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nedoperepil
Napoleon watches the honey whiskey swirl in his glass as he tilts it from side to side, the amber liquid almost flowing over the edge.
A flash fast hands nicks the glass from his grip. Napoleon pouts.
“That was mine,” he says, elongating his words and falling back into the couch, playing the disappointed drunk to a tee. “Peril, why are you so mean to me?”
Illya just scoffs, and pushes him to the side of the sofa. “Because you’re too drunk to hold it, Cowboy. I don’t want you to ruin the rug.”
The rug is soft under Napoleon’s bare feet. He digs his toes in it and sighs, nodding, conceding to the point. This is a rug that should not be ruined.
Illya huffs, and Napoleon has a library for Peril-Huffs. They each have their own little emotional intonation, a shade and hue. This one tells a story of Illya’s amusement, slight fondness, and a grudging annoyance at Napoleon’s behaviour. It’s a good huff, one with soft edges that makes Napoleon’s heart pounce in his chest. And, because he’s drunk and too far gone to make good decisions, he flops to the side, placing his head on Illya’s lap.
Ilya huffs again. Surprise, acceptance. “You drink too much, Cowboy.”
No, Napoleon thinks, hiding a giggle in Illya’s stomach. He’s drunk exactly, precisely, enough. Illya allows him this; touch and closeness and warmth and touch. And closeness. All very important things Napoleon always wants, but never gets, because Illya is a Russian Ice Wall that only melts for a certain little chop-shop girl.
But Illya allows him this if he thinks Napoleon is too drunk to know better. All Americans are grabby and too cheery and forget all sense of personal space when they’re drunk. Napoleon knows how exactly much to drink to be allowed to tilt into that boundary and cross it with a smile. He knows Illya will catch him, and hold him, if his breath smells of alcohol and the world is too wobbly to stand.
Gaby laughs, sitting across them with her legs twisted and a bottle in her lap. She allows him this too. She doesn’t seem to mind Napoleon claiming Illya on nights like this. Celebration in the air, another mission accomplished. Napoleon thinks it’s because she’d rather dance than cuddle, and Illya doesn’t really dance, and Gaby doesn’t really cuddle. Napoleon doesn’t mind being a substitute for either.
She sticks her tongue out at Illya, and Napoleon doesn’t know why but he laughs with them anyway. Laughing at Illya’s always fun, when they’re all soft and drunk. Instead of red hot anger pushing him to pain, he only blushes, and tries to hide his face. This time though, he only glares at Gaby, and she laughs harder.
The two confuse Napoleon.
Sometimes they act like siblings, snapping and teasing. They’ve fallen into a silent competition after they all realised Gaby was a spy too. Illya and her trade jokes and challenges to prove who’s the better spy of the two of them.
Napoleon tries not to be jealous, because that was their game. Gaby took it and twisted herself in it, and Illya let her. They place bets. It’s horrible.
But there is also melting and sweetness and Illya is so strong but changes around her.
Napoleon wishes he could do that. Find the key that resides in Gaby’s smile and use it in his own. There is only drinking or snapping for him, egging Illya into annoyance or resigned acceptance. Napoleon is desperate for some form of reaction, even if it’s not the fond respect Gaby pulls out of him.
Napoleon looks at them, smiling and glaring, and thinks of a summer wedding on a beach.
He’d have two speeches: one congratulating his dearest friends on finding the love they deserve, and the other baring his rotten bleeding heart open for the public to stare at, poisoning the whole day and leaving everything broken before fleeing, never seeing them again. Which one he’d choose to perform would depend on how much champagne he’s swallowed down– this case the more the better. Smiles come easier when the pain is numbed.
They’d both be wearing white. Gaby in a knee-length dress and her hair in a messy but graceful bun. Illya would be in a tailored, cream white suit with an ill-chosen blue bowtie in an effort to match the sea behind him. But the sea is green, not blue and, “You’d look terrible in a white suit, Peril. You have to understand. I’m only looking out for your fashion choices.”
Illya blinks at him strangely, shaking his head, and it’s only then that Napoleon registers he’s said the last part out loud. His secrets almost spilling over the edge, like honey whiskey almost ruining the rug. Maybe he is a little too far gone, his control a little out of his hands.
That’s dangerous.
Napoleon closes his eyes and hides his face in Illya’s sweater, slowly breathing until he catches the first waves of unconsciousness and follows them down, down until he can’t say anything anymore.
--
nedoperepil
недоперепил: (v) under-over-drunk
----------------
pochemuchka
“I am a spy, not a babysitter.”
Napoleon has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.
“The mission is the mission, Peril,” he says instead. “Do you see her? Gaby said she’s wearing a blue backpack and a pink dress.”
Illya scans the schoolyard and shakes his head. “I don’t see her. We can’t protect her like this. We need to be in the school.”
“She isn’t supposed to know she’s under threat, so for the time being we’re going to play babysitter and not bodyguard, okay?” Napoleon spies a little girl with blonde curls walking out of the school building, blue bag in her hands. “There she is, be nice.” Napoleon levels a look at Illya, who’s glaring back. “Smile a little, Peril, we don’t want to scare her away.”
Illya softens his expression with obvious reluctance, and Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
A woman has Lillia, their new tiny mission, by the hand and walks carefully toward them, hesitance in every step. Napoleon smiles at them and nods, motioning to come closer, away from the busy chaos of a newly freed student population.
“Password?” the woman asks, her body between them and Lilia, shielding her.
“Crystal Palace,” Napoleon says easily, and the woman relaxes at once. “I’m Agent Solo, and this is my partner, Agent Kuryakin.”
“Oh, good,” the woman says. “I’m Lillia’s teacher. I’ve been informed of the situation.”
“We know,” Illya says shortly. “We need to go now. It’s too dangerous out in the open like this.”
“What my partner means to say,” Napoleon interjects quickly when the woman pales. “Is that we’re following every preventative method we have to keep Lillia safe. We will protect her, she’s safe with us.”
The woman nods and lets go of Lillia’s hand, who’s staring at them wide-eyed. But instead of the fear Napoleon was afraid of, her tiny eyes are filled with interest and curiosity. Napoleon quirks a smile at her and says, “My friend and I are going to bring you to your father’s vacation house, in the forest. You’ll have a week free of school, isn’t that fun?”
Lillia narrows her eyes at him. “Why?”
Oh, oh. That’s a question not well answered to a seven year old. Napoleon supposes telling her that they’ve uncovered a complot for her kidnapping wouldn’t be very child friendly.
Luckily Gaby has impeccable timing, because she drives up to them right that second and opens her window. “Crystal Palace, we’ve got to go!”
Lillia gapes when Gaby smiles down at her, already thoroughly awed.
Napoleon can use this. “Lillia, that’s my other friend, Gaby. She’s going to come with us, and drives really fast.”
“Can I go in the front?” Lillia asks immediately, already rushing forward and Napoleon opens the door for her. “Of course, princess.”
Illya raises an eyebrow at the nickname, but Napoleon just shrugs. Habit.
Napoleon and Illya fit themselves in the back of the tiny car, knees knocking together, and Napoleon prepares himself for a tortuous trip. Luckily, Lillia proves to be a welcome and entertaining distraction; asking questions about anything and everything that she can come up with.
“Where are we going? Where is my daddy? How did you learn to drive? Can I drive? How does a car work? Can you fly a plane too? Can a car fly?”
Gaby answers the questions while cutting corners and sliding through traffic. They can’t debrief with the kid near, but Napoleon gets the feeling there has been some development and they’ve graduated from a preventative measure to an active threat.
“I don’t think there are cars that can fly now, Lillia, but there are engineers working very hard to make them.”
“Can you show me?”
“Maybe. After we’ve lost our tail.”
Lillia just nods, as if that makes perfect sense to her, but Illya and Napoleon jump simultaneously and look through the back window. Sure enough, a black car is driving closely behind them and Napoleon recognizes the driver from the file they’d found.
“It’s Herr Grendel,” Napoleon says, and Illya nods.
“Gaby, can you handle this or do we need to call in reinforcements?”
“I can handle it, just hold on,” Gaby says tensely, and drives.
They make it to the safe house an hour shy of punctuality, which Waverly communicates nonverbally through a frown. Illya goes with him for a debriefing while Napoleon and Gaby keep Lillia entertained, which proves to be a two man job.
“I’m hungry,” she states as they walk into the cabin. It’s a roomy place, luxurious and wellkept, a warmth to it not many safe-houses hold. It’s obvious that the father prepared it for his daughter, to make her feel at home while the world crumbles around her.
“Agent Solo was a chef before he became a serviceman,” Gaby says. “I’m sure he can make something for you.”
“Hmm.” Lillia hops onto the kitchen counter and swings her legs. “I want pancakes. Where is my dad?”
“No pancakes for little girls who sit on counters.” Napoleon grabs an apron and ties it around his waist. “Chairs are for sitting, princess.”
Lillia pouts, but Napoleon holds eye contact and with a huff she jumps of the counter, and grabs a chair. “Where is my father?”
Napoleon flickers a glance to Gaby, who shakes her head imperceptibly, before adapting an easy smile. He grabs all ingredients for the pancakes easily - all safe-houses have the same system - and puts a bowl in front of Lillia. “Your dad is a little late, but you can help me with the pancakes. Can you crack eggs or do I have to do it for you?”
“I can do it,” Lillia replies immediately. Napoleon passes her the eggs and prepares for an unmitigated disaster. A mess he can deal with, though. A little girl whose father might be missing, less so.
After Napoleon has picked the eggshell pieces out of the bowl, he adds the milk and flour and lets Lillia mix the batter. Illya slowly inches into the room, and quietly motions for Gaby to follow her. Napoleon is abandoned with Lillia, and sighs to himself. He understands Illya’s complaint this morning better now; he too has not signed up to be a babysitter.
But it isn’t that much of a bother, Napoleon thinks as he flips the first successful pancake up in the air, to Lillia’s delight. It’s surprisingly easy to fall back into this pattern again. A barrage of curious questions and impatient demands. Napoleon finds jam in the fridge, and grates a little cheese on a pancake still in the pan. Tommy used to adore– Napoleon shakes the thought away. No.
“Are they married?” Lillia pipes up suddenly.
“What, who?”
“Agent Gaby and Agent Kurya,” Lillia says around a mouth full of pancake.
“Don’t eat with your mouth full,” Napoleon says. “And it’s Agent Kuryakin. Kur-ya-kin.”
Lillia shrugs. “Are they married?”
Gaby walks into the room with an airy laugh and steals a piece of Napoleon’s plate. “No, we’re not,” she answers Lillia.
“Why?”
Napoleon stares at his plate, but stains to analyse the inflection of Gaby’s voice. If there is truth to it, or another lie to a prying child. He’s never figured it out, if the flame between them died or grew stronger over time.
“Because we’re friends,” Gaby says, as if that explains it. As if that’s an answer at all.
But Lillia takes it and nods. Napoleon hides his frustration under a smile.
Gaby narrows her eyes, but doesn’t comment. Instead takes Napoleon’s plate and a pancake, and begins to eat.
“Gaby, stop stealing things,” Napoleon says, half-heartedly at best.
“You just make it so easy for me, Solo. You’ll never do anything about it, because you’re a coward, and you’re scared to lose.” Gaby smiles sharply.
Napoleon returns it. “It’s called conflict-avoidance. You survive if you do. Stay out of trouble.”
“You miss opportunities without a little risk,” Gaby says, and then shrugs. “Do what you want, Solo. Just stop moping about it.”
“You’re mean,” Napoleon says. “You don’t deserve pancakes.”
“Everyone deserves pancakes,” Lillia interjects, deadly serious. Gaby laughs, falling back into the sofa, and after trying and failing to maintain a glare, Napoleon joins her.
Illya walks into the room, confusion stark on his face, and takes in the scene. Then he directs a questioning glare at Napoleon. “What did you put in those pancakes, Cowboy?”
Gaby laughs harder, clutching her stomach.
“I’m innocent,” Napoleon says.
Illya huffs, but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have to. His expression says it all.
---
pochemuchka
почемучка: (n) one who asks too many questions
---------------
poputchik
Napoleon regrets not taking a cab.
In the chaos of the last couple of days he’s forgotten about the way a crowded New York City metro suffocates him. He finds a rare seat for himself, sighing in relief as he sits down and drops his head against the window. In the reflection a tired stranger looks back, one with a scruffy beard and dark bags underneath his eyes. His suit is riddled with folds and coffee stains, and his hair is an oily, long mess. He looks like utter shit, and it’s almost comical how little he cares about that right now.
“You’re too vain, Cowboy. The mirror won’t give us the intel we need.”
“No, but my good looks will, Peril. Seduce and confuse, and listen to their secrets spilling.”
The metro stops again, doors open and close in quick succession. Napoleon’s neighbor gets replaced by a young girl with bright purple hair. Music seeps out of her earphones; a soft chorus of violins and a piano that plays in contrast with her leather jacket and rugged black jeans, identity shifting between two subcultures. She looks stressed too, clutching her bag on her lap with white fingers trembling. It’s nice, this silent solidarity of two hearts racing, fearing the seconds ticking by.
“Two minutes, Cowboy. I’ll be back in two minutes. Stay here.”
He hadn’t come back, of course. Napoleon had to chase after him, counting under his breath.
He’s always chasing. Always a little too late.
Another station passes by. The purple-haired girl stays put. It calms Napoleon a little, as strange little things can sometimes.
Napoleon scratches his cheek. A compromise. His side itches so much it’s almost sending him into a frenzy; enough to ignore all semblance of basic social policy and strip down to his pants. The clothing scrapes against the healing wounds, irritating the skin, making Napoleon clench his fists.
“Napoleon! They’ve got Illya. He’s in surgery right now. You can’t do anything more. Bleeding to death isn’t going to help him. I’m taking you to Medical. Come.”
Pacing. Pacing. Pacing. A directionless self-soothing, never progressing, never standing still. Only three stops left. Napoleon forces himself to stay seated; you can’t pace in a metro, people pressed against each other, temporary forgetting personal space exist. They don’t have a choice.
“Hey,” her voice shakes him, and he almost flinches away, but it’s only the girl speaking in soft tones.
Napoleon digs up a smile from somewhere. He’s almost proud of himself for being able to find one. “I’m sorry? I couldn’t hear you.”
The girl blushes, her eyes flicking away. “I asked you if you were okay, but I’m probably too nosy. Sorry.”
“Oh,” Napoleon says, momentarily floored by her kindness. He never expects it.
“I gave you coffee because I don’t want you to fall asleep during the stakeout.”
“You can pretend all you want, Peril, but I’ve got you figured out. You’re being nice to me.”
“Nice. Why would I be nice?”
“I’m not really okay,” Napoleon says, honestly, “but thank you for asking.”
The girl blinks and nods. Then she bites her lip hesitantly. “Can I ask why or is that me being nosy again?”
“You can ask why,” Napoleon says, smiling genuinely this time.
The girl smiles back. “Why are you not feeling okay?”
“A good friend of mine is in the hospital,” Napoleon begins carefully. Words bubble up in his chest, one more desperate than the other. But this is a young woman being nice, not someone who deserves to bear a burden.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, and it sounds so genuine it almost breaks Napoleon’s heart, if it hadn’t already been broken by a bullet through a chest that wasn’t his own.
“Thank you,” Napoleon says, as warmly as he can manage.
They fall silent, but the girl is holding herself as if she’s got more to say. She’s playing with her bracelet nervously, rainbow colored and worn. Napoleon waits, allowing her to decide when to break the silence.
“My-” she takes a breath and starts again. “My girlfriend is sick. Lung infection. So I, I don’t know–”
“You understand what I’m feeling,” Napoleon fills in gently, and she smiles gratefully. “This friend of mine, he means a lot to me too. He’s not- We’re not…”
Napoleon trails off, and he feels a wave of sadness pass through his body. He rides it until he finds his breathing back again. “But maybe, after he’s better, I’ll tell him. Life is too short to keep secrets like that.”
The girl nods, sadness in her eyes, lost in a memory.
Napoleon finds one of his own.
“Peril, no. You can’t do this to me– Peril, wake up, please. Don’t leave me– please, Peril. Peril. Illya.”
A pleasant voice announces the end of Napoleon’s trip, and he stands, smiling at the purple-haired girl in gratitude. “Thank you, for talking to me. For asking. I hope your girlfriend gets better soon.”
She smiles and nods. Her soft wish in return follows Napoleon out the metro door, the words carry him as he fights his way out the station and walks to the hospital while his legs become heavier every step.
“I hope you and your friend find a future without pain. You deserve it. We all do. Thank you.”
---
poputchik
попутчик: (n) stranger you connect with on a trip
------------
Porosha
Napoleon clutches his hands around his warm cup of tea. The steam rises in the frigid cold air, and Napoleon huffs. The porch is covered in snow, and standing there with only socks on might be an exercise in self-punishment. Napoleon isn’t sure if he thinks he deserves it yet.
Despite the near deadly temperatures, the snow-covered landscape brings beauty more than fear. It’s great white expanse stretches over the hillside, down to the forest beneath. The road on which they came here is bearly indistinguishable beneath the thick layer of trees. Napoleon takes in a deep breath of fresh air, before shivering again, and tightens his coat around him.
It’s a mesmerizing sight, far removed from civilisation, the only hints of life are the little footprints in the snow, rabbits and deer who’d been up and running long before Napoleon rolled out of bed. The picture perfect view almost feels fake, too fairytale peaceful, too lovely to be real.
And really fucking cold. Napoleon shakes himself out of his morose thoughts and steps inside again, carefully closing the door behind him as to not disturb Illya, still asleep in the mainroom.
His attempt at being quiet is cut through by the landline going off. The annoying ring disturbs the silent tranquility, and Napoleon hurries to grab it, cursing under his breath.
“How is Juneau?” Is the first thing Gaby says.
“Cold,” Napoleon says, and then waits. He takes a sip of his tea in the meantime.
Gaby doesn’t say anything more. The silence stretches.
“Gaby,” Napoleon sighs. “How screwed am I?”
“Two months.”
A weight that Napoleon hadn’t realised had burrowed into his chest. It falls to the ground, along with his fears he’d gone too far this time. That even U.N.C.L.E couldn’t keep him out of the grabby hands of the CIA. “That’s…” Napoleon takes a shaking breath, and shivers.
“Lucky, yeah,” Gaby fills in, and then hesitates. “Napoleon…”
“You put in a good word for me then,” Napoleon says.
Gaby sighs. Napoleon can feel her rolling her eyes.
“Yes, I did. As did Waverly.”
“I owe you, again,” Napoleon says, and he means it. He wouldn’t get another chance if it hadn’t been for her. He would’ve been in jail.
“Yes,” Gaby says. “You do.”
Another silence falls. Napoleon fiddles with his cup.
“You have to tell him.”
Napoleon almost drops the cup. He gingerly sets it away. He should’ve expected this one.
“Napoleon, you have to.”
Napoleon clears his throat. “I think we’ve demonstrated why it’s better not to. I’m a liability around him, Gaby.”
“Of course you are!” Frustration is heavy in her tone. Napoleon closes his eyes and awaits the rant. It doesn’t come.
“I can’t tell him, Gaby.” Napoleon clenches his fist. “I can’t–” He stops. He knows it’s futile. There is nothing to argue here.
“You two have two months to figure this out, Napoleon. The secrecy is what makes it so dangerous,” Gaby says. “You tell him, or I’ll call him tomorrow and inform him of the situation. Your choice. And remember, you owe me.”
She clicks off. Napoleon sags against the wall, and then flinches. His back isn’t healed yet.
“You’re still here?”
A scruffy, sleepy, and confused Illya shuffles into the room. He uses the sofa as a cruch when he reaches it. “Why are you still here?”
Napoleon huffs. “You think we’re just going to leave you alone?”
“I can handle myself.”
“Peril, you’re in recovery.”
Illya takes an annoyed breath, his fist clenches into the fabric of the sofa. “I know, Cowboy. I’m the one living it. I can handle myself. If you’re really worried, send a nurse.”
“I’m not going,” Napoleon says, and makes his escape into the kitchen. They’re stocked well, and it doesn’t take long before Napoleon finds the beginnings of a Full English. Cold weather demands a warm breakfast.
“Where is Gaby?” Illya leans against the fridge. He’s already tired from the short walk. Something clenches in Napoleon’s chest.
A glare is a sign Napoleon can’t get away with not answering. “In Montreal, with Waverly.”
“On a mission.”
Napoleon confirms his guess with a shrug. “Probably.”
“And why are you not on the mission with them?”
Napoleon throws bacon in a pan. The butter sizzles loudly. “They didn’t need me.”
“You’re lying to me,” Illya says, and the worst thing is that he sounds hurt. He sounds soft and exhausted and hurt and Napoleon’s presence isn’t helping. It never is. He shouldn’t be here. Napoleon digs his nails in the palm of his right hand, a wave of self-loathing washes over him. Selfish. Selfish. Cowardice.
In the maelstrom of emotions, Napoleon doesn’t notice Illya coming closer until it’s too late. A pale face looms over him, blue eyes careful and concerned. Illya reaches over and turns the stove off. Napoleon is frozen.
“Cowboy,” Illya says, softly. “Why are you here?”
I’m in love with you and I couldn’t–
You’re hurt. You’re hurt. You’re hurt.
I almost lost you. I was too late.
Napoleon takes a ragged breath. “I’m suspended.”
Illya’s eyes widen in shock. He takes a sharp step back, and then curses a litany of Russian under his breath. Napoleon is next to him at once, taking his weight, almost carrying him to the sofa so he can sit again.
“You always forget about your foot,” Napoleon grumbles. “Where is your cane.”
“You’re not distracting me,” Illya warns, but he nods to the other side of the room, where the cane is stuck between the bookcase and a drawer.
“You’re not supposed to put weight on it,” Napoleon says, walking over and taking the cane.
“I don’t,” Illya snaps. “You surprised me.”
Napoleon shakes his head. “I’m making breakfast. You stay here.”
“Cowboy. No,” Illya says lowly. “Explain. What did you do? How long?”
Napoleon hesitates, and then answers the easiest question first. “A minimum of two months. Maybe a psychiatric review.” Napoleon laughs without humor. “They don’t want unstable agents, but forget that literally no one is sane. You can’t be with our job.”
“What did you do, Cowboy?” Illya watches him. There is no judgement in his voice, only concern. In some way, that’s what makes it worse.
Napoleon sits down at the end of the sofa, sagging into it when his body suddenly gives up.
“Cowboy…”
“I went rogue,” Napoleon says. He’s always imagined those words to be accompanied with pride. He’s never been a particularly obedient agent, that’s the danger of having a criminal forced into service. He’s gone off command quite a few times, but always in the name of the mission, or to avoid some kind of amoral situation that the CIA like to pretend they don’t pursue. He’s always imagined the time he finally snapped and cut away from any kind of order, would be a time of pride. Heroism. Fighting back against the institution that captured him.
But when he finally lost control, it wasn’t against the CIA. It was against an organization that treated him with respect, that gave him a team he cared for and worked well with, missions that bettered the world and were fun to complete. Going rogue had been an act of desperation, an emotional reaction he’s never had before. He never decided to get onto that plane, but he did. Fueled by anger and rage, he never thought twice about the consequences of his actions until it was all too late.
Gaby is more right than she knows. He was lucky in more ways than one. He could’ve lost everything, but he also could’ve lost his life, trice over. All in the name of impatient revenge.
Liable is a bit of an understatement.
“Why?” Illya asks. “Why would you–”
“Why do you think, Peril?” Napoleon smiles sharply, frustration running through him. There is no way to answer this question without coming clean. No way to hide. He isn’t ready for this.
Illya actually seems to think about it. “I was shot.”
“You were shot, yes. How could I forget?” Napoleon rakes a hand through his hair. The hopelessness and fear he’d felt those days capture him again, pushing the words out and out. “You were shot, and thrown off a two story building. You were shot and almost didn’t survive. You were shot and the motherfucker got away with it. Or at least, he tried to.”
“You went after him,” Illya says.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“You were in a coma. You weren’t waking up. No one knew if– “ Napoleon stands, and paces before the sofa. “I was angry.” He had been so angry. He still is.
“I understand.”
Napoleon laughs and looks at him. “You don’t, Peril.”
“Cowboy,” Illya says, dark and sure. “I understand.”
But he can’t through. He can’t. Napoleon stands still, and steps forward. Tries to explain. “No. This– This isn’t loyalty or some kind of moral high ground, Peril. This isn’t my teamspirit suddenly popping up. This is more. This is worse. You can’t understand. That is the problem.”
“Napoleon-” Illya interrupts too calmly.
Napoleon doesn’t let him. He loses control. “You died, Peril. You flatlined twice during our rush to the hospital. I had to wait days before knowing if the surgery was successful. It was torture. It was worse than the fucking electric chair. I never wanted any of this.” The last part is almost yelled, almost pleading. Almost ripped out of him. Napoleon catches a breath and continues. “There was only one way I didn’t go insane and that was going after the men who did it to you. Who did it to us. I was so, fucking, angry.”
Illya only watches. Only listens. The contrast between them stark. Napoleon nearly chokes, but now that he’s started he can’t stop. “It’s funny.” It really isn’t. “I never understood how it possessed you, how you could change into another man the moment rage took over you. How you were blind to everything but the target of your anger.” Napoleon laughs. “I understand now.
“He had six bullets left when I found him. I’d killed all his guards with a sniper rifle. It was like a game of chess.” The blood– the blood had been everywhere. A crimson graveyard in the snow. Illya’d barely been breathing. Napoleon can’t– “I shot him with his own gun. Two feet. Two hands. One in the groin, and one in his chest. Right where he shot you. He died screaming. He died bleeding. I was calm for the first time since you hit the ground.”
And here is the regret. Napoleon lowers his head, shame rushing through him. He’s supposed trusted, reliable. “I am dangerous, Peril. I am lethal. Liable. I didn’t know how I could be when I finally snapped. Almost losing you is what did that to me, and it will do so again. I can’t promise to not do this again.”
An aching silence. Illya seems to hesitate before reaching forward, a hand snakes around his fist.
“Cowboy.”
And Napoleon falls. “I love you. I am in love with you. And I’m sorry. I truly am.”
The hand around his freezes, and then tenses. There is only silence. Napoleon scrapes words together in a sentence and forces it out.
“It’s your decision. I can join another team, or go back to the CIA. I’m sure they’ll find a task for me. I understand if you don’t want this kind of liability near you. I can’t be trusted to make logical, reasonable decisions, Peril. Not when you’re hurt.”
Illya doesn’t let go. Illya holds his hand. Illya tugs on him until he opens his eyes and looks in the face of his everything.
Illya clears his throat. “Venice. Two men attacked you, stabbed you in the stomach. Minor criminals, we were ordered to let them go. I did not listen. They are alive, but can never hold a knife again.”
Napoleon feels his breath catch.
“Los Angeles. A woman drugged you. I drugged her back. She was sick for days.” Fingers twine around one another, connected and sure. I’ll never let go again.
“Johannesburg.” Illya continues. “You were kidnapped. Held for days. The men who captured you died from strangulation. I don’t know who did it. Very mysterious mystery.” He quirks a quick smile. Hesitant and sort but true.
Napoleon stops falling. Starts breathing.
Illya’s expression turns serious again, in the way he has. Golden honesty underneath all that ice. Burning loyalty. “I have shot, hurt and killed many people for you. For myself. I know this is not good, but as you say, I cannot promise to be reasonable when you are hurt.” Love.
“Peril,” Napoleon chokes out, and falls forward, on his knees. “Peril– Peril.”
“I have more,” Illya offers, amused.
Napoleon gently lays his head into his lap, careful not to hurt. He needs to be close. “No. I get it, you’ve… you’ve made your point.”
They’re dangerous, the two of them, but they feel. But they love.
Illya traces the edge of Napoleon’s jaw, and tips him up, up and up. “I understand,” he says again. There is steel in his voice. Napoleon trusts his strength.
“You understand.” Napoleon nods, and believes.
Illya smiles.
Napoleon leans forward, captures it with his own.
----
Porosha
пороша: (n) fresh powdery snow that fell at night.