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“And you’re working with a thief?”
“Da,” says Illya, shortly. He’s got a bloody graze on his cheek and a thin line to his mouth. “I would prefer to lower body count. Back door is easier.”
“Speaking of ‘back-doors’...” Solo comes sauntering into the alleyway, near invisible in the twilight gloom clad as he is in black and grey, “We better go now, before the fuckers notice the disabled alarm.”
“Fucking...” Gaby sighs over the line and Illya can picture her rubbing two fingers into her forehead. “Fine. Godspeed, both of you, and good luck.”
“I don’t need luck,” says Illya gruffly, before he shoulders his pack and hangs up the receiver.
“Yeah, yeah,” quips Solo, grinning. There’s a tinge of madness in his sapphire eyes. Of the thrill of danger. He might not be stable either... at least Illya’s found some decent company. “We all get it- you Beekeepers are scary and fear nothing. I, however, would prefer some of Lady Luck’s favour.”
“Is not lack of fear.” Illya checks his gun, holsters it. “Is necessary-“
“For the safety of the Hive, yeah I know.” Solo smirks, cracking his knuckles, hidden in leather gloves. “I heard you the first time, Peril. Shall we?”
It doesn’t take them long to get inside, scaling the stairwell at the rear or the building.
Solo stays behind Illya, as per the Russian’s insistence, opening doors with quick movements of his gloved hands, or disabling alarm systems with a small muttered breath.
He’s good. Extremely good, but Illya won’t tell him that. Not for the world.
His head doesn’t need to get any bigger.
The problem with all of this is that Illya doesn’t want to do the job alone anymore.
He’s tired of being a solitary bee. Working remotely from the Hive. And he has no one to blame for his situation save himself, he knows that. Accepts it.
But meeting Solo in that dingy bar had been a godsend. With his body count already rising above double digits, and all the mercenaries pulled in to guard the corrupt weapons manufacturers, he’d been searching for a easy way in. A clinical one that could be executed using a scalpel, not a butcher’s knife.
Enter Napoleon Solo, part time cat burglar, thief, and full time pain in the ass.
He was cocky, perhaps even slightly arrogant, but Illya quickly learned that it’s because he really was that good.
And then there was the other problem.
That Solo was unfairly gorgeous.
“Didn’t one of your lot go rogue a few years ago or something?” Solo’s got one silver tool stowed behind his ear, two lock picks in hand. He’s on one knee, eyes narrow in concentration, black curls tamed in a pomade.
“Nyet.” Illya checks his sight, checks the tread of his boots on the chilled gravel. Tries to ignore how the shadows play like liquid secrets across Solo’s handsome face. “Clay was retired.”
“And some idiot decided to fuck with him.”
“Da.”
Solo snorts, but it sounds amused.
Illya remembers his father laughing about something similar.
Or perhaps he only thinks he does... those ghosts have been buried for so long, well... who knows how real they still are.
“So it is good?”
Gaby looks over his statement once again before she nods. “Yes. All good.”
And it’s a relief in some ways. The fact that such a large scale target on his part isn’t going to be angering the head of the Hive. That they’ll let him do it his own way on his own time.
“Be careful, Illya.” Gaby’s dark eyes are anxious. Six years, and still she worries.
He hugs her, smiles into her hair. It smells like almonds. “Always.”
See, they never mean to kiss. It is a moment drawn in charcoal that gets smudged by sweaty fingertips. It’s a catalyst, delivered by Illya as he downs the final mercenary with a clean shot to the head, splattering the wall, and Solo, with tacky red viscera.
The thief blinks, a little paler than usual under the red artwork on his cheek, before he groans.
“Fucking...” He scrubs a hand at the grime. “Gee, thanks, Peril. I’m gonna be washing blood out of my hair for weeks.”
Illya can’t help a little smile. “Cold feet?”
“No,” says Solo, but he does look a little shaken. “Just a humble thief who’s so fucking out of his depth that he might be drowning. That’s all.”
And Illya’s drowning too, but not because of the death he has been reaping. It’s the crooked quirk of the American’s smile, and the shining blue of his sapphire eyes, the left stamped with a hazel watermark.
It’s Solo’s spark.
“Not quite sure what that face is you’re making,” comments Solo, before peering into a broken mirror to try and clean more of the gunk from his cheek.
Illya’s not sure either, but for once he doesn’t want to feel certainty. He doesn’t want to have to make the decision of who lives, who dies. Who is the honey bee, and who is the wasp. He doesn’t want to fight, he wants... he wants to...
Solo doesn’t fight him when he walks the American up against the wall, leaving red boot prints on the tiled floor; doesn’t protest when Illya brushes a thumb over his jaw. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, a small sound almost like a sigh escaping his lips.
“Is okay?” Illya’s voice is quiet, tentative.
Solo gives a tiny nod. He looks different under the harsh lighting, the blood on his skin darkening as it dries. And Illya ducks his head at the same time Solo pushes himself up onto his toes, and it’s salty and rough and so fucking good-
And oh...
Fuck.
Illya’s going to regret this, isn’t he?
Because bozhe moi...
Bozhe moi.
Six Days Later...
Solo knows when a lock has been picked.
Particularly when there are little hairline scratches on the steel around said lock, made by hands not as skilled as his own. He’s not really that worried. After all, if it is judgment day, there’s not an awful lot he can do, is there?
Besides, he thinks he knows who’s waiting in there. And it makes him heart pound in a pleasurable tempo behind the cage of his ribs.
“Could have just knocked,” he says casually, as he tosses his keys onto the table, shutting the door behind him.
Illya, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, snorts. “I did. No one was home.”
“You could have waited, like a normal person.”
“I am not normal person, Cowboy.”
And goddamn, Illya looks so fucking good like this, loose-limbed and casual, in slacks and a black turtleneck, leather coat flung casually over one of the chairs at the table. As if he belongs there.
Solo smiles, a little mocking. “Damn right, sweetheart.”
Illya walks closer, slow, like a predator. It’s what he is really, Solo knows. He’s a vicious bee, ready to sting the hand that tries to hold him.
It scares Solo a little, probably not as much as it should.
And he’s apparently strong as fuck too, because one minute his hands are on Solo’s hips, and the next he’s hefting the American into the air, slamming his back against the wall.
There’s nothing Solo can do but wrap his legs around Illya’s waist and hang on- arms about the Russian’s neck. He’s warm. Alive. Cologne smelling of clove and something almost like citrus.
“Someone blowing smoke into your precious Hive again?” purrs Solo, running his fingers up Illya’s neck to card through his short hair. It’s rather a nice view from here, looking down on the Russian for once, and Illya’s breath hitches a little at the touch.
“Da,” says Illya. “Always.” But his smile is small and almost kind. Maybe even a little shy. Because it’s just the two of them in this room, hidden away from the world. “But it can wait few hours...”
And then he tilts Solo’s chin down, warm calloused hands on his pulse points, breath like the summer heat, and kisses him senseless.