A/N: This is crossposted from my account at A03 (under the same pseud).
This entire thing is due to a lovely reviewer's encouragement to write jealous!Illya fic. I had the idea rattling around in my head for several days, and it finally clicked. It turned out a bit more humorous than I intended, but Napoleon Solo has a way of doing that to any writer's best-laid plans.
The title is taken from Othello, Act 3, Scene 3.
"Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ. This may do something."
He can hear them. Apparently they have forgotten that there's still a bug in the lapel of Cowboy's jacket (or they just don't care) but either way, he doesn't think he can take another minute of it. He would turn off the receptor if he could, but it's a new prototype that Waverly sent them only last month, and the sounds automatically transmit until the bug itself is switched off. So, unless he intends to actually throw himself off the hotel room balcony, he's stuck listening to this.
At the moment, she's moaning in delight, and every nerve in his body feels like it's going to snap. He doesn't know what Cowboy is doing. He doesn't really want to know. What he does know is that she has damn well never made that noise for him before.
"Oh, God, yes," her voice comes in, clear and unmistakably husky. "Mmm. Right there. Meine Gott."
Solo chuckles. "Oh, that worked, did it?"
She doesn't answer, just gives him a breathy sigh, and Illya feels the sudden need to hit something. Hard.
Another interminable minute passes, and then Gaby lets out a squeak and he can hear the smack of hand hitting flesh.
"Don't!" she commands, but she's giggling, and he releases the breath he's unconsciously been holding. "Napoleon, that tickles."
Oh. It tickles. How delightful.
There's some more rustling, and then he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being drawn down. This is too much to bear. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, and without looking in the mirror, he knows his face is flushed with fury. It's bad enough listening to the foreplay, but he has no intention of waiting around for clothes to start coming off.
Another zipper drawn down, and then a thud as something heavy hits the floor. He would prefer not to think what that is.
"Mmm," he hears Solo murmur, in that voice that Illya mentally categorizes as oozing honey. "This is better, don't you think?"
Apparently she does think that's better, because the woman is practically purring like a very satisfied little German cat. Without thinking about it, he grabs an ashtray from the coffee table and sends it sailing across the room. It hits the closet doors with a satisfying clatter.
There's silence on the other end of the wire. "Did you hear something?" she asks, and Illya freezes. He forgot that his room is directly below their own, and that if he decides to destroy it, they're most certainly going to hear.
"It's nothing," Solo says decidedly. "Something in the street. Come back here, Teller, we're not finished yet."
That's really the last straw. It's bad enough that the Cowboy is making love to the woman he's been pining over for the last six months. (KGB agents don't pine. He knows this, but he can't seem to help it.) It's bad enough that he's being forced to listen because the two of them apparently don't have the common courtesy to switch off their listening devices before engaging in decadent Western debaucheries. But he will be damned to the depths of hell before he lets that arrogant American asshole order Gaby around for his own perverted entertainment.
He stomps out, Russian curses flowing, and slams the door with all the force he can muster. (The splintering sound he hears as it makes contact with the frame is music to his ears.) The elevator is not an option—he will punch things, and Waverly doesn't like paying for repairs. So he takes the stairs, two at a time, and he's already breathing hard when he reaches their room—not from exertion, but from sheer rage. He can feel it coursing through his veins, the ringing sound in his ears, the telltale tap of his fingers against his thighs.
When he slams his fist against the door, he can feel it shudder on its hinges, and his lips pull back from his teeth in a fierce grin. Good—let them know their time is up, he thinks, and then he hears Solo's voice, still ordering: "Gaby, get the door, will you? I'm a little…busy."
She pulls open the door, and he's prepared for just about anything—clothes in disarray, hair mussed, lips marked and puffy from Solo's attentions. He's even prepared for something worse—lingerie, for instance. What he is not prepared for is a fully-dressed, tidy, barefoot Gaby peering at him quizzically from the threshold.
"It's just Illya," she calls over her shoulder, and she moves aside to let him in. "Are you finished with the drinks yet? I'm dying here."
He doesn't move from the doorway. Something is not right here—something does not make sense. He is not a child, a novice at sex. He knows full well what those sounds over the wire meant, and he immediately suspects a cover-up.
Solo turns from the mini-bar in the far corner and flashes him a grin. "Ah, Peril," he says, and Illya bristles at the nickname. The bastard has no right to smile and sound friendly, not when he's surreptitiously trying to fuck Gaby right under Illya's nose. "Would you care for a martini?"
"He doesn't drink on the job," Gaby announces, loftily, as she flops on the sofa and picks up a newspaper. "I, however, do. Bring it here."
Solo smiles at her imperious tone and hands her the glass. "I think you'll like it," he says, eyeing the contents judiciously. "It's my own concoction—I've been experimenting with it for three years now, and I think I've got it at the point of absolute perfection. What do you think?"
She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and appears to think about it for several long moments. "Mmm," she pronounces at last. "I like it."
"Excellent!"
Illya finds his tone nauseatingly cheerful, and restrains the fierce desire to slam Solo's head into the coffee table. Eyes flicking from side to side, he steps inside, cautiously. (He hates being ignored, particularly when he's trying very hard to not kill people with his bare hands.) Solo looks over at him and waves him closer with the hand not holding a martini glass.
"Peril, for God's sake, close the door and come sit down," he says nonchalantly. "Gaby and I were just discussing the possibility of renting a Lamborghini for our next mission. She doesn't think that Waverly will agree to the expense, but I contend that she can make a very…persuasive case."
Illya snorts. "I'm sure you do," he mutters. Persuasive, indeed. He refuses to sit, and chooses instead to stand behind them, arms folded, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
Gaby looks up at him, coolly. "Is there some reason you're standing behind me, glowering?" she asks, flicking through the pages of her paper. "You're blocking the light."
He doesn't know how to lead into this, and subtlety has never been his strong suit. Might as well just come out and say it.
"You forgot to turn bug off," he says, the blunt words dropping awkwardly into the lamplit camaraderie of the room. "Thought I would come let you know."
He's expecting embarrassment, at least on Gaby's part, but he does not expect both of them to brush this off with such insouciance.
"Did you forget to turn it off when we got back from dinner?" she inquires, not looking up from her paper. Solo hums and frowns, stirring his martini with deep concentration.
"I think I did," he says, distracted. "My apologies, Peril. I keep forgetting that it's the new prototype. Hope we didn't keep you from your virtuous Soviet bedtime."
Illya hears his own knuckles crack as his fist clenches.
"I was not in bed," he replies stiffly. "Did not want to eavesdrop on your…conversation." He spits out the word with as much venom as he can muster.
Gaby is still ignoring him, but Solo looks up with sudden, keen interest.
"How thoughtful of you," he murmurs urbanely, but Illya can see the wheels turning. "And exactly how much of our, er…conversation did you hear?"
He hears the sound of teeth grinding, and realizes after a moment that it's his own molars. "I heard enough," he snaps, and feels the tension in his shoulders knot even further. Solo is grinning again, and if he has to watch that fatuous smile for one more minute, he's going to throw someone through a window.
"Mm-hmm," Solo hums, deadpan. "Gaby, dear, would you mind telling the Red Peril here what we were talking about before he came barging in?"
She looks up from her paper, a frown line appearing between her eyes. As furious as he is right now, he still wants to smooth it away with his thumb. He mentally kicks himself; he is going soft, and it's ridiculous.
"We were talking about the Lamborghini," she says, in the tone of someone explaining something very simple to an idiot. "Why?"
"Because I would surmise that our Russian friend is convinced that we were engaged in other, slightly more amorous activities. Hence the teeth-grinding."
He takes a step forward, feels the mist rising. If they want to carry on under his nose, then so be it. But they will not mock him for it.
Gaby's face is a picture of confusion. "What?" she says, and he knows her well enough to see that the bewilderment is genuine. "Why would he…"
He sees her suddenly put two and two together, her eyes flicking from Solo to the pair of tall boots that lie unzipped and abandoned on the floor beside the couch, and her eyes flash with temper.
"Oh, God, Illya, you are such an idiot," she snaps, swinging up off the couch to confront him. "You heard Solo giving me a backrub and thought that I—that we—" He nods, guiltily, and waits for her to finish. "Why would you think that?"
Solo chuckles, delightedly. "Why wouldn't he? We're both incredibly attractive people, and I know that I for one am considered irresistible—"
He breaks off as something that sounds suspiciously like a growl rumbles from Illya's chest.
"My God, you really believed it, didn't you?" he says, and ducks as Illya's swing barely misses his head. Gaby grabs his arm, which makes him go still immediately.
"Stop it," she hisses between her teeth. "Just stop it, both of you. This is ridiculous."
His body is still thrumming with energy, but the small hand on his arm holds him like a manacle. He doesn't dare move for fear that he'll explode and she'll be caught in the crossfire.
"Peril," he hears dimly, and he sees Solo turned towards him, hands spread out in front of him in a peace-offering. "Nothing happened. Would I lie to you?"
Illya scoffs. "In a heartbeat." It's an Americanism he picked up from Gaby, of all people, and it seems particularly apropos in this moment. Her hand on his arm tightens, and he looks down at her, beautiful and angry, and wonders which is worse—her contempt, or Solo's smug expression. It's a close contest.
Her nails dig in. "I'm not lying to you," she says, and she's deliberately pinching now. "No one's been rolling around on the floor in drunken orgies in here. At least not yet."
His vision blurs at the mental image—Gaby in something sheer and filmy, a glass in her hand, sprawled on the rug beneath his feet. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden stab of arousal.
She scans his face, makes a furious noise, and drops his arm. Turning on her heel, she paces for a moment, and then turns on her heel, still livid. "You're jealous," she accuses flatly, and he can't stop the dark flush that crawls up his neck. "You are!" she exclaims. "Dummkopf."
He feels rather than sees Solo move in the edges of his peripheral vision. "Perhaps this is a conversation that does not require a third party present," the American says, laughter trembling in his voice. But Gaby is having none of it.
"Nein," she spits, and purposely steps on Illya's toes as she storms past. "I'm not talking to either one of you, you stupid macho Arschlöcher. I'm taking this bottle and going to bed. At least it's not going to make asinine accusations. Heilige Scheiße."
She smacks him sharply on the shoulder with the bottle of vodka as a parting shot, and then the door of the bedroom slams shut. He jumps a little at the sound. This is not going even slightly as he expected, and he has no idea what to do. A furious, swearing Gaby is not exactly his idea of a solution to the evening's dilemma.
Solo is openly laughing now, hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit and eyes alight with malicious joy.
"Smooth, Peril," he says, and Illya is reminded of an Italian dress shop on the outskirts of Rome and the door swinging shut behind a girl in a blue dress. "Very smooth."
He makes a noise that he himself doesn't quite recognize. "This is your fault," he says, the barely restrained violence in his voice all too evident. "You left it on. On purpose."
Solo raises an eyebrow. "I would never do such a thing," he says, the picture of innocence. "It was an honest mistake. Your reaction, however, was absolutely priceless. How long have you been in love with her?"
Illya jerks as if a cattle prod has suddenly been applied to his flesh.
"I—am not—I haven't—" he rasps, but the words won't come. How to plausibly deny half a year of longing? It is impossible.
"Oh, please," and Solo is laughing at him, again. "It's painfully obvious, Peril. A little dangerous, all things considered, but I don't blame you. She's…incredible, our little chop-shop girl."
Illya stalks toward the open window. The air is too close, too stuffy in this room. He needs to breathe.
"I cannot compromise the mission," he manages at last, not daring to look at the man behind him. He may poke fun at Solo's espionage skills, try to needle him, but in reality he knows the American can read his face like an open book. "It would be…foolish. Unprofessional."
Solo is quiet for a moment, and Illya can hear the clink of his teeth against the rim of his glass.
"Have you considered the fact that it may be a little late for that?" he says finally, and Illya freezes. "Food for thought, Peril."
Illya shakes his head, but Solo is already moving, setting his glass down and heading towards the bathroom, shedding his jacket as he goes.
"Feel free to try the martinis," he tosses over his shoulder before he closes the door, and seconds later Illya hears the sound of water running. He stands there, alone in their tiny living room, the breeze from the French windows carrying up the noises of the street, and wonders what to do. He feels incredibly foolish, having shown his hand so obviously, and is considering slinking back to his room with his tail between his legs (even if this is not at all the Russian way).
And then he hears the music, coming from behind the bedroom door.
When your baby leaves you all alone
And nobody call you on the phone
Don't ya feel like crying…
C'mon, baby, cry to me
The door cracks open, just a tiny bit, and he catches a glimpse of a whirling pajama-clad figure. Perhaps his eyes are deceiving him, but he seems to see a beckoning finger as she twirls past his line of vision.
He moves toward the door like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings, his heart pounding wildly. As he reaches it—hesitates for a moment—a small hand darts out, snags a handful of his sweater, and tugs him forward, not gently.
He smiles for the first time that night.
Perhaps this will not end so badly after all.
Translations:
Meine Gott - My God
Dummkopf - idiot
Arschlöcher - assholes
Heilige Scheiße - holy shit
(If you can't tell, my version of Gaby has a mouth on her.)
As always, if something's wrong with my translations/word choices, please let me know! Thank you.