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The three of them had no relation to one another, this time – Gaby, Illya and Napoleon were given three separate apartments, each as small as the next.
Illya’s remained bare, with the exception of a case full of weapons open on the dining table, guns and knives laid bare across the polished wood, neatly arranged. A book lay open on the table beside his bed, the covers were pulled up, bed made, neat as ever.
Napoleon’s apartment was clean enough – a newspaper tossed haphazardly upon the couch, fresh fruit on the counter, a carton of eggs by the stove.
Gaby had left to buy fresh flowers the moment they’d gotten there – lilies, roses, lavender – her small home smelled sweet, like her. She was messier than her partners, she’d tipped out the contents of her bags and set about organizing her belongings, but seemed to stop halfway through, leaving her clothes to gather dust at the foot of her bed – the covers of which were still pulled back, messy from the night before.
The walls were thin, and Napoleon’s company never went unnoticed. Nor did Gaby’s ( to Illya’s disdain, to Napoleon’s delight ) . Illya would go out most evenings, long walks to who knows where, back in time for Napoleon to cook dinner, and out again once they’d finished.
Sometimes, when neither had company, Gaby and Napoleon would share a bottle of wine. Illya was always invited, and sometimes he would sit with them, having no more than a glass of his own.
Intel for their mission was gathered slowly. Both Napoleon and Illya were to entertain a woman named Eda, while Gaby found herself closer to Eda’s elder brother, Nadir. Both men were in constant competition – Waverly had planned it that way, Gaby assumed, so that Eda would inevitably become infatuated with one of them, and she’d enjoy the attention of having two charming men fawn over her.
Gaby left early one morning, skipping breakfast. She’d swooped into Napoleon’s apartment, stolen an apple, and left a note.
“Nadir invited me out to breakfast. Will be home around noon. – G”
Napoleon read the note with a frown. If she’d had these plans the night before, why would she not have mentioned it sooner? A note on the counter? It breaks protocol. Suspicious, but it was Gaby’s handwriting, and he had no real reason to worry. The mission hadn’t gotten the slightest bit dangerous, and it undoubtedly wouldn’t for quite some time.
Gaby returned for lunch, to find Illya and Napoleon at the table, Napoleon with a book in his hand, and Illya tinkering with something with a lot of red wires. She had half a mind to turn on her heel and retreat to her own apartment. It was too late for that.
“How was breakfast?” Napoleon asked, not looking up.
“Fine.” Gaby told him, unfazed.
“Where did you go?”
“What does it matter?”
“Strange to leave a note.”
“Is it?”
“Very. You could’ve told us last night.”
“He only phoned this morning. Nadir is very spontaneous.”
“I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“We don’t sleep in the same room, Napoleon.”
“Walls are very thin.” Illya chimed in.
“Have I done something wrong?” Gaby straightened, agitated.
“Have you?” Napoleon raised a brow.
“Am I on trial? I think I’ll skip lunch.”
And that was that. They didn’t see Gaby for the rest of the day. Between them, they exchanged a glance – Illya, agitated with Napoleon for scaring her off so quickly, Napoleon, defeated, but not satisfied with her responses.
Gaby went for breakfast again with Nadir the following Saturday – then the Monday after that, and the Tuesday, the following Friday. Napoleon’s suspicion only rose. He was very quick to convince Illya that something was afoot, once he’d presented the evidence that Nadir had been spotted in the United States on two of the occasions Gaby claimed to have been meeting with him.
Gaby had gotten rid of the trackers the pair of them had placed when she’d left the apartment on the first day – the trackers in her pockets, on her hat, her shoes, her handbag. But she’d missed the one sewn into the hem of her skirt, which is how they found her on the morning of one very sunny Saturday.
Napoleon and Illya took the Russian’s car – it was a step down from the rather extravagant red sports car Napoleon insisted on.
(“No good, we will drive my car,” Illya sighed, “your car could be spotted from the moon.”
“Come on, Peril,” Napoleon would reply, “we’re not trailing her. She’ll never be the wiser.”)
Illya won out, they took his car. Gaby was at Nadir’s home, or, the tracker was. They’d asked a maid where they might find Nadir (“It’s urgent, miss, we’ve got a very important message”), but she was quick to tell them that Nadir wasn’t home – wouldn’t be home all weekend.
So what, then, was Gaby doing here?
They followed the signal of the tracker. They climbed the stairs (hid from Nadir’s step-mother), moved through glamorous hallways and elegant rooms, found themselves outside the door of Nadir’s father’s study – perhaps she was gathering intel, going through files, the like. This would make sense. Without thinking too much about it, Napoleon reached for the handle, and Illya followed him inside.
At the sight of Gaby, Illya straightened, his breath hitching, eyes widening ever so slightly – Napoleon frowned, taken a little aback. There’s a long moment as they stand there, watching – Napoleon hardly wants to interrupt, but watching them just doesn’t feel right. He coughs once.
“Ladies, as pleasant as this is to watch, I do believe Eda has a conference to be at in half an hour. If I’m remembering correctly.” He sounds a little shocked. Gaby freezes.
Eda’s eyes open quickly; she raises a hand to her mouth to cover a small (though muffled) squeak. She sits atop her father’s desk; blouse flung aside, skirt hiked up to her waist, with her legs parted. Between her thighs, with her back to them, Gaby was on her knees.
For a moment, Napoleon thought Eda might scream. Instead, she gathered her top, scrambled away from the desk, and pushed past them out the door, flustered and almost in tears.
As both men were focused on Eda’s histrionic exit, Gaby wiped her mouth (really, she didn’t need either of them to see her doing that), and turned to face them. She grabbed the first thing she saw – an empty glass, part of a pair, beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey – and hurled it toward them. Instead of it hitting one of them, like Gaby had hoped, or even smashing as it collided with the wall, Illya reached out and caught it.
“We can’t afford to make a mess.” Illya, who had regained his composure, said firmly. “You were not here. Take the glasses and the bottle, put them back. They cannot know what you were doing here. We are leaving.”
Gaby’s jaw sets – there’s a fleeting moment of hesitation where she thinks she might argue with him. Don’t tell me what to do, don’t tell me where to go, I can take care of myself. Instead, she bites her tongue, plucks the empty glass from his hand and retrieves the whisky from the desk. They’re placed at the bar, exactly where Eda had taken them from.
Illya turns, moves out the door, makes his way back through the house. Napoleon doesn’t move. Gaby doesn’t look at either of them. Instead, she follows Illya silently, keeping her gaze low.
-
In the car, she stays quiet. Gaby sits in the seat beside Illya, Napoleon offered to stay behind and calm Eda. Clammy hands interwoven in her lap, eyes plastered out the window.
“Please don’t tell Waverly.” Gaby murmurs, breaking that ice-cold silence.
“You could have put the mission in jeopardy.”
“I was doing your job for you.”
“Mine and Solo’s, apparently.”
“Apparently.”
“Still, you should have told us you wished to take that angle.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“Why move on to Eda?”
“I saw an opportunity. We needed the in, and neither of you were capable of getting it.”
“You were happy with Nadir?”
“I could handle Nadir.”
“Gaby.”
“I know what you’re asking. I don’t mind. It doesn’t bother me. I would be happy with either.”
Illya nods, but otherwise doesn’t respond.
Gaby, biting down on her lip, repeats herself, “Please don’t tell Waverly.”
He doesn’t respond. Gaby thinks she might be sick.
-
They beat Solo home by a good twenty minutes. Gaby locks herself away in her room for the rest of the day – Illya waits for Napoleon in his apartment.
Napoleon bursts through the door with a grin. “Where is she?”
“Hiding from you, I would imagine.”
“Now, what would she do a thing like that for?”
“Your reaction to this is going to be – how do I put – uncomfortable.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m handling this swimmingly. I handle everything swimmingly.”
“Too swimmingly, cowboy. She is very embarrassed.”
“Really? What for?”
“They kill people for this sort of thing in Germany. Russia too.”
“Was it not … just for the cover?”
Illya spares him a glance, brows raised. “In part, perhaps.”
“I suppose that would make sense. However, surely she knows we don’t care.” Napoleon pauses, briefly, peering toward Kuryakin, “We don’t care, do we, Peril?”
Illya pauses. Napoleon looks a little taken aback.
“Do you care?”
“No.”
A sigh of relief from Napoleon.
“And before you ask her, to make things more uncomfortable – her tastes are not singular.”
“Meaning?” He knows exactly what that means.
“She is attracted to both women and men.”
“Eda isn’t. Which, I’ll admit, explains why I had so little luck with her. I knew it wasn’t me. I must’ve invited her to come home with me at least three times. Did Gaby get any usable intel?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to go ask her myself.”
Illya glares, places his book down. “It can wait. Invite her to dinner.”
“I feel like she’s probably not very hungry after –“
“Solo.”
“Right, sorry. You invite her to dinner, I’ll get groceries.”
-
By the time dinner comes around, Gaby’s freshly showered and smelling like a dream, perfume in her hair and on her clothes – she doesn’t bother getting too dressed up, simply wanders over in a flimsy evening gown and a thin cardigan.
Illya’s already there – perhaps he thinks she needs him there to act as a buffer; someone’s got to censor Napoleon – sitting at the table, having a conversation with Napoleon in rapid Russian. Gaby makes out half the words – nothing to do with her, as far as she can tell. So far, so good.
“Am I late?” She asks.
“Not at all. I’ve only just finished.” It’s only a shame we didn’t give you enough time to finish, Solo bites his tongue, flittering about the kitchen.
Gaby takes the seat next to Illya – they always sit in the same places – Napoleon and Illya across from one another, Gaby between them at the small table.
“We’re having roasted chicken with risotto and caramelized onions. I hope you’re not picky about what you put in your mouth.” Napoleon says with his back to her, too busy preparing the plates.
If Gaby weren’t so embarrassed, she might have been angry. Illya shoots him a look, which he misses, but probably expected nonetheless.
They eat quietly for a while, before Illya distracts Napoleon with a conversation about something Gaby doesn’t understand well enough to contribute to. After her third glass of wine, Gaby joins in on the conversation – something unrelated, something about someone else, someone who isn’t her.
After they all finish eating, and the conversation still lingers on, Solo brings it up. There’s a brief gap in the sentence and Solo looks at Gaby, raises his eyebrows, and says, “Alright, can we talk about it now?”
Gaby almost says no. But, really, she might as well get it out of the way now, “Alright.”
“Gaby, you don’t have to.” Illya pitches in.
“Yes she does,” Napoleon says, half-kidding, “you can go back to your apartment if you’re feeling uncomfortable, Peril.”
“I am not uncomfortable.” Illya says firmly.
“First things first – was she your first.” Napoleon asks.
“This doesn’t seem relevant.” Gaby replies.
“It’s not. You can pass on this one, if you want. But know that I’m curious.”
“Note taken. Next question.”
Napoleon laughs, “How did she even pursue you? She was hardly out of my sight in all the time we were in that house.”
“At dinner, do you remember? We all ate with her parents, and I sat next to her. She had her hand up my skirt.”
Illya straightens a little. Napoleon doesn’t falter.
“You did seem a little distracted. Is that all? Hand on your thigh?”
Gaby frowns. “Again, not relevant.”
“Touché.” Napoleon murmurs, “and then?”
“Then, she kissed me the next time I saw her.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you did not tell us.” Illya states, arms crossed over his chest, leaning forward slightly.
“I imagined Napoleon would handle it in exactly the way he’s handling it now–”
(There’s a small, “Fair point,” from Napoleon.)
“—And, really, I had no idea how you’d react. Waverly might understand, but he may also fire me. And if Waverly kept me on, you could always go above his head.”
“You think I’d –?”
“I don’t know.”
Illya seems offended. Gaby wonders if she misspoke. “I understand the concern, but I thought you would know me well enough to know that it would not bother me.”
“It’s never really come up.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. It does not bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
“It doesn’t bother me, either.” Napoleon chimed in.
“I got that, Solo.”
“It does not bother me.” Illya repeats.
Gaby seems relieved, Illya’s offence was short lived, Napoleon takes the conversation back into his own hands.
“Gaby, I can’t believe you stole her away from me.”
“You really aren’t as good as you think.”
“You really aren’t as good as you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your technique was – sloppy. And I mean in the literal sense. Not terrible, just – unpracticed.”
Gaby frowns. “No it wasn’t.”
“Back me up here, Peril.”
Gaby looks toward Illya, brows raised. “You weren’t terrible. But … Could use some work.”
“What would you know.” She snaps back at Illya.
“You might be surprised.”
“Perhaps you need a teacher.” Solo suggests.
Gaby frowns. “How would that even – What are you suggesting?”
“Well, I’m more than adequate –“
“No.”
“Gaby.”
“Napoleon.”
“You need to learn.”
Her cheeks burn. She turns toward the Russian, “Illya?”
“Are you asking me what you should do, or if I can teach you?”
She only blushes a shade darker. “The—First one.”
“Is a good skill to have.”
“So I should—Yes? I should … Let him … Teach me.”
“Yes.” Napoleon says.
“You may not get another chance to learn from someone so experienced.”
Gaby swallows. “Okay. Fine. What the hell.”
She finishes off the glass of wine quickly, as Napoleon motions for her to move away from the table, (“right now?” she asks, “when better?” he responds) and follows him into the living room.
Illya follows.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Your tutelage may be almost as valuable as mine.” Napoleon says in response, “Almost. But it’s up to Gaby.”
They both look toward her. She hesitates, briefly, “You can stay. If you think it’ll help.”
“It’ll help.” Napoleon assures her.
She sits on the lounge, tense as all hell. Napoleon takes one look at her and frowns.
“That just won’t do. Peril, you have to sit next to her.”
Illya does as he’s told. If anything, she ends up a little more nervous.
Napoleon takes in the scene; in the same way an artist might take in a scene he is about to paint. A finger taps at his chin, he screws up his face in thought.
“Put your arm around her.”
Illya obliges.
“Kiss her.”
Illya hesitates, looks to her for approval. Gaby only nods.
Gently, Illya rests a palm against her cheek, and presses a tender kiss to her lips – Gaby’s heart flutters. It goes on like this for a while, until Gaby forgets Napoleon is even standing there.
“Right. Move on to her neck, now, Peril.”
Again, Illya follows the order. After a lingering kiss to her lips, he begins to press small, closed mouthed kisses along the line of her jaw, working his way down to her neck. Once he reaches it, Gaby hums happily, Illya smiles against her skin.
“Gaby, first lesson, neck kissing will win you bonus points. Girls love when you kiss their necks. So does everyone. But women melt.” Napoleon watches the pair for a moment, “You seem to a be a prime example of this. Are you listening to me?”
“Mm,” Gaby nods. “Girls like when you kiss their necks – girls really … like … when you kiss their … oh … necks.”
“Glad we’re all paying attention. Second lesson, women are very verbal. You should talk to them. Sometimes you can tell when they like something, for example, you like it when Illya kisses your neck. This is very obvious. Sometimes it’s a little harder to tell. Just ask them.” Solo gets to his knees in front of her, “I’m going to go down on you now, if that’s still alright with you.”
“It’s – alright with me.” She nods.
Solo places a hand on each of her knees so that he might part them, making room for himself.
“The trick here is not to dive right in – which is what I imagine you might’ve done.”
“You might be right.”
“I thought so. You want to get them into such a state that they’ll be begging you. Did she beg?”
“A little.”
“Maybe I underestimated you. Nonetheless, start small, like this –“
Solo presses a small kiss to the inside of her knee, another in the spot just above, and above, and above, until he’s working his way up her thigh. Gaby’s moans are soft and breathy; Solo keeps working his way up.
It’s all very painfully slow. Gaby shifts slightly, which Solo takes a sign she’s beginning to get agitated. As he finds himself at the top of her thigh, he lifts the edge of her skirt, his tongue drawing patterns in the tender spots of her inner thighs – dangerously close, but not quite there.
Gaby wants to lace her hands through his hair, keep him where he is, pull him closer. He presses kisses across the band of her underwear, from hip to hip, and works his way back down again.
“Solo.” She grumbles.
“Patience, Gaby. Unless you’re not above begging.”
“Hurry up.”
She feels him grin against the flesh of her thigh, as he presses another trail of kisses down toward her knee. It’s agonizing.
“It’s important to compliment her. A lot of women are self-conscious. Especially since not a lot of men are willing to go to these lengths to please them. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Kuryakin?”
He does as he’s told, mumbling against her neck, between kisses, “Du bist – hübsch. Du bist – die schönste Frau – der Welt.” (You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.)
“The native tongue was a nice touch.” Solo commends.
“Danke.”
Solo pauses once he reaches her knee, pulling away. She moves her knee to knock him against the cheek.
“Hey,” Solo grabs her knee so as to make sure she doesn’t do it again.
“Hey. Get to it.”
“I was only going to tell you, that this might be a little better than you’ll be capable of. Not only because it’s me, but because it’s very unlikely you’ll have a devilishly handsome Russian there to keep her limp.”
“I’m not limp.”
“You’re like a ragdoll.”
Illya laughs, nipping gently at the base of her throat, “if you ever need my help, I would be happy to.”
“How gentlemanly,” Solo mocks, nestling back between Gaby’s thighs.
Without much warning at all, he presses a kiss to the fabric covering her heat – Gabby sounds a small “oh”.
Solo pulls away again, so that he might hike up her dress. “The element of surprise. Usually useless, occasionally comes in handy.”
He pauses again, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. “You may hate me for this next part, so, apologies in advance.”
Napoleon leans in, presses the flat of his tongue against her heat. Gaby squirms beneath him. He grips her thighs with both hands, widening them slightly, and gently kisses her between her legs – but still, much to Gaby’s agitation, he hasn’t had her remove her underwear.
“Napoleon, can you just –“
Illya moves to her ear, presses kisses, pulls at her lobe with his teeth. He’s only there so that he might shush her – a sound that makes her core tighten – before he moves back down to her neck.
Napoleon adds a finger to the mix – his tongue wets the fabric above her clit, while his index finger strokes idly at her entrance.
“I see we’ve really done a number on you.” Solo lifts his head, and Gaby catches him smirking at her. He slides his fingers under the band of her underwear, and she lifts her hips so that he is able to pull her panties down. They’re tossed away carelessly. Finally.
“Some women like when you rip their underwear off. I didn’t think you’d be a big fan.”
“You thought right.”
“Now, Peril, my mouth’s about to get a little busy, so you may have to talk her through these next steps. They’re very important, Gaby, so pay attention.”
“Right.” She nods.
Solo starts at her outer lips, working his way in. Soft, languid licks, small kisses, light and gentle.
“First, you want to tell her how good she tastes.” Illya starts.
Napoleon pulls away, “Gaby, you’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever tasted.”
Despite her best efforts, she whimpers – Napoleon grins. Her head lulls back, and before long his mouth is back on her.
“You’ve got to be tender – very gentle. Not all the time, just to begin with.” Illya tells her, no longer kissing at her neck, just sitting close, arm around her shoulder, as though they’re doing something as innocent as watching television. It’s the accent that gets her, has her stomach doing flips, and elicits warmth between her legs. “You’ve got to go slowly. Solo started from the outside. Good tactic. This works well.”
Napoleon uses two fingers to spread her lips, and licks a trail along her slit.
“You want to find her clitoris, then.”
“I don’t – know what that is.”
“Oh.” Illya pauses, unsure how exactly to explain. He does his best to purge any awkwardness from his tone. “It’s – there is a good chance it is what you rub when you touch yourself.”
“When I –“
“Not you, specifically. But, I know you know what I am talking about. Walls are very thin.”
Gaby blushes. God, what else had they heard?
“So, you find it and th – Oh my god –“ She tenses. Napoleon had found it. Gaby catches Illya crossing his legs. “Then what?”
“You don’t want to go straight to it. For you, Solo probably could. You seem to be very … Far-gone. If she is not so aroused, it will be too sensitive for you to touch.”
Solo begins to quicken the pace. He spreads her lips with his tongue, runs it up and down her slit quickly, spreads her legs a little wider with his hands – he grips her just above the knees, pulls her closer, so she’s sliding a little further down the couch, and resting her legs over his shoulders.
“He’s pulling you closer so that he can get deeper inside of you. Not always necessary, but,” Illya looks down at Solo, “makes for a good view.”
Solo slips his tongue inside of her entrance – Gaby whimpers, reaching down to run a hand through Napoleon’s hair. He fucks her with his tongue, lithe digits digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.
“Now you want to move on to her clitoris.”
Napoleon follows Illya’s narration, licking at her clit – still a little teasing. He takes a very brief pause to wet his index and middle fingers with his mouth –
“Wet fingers. Very uncomfortable otherwise.”
– before sliding them into her. Gaby cries out, Illya has half a mind to undo his belt buckle and get off to the sight of the both of them like this, but decides against it. This is, for all intents and purposes, still work, despite the growing hardness between his own legs. Though, they may be blurring the lines, just a little.
Solo moves back to her clit, fingers pumping rhythmically – he licks her clit in time, performing a symphony between her legs. Napoleon’s gaze lifts to meet Gaby’s. He takes her clit between his lips, begins to suck at it.
“Oh my god – Napoleon – Fick dich … Fick mich … Scheisse … Du Hurensohn … Scheisse …” Gaby is saying, whimpering, breath quivering, legs trembling.
“You want to watch her – see how she reacts,” Illya is saying. Gaby is only half paying attention, and it’s been that way for the last few minutes. “If she can handle it, begin to suck her clit harder.”
Napoleon does so; Gaby’s hips begin to rise.
“If she lifts her hips – don’t fight her, move with her.”
Napoleon does exactly that.
“If she likes it, suck her clit even harder.”
Gaby’s a mess. She’s stopped listening to Illya, but his hot breath in her ear eggs her on even more. Napoleon’s fingers thrust within her, his mouth a small ‘O’ on her clit – she think she’s going to die, she think she’s going to scream. She places a hand on Illya’s thigh.
“Hör nicht auf - Hör bloss nicht auf -” (Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.)
“And when she comes –“
Gaby digs her nails into his leg, causing Illya to tense, though he doesn’t stop talking.
“When she comes, keep your mouth on her clit.”
The writhing girl bucks against Napoleon’s mouth, but he keeps at it – fingers moving quickly, as fast and rough as she can handle, mouth fixed around the pearl between her legs. She yells profanities, yells their names, Napoleon, Illya, Scheisse, Scheisse, Scheisse.
She comes beautifully, one hand in Napoleon’s hair, tugging hard, the other on Illya’s thigh, clawing at the harsh fabric of his trousers. She’s a shuddering, trembling mess, sweat cakes her brow, Napoleon laps at her sex, Illya kisses her lips.
Exhausted, she pulls away from the Russian, and Napoleon pulls away from her. She sighs contentedly, watching Napoleon as he rests his chin on her knee, face slick with her. Illya leans down toward him, tastes the juice covering his lips with a kiss. He passes the taste to Gaby as he rests back against the lounge, kissing her sweetly.
As he pulls away, Gaby nuzzles into Illya’s side; Napoleon presses a small kiss to the soft flesh of her thigh, just above her knee, where he rests his head.
“Learn something?” He asks.
“I don’t think I learned anything.”
Napoleon looks a little disappointed.
“Maybe I just need another lesson.”
“I’m free any time. Illya?”
“Always happy to help the cause.”