Napoleon Solo isn't often wrong about women. In his line of work, he can't afford to be. There have been numerous times when he's staked his professional reputation on being able to predict how a woman would behave, how she might react, what it would take to seduce her into giving up what she knew. There have been a few times when he's staked his life on reading the secrets in a woman's eyes. But even he could not have predicted this.
Gaby Teller is a cuddler.
It boggles the imagination, their tough little chop-shop girl snuggling up to him, but he's quite certain that he's awake and fully functioning, and he is more than certain that Gaby is wrapped around him like a clinging vine. She must have burrowed against him sometime in the night, and right now she's unmistakably curled up in his arms, her head nestled against his chest, her arm around his waist, one leg hitched up over his hip. It's not a bad way to wake up, he muses—one hundred and fifteen pounds of beautiful woman wound around him. He really wouldn't mind doing this more often.
He stops that thought process, sharply. This is Gaby, for God's sake. He won't lie—he's thought of her as a woman, and a beautiful one at that; the mental images have certainly been vivid enough. But he's never muddied the waters with a partner before, and he's not about to start now— especially not given the way Illya stares at her when he thinks no one's looking. He's not about to open that particular can of worms. Better to pretend that nothing happened, that they woke up chastely on opposite sides of the bed, and move on with the day.
He procrastinates for a moment, though, enjoying the weight and warmth of her, the silent trust that it implies. He was the one who insisted they share the ridiculously large bed in the penthouse suite, because, as he pointed out, it would be difficult to explain to the housekeeping staff why a supposedly devoted husband was sleeping on the couch—ruins the perfect couple image, he'd told her. He was surprised when she agreed to it, but then again, she's always been comfortable with him—even in the beginning, their adrenaline-fueled escape from behind the Wall and its edgy aftermath. He remembers her eating his risotto (and making snarky comments about it smelling like feet), and smiles fondly, rests his cheek for a moment against her hair. She trusts him, at least enough to run away with him—and sleep beside him. It touches him, inexplicably.
Yawning, he tries to stretch slowly, not wanting to wake her just yet. She's had the temperament of an outraged honey badger lately, and he thinks it's a combination of boredom and too little sleep. The op they're running has been incredibly monotonous lately—inordinate hours of loitering in streets and shops, watching their mark wheel and deal among the lower elements of Algerian society. They're waiting for him to contact the man who, according to their sources, controls every movement of arms and drugs in and out of the city, and who holds potentially explosive information about British and American agents stationed throughout North Africa and the Middle East. It's vital that they recover the documents and find out exactly how much he knows (and how much he's shared), but until he makes his move, they're stuck in coffee shops and vendor's stands, staring at row after row of beautifully woven rugs. (Gaby has informed him in no uncertain terms what will happen to him tomorrow if he makes her look at one more verdammt rug. He believes her.)
At least the hotel suite is up to par. (He thanks whatever gods exist that Waverly isn't chintzy with the budget.) He enjoys playing a recently married couple—together long enough that they're comfortable around each other, but not so long that the bloom has begun to fade. It suits them perfectly, this cover story, and he's actually had quite a bit of fun teasing her with his flawless imitation of a doting husband. She's tough, their little chop-shop girl, but she's got a streak of whimsy, too, sparkling like bubbles in champagne. The brain of a criminal mastermind, the cool daring of a professional racer, and the vocabulary of a sailor—that's their Gaby. He would have never suspected that "inveterate snuggler" would ever be added to the list. And yet, here he is.
He feels her shiver against him, and looks down. She hasn't woken up, he thinks—she's just cold. He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and she mumbles something indistinct into his chest. Without thinking, he drops a kiss into her hair.
"Better, hmm?" he murmurs, and she mumbles again, pulling him closer to her. The rational part of his brain knows it's for his body heat, but he can't seem to help his smile. God help him, she's getting to him; if he's not careful, she'll have him wound around her little finger just like Peril.
Her nightgown really isn't helping. He'd picked it out for her last week in Florence—a clinging slip of satin that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She had protested, vociferously, but he'd pointed out that a recently married woman would never wear striped pajamas to bed with her husband—and then almost chuckled aloud at the expression on Illya's face. The Red Peril is still hopelessly infatuated with her, ever since Rome, and apparently still completely incapable of doing a damned thing about it. It would be funny if it weren't so utterly pitiful—the KGB's attack dog in the throes of puppy love. (All right, it is funny. Hilariously so.)
Illya's struggles with romance aside, the nightgown had looked incredible on her. Right now, he can feel exactly how incredibly it fits her, how it highlights every single dip and curve. He skims a hand over her side, careful to not let himself wander anywhere that will get him into trouble, and sighs regretfully. In another place, another time…but that line of thinking will get him nowhere. Time to wake her up (gently—very gently), and face the day.
Unfortunately, he is not given that opportunity.
There's a soft thud on the balcony, the sound of a body dropping onto the stone, and he is instantly alert, body poised to spring out of the bed and dive for the gun in the nightstand. Before he has the chance, he hears a low whistle, like a birdcall, and relaxes again. It's just Illya, here for their morning briefing.
His relaxation is short-lived. There's a brief rattle at the catch of the French windows, and then the Russian is standing in the doorway, his enormous frame blocking the sunlight pouring in. His reaction is almost comical—he looks at the bed, at his partners wound around each other, and then does a near-perfect double take, eyes popping wide open and lips parted. Frozen in place, he stares for a long moment, as if he can't quite believe what's right before him. Then he swallows hard, and seems to remember the open door behind him as a sort of afterthought. He closes it and turns back with his arms folded across his chest, surveying the tableau in front of him, jaw clenched tight.
"I see you are having an excellent morning," he grits out, voice flat and expressionless, but Solo can see the muscle in that clenched jaw starting to tick.
"It wasn't my idea," he responds, and immediately feels a twinge of remorse. It's bad enough that Peril is assuming there's more going on here than simple cuddling—he doesn't need to rub salt in the wound by implying that this was all Gaby's doing. (Even if it was.)
"Doesn't matter," his partner snaps, and oh, there's the finger-tapping again. This is about to get exciting.
"Peril," he says, soothingly, trying to calm him down before innocent furniture is destroyed, "it's fine. She got a little cold, snuggled up for warmth—you know."
Apparently Illya can't handle the words "snuggled up" in reference to Gaby Teller, because he takes a step forward, arms still crossed firmly over his chest, and Solo notices that both hands are clenched into fists.
"Oh, for God's sake," he snorts, getting irritated. "If we actually were screwing each other into mindless oblivion, do you really think we'd still be wearing anything? Use those KGB super-agent skills of yours."
Illya actually growls. "Screwing each other?" he spits, and Napoleon's never seen those blue eyes burn so furiously. "That is how you talk about it? I cannot—" and he seems to be at a loss for words that will adequately expression his sense of outrage. "Russian man would never speak of his—his—"
"Lover?" Solo supplies helpfully.
"Would never speak of her in such a way!" Illya practically bellows, and Napoleon feels Gaby stir next to him. She's been awake for the past five minutes—he felt her tense next to him when the door opened, but she had apparently decided that faking sleep was the better part of valour. She seems to have changed her mind.
"Illya," she mutters sleepily, turning over to face him. He stops mid-gesture, staring at her with guilt and fury warring on his face. " 'Morning. "
His teeth grit, and he looks away. "Gaby," he mutters, eyes fixed on the opposite wall.
"You're very noisy for—" she checks the alarm clock on the nightstand "—six-thirty in the morning."
He shifts awkwardly, still refusing to look at her. "I apologize," he offers, stiffly. Solo props himself up on his elbow to look at her, and she flashes him a wicked grin.
"So tell me," she says briskly, pushing herself up until she's sitting with her back against the headboard. "Is it the cuddling you object to, or the idea of Solo and I—how do you say it? Screwing each other?"
She glances at him for confirmation, and he nods encouragingly. Illya has abandoned his perusal of the opposite wall and is now staring at her in open disbelief.
"You would use such terms for this?" he asks incredulously, waving a hand at the bed. "You do not—"
"What exactly do you think this is?" she cuts him off, eyebrows arched. He huffs in irritation, hands flexing at his sides.
"I don't know," he rasps. "I don't want to know. Is none of my business."
"You're damned right it's none of your business," she flares, swinging her legs off the bed and standing in front of him, hands on her hips. Solo, who's been watching the exchange with an analyst's trained eye, notes with amusement the way that Illya's eyes trail over her body before he forces them back to her face.
"I know," he manages, although there's a definite thickening to his voice.
"And, not that it is any of your business, but we didn't do anything last night," she says icily, her voice biting into him. "Although, considering the fact that you and I have never screwed each other either, I can't imagine why you'd care."
Illya actually pales, the colour washing from his face for a brief moment, eyes snapping shut as if he's been slapped. Even Gaby seems to realize she's gone too far, because she takes a step back until her legs hit the bedframe. Solo tenses, ready to pull her behind him if Illya loses control, but their partner merely takes a deep, ragged breath and opens his eyes. Napoleon's hand unconsciously curls in the blankets—he's never seen the man look this furious, this shocked.
"Illya—" he hears Gaby murmur, and she reaches out for him, trying to undo what's already been done. He stumbles backwards, away from her hand.
"I will go," he mutters, strangled and hoarse, and then he's opened the French doors and disappeared, leaving the scent of Russian leather and his bemused partners behind.
Gaby sits down on the bed, deflated, and Solo gives her a speaking glance.
"Really?" he says, mouth pursed a little in disapproval. "You know how he is about you. Why the hell would you set him off like that?"
She toys with the edge of the sheet, twisting it around her fingers and letting it go.
"He's too damn possessive," she grumbles defensively. "Mein Gott, it was just a little cuddling. It wasn't like we were going at it like rabbits right in front of him."
Solo smirks at her. "Darling, if you're offering—"
She smacks him in the chest. "In your dreams," she scoffs. "I have enough trouble with the idiotic men I work with, I don't need any more."
"I don't know what I've done to deserve that," he teases her, and she gives him a begrudging smile.
"What are we going to do now?" she asks, and he can see the regret, lips pinched together, eyes guilty. He shrugs.
"Give him time," he advises philosophically. "He'll come around eventually. In the meantime, we should probably give Waverly advance notice of the repair bill."
"Mmm, the furniture," she agrees. "At least his room isn't one of the more expensive suites."
He nods and stands up, stretching slowly, trying to let the tension melt away. She still looks perturbed, so he walks around the bed to grab his shaving kit and gives her a lecherous eyebrow waggle.
"Come on, Teller, you've caused enough trouble for one morning. What do you say to a joint shower? Water conservation is very important, you know."
She kicks him in the shin, and he laughs.
They will find a way to make it right.
Even though he would cheerfully shred one of his Zegnas rather than pick up the phone, he calls Illya's room anyway. He and Gaby have both freshened up, gotten ready for the day; she's currently eating breakfast on the balcony, basking in the sunlight like a little tiger, oversized sunglasses planted firmly on her nose. He sighs a little as he waits on the operator to connect them. This whole thing is absurd, and it cannot compromise the mission. He'll have to find some way to smooth things over.
When Illya answers, he realizes it's not going be an easy task.
"Da?" he says, voice a dead monotone, and Solo hisses out a frustrated breath.
"We need to get down to the market," he says, all business. "We don't want to miss our friend if he shows up to shop today." He doesn't dare being too direct, not on an open hotel line.
"I will meet you at the brass vendor's stall, southwest corner," Illya says, without any inflection whatsoever. "Bring your camera."
It's code for you're doing surveillance today. Solo raises an eyebrow. So he's going to take the plunge and actually talk to Gaby about this morning instead of lurking around with a high-powered lens and a sullen expression. Bravo, Peril.
"See you in ten," he responds, and hangs up. Gaby has abandoned her croissant and is standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame.
"So, which circle of hell do I get to enjoy this morning?" she asks, dripping vinegar. "The one where I get to go shopping with a jealous, monosyllabic Russian, or the one where I get to look at yet another set of hand-woven rugs while the jealous, monosyllabic Russian watches from a distance?"
Solo grins at her. There are many, many reasons to love Gaby Teller, but her smart mouth is close to the top of the list.
"The first one," he says, and grins wider when she pulls her sunglasses down so he won't miss her eye roll.
"Oh, joy," she mutters, and goes to get her handbag. "This is going to be delightful."
They find Illya already waiting at the appointed location, pretending to examine the carvings on a tray and glowering into the middle distance. The shopkeeper is eyeing him warily from the other side of the booth, and seems to be too afraid to even ask him if he'd like any help. A wise choice, Solo thinks. Very wise.
He and Peril don't acknowledge each other publicly, just a flick of the eyes before Gaby strolls up to him, a patently false smile plastered on her face.
"My dear cousin!" she exclaims, and Solo chuckles inwardly at the acidity of her tone. She makes his cover sound like something unspeakably filthy. "Where have you been all morning? I've been waiting for you."
"I was detained," Illya mumbles. "Come, we should look on other side of the square."
He cups a hand under her elbow warily, as if worried that he'll get jabbed in the ribs, and leads her away. Solo heads for the coffee shop two doors down. (It's much easier running surveillance when one has a valid reason for staying in the same place for over fifteen minutes.)
They are both wearing wires, naturally, so he can hear the rest of the conversation with crystalline clarity.
"Well?" she asks him, after a tense moment. "How much of the furniture did you pulverize?"
There's a pause. "I don't know what you are talking about," he mutters, clearly embarrassed. She snorts inelegantly.
"Right." He can hear the music from the street performers on the other side of the square amplified through her microphone. "Because you weren't at all upset when you left our room this morning."
Even at this distance, he can see Illya's shoulders tense. She pushes on, ruthlessly.
"What's the problem?" she asks, and Solo's fingers tighten around the handle of his coffee cup. She's like a bulldog, their girl, always refusing to be the first to back down. "You really think I'm sleeping with him, or you just can't stand for him to have his hands on me?"
"Is none of my business what you do with him," Illya rumbles. "But I will not have him speak of you as a—in that—"
They've stopped, ostensibly to examine an array of brightly-coloured spices heaped in wooden bowls. She exclaims over the saffron for the benefit of the stall keeper, waiting until they've moved on to another stand to answer.
"Speak of me as a what?" she hisses. "What exactly did he say to set you off like this?"
"Like a—like a whore!" There's a sudden sharp silence from both their feeds, and Solo can only imagine the look on her face, the sheer disbelief of it.
"What?"
He hears Illya take a deep breath in through his nose. "I know it is different in America," he half-whispers, taking care to not be heard by the crowd surging around them. "But Gaby—'screwing each other'? Is the way a man speaks of a—a shlyukha, a woman who shares his bed for money. It is not the way to speak of a…lover."
They've gone around a corner, so Solo can't see Gaby's reaction, but he can envision it. Ah, Peril, always so noble, so moral, so…Soviet. Of course he'd hear the casual phrase as an insult to her virtue. He runs his fingers along the rim of his cup and waits to hear what she'll do next.
There's a rustle of clothing, and then he hears Illya gasp in surprised pain.
"I…am…not…his…lover," crackles through the microphone, through clenched teeth, and he entertains himself by wondering where exactly she's grabbed hold of the Russian. "I told you that this morning. Just because I ended up snuggling with him for warmth does not mean that I'm fucking him three times a day and twice for breakfast."
He feels Illya's grunt of disapproval reverberate through the microphone.
"You should not—"
"Should not say such things? Should not use such language? Scheiße, Illya, I grew up in a garage. What do you expect me to do, talk like a princess?"
Solo hears a thud, and his curiosity overcomes him. Leaving payment for the coffee on the table, he slips out of the little outdoor patio, moving towards the opposite end of the market. Even with the strong lens concealed in the fake camera, it takes him a moment to find them, hidden as they are in the shadow of a large booth selling scarves and embroidered hangings. Illya's fist is still resting on the wall he just punched, by the sound of it, his head leaning against the brick. Gaby stands beside him, every line of her body tight and defiant.
"No," Illya says on a long sigh, defeated. "No. I do not—you should not be anything but what you are." Through the lens, Napoleon sees her look away, and he can read the unwilling emotion ripple over her face. Score one for Peril.
She breathes out, slowly, and reaches a hand to Illya's shoulder. He shifts, and even though he's stooped against the wall, he still has to bend to look into her face.
"All right," she says, and it's a peace offering in all but name. "All right. Look, he didn't mean anything by it. He wouldn't say it like that if he meant it. It was just—just a phrase, one of his stupid Americanisms. You can't always assume the worst."
Illya straightens, and her hand falls from him. He looks at her, two long heartbeats of silence, and reaches out to cup her cheek. The gesture is so tender, so natural, that anyone would mistake them for the newlyweds.
"Very well, chop-shop girl," he murmurs, and Napoleon grins as the deep flush blooms in Gaby's cheeks. "I will back off, da?"
She smiles at him and reaches for his free hand. Without warning, she pushes herself up on her toes and brushes a quick kiss across his jaw.
"I didn't say that," she whispers, and smirks when he swallows hard.
It's an adorable picture, but Solo can't stop to enjoy the view.
"I hate to break in on this charming tête-a-tête," he drawls, saccharine, and nearly snickers when they jump apart guiltily, "but I think I just spotted our mark headed towards the silversmiths' section. Peril, do you think you could manage to keep your hands off my clearly unfaithful wife long enough to find him, or should I give you a moment or two?"
Watching Illya try to glare without drawing attention to himself is just magnificent.
"Cowboy," he mutters in warning, and Solo does chuckle this time. "Headed that way. Stop making smart remarks over wire, da?"
"Anything for you, lyubov."
It's not until they're back in the hotel that night, celebrating the first step towards victory with a little vodka that Gaby smuggled in inside her suitcase, that Solo goes to make peace. She's fiddling with the radio in the corner of their little living room, trying to find a station that plays something she likes, frowning when she keeps getting news bulletins in Arabic. Illya sits in a corner of the sofa (which is too small for him), one long arm stretched across the back, watching her with a quiet intensity. He has a glass in front of him that he hasn't touched, and he looks almost at peace, so much so that Napoleon hesitates to approach him.
He has to make the first move, though, and so he leaves the window, where he's been watching the street below through a crack in the louvers, and crosses the room. He drops into the armchair opposite Illya with an insouciant grace, swirling the vodka in his glass, and chances a glance at the other man.
"We did well today," he says, indifferently, an opening gambit. Illya hums in response, but doesn't look away from Gaby. Napoleon has the distinct sensation of being quietly and firmly ignored.
"You and Gaby played it nicely," he adds. "I doubt he suspected a thing."
Still nothing, not even a raised eyebrow or a twitch of those long fingers.
"However, your covers would probably work better if you seemed a bit less incestuous," he comments, and takes a sip of vodka. If idle pleasantries won't work, maybe it's time for something more inflammatory.
A bone-chilling blue stare pins him to his seat.
"Incestuous?" Illya's voice is flat and cool, but deliberately pitched low enough that Gaby won't notice that he's speaking. (Solo is fairly sure she's listening to them anyway, but if she wants to pretend otherwise, it's her business.)
"I don't know how it is in Russia," he says, innocently, "but in America, first cousins rarely have lovers' quarrels in the middle of a public square. We're terribly provincial that way."
Illya is looking at him as if he would like nothing more than to crack the bottle of vodka on the table over Solo's head and skewer him with the fragments, but he restrains himself admirably.
"In Russia," he answers, evenly, "we are not so…how do you say it? Dirty-minded, yes?"
Solo grins, his trademark charming smile that has coaxed many a reluctant mark into doing exactly what he wants.
"Yes—dirty-minded. Perhaps—" he pauses, chooses his timing carefully, "perhaps we could stand to learn a thing or two from you. Particularly when it comes to…word choice."
He waits a moment, wanting to make his meaning clear. It's an oblique apology—he can hardly see himself and Peril gushing about their feelings and hugging it out (although isn't that an interesting thought). But he can see, in the surprise in Illya's face and then the minute softening of his features, that he understands.
"Is a tricky thing, language," his partner says, accepting the olive branch. "Easy to misunderstand."
Solo tips his glass at him, a toast to things set right again, and considers for a moment. He glances over his shoulder at Gaby, who still appears to be utterly absorbed in the radio. (He is not fooled for a minute.)
"Peril, may I offer you some advice?" he asks, in a tone that is just shy of smarmy. Illya merely raises an eyebrow at him.
"First of all, drink your vodka, it's excellent. I don't know where she got it, but Gaby's got good sources."
He gets a long-suffering sigh in response. "Cowboy. Get to the point."
"Fine, fine. The point. You clearly have…an attachment to our little chop-shop girl. One that you have yet to act on, if all indications are to be believed."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gaby's hands freeze on the dial. Excellent.
"This is none of your business, Cowboy."
He shrugs, the gesture of a man who is very used to poking around in things that are not his business.
"Maybe not, but this team is my business. Very much so. And for the sake of our joint effectiveness in the field, might I recommend that you actually do something about this little…attachment of yours?"
He looks at Illya, dead-on, and is not at all surprised to see a faint wash of red sweeping over the other man's neck and ears. Ah, the noble, virtuous, easily embarrassed Red Peril. How charming.
"I will deal with it when I see fit," Illya mutters, sounding as if his tie is suddenly too tight. Solo flicks a glance to his right and notes that Gaby has resumed playing with the radio dial, but every line in her body is straining to listen to the conversation. He can't help but smile, just the faintest crinkle of his eyes.
"I wouldn't procrastinate if I were you," he says, and holds up a hand to pacify the quick glance of outrage Illya gives him. "Not me. But we're not the only people in the world, and you know it."
It's the closest he's going to get to his true meaning, which is essentially that if Gaby gets tired of waiting around for Moscow to get with it and takes up with anyone else, there's going to be hell to pay. Illya frowns deeply into his glass, as if there are answers hidden somewhere in the clear liquid.
He's not going to look, because he knows she'll catch him, but he would bet every single Cardin in his wardrobe that Gaby is over there laughing to herself. He knows, of course, that she's not going to rest until she wears Illya down. But there's no harm in speeding up the process.
"Is not a good idea," Illya grumbles, having had a moment to ponder this idea, and this time he actually does take a drink. "Could compromise the integrity of this mission. Future missions."
"And today wasn't going to compromise the integrity of the mission?"
He lets the question hang in the air for a moment, and then gets up to refill his glass. Scotch this time, he thinks. Vodka is really Gaby's drink, and Peril's.
As he crosses to the small liquor cabinet, he looks down at Gaby and sees her lips quirk.
"You're welcome," he mouths silently, and pours himself three fingers of Scotch. Might as well settle in and enjoy the evening.
He hears Illya shifting behind him, and Gaby glances in his direction, eyes sharp and assessing. Then she tilts her head minutely in the direction of the balcony.
He turns just enough to see Illya standing, shuffling his feet a bit, looking distinctly ill at ease. So. Peril's going to make his move. He can't deny feeling a bit left out, but for the sake of the general peace, he's willing to make himself scarce.
"I think I'll take my Scotch with a view of the city," he announces unnecessarily as he puts the bottle back in its place. Gaby barely nods at him, and he pretends to drop his handkerchief as a pretext to lean down close to her ear.
"Next time I get to watch," he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, and then he's striding out onto the balcony, her surprised laughter ringing behind him.
"What did he say?" he hears Illya ask her, and he chuckles to himself. It'll be some time before he'll broach that particular subject. One thing at a time, he tells himself.
The music swells behind him (Gaby is being considerate, he notes), and he settles into one of the ironwork chairs and props his feet up on the railing. It isn't the first time he's slept on a couch, and he very much doubts it'll be the last. But someday…someday he thinks there might be another option.
One thing at a time.
A/N: This is my very first attempt to write anything exclusively from Solo's POV, so I'm hoping the voice is in character. It is surprisingly hard to write inside his head-consider it a work in progress on my part.
Third-the catalyst for this whole altercation boils down to a phrase Napoleon uses that Illya strenuously objects to. I tend to read Illya's character as inherently traditional in a myriad of ways, even though he's a good Soviet. The respect he has for his mother, the way he treats Gaby, all point to someone who holds women in high regard, and so I imagined that he would be easily offended on Gaby's behalf if he felt that Solo were maligning her in any way (albeit unintentionally). Feel free to disagree with me if you like. ;)
Oh, and this is also the first time I've ever hinted at a possible OT3. I've been playing with it for a while because there is JUST SO MUCH good OT3 fic out there, but I'm a tad nervous about writing it because I've always done pairings in the past. So yay for me trying new things!
Finally, translations!
Pretty sure you could figure this out from context clues, but shlyukha means prostitute.
Scheiße - shit
lyubov - sweetheart or darling