The soft evening sun paints the ceiling with faded golden yellow and shadowed blue. Across the room, a record spins slowly, quiet velvety piano music drifting over the couch and the chairs. His head aches where he rests on the couch. His suit jacket and tie sit folded on the table next to a glass of water and a half-finished chess game.
Chess.
(Of course.)
It reminds him of Illya, like everything has since that day in the mud, fighting for their lives with the roar of engines and Gaby’s screams as a fitting soundtrack. That day Napoleon had remembered every detail, every glance that Illya had sent his way. As they raced around, locked in a deadly battle, each knowing they would have to kill the other, well … something had changed. Something important. Napoleon remembered the feeling of mud on his face and Illya’s calloused hands, and the fear, the fear that everyone he cared about would die. Crushed under a motorcycle or shot in the head, just like her father. That was when he knew he cared. That was when he realized that death may just be better than a life without his stupid, dangerous new family.
The clock on the windowsill reads 5:47 in the evening. On the couch, Napoleon sits up, wincing as the fresh bullet wound on his hip strains. He had gotten shot three days ago, in a desperate scramble to retrieve the whereabouts of some secret terrorist weapon for Waverly. The chase across the British countryside had nearly killed him, and he was feeling the pain, along with a dull ache in his head, very clearly now that it wasn’t numbed down by adrenaline or alcohol.
(It was barely a nick. “Королева драмы,” Illya had called him as he patched it up, then pressed a kiss to his stupid, dramatic boyfriend’s temple, gathering up Napoleon in his strong arms.)
Where is the handsome Russian, anyways?
Napoleon downs the water, hoping to ease his headache. Last night he and Gaby had gone drinking to celebrate their week of vacation in Paris. They had staggered back to the hotel blackout drunk. That, and the pain, was probably why he had slept so long.
He stands up, gasping a little at the pull on his wound. His shoes are by the door. Who’s room is he in, anyways? Oh, right. They’re sharing a room. It was the only one they could find, what with the summer tourist season and all. There’s a concert at the Palais du Sport, some new band called the Beetles or something, which of course means that everyone in Europe is in Paris, depriving three weary international secret agents of their much-needed separate hotel rooms.
(Beatles? Beetles? Betles? Oh well. Who cares? Music was never Napoleon’s forte, anyways.)
He limps quietly over to the bedroom door, which is slightly ajar. “Five more minutes,” mumbles Gaby as he slips inside. Smiling to himself, he slips out again and closes the door.
The bathroom door is open. Empty.
He decides to sit back down on the couch and read the paper he saw on the chair. He’s skimming the classifieds when the door clicks open. In walks Illya, holding a paper bag. He walks over to Napoleon, dropping a kiss on his messy curls, then sets the bag down and sits.
“Sleep well, мой дорогой?”
“Hmmm,” agrees Napoleon, smiling at the sappy Russian pet name. Illya is smitten with his stupid Cowboy, and will never let him forget it. “What’s in the bag, Peril?”
“Dinner,” says Illya. “Thought Gaby would prefer it if we did not go outside. She is hungover. And you should not let her drink so much, Cowboy. She is lightweight. You know this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Napoleon stretches a bit, leaning into his boyfriend’s ugly brown sweater. Illya fits his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders. It’s nice to be held, thinks Napoleon, especially when he doesn’t know when Illya will be taken from him. They lead a dangerous life, a life designed to rip people apart, and sometimes Napoleon is tired of it, tired of being dangerous. Sometimes he wishes he could settle down with Illya, get married even, if only they could.
(If only they weren’t both men, and on opposite sides of the Cold War at that.)
They sit like that for a bit, until the record stops and the sun has almost disappeared.
Gaby emerges, wearing her too-large sunglasses and blue silk pajamas, looking like she wants to kill someone, and locks herself in the bathroom. When she finally comes out she refuses all offers of dinner until “later” and sequesters herself in the bedroom once more.
Illya looks at Napoleon, his perfect blue eyes shining. “Suppose we have to dine alone, then.”
“Mmm. What a tragedy.” Napoleon smiles a lazy grin, so unlike the plastic smiles that he paints on in public.
They separate, reluctantly, so Illya can get out the dinner. It’s ham sandwiches and some fresh grapes. Illya places a small, newspaper wrapped something on the table in front of them as well.
“What’s that?” asks Napoleon.
“You’ll see. Now eat.”
Napoleon takes a huge bite out of the sandwich, suddenly realizing how hungry he is. “Is it food?”
“No. Show you later.”
“But I’m curious, love, tell me what it is.” He really doesn’t care that much, but sometimes it is fun to get a rise out of Illya. Just like the old days.
(As if it hasn’t been only seven months. It feels like he’s known Illya, and Gaby too, for much longer than that. It feels like he’s always known Illya. And yes, it is cliché, but he feels like it’s meant to be. He knows it’s meant to be. He knows Illya can feel it, too. He can read it in every twitch of the Russian’s face, every glance exchanged, every word spoken.)
“Shut up and eat,” says Illya.
When they’re finishing the meal Gaby comes out to take her sandwich back into the bedroom because, “it’s too bright in here.” Really, Napoleon doesn’t mind. He relishes every second he gets alone with his boyfriend, because he gets precious few. And most of them are spent fighting Nazis and stealing precious artifacts anyways.
Illya picks up the small package, fumbling with the newspaper nervously. He stands, eyes darting to Napoleon and away.
“Illya? What’s this?”
And then he gets down on one knee.
(Ohhhhhh.)
“Napoleon Solo, my — Napoleon, I — Cowboy, will you marry me?”
Inside the box is a beautiful golden watch.
Napoleon’s head is spinning. Yes, he wants to cry, yes, of course, but he knows they can’t get married, not legally anyways, and yet he wants to, wants Illya to be his forever, wants them to be married and happy and yet —
Illya’s face is vulnerable, a kind of openness that Napoleon rarely gets to see. And in that moment he knows that he’s more than willing to figure everything out, to tackle every impossible thing until they can finally be open. And until then, he’ll wear this watch as a promise, as a reminder that he and Illya are in love and engaged and will be married someday. Even though it’s illegal. Even though there’s still so much to do.
Or maybe, if they can’t do it legally, they can ask Gaby to help them have a little ceremony so they’ll be married in spirit, if not on paper.
“Yes,” sobs Napoleon, pitching forward off the couch and into Illya’s waiting arms. “Yes, yes, of course, yes!”
“Я тебя люблю,” Illya murmurs into his hair. “Я тебя люблю. навсегда.”
back to my fics