his sides. “I don’t believe you.”
“By god, you are starting to make me angry.” It was a close call, but Napoleon didn’t actually roll his eyes, just raised them towards the ceiling.
Illya bristled. “I make you angry? Why would I believe this nonsense? And what would give you reason to be jealous?”
The American sighed and placed his head in his hands. “Your fondness of Gaby, of course. What else? I see the way you look at her, I am far from blind.”
“I said there is nothing between us.”
“Which doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t want there to be.” Solo didn’t look up and only started to work his fingers into his hair. “Why are we even having this discussion? Just go to bed, forget it ever happened. It’s better for you and it’s sure as hell better for me.”
“I can’t forget.”
“Why not? It’s nothing important, just stop thinking about it.”
This time Napoleon actually flinched when Illya’s fist collided with the wall. “I can’t! It has been four hours and all I can think about is that damn kiss!”
“I apologize then, for causing you so much trouble.” The words were still so calm, that Illya thought about using his fist on a better target than the wall. Solo’s face for example.
“I still don’t believe you. My fondness of Gaby, as you call it, should not be any of your concern.” He crossed his arms again, fingers digging into his own skin.
Letting his hands fall between his legs, Napoleon hung his head again. “I know.” His voice was quiet and sounded strained. “I know that. I said I’m sorry. It’s not like I chose to have those feelings.”
Feelings. “You do not make sense, Solo.”
Looking up in disbelieve, Napoleon let out a frustrated growl. “Just because you don’t understand easy words, doesn’t mean that I’m not making any sense. I have feelings for you.” Again that word. Illya was starting to get a headache from the situation. “I don’t know what they are, but they are there. All I know is that I actually ache when I think about you and Gaby and that you probably wouldn’t even mind if I died on the job.”
The last sentence caught the Russian off guard. “That is not true.” Shaking his head, he noticed how vulnerable Solo looked. Noticed how it was the same stance he wore those few hours ago, just less determined and a lot more weary. “You are even more of an idiot than I thought, if you believe that.”
“Then I must be the biggest idiot of them all.” The American answered with a bitter smile.
Anger sparked again, Illya started to open his mouth when he caught that same haunted look in his eyes again. Deciding that they both needed some time away from each other, he abruptly turned around and marched out of the room. He barely caught the tired sigh through the closed door.
Frowning he entered his own room and changed to lay on his bed. Sleep didn’t come that night.
---
The next morning everything was as if nothing had happened. It should be fine. It should be perfectly fine. But it was driving Illya mad.
Napoleon was acting completely like himself. He was charming to Gaby, sarcastic to him and overly flirty with the staff of the cafe they were in. Illya barely managed to leave his mug whole.
Today marked the last day of their mission. In three hours a plane would take them back to New York. The Russian didn't know when he would see the others again after that. Between missions were always at least a few weeks and there was always the possibility that he would have a mission on his own or just with Gabriel.
He didn't have a choice. Gaby wouldn't leave their side in those last few hours. He had to let it go. For now. Illya looked up at Napoleon and started to observe him openly. After a while Gaby threw him weird looks but the American seemed to be obvious.
Of course he wasn't, Illya knew that. Which could only mean that Solo was ignoring him. The fork in his hands made a protesting sound and folded in half. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Gaby suppress a smile.
---
A week went by and Illya barely left his apartment. They had some meetings in HQ but apart from that and doing some necessary shopping, he stayed home.
Home. He wasn't quite sure when this spacious apartment started to feel like home to him. What changed in the two years since they were forced into U.N.C.L.E? Maybe it was the flowers Gaby brought him from time to time. Sometimes potted, sometimes a bouquet for the kitchen table. Or maybe it was the rich divan Napoleon dragged into his house after days of nagging how Gaby couldn't keep walking with her heels on the bare parquet floor.
Or it was the change of clothes he had in his closet for both of them.
Walking over into his bedroom, he opened the door to the closet and looked inside. His fingers quickly found a pale green dress with a matching hat perched on top of it. It felt very soft to the touch but his hand quickly moved on, looking for something else. When his fingertips found what he was looking for, he slowly ran them over the material. Contrary to his own dress shirts, that were mostly practical and hard material, Napoleon's were always silky and expensive. Softer to the touch even than the dress.
What was he even doing? Shaking his head he stepped back and closed the door again. What was he doing?
With a bit off growl, he walked out, grabbed his jacket and left the apartment. He had a certain thief to catch.
Making sure with headquarters that Napoleon was even in town, Illya made his way to the thief den, as Gaby liked to call it. Solo wasn't home but breaking in should be easy enough. Just as he was about to get through the door, though, he remembered a bit guilty that he actually had a spare key. Cursing, he fished it out and unlocked the door.
Now he had to wait.
---
When he finally heard the door unlock after about three hours, he made himself ready to punch the person Solo dragged with him in the face and throw them out. To his surprise the American came in alone.
Even more surprising was the look he received when Solo noticed him, lazing on the couch with one of his many books in his hands - the second one this afternoon already. He looked confused, a little annoyed and maybe even a little afraid. Illya scoffed. “Finally fearing me, Cowboy?”
Napoleon regarded him with a bitter smile and started to take off his coat. “There are a lot of things I am afraid of. You are not one of them.”
“I should feel insulted then.” The Russian observed him with cold eyes. Noticed the slight tremor in his hands, possibly from the cold. Probably not, though.
Solo only laughed at that. “If me trusting you is insulting to you, then by all means, go ahead.”
Throwing the book to the side, Illya jumped up and stalked over to the American. “You throw that word around very liberally, it seems.”
“I don’t.” The words came out forceful and Napoleon’s eyes started to show anger when he looked up at Illya. “There are only three people in this world that deserve that word from me. My brother, Gaby and you.” With a grim look he walked past the Russian and walked towards his bar, Illya just behind him. “Is that wrong?” He suddenly asked, turning to look at him again. “Shouldn’t I trust you? Should I be afraid of you?”
Illya glared. “I am not someone people should trust.”
“Well, we’ve established that I’m the biggest idiot you know, so…” Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a random tumbler and took a deep gulp right out of it. He didn’t even cough when the amber liquid ran down his throat.
Fingers starting to shake, Illya crowded into him, pressed him against the bar. Napoleon watched him warily and flinched slightly when one of Illya’s hands pressed right against his heart. The Russian could feel his pulse under his fingers, fast and irregular like a frightened hare. “Say it again.”
The American gulped, eyes right on the hand. “Say what?”
“Say you trust me.” The other hand wandered up and closed loosely around Napoleon’s throat. “Say it.”
“I trust you.” His pulse fluttered under both of his hands and Illya scoffed, taking a step back. He thought this was proof enough that the American was lying. He was about to take his hands back as well when fingers closed around his own, keeping them there. Napoleon was looking right into his eyes, gaze steady. “I trust you, Illya.” He tried to take his hands back but Solo’s grip tightened. “You make me nervous for a lot of reasons, but I am not afraid of you. I trust you.”
The Russian was silent, Napoleon’s pulse still under his fingers. They didn’t stop looking into each other’s eyes and Solo’s heartbeat still raced. Slowly, Illya shifted his hand around to rest it on the side of his neck. “What kind of feelings do you have, Solo?”
“I don’t know.” It was the American who broke eye contact. “I just know that I get jealous a lot. That I worry a lot. And that I want to touch you… a lot.”
As an answer, Illya started to slowly move his thumb along his neck in lazy strokes. Napoleon looked at him, heartbeat fluttering again. “You are right, I am not very worried about you on missions.” When hurt entered his eyes, and he tried to look back down, Illya gripped his chin to keep their gazes locked. “But only because I am right there with you and will not let anything happen to you.”
The thief actually smiled at that. “And Gaby?”
“And Gaby, but this is not about her.” The hand that had remained on Napoleon’s heart, moved to wrap around his waist.
“I thought you didn’t believe me, Peril?” When the hand tugged his shirt out of his trousers and sneaked onto the bare small of his back, Solo’s breath hitched.
Illya angled his body closer, forcing his way between his legs. “I have a feeling your eyes are not good liars, Cowboy.”
“Jesus, Illya just kiss me already.” Napoleon pushed closer until their lips were inches apart.
The Russian showed one of his rare grins. “Whatever you wish, Napoleon.”
“Only my mother calls me-“ And their lips met. Illya moaned when he felt that softness again. The feeling he couldn’t get out of his head for all those weeks. They kissed deeply, exploring everything the other was ready to give. Napoleon bit his lip and immediately soothed it with a swipe of his tongue and Illya answered with licking deep into his mouth, coaxing out those intoxicating sounds. He might get addicted to Solo’s moans. He might get also addicted to Solo’s mouth. But when rough fingers raked through his hair, Illya found that he really didn’t mind. Not that he would admit that to anyone.
After all, honesty didn’t really suit either of them.