Prompt: Would you consider writing pregnant Gaby trying to hide her pregnancy from the boys, only for Napoleon to find out in some ridiculous way and they both try to keep it from Illya, as he's the father and may worry about her to death? Please and thank you. :)
Napoleon considered himself reasonably athletic. A requirement of the job, if you will. You never know when a mission will go south and you have to dodge a knife-wielding Brasilian or a gun-toting German.
Still, he just wasn't fast enough to outmaneuver a pale, desperate Gaby Teller.
Slowly his hands pointed toward the ceiling. "Now, now, Fraulein. Let's be reasonable about this."
The blade dug a little deeper under his chin. If she wasn't careful, she'd draw blood, and this was a new shirt.
"You saw nothing," she hissed at him.
"Well, that depends on which nothing you are referring. If we are speaking about that rather lovely feast Master Yamahito prepared for us-"
She gagged and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Please don't. You'll ruin my shoes."
"Then don't talk about raw fish!" She stepped away, breathing in and out in exaggerated pants. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
Then she shuddered.
Glad to know she wasn't going to stab him just yet, he straightened his vest. "Mind telling me what brought on this homicidal rage?"
"No," she muttered. "Pretend none of this happened."
Unfortunately for her, he tended to remember when people threatened his life. Folding his hands in front of himself, he cocked his head. "I can't help but notice that you've developed a rather sudden aversion to certain foods, darling."
The nickname slipped out easily; too many missions being married. Unconsummated marriages, he might add, which brought him to his next point. "And while we haven't been the most demonstrative of couples, you've been...blooming."
She fixed him with a heavy frown.
He waved a hand in front of his own chest.
She looked down. Paled even more.
For the first time alarm rang through him. "Alright now. Steady on." One hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder, he steered her out of the bathroom to the couch. It was uncouth to sit on coffee tables, but somehow it seemed better to face her head on.
This little house in upstate New York was not to his taste, exactly, but as a safe house, it worked. The furniture was sturdy and nigh impossible to break.
You would not believe how many times that came in handy in the past.
Gaby was not looking well.
"Water," he decided. Seconds later he was back, thrusting the glass into her hand. She looked as if she wished it were something harder, but swallowed back the contents easy enough. Then she slumped back and closed her eyes.
Napoleon knew he was the sort to develop attachments if he allowed himself. It was exactly the reason why he didn't—allow himself, that is.
But there are only so many times a man can be married to the same woman and not develop affection for her. It was that warm fondness that prompted him to say, "Can I assume Peril is the father?"
It was not absolutely certain, of course. Peril was in fact the more open of the two. He only made the vaguest attempt to disguise his feelings from Napoleon. From Gaby? He doubted it ever occurred to Peril to try.
Gaby was much harder to pin down. While Napoleon believed she cared for their Russian comrade, the depth of her feelings had always remained an enigma.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she murmured, half to him and half to herself. She rubbed her brow. "I tried to hide it until I knew for certain."
"I am no doctor, but if the timing is right and the symptoms consistent, we have no choice but to plan for eventualities." Whatever that might entail.
She looked up, and for the first time, Napoleon saw vulnerability there. "This is a disaster."
He chose his next words carefully. "Only if you want it to be."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then sighed. "I am having a child with a Russian KGB agent," she laughed to herself. It sounded heartbreaking. "How lovely."
He kept himself still. Under torture he might reveal that he regarded Kuryakin as something like a friend, but he was not a woman. The facts were these: Illya was part of U.N.C.L.E., but he was also a proud Russian. The KGB and Mother Russia were his passions. As far as Napoleon knew, he had no plans to defect.
Gaby had no intention of going back behind the Curtain.
A stalemate, to be sure.
"Let's be practical, shall we? If you plan to keep the baby, Waverly needs to be informed. You will be reassigned." He was man enough to admit he would hate to see her go. "If not, then arrangements need to be made."
"You're being awfully accommodating about this. Aren't you going to insist I tell him? Let him make a decision?"
By him of course she meant Peril. "I was not aware my opinion on the matter was required."
A reluctant smile pulled at her lips.
"But...if I may venture a short bit of advice?"
She cocked her head.
"You might find that family is one of Peril's major motivators." He shrugged. "Just a thought."
She bit her lip and chewed on it absently. "I want to keep this between us for now. Just until I make a decision."
"You're the star of this show."
They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.
"If you do keep the baby," he said, "then there will be a lot of shopping to do."
Gaby laughed. Then she cried.
Peril was stuck somewhere deep in Russia, and so for a few weeks Napoleon and Gaby handled relatively easy missions. Recon. A few harmless thefts. All in a day's work.
Occasionally he would see Gaby staring off into nothing, her hand brushing absently over her belly. He knew nothing about women in delicate conditions, so he had no idea if there was something for her to feel.
He resolved not to ask.
Well, not yet.
"I'm keeping it," she announced over breakfast.
He looked up from his toast. "Ah."
"Whatever he does about it will be his own decision. My child doesn't need a father."
Napoleon thought of all those photos she'd kept on her desk of a man she didn't see for eighteen years. "Upstate New York is a lovely place to grow up."
"I'll consider that."
They didn't talk about it again for three days.
If a pair of baby booties made their way into her closet, he had nothing to do with it.
The doctor confirmed what they already suspected to be true. He was civilian, not one of theirs, and so it was with jovial congratulations that he shook Napoleon's hand. "Mrs. Anderson is healthy and we believe everything to be perfectly fine."
Napoleon's smile was genuine. "Thank you, sir. That is a relief to hear."
There was apparently some talk of a schedule. Napoleon wasn't certain what sort of schedule, as these things seemed to be restricted to women's spheres. No one seemed inclined to clarify anything to Napoleon, the supposed father.
He shook his head and gently led Gaby to the nearest baby store.
Nearly nine weeks after Peril had been called back to Russia, the front door to their safe house flew open and banged on the wall.
Napoleon's gun was out and aimed before the sound finished. Gaby was ready with her own weapon, but when they saw Illya standing in the doorway, eyes wild, she hesitated.
Napoleon wasn't so quick. "Peril," he greeted, slowly lowering his gun. "You look like you just took on a bear."
Disheveled, the Russian couldn't have been sleeping lately. His hair was out of place under his cap, and when his eyes zeroed in on Napoleon, they narrowed in that all too familiar way. "You," Illya spat, pointing a finger. "We will have words," he promised in Russian.
The burr of the language made it sound much more intimidating than English could ever hope for.
But then Illya was focusing on Gaby, who still stood with her knife out.
She looked trapped and desperate, gaze darting from side to side as if looking for an escape route.
Illya advanced steadily. "Put the knife away, my love," he ordered in the softest, steeliest voice Napoleon had ever heard him use.
Her response was to tighten her grip.
He didn't back down. "Put it away." He held out his hand. "We do not want you having an accident."
Damn. He knew.
Gaby reached the same conclusion. "You heard somehow."
"Of course I did."
"Did you bug me?" she demanded.
He snorted. "The Cowboy must learn to change his shoes from time to time."
Napoleon looked down. "These are new."
The expression Illya shot over his shoulder could have frozen hell. "You. No talking." He turned back to Gaby. "The knife."
She didn't want to give it up. Strange, she certainly wasn't going to use it. Now would be a very good time to make a clean exit, and yet Napoleon didn't move. Peril was in an unpredictable mood, and while he was certain he would never harm Gaby, he felt compelled to stick the whole thing out.
With a trembling breath, Gaby gave up, handing over the knife hilt first.
Peril flicked it away from him with expert ease, sinking it into the wall without a care for the wallpaper.
They stood there, staring at each other, neither moving.
"A child," he murmured. He sounded amazed. Then his voice hardened. "You would keep it from me."
"No," she denied. "No, I wouldn't."
"You believe I will abandon you. Our baby."
Even Napoleon noticed how his voice changed when he said the word.
She crossed her arms over her chest protectively. "Others have done so for less."
Suddenly it was all very clear to him. Gaby's feelings were not obscure at all. They were fathoms deep, so deep they touched the part of her that was most afraid. The part of her that felt every one of the eighteen years her father spent in America with a fat dog named Schnitzel.
Political divides. Emotional distress.
Yes, he thought, it was all very clear.
One of Peril's big hands came up and cupped her face tenderly. "And others have fought wars to protect their loved ones." His thumb brushed her cheek. "Who better to fight such a war than a former KGB agent?"
She looked up, eyes wide. "Former?"
He shrugged, as if forsaking his Mother Russia didn't hurt him. "I am a family man, my love."
Gaby's gaze was liquid. "But your parents..."
"Made their choices," he interjected insistently. "I must make mine. I have made mine."
"You'll regret it."
He smiled. "Do not question my methods, little chop shop girl." He drew her closer, and she went, more readable than Napoleon had ever seen her.
It was time for him to slip out. Get a head start before Peril remembered whatever it was that had had him in such a fix.
"I love you," he heard the Russian say as he closed the door.
"Oh, Illya," Gaby sighed, sounding ruined and relieved all at once. "I love you."