Gaby fell in love with the first boy she kissed. Unfortunately, he was later arrested and, presumably, killed. She was more careful after that, for the most part, and smiled and nodded when her countrymen discussed the uselessness of sentiment in their newly broken lives.

Many of them lived with guilt. Many of them, terrifyingly, did not. All of them felt the scar running through what had once been a united country. She'd been young then, too young to understand what the wall meant. She wasn't quite that young now: she knew she hated it, and she knew she wished to never go back.

Illya saw himself as free - no, that wasn't quite correct. He saw himself as loyal, and he was. But his loyalty was to his country, not its administrators. The people who'd bullied his parents held his leash, and made sure he knew it. She didn't think they realized how much danger they would be in when he realized he could break them.

Napoleon, in contrast, thought himself loyal to nothing and no one. He thought of himself as a romantic kind of cad, an oil slick over a puddle. He'd die for either of them at this point, though. He'd complain about it, but he'd do it.

She was tender-hearted, of course. She'd known it for a long time. Somehow, that didn't quite erase the sting of knowing that she helplessly loved them both.

They didn't know, or at least, she hoped they didn't know. Illya still had his odd crush, still occasionally grabbed her hand too tightly or half leaned in for a kiss. He never quite completed the action, and Gaby never pushed him again. He'd laid her to bed the night she had, and while she knew that was the right thing to do, she sometimes bitterly regretted not having let herself touch him more. Now, he was scared, and those brief and always-halted movements were all she got out of him.

Napoleon slept with women constantly, on every job, in every country. He often didn't speak the language and yet he still managed to bring women back to his room. Sometimes she wasn't sure if he did it because he wanted to, or out of habit, the way another person might bring themselves pleasure to help them sleep. Either way, he'd leave herself and Illya early some nights and go up to his room, and both Illya and Gaby would watch him go, see each other watching, and turn away to hide embarrassment.

It was silly, bordering on comical. But she was utterly at a loss regarding what to do about it. They went to Istabul, then to Paris, then to Buenos Aires, and she kept her mouth shut because she simply didn't think either of them would respond well to her offering a bottle of vodka and telling them they all ought to kiss. But then they flew to Spain, where a lab tech had stolen extremely confidential information related to US nuclear experimentation, and things got - unmanageable.

It started off relatively normally. Illya and Gaby, as had become their custom, took a room under the pretense that they were married. Napoleon, as had become his custom, took the room next door. Illya and Gaby spent the night lying uncomfortably next to each other, and Napoleon spent the night with the heiress he'd met downstairs.

Then the next morning, Napoleon barged into their room and ordered them all breakfast. He accepted the room service with a smile and a "Gracias," took a plate of fruit, sat down on their love seat, and said thoughtfully, "You know, two men propositioned me last night."

Gaby forced herself not to respond. Illya nearly spit out his coffee. "What?" he said.

Napoleon smiled. "We picked an interesting part of town to stay in."

"Technically speaking," Gaby said, "Waverly picked it."

"I suppose they can't be faulted for not knowing the details of Spanish neighborhoods. And the hotel itself is quite lovely."

"Did you accept them?" Illya blurted.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Did I -"

"Go back with men."

"Not last night," Napoleon said. "Not two at once, either, though that's certainly not unheard of. Would it offend you if I had?"

Illya shook his head. Both Gaby and Napoleon watched as he looked down, staring at the carpet, every inch of exposed skin turning a dull red.

The British had attempted to teach Gaby to read people - all the better, they said, to teach her who to trust. But that wasn't how it worked, of course. She learned to read people long before they'd found her, particularly members of the KGB like Illya. They were their own sort. It was obvious to her right then that he was struggling with something. Distaste at his own immorality, perhaps? Excitement that Napoleon shared it? She wasn't enough of a mind-reader to tell.

Finally, she chose to break the silence by saying, "I'm glad you had a good time last night."

"I did." Napoleon smiled at her. "And now we have to find out lab technician. I'll confess, I'm not at all sure I'm up to playing the part of a physicist."

"I have facts to feed you," Gaby said. "I won't leave you stranded." Tonight, Napoleon was to take his friend Illya out on a belated bachelor party. It was a happy coincidence that Alejandro Muriel, lab tech to Oppenheimer himself at one point, would also be celebrating a birthday party at the same, all-male establishment.

"I'm confident your assistance will key," Napoleon said. He smiled at her with what almost looked like genuine affection. She smiled back.

Illya grunted and went over to the breakfast cart, clattering plates and glasses with unusual enthusiasm. Gaby looked away from Napoleon's smile, but the lighter mood held.

So what if nothing would come of it? Nothing came of a lot of things. She could at least enjoy this sort of mutual admiration. There was no harm in it. If only Illya could see that, too. Then, perhaps, she'd believe it herself - that this affection was harmless and easy.

They passed the day doing recon: following Alejandro, mostly, and researching his associates, as well as letting Napoleon's name spread around town. Their immediately local area was indeed an area known for deviants. Gaby half wondered if Waverly had booked them that particular hotel as a joke. On the other hand, she received several enthusiastic compliments on her outfit, and her legs, from beautiful women. There were worse ways to pass the time.

At half past ten, Napoleon took a dressed-up and prematurely-disgruntled Illya out to the gentleman's club. They both wore bugs and had microphones in their ears. Gaby turned her own relay onto the correct station and waited for the fun to begin.

Napoleon and Illya were silent all the way to the club. She knew the second they entered it, because Illya hissed, "This is inappropriate!"

"This is Spain," Napoleon said. "Come on, let's get a drink."

"Those women -"

"Illya." Napoleon's voice was sharp in Gaby's ear. Commanding. She pictured Illya's response and had to press her legs together. This really was just a whole lot of trouble, the three of them working together.

Illya quieted down after that; Gaby heard them ordering drinks, then sipping them. "There's our mark," Napoleon said. "Coming in now. He's got a seat reserved at the front."

"Do you only pretend to like women?" Illya said.

"Pardon me?"

"Do you pretend." Illya's voice was harsh. Gaby rolled her eyes. For an international spy he was singularly naive. "Is the way you look at Gaby, how you treat her, some sort of joke?"

"Not at all." If Napoleon was surprised by the question, he didn't let it show. "She's in your ear, by the way, and mine, so now is hardly the time for a private chat. But to answer your question, I'm interested in all types of people."

"That's not possible."

"I assure you, it is," Napoleon said.

Illya fell sullenly silent. Gaby bit her tongue - quite literally - so she wouldn't say something in response.

The rest of the night went more normally. Gaby fed Napoleon various facts about nuclear fission, and Napoleon flattered Muriel with compliments on his work, and Muriel fell for it utterly. They eventually left the club with a promise that Muriel would visit with them in his home the next day, with Illya's lovely new wife in tow.

Gaby went to bed feeling a profound satisfaction. It lasted almost half an hour, until someone knocked on her door. She opened it with a gun out, only to see Napoleon half-carrying Illya.

"He's not ill," Napoleon said when she directed an appalled look at him. "I assume you noticed his inebriation as we left."

"I'm fine," Illya slurred. He lurched sideways, squishing Napoleon against the door frame. "I'm wonderful. Everything...is wonderful."

"Ah," Gaby said. "I'm impressed you got him back."

"So am I." Napoleon smiled at her. "Should I put him on the couch? He might be a bit, ah, handsy."

Had he been with Napoleon? That presented all sorts of questions that Gaby doubted Napoleon would readily answer. "The bed is fine," she said. "I can smack him if he gets fresh."

"No smacking," Illya said. "No...hands. Nice hands." He reached out and took one of Gaby's. Her hands were calloused and not particularly small, but of course, they were tiny compared to Illya's. He curled his fingers around her palm with ease.

She tugged away as a matter of practicality, rather than of want. Her chest felt like it was tied in knots. This little tableau reminded her of just how much she'd take, were it on offer, in the worst and most humiliating way.

"Thank you," she said to Illya, "but we should get you to bed."

"And get him some water," Napoleon said.

"Trust me, I know what to do with a drunk man."

Napoleon laughed. Illya didn't seem to notice; he was looking between them both with a dreamy smile.

They managed, together, to convince him to lie down on the bed. He laughed as he did it, evading Napoleon's attempts to take off his shoes. Gaby filled a glass with water and then, upon second thought, put aside the flowers in one of the hotel's vases and filled the vase with water, too. They convinced him to drink roughly half of it before he fell asleep, snoring loudly.

And then she was alone with Napoleon. She looked at him, and he looked back at her.

Napoleon broke first, glancing down and saying, "He was right, you know. You have beautiful hands."

"I'm a chop shop girl, remember? My hands have a purpose."

"So they do," he said. "But beautiful things can be useful, too."

He was never really sincere, and thus she had no explanation for why that particular bit of insincerity made her angry. She straightened and turned away from him. "You should go now."

"Gaby -"

She turned and met his eyes. "Leave. Please."

For a moment she thought he might have been unguarded, letting a bit of uncertainty, or want, or something through. But the moment vanished as soon as it appeared, and then she again saw only Napoleon Solo, thief, spy, and womanizer. "Of course," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

He disappeared then, and she did her best not to think about him lying down in the next room, alone, thinking about her hands, or Illya's weight against him. She went back to bed, even though the bed was considerably less comfortable with a snoring, drunk Illya in it. He scrabbled at her when she lay down, as Napoleon had predicted, but he didn't try to initiate anything. He only - still mostly asleep - pulled her to him, anchoring an arm around her waist and weighing her own legs down with his.

It wasn't how Gaby preferred to sleep, but Illya stopped snoring when he curled around her. She could understand a trade-off when it insisted on cuddling. Treasuring the relative quiet, she fell back asleep.

She woke up the next morning in exactly the same position, curled on her side. Her back, however, was cold. She rolled over to see an empty spot where Illya had been. Mere moments later, the question she would have called out was answered for her: she heard him groaning and spitting into the toilet in the bathroom.

He came out a few minutes later, looking decidedly green. She smirked at him, as she felt was her right, having endured the snuggling as she did. "I'm fairly certain they'd dub you a traitor for that."

He froze, looking at her. His eyes, which had been mostly closed in misery, bugged out. "What?"

"For getting drunk," she said. "Last night? What did you think I meant?"

He looked away. "Nothing. And it was wine. I don't drink wine, normally. I don't drink."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Excuses, excuses." She brushed past him, careful to keep her tone light when she said, "I imagine we can expect a visit from Napoleon at any moment. Order us some food, would you?"

Illya glared and grumbled but eventually had a cart sent up. A few minutes before they'd said it would arrive, Napoleon let himself into their room. Gaby had already put a smart dress on, and so it was up to her and Napoleon to share an amused look at Illya's rumpled clothes and exhausted expression.

"Next time, I'd suggest you listen to me when I say the Spanish like their wine strong."

Gaby was unable to hold back a laugh at Illya's glare. She was still laughing when room service knocked, and she was laughing when she took the cart, and she'd only just stopped laughing when Napoleon said, "Gaby! Down!" and leapt in front of her to stop the bullet that had been aimed at her head.

He went down silently. In fact, the entire room was silent, until Illya roared and ran to the window, searching for the shooter.

"He's gone," Napoleon said from his spot on the floor. He'd placed a hand over his shoulder, but that didn't stop the blood from leaking out beneath it. "I'd appreciate some help getting to the bed."

"You idiot," Illya said, turning on him.

Napoleon met his gaze with an expression of mild interest. "Should I have let him shoot Gaby, then? He had a laser sight."

Illya snarled.

"Illya," Gaby said. Her hands were shaking, but Napoleon was already getting paler. "Let's get him to the bed."

He looked at her, then back at Napoleon. For a moment, anguished crossed his face. She sympathized, but she couldn't show it; instead she said, "Illya," making her voice a whip, so that he had no choice but to respond.

They carried him over together; though his face got whiter, he didn't complain. Gaby fetched her first aid kit and cut his shirt and jacket off, ignoring his complaints. "You've got bespoke tailors in every city, including Madrid, I imagine," she told him. He laughed, then winced.

"Don't tell jokes," Illya said. "Fix him."

"Sit down, then," Gaby said, "and stay out of my way."

He ended up dragging a chair over to the bed, staring at both of them all the while like he could will Napoleon back into health. Gaby worked as quickly as she could. The bullet hadn't gone through Napoleon's shoulder, so she removed it and sterilized the wound, packing it with cotton and wrapping his shoulder with gauze. A laser sight. Damn. He'd meant to kill her - he or she.

And Napoleon had saved her life.

When she was done, she sat back. Napoleon lay staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy. He'd bled all over the sheets, but he was stable now, more or less. "He'll live," Gaby said. "And I'm hungry." She got up to wash her hands.

When she came back out, Illya was sitting on the side of the bed, having some sort of silent glaring contest with Napoleon. She ached to reach out to one of them, or both of them, but she knew they wouldn't welcome it. Not the way she wanted, not with what she wanted to offer. Perhaps not at all. She cleared her throat instead, saying, "We should all eat," and nodding at Illya.

She meant that he should get some food to stop himself shaking, but instead he piled a plate high with bread and fruit, and brought it over to Napoleon.

"I seem to recall Gaby mentioned salami," Napoleon said, voice thin.

"Salami is rich and you are ill," Illya said. "Eat this."

Gaby half expected him to finger feed Napoleon, but instead he only propped Napoleon up with some pillows and left him to his own devices. He sat next to Gaby, in fact, on the love seat facing Napoleon, sullenly eating salami and glaring all the while.

Gaby's mind was already working about who might have wanted to kill her, but she waited until they'd all eaten and had coffee before saying, "Your wound will make getting to the Muriel's house difficult."

"Nonsense," Napoleon said. "You've got enough skill as a surgeon. I don't have full range of motion, but provided Muriel himself is not the one who tried to kill you, I should be fine."

"It's not safe," Illya said. "I should go alone."

"Unfortunately, I'm the physicist," Napoleon said, "and the invitation was extended to me. Give me an hour or so and a stiff drink, and I'll be ready to go."

"If Muriel knows who we are, this will be a short mission anyway," Gaby pointed out. "I think it's more likely our unfinished business has caught up with us."

"Victoria's dead," Napoleon said. "Or at least, I hope she's dead. She possesses incredible swimming skills if not."

"It's probably not Victoria," Gaby said, though privately she thought the woman terrifying and the boat's distance from Italian soil not as great as Napoleon assumed. "But she had family, and in-laws. The fact that they weren't directly involved with her bomb scheme doesn't preclude her wanting revenge."

"Revenge on you?" Napoleon said. "I'm the one who enraged her."

"I'm the one who stabbed her in the back," Gaby said.

"Whoever it is, we'll hunt them down," Illya said. "Damn the mission, damn everything. If you're not safe -"

"Illya." Gaby made her voice firm, as she might with a truant dog. Though that comparison was uncomfortable just now, with the way Illya looked almost ready to fly into a rage. "We can survive a few days. We'll check out of this hotel, lose the trail, find a safer place to stay. It will be fine."

"That's not enough," Illya said. "How did they find us to begin with?"

"Who knows? A mole in our agencies, luck, any number of things." Gaby tried to sound more confident than she felt. "We can't control that. What we can control is our response, and the first step there is finding a more defensible room." And not leaving the curtains open.

He knew she was right. She was spouting the kind of best practice taught to spies the world over. He still grumbled, though, sinking back in the love seat, knees bent at awkward angles as he attempted to draw in on himself.

"With that settled," Napoleon said, "I'm already looking forward to lunch. Someone pour me that stiff drink and we'll see how well I can move."

The answer turned out to be 'not particularly well', but Napoleon moved with the smugness of someone who knew there wasn't much to be done about it. And indeed there wasn't; he was the star of the show when it came to convincing Muriel they were interesting people worth talking to and trusting.

After giving directions to have their belongings moved to a different hotel, they left. They arrived at Muriel's by three. He was showily welcoming, and solicitous when Napoleon confessed to having injured his arm in a bout of wrestling. They all sat down for luncheon, and as the housekeeper laid their plates before them, he winked at Gaby and said, "I am afraid I cannot offer you the company of my wife, or any other woman. I do try to compensate with erudite conversation on my own."

The dossier hadn't covered that particular detail of his life. Gaby smiled, the sort of not-quite-comfortable smile she imagined a wealthy British woman who'd unbent enough to marry a Russian man might give when confronted with such sensibilities. "It's not a problem, I assure you."

"Wonderful. I'd hate to make any of you uncomfortable." As Muriel spoke, his eyes lingered on Napoleon in a distinctly non-platonic way. Gaby covered her reaction with a quick sip from her wine glass. Illya wasn't as smooth; his eyes follow Muriel's gaze, and he frowned just the tiniest bit.

Had he not noticed last night? Gaby hadn't, but then, she hadn't been there. And Illya was stubborn and determined to ignore any signals. From anyone.

Halfway through the lunch, Muriel began quizzing Napoleon. They'd anticipated this, and he'd studied up. His answers appeared to please Muriel; as the day turned to evening, after several bottles of wine between them, he said, "You know, someday, we'll be able to nudge the atom in any direction we want."

They stood on Muriel's balcony, looking out over the city. Napoleon smiled, eyes still focused in the far distance, as though the possibility of absolute control over the stuff of the universe was a merely academic interest. "I'm not sure I want to see that world."

"Nonsense. Of course you do. You're an adventurer; why else would you be here?"

Muriel was standing too close to Napoleon. It was their objective, this trust, and so Gaby looked away. She looked to Illya.

He stood coiled, looking half ready to take an angry leap off the balcony - or throw Muriel off it. She walked over to him and pressed herself against his side, stroking his arm until he looked at her.

He looked frightened, she realized. It was hard to notice from far away but perfectly obvious up close. She slid her hand down to press their palms together and leaned in further, tilting her face up.

It was an invitation, of course. If he realized how much she meant it, he'd most likely flee. But she was a good liar, better than Illya and Napoleon put together. He'd assume the emotion in her expression was artifice; the very genuine feeling that allowed her to lie so well would pass him by.

A moment later, her bet was proven true. His expression softened, his eyes glinting in the golden light, and he leaned down to kiss her.

Moments before his lips touched hers, Napoleon said, "We'd better get going."

They both froze. Gaby could hear Illya's low noise of frustration. "Ah, yes," she said, and stepped away. Illya straightened, still looking dazed, shaking himself like he'd just come out of icy water.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Napoleon said, directing a piercing look in Muriel's direction.

Gaby smiled at Muriel as well, nodded to him, and then all but dragged Illya out.

She anticipated the argument. She wasn't sure if Napoleon did. He certainly looked surprised when, after they'd gotten into their new hotel room, Illya snarled, "You cannot go down this road with that man."

Of course, Napoleon's surprise was just that: surprise. He didn't snap back like Gaby would have. He needled Illya instead, saying, "I don't know what you mean. Care to explain?"

"You know what I mean." Illya kept glaring, hands curled against his pants. "He wants you to fuck him, Solo. What is your plan once he takes your shirt off? Muscle strains do not look like bullet holes."

"You might not realize this, but there can be - and often are - several steps in between casual acquaintance and nakedness."

"And you do? Between men?" Illya shook his head. "You're a liar. And you'll get us caught."

An open window, Gaby thought, would have been useful right then - as a distraction, if nothing else. But they'd given very specific instructions and money to be sure they'd be carried out: one room, heavy curtains. Different false names, though of course no one knew they were false. But the atmosphere was entirely too close for Illya's anger, or Napoleon's pique.

"Men aren't so different," Napoleon said. "You'd know if you relaxed every now and then."

"Is that an invitation?"

He didn't sound happy about it. In fact, he sounded downright threatening. And Napoleon, damn him, refused to respond. He only smiled and straightened his tie, never breaking eye contact with Illya.

It occurred to Gaby that they might really do this. Napoleon might push Illya to breaking, and that could end in bed. They'd be an unbearable twosome, but maybe that was what they wanted. She was selfish enough to know that would spell the end of this team for her, and indeed it was that selfishness that led her to step between them, saying, "Gentlemen, I think this would work better for all of us if you let it rest for a bit."

Illya still glared and Napoleon still smirked, but they both sat quietly while Gaby called in their report. She included the assassination attempt, and their theory that Victoria, or her family, was behind it. There wasn't much to be done on their end, though, aside from - hopefully - staying alive.

By the time she finished, Illya had calmed down. Napoleon was watching her now, his eyes ever-bright. She looked at him steadily and said, "If you're expecting to get a rise out of me, think again. I don't care where you put your cock."

"Hmm," Napoleon said, and left it at that. Gaby stomped out her temper the second it tried to rise. Now was not the time for that sort of nonsense.

Of course, the problem with having a specific target was that they still had an evening to while away. They ate dinner, and Napoleon and Gaby had a bit more wine, while Illya turned his nose up at them. Gaby might have enjoyed clear liquor, but in Spain she intended to do as the Spanish did. She sprawled on the bed with a plate of food before her and a large glass of wine in hand, reading a novel and doing her best to ignore both of them.

Unfortunately, the quiet got to her more quickly than she'd have preferred. If she kept her eyes on her book and kept drinking wine steadily enough, she could almost pretend this was a companionable evening with loved ones, and that the bed would host more interesting activities later in the night.

Those thoughts only made her angry - at them, at herself. She wasn't some stupid little girl, pining away after having read one too many cheap novels. She was a woman, a spy, and a realist. What would she even do with them? Oh, it would be good at first, but then it would fall apart, as it always did. Or one - or both - of them would die. It wasn't as though they acknowledged her right to be a gun-brandishing lunatic the way they both were. In a firefight, they'd die to save her, leaving her with their bodies and little means to revenge them.

No. It was a foolish thought and a foolish idea. If she'd wanted a quiet storybook life, she'd have needed to be born to different parents. But she still wanted it, helplessly, glancing at them from behind her book and fighting the absurd longing curling up in her and making its home in her chest.

Illya could sulk like few others, sulks that lasted days and extended from person to person until they covered a whole room. He was in one of those sulks that night, and as a direct consequence, Gaby fell asleep alone. She woke with a start in the dead of the night to find moonlight streaming in from a barely-open curtain.

A quick glance told her Napoleon lay still on the other bed, chest rising and falling in sleep. It took her a little while longer to find Illya. He'd cracked the curtain, obviously, but he wasn't standing directly in front of it. He wasn't standing at all, in fact. He'd dragged the chest at the end of Napoleon's bed out so that it sat at an angle to the window, and he was slumped on it, holding what looked like a glass of vodka.

She shifted enough that he clearly heard her, tilting his head in her direction. He didn't look at her, though. His eyes stayed on the sliver of open window when he said, "Go back to sleep."

"Last I checked, you weren't my nanny," Gaby said. She got out of bed, going over to the sideboard and pouring her own glass. "Insomnia?"

He grunted.

"I often wonder how they keep you."

He looked up at her, clearly surprised. She leaned against the wall next to the window. "The Russians, I mean."

"I am Russian," he said. "I do my duty. I am loyal."

"You're clearly loyal." Loyal to her, loyal to Napoleon - even when he didn't want to be. Even when he wanted to be more loyal to his handlers. "But they threaten you."

"That's not why I can't sleep."

"No?"

His brow furrowed, and he looked away from her.

"Hmm," she said, and sipped her liquor.

The room was silent, save for their breath. She heard every twitch of muscle from both the men. She saw, indirectly, Napoleon's eyes open and then close again.

"I dislike being frightened," Illya said, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

Surprise made her incautious for a moment. She looked directly at him, meeting his eyes. He looked away after a breathless moment, glaring out the window again. "The attack today was unacceptable."

"Yesterday, technically," Gaby said.

"You could have died."

"Napoleon made sure that didn't happen."

"He's an idiot."

He was, but Illya had revealed more than he realized. Gaby herself was whole and healthy. He was worried about Napoleon. "You've read his file," Gaby said. "He's reckless. He has a history of it."

"He's on our team."

And thus, to Illya, he was to be protected. Gaby held back a smile, barely. "Is that why you were so angry when I betrayed you?"

"It wasn't a real betrayal."

"No. But you thought it was."

"You lied to us both. You fooled us. That reflects badly on me."

"And you protected me," she said. "It's no wonder they normally have you work alone."

He had no answer for that; she knew he wouldn't. She took another drink and let the conversation lie for a bit.

Finally he said, "You shouldn't have been able to fool me."

She snorted. "You could kill me anytime you wanted. Does it insult you so much that I'm better at keeping secrets?"

"I have years of KGB training."

"I grew up in an occupied country," she said. "The British found me quite some time ago, but even before that, I'd learned not to keep my emotions on my face. The KGB doesn't seem to think you have emotions, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Stop."

"Perhaps they assumed the episodes were random."

"Stop."

She obeyed then, because she didn't like the thought of having to move to yet another hotel after Illya threw the chest out their window, or something. She didn't let him see a bit of repentance, though. This veil of secrecy he and Napoleon thought they were keeping up needed to fall.

They finished their drinks in silence, and then Illya ducked his head. He was breathing deeply, his broad shoulders rising and falling. She waited until he'd had time to calm himself before saying, "I won't tell your secrets."

He glared at her. She affected an insouciant shrug. "What? I won't."

He stood. "We should go to bed."

"Napoleon knows them anyway."

He turned away from her and half-stomped over to the bed. "Now."

She followed him, of course. Napoleon lay with his eyes closed, too still to be genuinely asleep. She lay down next to Illya, folded her arms, and did her best to ignore how close he was, how warm, how solid.

He'd understand someday, or he wouldn't. She couldn't play relationship chess with two spies while also trying to stay alive and solve a case. It was too much.

Waking up in Illya's arms was also too much, but the next morning that was exactly what happened, with the added indignity of seeing Napoleon standing over them and looking amused.

She narrowed her eyes at him in warning, but he didn't move away. On the contrary: he leaned down, touched Illya's shoulder, and said quietly, "Good morning."

Illya's eyes flew open. For a moment he looked at Gaby with borderline panic. Then his expression shifted into annoyance and he shrugged Napoleon's hand off. "Get off me," he said, rolling away from Gaby and sitting up.

She felt the loss, of course, but she pushed it down, just as she always did.

"Since you two were slugabeds," Napoleon said, "I took the liberty of having food sent up."

"You do love spending other people's money." Gaby got out of bed and escaped to the bathroom.

The Spanish loved their mirrors. This bathroom had three of them. She saw herself at three angles, with red cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. Twenty minutes of makeup application fixed that, but she scowled at herself all the same. This childish interplay would solve nothing. She had to act more detached, even if she didn't feel that way.

She walked out to see that Illya had pinned Napoleon against the wall. Napoleon spotted her before she could back away - if she'd have backed away. "Ah, Gaby," he said. "I'd love if you could convince our large Russian friend here that my wound isn't going to prevent me from chatting with Muriel this afternoon."

"I don't take orders from her," Illya said. He'd shoved Napoleon's jacket aside, wrinkling it in the process. Napoleon must have re-bandaged himself, Gaby thought.

Either way, taking his shirt off to poke at it wouldn't help. She walked over to them and tugged Illya's shoulder. "Stop that," she said.

He pulled away, but he also glared at them both. "I told you -"

"He'll blow our cover. Yes."

"You don't believe me? You're siding with him?"

"Solo's an adult. If you're asking me if I believe he can hide an injury during a date, the answer's yes."

At 'date', Illya's face turned several shades of red, and he stomped away.

Predictable. So predictable. Gaby watched as Napoleon straightened his jacket. "You're okay?"

"Of course," he said. "His bark's worse than his bite."

He'd have liked Illya to bite him, too. Out loud, Gaby said, "Remember that you have to draw Muriel out of his house."

"So you two can burgle it. I know."

Gaby wanted to give him advice, but she also had a strong aversion to being called a mother hen. She settled on saying, "We'll use tonight to see the sights."

"The nice, non-nuclear-exploded sights." Napoleon reached out and brushed her shoulder, then went over to their breakfast spread.

It really was ridiculous, Gaby thought. The whole thing, from start to finish. Napoleon was never awkward, which meant she was half convinced he was trying to con them. But whether his goal was to get Gaby in bed or run off with valuable information about them both was beyond her.

After a tense breakfast, they set off for Muriel's estate. Napoleon took a gab, and Gaby and Illya rode a rented motorcycle. Illya had insisted on it, because according to him, it was faster and easier to hide. He'd robbed enough places that Gaby had no choice but to believe him. It pleased her a bit to feel him stiffen and see his neck turn red when she slid into place behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Let him be embarrassed; she'd experienced enough of that recently.

Napoleon had tried to forgo the usual microphone and earpiece setup, but Illya had looked ready to pistol-whip him, international mandate be damned. So he wore them, and Gaby and Illya were treated to his mundane, pseudo-physicist conversation as they broke into Muriel's house.

It was largely unguarded; they evaded the housekeeper and disabled the alarm with ease. Muriel had been kind enough, the day before, to tell Napoleon exactly where his bedroom and office were. They explored the bedroom first. Illya glared at everything: the bed, Muriel's clothes, his bureau. They found nothing, not even any tell-tale bugs. Muriel was insisting on paying for lunch as they made their way to his office.

They struck gold. He kept meticulous notes, both of his experiments, and of his meetings with various dignitaries, in addition to copies of the stolen files themselves. They couldn't take any of it, and it was beyond either of them to memorize it - but Illya had a camera, and they used it to their fullest advantage, photographing any page that looked remotely relevant.

Gaby's focus returned to her earpiece when, as they replaced the last file, Napoleon said, "I'd be delighted to go home with you."

Illya froze. His hands twitched.

Gaby didn't slap him, but it was a near thing. She closed Muriel's file drawer and tapped Illya's wrist sharply, jerking her head at the exit. Her message, she thought, was clear: the sooner they exited the premises, the sooner Napoleon could distance himself from Muriel. Illya clearly got the point, and just as clearly almost lost his idiot mind anyway. Gaby was ready to knock him out and plead medical emergency when he shook himself and headed down the stairs.

They made it out of Muriel's house, then down the path, then onto the bike. Gaby held onto Illya again as they sped away from the house. It was too loud to hear Napoleon, which was just as well; she suspected listening to him just then would only make Illya angrier.

When they got back to the hotel room, Illya tore off his microphone and threw the camera down. It bounced on the bed; Gaby caught it before it fell. "We'll need these," she said, removing the film. "You can't possibly be this angry at Napoleon kissing a man."

He stared at her. The scar next to his eye was bright red, and a flush on his cheeks made him look feverish. No, she realized; his eyes were glassy for a different reason. She didn't have time to ask him about it before he pinned her against the wall and kissed her.

It was awful for a second; his teeth bit into her, and he held her awkwardly. But she had the leverage she needed to reach back and grab his collar, her nails biting into his neck, so that she could change the angle of the kiss and make him ease off a bit.

He still held her, though, and oh, that was good. He stroked her hair and pressed their hips together, each movement abortive, betraying his fear. When he lowered his forehead to her shoulder, his hands trembling on her hips, she wrapped herself around him and did her best to hold on.

It was good. It was so good, even though it was also terrible. Her damn treacherous heart clenched in her chest. None of this was fair. The most unfair part might be that she was no longer playing a role with them, and thus couldn't just get drunk and tackle him again like she wanted to.

The tension wound in her and peaked. She didn't realize she was upset until he stood back, gently setting her on the ground and touching her cheek.

"I've hurt you," he said.

"Don't be absurd. Of course you haven't."

He looked at her with prickly suspicion. "You look ready to cry."

"So did you, earlier."

He stepped away from her. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Sure." She looked up at him. "Would you tell me it will be okay, now that you know who I am? Can you tell me that?"

She knew a secret when she saw one; she was, in fact, an expert in the field. He evaded her gaze and then her body, stepping away from her.

But then his eyes went to the film that she still held, and she understood. "Russia's tired of playing games."

"I've been given orders. You know how that works."

"I don't, actually," she said. "My bosses need me more than I need them." He didn't respond, so she added, "They also don't hold my father's actions over my head in quite the same way."

"That's none of your business."

"Oh? Do you think I'm going to just give you the film, then?"

"Gaby -"

"You'll hurt him."

Illya reared back like she'd struck him. She kept a tight grip on the film. "Don't deny that you care," she said. "I can guess what the KGB told you to do when he got the tape. You watch him every day. You don't want it to end like this."

"This is disposable," he said. "This -" He waved his hand around the room - "Can go away in a moment."

"That doesn't mean we have to let go of it at the first sign of trouble."

He couldn't agree. She saw it in the lines of his body, in his face. He wanted to agree, but he was profoundly incapable of doing so.

If she kissed him then, would he let it lie? He wouldn't forget, and he wouldn't forgive her for leading him into disobedience. But maybe she'd get a night, or just an hour, where things were simpler.

She didn't kiss him. She said, "We'll make three copies. That's fair. I'll tell my boss to remind your boss of the virtues of international cooperation." And someday, she vowed, she would get him away from those people who used his parents like a whip.

He nodded, quite stiffly, and said, "That is acceptable."

"Try not to double-cross us," Gaby said. "I can tell you from experience it's not pleasant, even when it's not real."

Nothing was real with them, she expected him to say. He didn't. He ducked his head and mumbled, "Sorry," going over to the couch and sitting with his back to her.

They maintained that uneasy peace until Napoleon returned an hour later. He looked as impeccably dressed as he had when he left, which only made Gaby suspicious that he'd been up to something. "Did you have a good time?"

"Did you get the information?"

"Of course we did," she said. "I asked you first."

Instead of answering, he looked between Gaby and Illya, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. She very strongly suspected he didn't understand at all, but his obvious assumption of a lover's tiff also wasn't wholly inaccurate. "I should leave you two," he said.

"And stay where, exactly? You were shot just one day ago."

"A fact I'm reminded of every time I move," Napoleon said. "You know, speaking very generally, this is why it's wise to woo according to availability. Inter-departmental stress is a very real danger."

She itched to slap him, and couldn't, so she settled for giving him a dirty look and going to sit by Illya. "You don't need to leave," she told Napoleon. "He's about to develop the pictures we took, anyway."

"Good," Napoleon said. "Anything useful?"

"Plenty of science. Meetings with unsavory types. The stolen documents themselves. It's all pretty incriminating, if we'd like to head off the drama and just arrest him."

"We'll need to see how the pictures turn out," Illya said. He snatched the proffered film from Gaby and went into the bathroom. Moments later, the light from the bottom of the door turned red before being sealed off.

"He's in a mood," Napoleon said. He sat down, holding himself stiffly.

"Can you blame him?"

"Under various circumstances, yes."

"With this."

"I wonder if I shouldn't blame you." Napoleon met her gaze - not that it did much good. It was, as ever, almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. "You're certainly more experienced than he is."

"No, I'm not. I've been with MI5 for -"

"Almost three years at this point, yes? But of course, people would have approached you before then. Almost no one in the intelligence community was unaware of your father's talents, or of where his daughter was placed. You didn't become this good a liar in only three years, Gaby."

She'd been a child when the trouble started. Younger even than Illya when the KGB recruited him - though Illya still had years on her in espionage experience. She gritted her teeth.

"As I thought." Napoleon leaned back. "But that's not actually what I was referring to."

It took a moment for her to work out what he meant. "I'm not - we're not - what exactly are you saying about him?"

He looked bland, so bland, but if he really didn't care about this, then they wouldn't be discussing it. He said, "Every time you're near him, he shakes like a leaf. That's not a man who's experienced with the ladies."

"Or the gentlemen, I suppose." She spoke on impulse, but Napoleon winced a little. She'd hit her mark.

"That's immaterial," he said. "I think we both know that."

Interesting. He didn't know. "Either way," she said, "he's not doing - whatever it is you think he's up to."

"He's not up to anything. On the contrary. He's told himself he can ignore your charms, and he's failing."

She rolled her eyes. "My charms, really? He's an adult. So am I."

"He's a fumbling teenager where sex is concerned."

"Napoleon!"

"Tell me I'm wrong." Napoleon held her gaze calmly. "You forgot to take your microphone off earlier, Gaby."

Damn it. She fought a blush. "You already knew. You let him take the film and you knew?"

"He's soft with you." Napoleon shrugged. "And you talked him down. He'll make us the copies. Good work."

"You didn't only hear talking," Gaby said coldly.

"No."

She didn't know what to make of him, and she hated the uncertainty. She said, "If you're not worried about him selling us out, I'd like to know what you're trying to warn me against."

"Hurting him," Napoleon said. "Hurting yourself."

"That's a bit dramatic."

"I look at it as practical. You two can do what you like, but I don't want either of you distracted. Or driven away."

"There's no concern on that score," Gaby said. "You can rest easy, and tell your handlers to do the same."

She kept her tone detached. Three years with UNCLE, as he'd said, and years of fighting for her life before that - though those records were harder to come by. Still, three years was nothing to sneeze at. Napoleon was twice the agent she was and a better thief, to be sure, but he was also American, and he'd never really known what it meant to not be able to move freely. She'd been stuck behind the wall for years, trying to stay alive, dodging break-ins and men with knives. She would not be bullied.

He acknowledged the order with a nod. A smile still teased around his mouth. Damn the man, anyway; couldn't he tell she'd die for either of them? Fat lot of good it was doing her right then.

Illya took what felt like forever developing the photos, but he finally emerged as day turned to evening. He held one in his hand, dry already, a very clear picture of one of the stolen files. "He's not very careful," Illya said. "This is illegal, if nothing else."

Napoleon examined it. "Illegal indeed. Of course, if we arrest him, he'll likely just start working for us." He looked up at Illya. "Or the United States, rather."

"He can be squabbled over just like we are," Illya said. He spoke without emotion, like he'd already concluded the Americans would overrule his handler on this. "It's of no matter to me. Let's get him."

"I feel a little bad now," Napoleon said as they all strapped guns on. "I misled him profoundly."

"He'll find someone else, I'm sure," Gaby said. "It's not like he's going to jail like a normal person. Let's go."

In the end, the arrest was profoundly anticlimactic. Muriel surrendered immediately, and they dropped him off at the pre-arranged rendezvous point. Gaby was preparing to be told they were flying to another outlandish locale when Waverly said, "Unfortunately for all of us, as it turns out, certain regulations apply when you all, ah, work together."

Gaby blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Technically speaking, you're overdue for some time off. By, well. A bit." He waved a hand. "Spain is lovely, is it not? You should enjoy a week or two."

Gaby stared at him. "Is this a joke? A test? I told you about -"

"The gun, yes, but there's been no sign since then, has there? We're still working on rooting out where the leak is, but unfortunately, you're likely as safe here as anywhere else. Go, have fun. You're all young."

"This is ridiculous."

"Tell me about it," Waverly said. "I couldn't even get them to spring for another room. Good luck." He nodded as he got into the car, then sped off with Muriel, leaving the three of them alone.

"I can pay for another room," Napoleon told Gaby.

"So you can cozy up to her? I think not," Illya said.

"I meant for myself, actually. To give you two some privacy."

Napoleon spoke with pique, and Illya responded by curling one hand into a fist. "Not here," Gaby said. "Let's go."

For the first time since taking the rooms, they all three walked into the lobby together, and made their way upstairs at the same time. They got more than a few sidelong looks, but Gaby found herself not caring. To the world, they were rich tourists - and practically speaking, for the next week, they were those tourists in truth. She'd had post-mission fatigue enough times to know not to let it overwhelm her.

"I'm taking the tub," she said, and left Napoleon and Illya standing in the middle of the room. She closed and locked the bathroom door, for good measure, before starting the faucet.

The water was decadently hot. She sank down into it, taking and releasing deep, slow breaths. Any kind of mission came with its own stress, she told herself. Three days later they'd all be laughing about it.

Well. She could hope, anyway.

She only left the tub when the water had cooled twice. She did her hair up and dressed in pyjamas; the Spanish evening meal would have to be postponed until tomorrow. Illya had his back to her when she exited; he sat on the couch, reading something. She half expected Napoleon to be gone, but he was waiting for her as well. Shirtless.

She tried and failed not to look at him. "What's this about?" she said, dragging her gaze off his stomach.

He motioned to his shoulder. "I was hoping to get a follow-up on this."

"I'm not your nurse."

"No, but you are someone I trust. Nominally."

That was almost, but not quite, too insulting. She rolled her eyes and went to him. The wound was clean, and healing up nicely, though he'd have the kind of nasty scar that formed when tissue was lost. She sanitized it again and applied another bandage, telling him, "Stay away from adventure for a few days and you'll be fine."

"Thank you." He caught her fingers in one hand and squeezed them. "I appreciate it."

"I owe you, too," she said. "I never properly thanked you for jumping in front of that bullet to begin with."

"All in a day's work," Napoleon said. "It's not the first time I've protected a pretty young lady, and I imagine it won't be the last."

She couldn't keep from rolling her eyes at that. "Please. Do you think that will impress me?"

"I think it's the truth."

"I see." She felt irritated, right then, the kind of irritation that she wasn't quite willing to acknowledge stemmed from jealousy. Maybe a vacation would get rid of these idiotic feelings as well. "You understand that a healing shoulder precludes finding another pretty young lady to rescue in the next couple days. You're stuck with us, I'm afraid."

"I'm thirsty," Illya said abruptly. Gaby turned to look at him as he stood. He was so damn tall, taller than any man had a right to be, but right then he looked ready to topple over. He looked between Gaby and Napoleon, clenching his jaw, then stomped over to the sideboard and drew out three glasses.

As he poured the scotch, Napoleon touched Gaby's wrist. "I wasn't planning on going elsewhere," he said. His expression had gone as serious as she'd ever seen it. Interpersonal relationships, then, made him put aside his jokes for a moment. Not life-threatening espionage.

The knife's-edge twisted. This was it, then: Napoleon looking at her like that, and Illya's jealousy, and her own heart. This was how she'd decide to take a risk.

He nodded to Illya, who stood with the three full glasses, shoulders so tense she could see the muscles through his shirt. Gaby nodded back and got off the bed, moving to Illya's side.

"Thank you," she said, plucking a glass out of the protective cage of his arms.

He turned to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed as though with lack of sleep, and he was shaking again. He wasn't angry; that much was obvious. He looked sad.

She wanted to call him a fool, to reach out and kiss him. But she wasn't brave enough yet. So instead she gave him a flirtatious look and drank from the glass of scotch. Its taste wasn't as clear as what she was used to; it went down with a bit of a burn, in spite of its fancy bottle and snotty name. Color bloomed in Illya's cheeks as she swallowed and sighed, and he looked away.

"Take Solo his glass," he mumbled, going back over to the couch.

She couldn't let him sit alone, though, nor did she want to let Napoleon out of her sight. Everything felt fraught, but she had a suspicion that if she could take what she wanted now, she might have a chance of holding onto it in the future.

"Come here, Solo," she said, settling close to Illya, grabbing his arm and drawing it around her. "Just because you're injured doesn't mean you need to lie in bed all day."

"Technically speaking, it's evening, and a time more than appropriate for bed." But he sounded amused, and he joined them around the coffee table.

He had a couch all to himself, but he didn't use it; he only sat back with his legs crossed, sipping his scotch and watching them. Illya glared, of course, because easily sixty percent of Illya's emotions, he expressed as glares. He also drank, though, and as he drank, he relaxed.

A verbal proposition wouldn't work, of course. She knew Illya well enough to know that. But as Napoleon began a conversation about Spanish architecture, and as Illya worked to pretend he cared and knew enough to converse on such a topic, she sipped her drink and stroked his knee.

He jumped under her fingers at first, but after a drink, he relaxed. His legs fell open and he slumped, just a little, so that her head was almost level with his. She thought she might be able to kiss him soon when he looked at her sharply and said, "I notice you don't have any opinion on frescoes." He swirled the second drink Napoleon had gotten him, eying her with suspicion.

But Gaby had been ready for such a question. "Why would I? I'm a mechanic."

"You're a spy."

"Can a woman not be more than one thing?" she retorted. "I can fix a car, I can rebuild a car, I can make you a little mechanical bird to fly around your head. I'm also a spy."

Illya turned red again and opened his mouth, clearly to argue. He was curtailed by Napoleon's laugh. "It's not the best gambit, assuming she played you entirely false."

"You play everyone false," Illya snarled. "You're not one to judge."

"Maybe not." Napoleon toasted him.

Gaby crossed her arms. "And here I was about to kiss you."

That, of course, threw him off guard. "What?"

"You heard me."

"That - I -" He didn't manage to get another word out. He only stared at her.

"Would you prefer I tackle you again?"

"No!"

"Hmm." She took another sip. She was on her second drink as well, and she felt it in her flush, the tingle in her fingers. She wanted to touch someone - no. She wanted to touch them.

"That would be inappropriate," Illya said. But his eyes followed her tongue as she licked her lips.

"Plenty of things are inappropriate," Gaby said. She stabbed a finger in Napoleon's direction. "He's inappropriate."

Illya was still gaping at her when she leaned in to kiss him.

He was warm and softer than she expected, when not in a rage; he yielded to her immediately, sinking back into the couch.

She did not, however, magically become a soft woman because she'd kissed him. She only kissed gently for a moment, then bit his lip, a sharp nip that made him gasp.

Solo's chuckle startled them both. Gaby looked over at him and saw that he sprawled on the chair still, unapologetically aroused, watching them with open appreciation. "I told you," he said to Gaby.

Illya was inexperienced. Yes, she thought, looking back at him. Napoleon had been right about that. He glared at them both with unconcealed suspicion, as though he expected everything to be revealed as a trick at any minute.

Gaby stroked his cheek, then dug her nails in, just far enough to make him twitch. He met her gaze.

What she saw there disarmed her. He was being brave, of course. But she'd eat her hat if he'd been in this sort of situation before.

"He wants you," she said quietly. She scraped her fingernails along his jaw, then gently pressed her hand against his neck, just barely making his breath catch. "Do you want him as well?"

"It's not -"

"It's okay." She smiled a little and moved closer, until she was practically straddling him. "You're allowed to want, Illya."

His hands came up to rest on her hips. They were so goddamn huge, squeezing tightly enough that she'd likely have bruises. She could feel herself getting wetter, and rapidly gave into the impulse to rub against him as she kissed his neck.

"I want you," he said.

"Coward."

A spasm of his hips. Interesting. She kissed his ear. "He's gorgeous," she said. "Can you see how hard he is?"

Illya looked over her shoulder for just a second, nodded, then pressed his face into her chest. She let up just the tiniest bit, stroking his temple.

"It's okay," she said.

"God," he said, "God, I want, I want -" He broke off and muttered something she couldn't quite understand in Russian, and then grabbed her, tugging her down to kiss him again.

She wasn't surprised to feel Napoleon's hand on her back, smaller and cooler than Illya's. She was surprised when Illya looked up at Napoleon without a glare, and when he said, "You ought to feel her, too."

"Not here, I think," Napoleon said, which was how she ended up drawn down to the floor, kissing Illya as Napoleon got her off with his mouth.

He looked up at her, up at them, every few seconds - to gauge her reaction, she supposed, and to gauge Illya's interest. He pressed two fingers into her, then three, until she was so full, crooking them and driving them in as he rubbed her clit, making her fall apart with her arms wrapped around Illya.

She didn't realize until she'd calmed down a bit that she was clutching Illya's hand, and tightly at that. She clung that much tighter when she noticed.

Napoleon sat back and wiped his mouth, saying, "I think that's a good start, don't you?"

"A start," Gaby said, and twisted in Illya's arms, kicking her legs away from Napoleon to give herself the leverage to pull Illya down.

He was so damn large. He started when Napoleon put a hand on his back, but then said, "No, no, stay," when Napoleon started pulling away.

They tangled together after that. Gaby felt less impatient but somehow, still, even more desperate than before. She didn't miss that both Illya and Napoleon were a little hesitant to touch one another, just a little twitchy about the way they pressed together when they both began getting her off again. They'd get over it, she thought - or maybe they wouldn't; either way, she was determined to make this work. It was Napoleon who produced the condom, of course, Napoleon who tossed one to Illya and smiled and said he could do the honors. She kicked him for the disrespect, but God, she wanted Illya: Illya who let her climb on top, who fucked her hard when she asked him to, who watched with wide eyes as she sucked Napoleon off after.

Napoleon was courteous. Napoleon held himself back. A consequence of experience, she supposed. She pulled him down with them anyway, making sure to keep him close as they all passed into sleep.

-

She woke the next morning still on the floor, feeling more than a bit sluggish.

For one odd moment, she didn't remember a thing that had happened. Then she remembered all of it, in extensive detail. She smiled as she stretched, then opened her eyes to see Napoleon lying next to her.

He'd covered himself up with a blanket pulled from one of the beds, she noted, and somehow managed to look clean and bright-eyed. She felt more than a little fuzzy-headed, herself. "How long have you been awake?"

"Good morning to you, too."

She scowled at him, which of course only made him smile more. "You should look behind you."

She rolled over. Lying behind her, hugging a pillow and drooling into the carpet, was Illya.

"Darling, isn't he?" Napoleon said.

She craned her neck to look at him. He was smirking, and looking more than a little smarmy in that particular way he had. She wondered if he knew that she was perfectly aware that he meant it. He wasn't wrong, anyway. Illya was darling - particularly asleep, where one could comment on it without getting growled at.

Even as she moved, Illya grunted and reached out. His eyes were still closed, but when he found her waist, he pulled her closer to him and pressed his face into her neck, hand splayed on her stomach.

They must have made quite a picture. Napoleon stayed quiet, but he laughed at them with his eyes.

Illya chose that moment to wake up. First he went very still against Gaby; then he rolled away, onto his back.

"We are on the floor."

"Yes," Gaby said. She sat up. Without Illya behind her, the room was a bit too cool.

"We...last night."

"Yes." He was staring at the ceiling, so she leaned over him, putting her face in his line of sight. "Are you all right?"

He scowled. "Fine," he said, and dodged her, standing up. "I'm hungry."

"A normal condition, after our activities," Napoleon said. "Given the state of the room, shall we go out? There's a lovely spot down the street that serves very strong coffee."

It was kind of him, though Illya wouldn't recognize it as such. He was giving Illya some space to breathe. Gaby took his cue, wiping herself down and getting dressed. By the time she'd finished her makeup, Illya was dressed as well, hands jammed in his pockets and hat pulled low on his head.

"This way," Napoleon said, and ushered them out of the room.

It had occurred to her, of course, that conversation might be awkward the morning after. She'd slept with more than one person who'd regretted it the next day. This morning was a bit more awkward than those, though, because Illya didn't regret it. Oh, he wasn't happily post-coital like Gaby, or smugly certain of his own prowess like Napoleon. As they all sipped coffee and Illya avoided their gazes, it became obvious that he was deeply, deeply embarrassed. But it was equally obvious that he wanted to do it again. His looks at both of them held new knowledge, and new want that he hadn't yet learned to conceal. She'd need to tell him, at some point, that their actions were nothing to be embarrassed about. She'd certainly enjoyed herself.

And he was cute while he slept, though she wasn't foolish enough to think she could get away with telling him so.

"It's a beautiful day," she said after they'd been brought their food.

Illya started when she spoke, just barely managing not to spill his coffee. "Yes," he said, and glared down at his tostadas as though they'd done him an injury.

She'd need to change tactics. "It's a bit unfair, don't you think, how chipper Solo looks?"

He flinched. "We debauched each other. He's used to that."

Gaby looked to Napoleon for help, but he was squinting off into the distance. She sighed. "Illya. I enjoyed myself. You enjoyed yourself. Napoleon also enjoyed himself. So why are you so angry this time, exactly?"

She thought she knew why. He was attached, like she was, and didn't know how to say it. He might not even realize he could say it, really. Somehow, last night, she'd recklessly thought she could get the words out in the morning. How embarrassing it was to be proven wrong.

He looked away from her again. "No reason," he said, and she knew she wasn't getting any more out of him.

"I hate to interrupt such a heartfelt conversation," Napoleon said, "but we should leave now."

Gaby lifted a hand to signal for the waiter. Napoleon caught her wrist. A frisson of shock went through her, but that was nothing compared to the way he just barely nodded at the building across the way, on the far side of the park the cafe overlooked. "Sniper."

"God damn it. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wasn't sure," Napoleon said. "Now I am."

"Down," Illya barked, and threw himself at both of them, upsetting the table in the process.

He was fast enough that the bullets flew over them. Unfortunately, they hit the chandelier. It fell, and the fire was almost instant, engulfing the floorboards, the curtains, and spreading over Illya's jacket. "Damn it!" Gaby yelled as he shrugged out of it. "Illya -"

"Go, let's go!" Everyone was fleeing, and they joined the throng. Napoleon clutched Gaby's hand in a grip so tight she knew she'd be bruised. They made it off the patio and down the back alley, and it wasn't until they'd rounded a corner that Gaby realized Illya's hand was no longer braced on her back.

"Napoleon! Solo, stop!"

"No, we can't -" But he looked back and registered the problem instantly, stopping dead. "Damn it, where's the Russian?"

She thought fast. Shots that had hit the candles, that wouldn't have hit them even if they'd been sitting upright. Chaos on the patio. Fire that spread too quickly to lack an accelerant - though what could make fire do that, which was also invisible to sight and smell, was another question entirely.

A less important question, because Illya was gone.

"They took him," she said, and saw that Napoleon had come to the same conclusion.

"Well." His hair was mussed; her dress was singed. "That's unfortunate."

"My tracker's back at the hotel," Gaby said. "But he's wearing one."

Napoleon looked more than a little impressed. "When did you bug him?"

"Never mind that. Let's go. Now."

The walk back to the hotel, which had seemed annoyingly short when Gaby was hungry and mildly hungover, seemed to take an eon. They practically sprinted up the stairs. The tracker placed him ten miles west, comfortably outside the dense city center. "How in the world did they get him there that quickly?"

"He's not moving, at least."

"That just means they've imprisoned him." Or tortured him. Gaby gritted her teeth.

"He's a big lug, he can take it."

She looked at him then, ready to slap him for his disrespect. But he was upset; of course he was upset. His every muscle was tense, and reined-in panic showed on his face.

Right. She wasn't the only person capable of hiding things. "Let's go, then," she said. "He can take it, but I'd rather not deal with him having burned down half of Madrid."

"Agreed," he said. He was already looking past her - planning, she imagined. "Can you liberate us a car?"

"Can you?"

His smile, even with the sheen of panic, disarmed her. "You're the mechanic."

"I can," she said, and together they ran outside.

There were hardly any cars, but they found one down the street, old and with a window open. Gaby was ready to hop in when police approached them. "Excuse me," he said in heavily accented English, "but we received your description related to a disturbance at Cafe -"

"Not now," Gaby said, and tried to get into the car.

It was the wrong move. She looked over the policeman's shoulder to see Napoleon being patted down, smiling all the while. She made eye contact with him, and he nodded. The advice, or instruction, was clear: do what the police say.

It might, after all, be the police who'd taken Illya, too.

She inclined her head. "We'd be happy to speak with you."

"Good," the officer said. "Come with me."

The police took them to a station blocks away from their hotel, via a circuitous route that had Gaby enraged before it was half done. They were questioned separately, and the detective assigned to Gaby made it clear that they had very little information related to the attack. He questioned her as the minutes ticked into hours, and as her patience ran out.

The motivation, then, was obvious. "Who paid you to detain us?"

The detective, Roberto Velasquez, started shuffling his papers. "Pardon?"

She leaned forward. They hadn't restrained her, a fact she was certain they didn't expect her to take advantage of, not while more detectives observed through the glass. But she could, and would, intimidate. "I work for some very powerful people," she said. "More powerful, even, than Victoria. I helped blow her into the sky, and regardless of how she survived, I absolutely will do it again. Let me and my partner go. Now."

He stared at her. For a moment, her heart sank, and she assumed she'd failed. Then he said, "Very well," and stood.

She met Napoleon on the sidewalk. "We don't have time to search for another car," she said.

"We don't need to," he said, and ducked down an alley, using his jacket to break the window of the police car parked there.

She got into the driver's seat and hot-wired it, and they were off.

The drive didn't take long, but it was maddening, with congested roads that seemed designed to keep them from their quarry. Napoleon didn't speak even to offer comfort. Illya had better thank them, she thought, hitting the gas as hard as possible the moment she got an empty stretch of road.

"Slow down," Napoleon said as she approached a hulking cement structure. "Now...stop."

She stopped, directly outside the Hospital Nisa Pardo de Aravaca.

"Well," Napoleon said, looking up at the structure. "This complicates things."

She surveyed it. "Privately owned?"

"Most assuredly."

"By someone who wants to get at Illya."

"It seems likely."

She didn't need to ask why some foreign company would want Illya. He was a wanted man, after all - by deed, if not by name. He was a high-level operative in the KGB. Some people believed him to have unnatural physical powers. Of course they wanted him.

"They can't have him." Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

Napoleon reached over, then, gently unhooking her painfully tense fingers from the steering wheel. "We'll get him out," he said, as though it was as simple a task as ordering gazpacho. Illya had refused to try it, she remembered, calling it inferior borscht.

Damn it.

"Yes," she said, "we will."

The hospital, at least, didn't look particularly secure. It was only a small comfort. They'd need precision and careful observation to figure out where Illya's kidnappers were keeping him. It was easy enough to get in the door; Gaby leaned on Napoleon and complained of feminine pains, and loudly announced that they'd been trying to get pregnant. She and Napoleon were given a private room as soon as Napoleon made the request in flawless Spanish, sliding a small fortune in pesetas across the counter.

Of course, even in a private hospital, they still faced a long wait. It was the perfect time for reconnaissance. Napoleon produced a nurse's key he'd stolen and said, "We could check room by room. Unless I'm very much mistaken, this is a skeleton key."

"That would take hours."

"We probably don't have hours," Napoleon said, "you're correct about that. Do you have a better plan?"

"We check the basement."

"Any particular reason why?"

Gaby shrugged. "If it were me, that's where I'd lock someone up."

They stopped by a supply closet they'd passed on their way in and took two white coats. They didn't look remotely legitimate - at least, not until they got down to the second floor and Napoleon swiped them two badges. Provided no one looked too closely, they'd look a bit like they belonged.

Down one more floor, avoiding all the incoming traffic of new intake patients. It was harder on the first floor to find a stairwell, but Gaby had been working on figuring out the layout of the building for thirty minutes by then, and it was she who successfully let them into the access chute on the far end of the building.

Mystery disappeared when they reached the basement. It was replaced by a heavy metal door that said ALTO: AREA CLASIFICADO. Gaby didn't need to know Spanish to understand what it was telling her. "This is where we want to be."

"Evidently," Napoleon said, and dropped to his knees.

That he carried lock picks with him was not, Gaby thought, a surprise. That he cracked a four-inch-thick steel door's tumbler lock in less than a minute was fairly impressive. "After you," he said, stepping aside.

Gaby poked her head in, then motioned for Napoleon to follow, pulling her gun out of her purse as she did.

The classified area was bright and clean. In contrast to most of Spain, the bulbs in sconces on either side of the hallway shone brightly and without the faintest hint of a flicker. The walls themselves were smooth, some kind of polished stone; the floor was tiled and had a slight, comfortable give.

None of it comforted her. On the contrary, she felt the edge in her awareness that wasn't quite fright get that much sharper. Any facility this nice, in a newer building, was pulling in a lot of money. That spoke to much more dangerous interests than she'd hoped they were dealing with.

They moved silently. The skeleton key didn't work on the doors, which themselves had neither knobs nor latches. A pad next to the doors had clearly been positioned for some kind of access code, but Gaby was well aware of the foolishness of guessing. They'd need a person. Or an army.

But they didn't see a soul as they crept down the hallway. They came to its end entirely too quickly. Gaby looked from side to side. The doors had mirrored each other all the way down, but here, there was only smooth wall on each side.

She looked left, just in time to see the left light bulb in the wall sconce closest to the end of the hall flicker.

She moved to examine it, but Napoleon was faster. The sconce had been irregularly built. It wasn't molded to the wall, but set out a bit. Their hands overlapped as they tugged at it, and tangled together as they stepped back, out of the way of the lowering wall in front of them.

It didn't reveal a massive secret lab, or even some macabre cages full of experimented-upon subjects. All it revealed was a door: plain, wooden, with a smooth brass knob. Gaby glanced at Napoleon, who shrugged. "We need a person," he said, so quietly it was barely more than a breath.

They did at that. Without human guidance, they'd never find Illya. Gaby shrugged and kicked the door open, gun at the ready.

She saw Illya's face first. He was bruised and barely conscious. Then she saw the device he was wrapped in: wires and needles, straps and vices. Then she saw the gun Victoria had pointed at her head.

"Hello," Victoria said.

"Illya," Gaby said. He didn't so much as twitch.

"He's heavily drugged," Victoria said. "You didn't really think I could keep him here otherwise, did you?"

"You shot at me before," Gaby said.

Her expression stayed stony. She'd been pushed over the edge, Gaby realized. By their actions, by failure to begin with - it didn't matter. She couldn't be relied upon to act sensibly. "I did. And now it's too late for you to stop me."

"Not quite," Napoleon said from behind her.

Damn it. He could have run. Why didn't he run?

Victoria appeared to have the same thoughts, only she was pleased by them. "Don't move," she said, looking past Gaby to Napoleon. "I have a fascinating device I'd love to test." She nodded at the ceiling above them. Gaby saw the tiny articulated dart-shooter, its sight trained on Napoleon.

"Cyanide?" Napoleon said.

"You could always find out," Victoria said. Her thumb brushed her index finger. Ah: the ring triggered it. Clever.

Gaby felt ready to vomit.

"Put the gun down," Victoria said. "You won't get a killing shot in before I kill him."

Probably true. Gaby lowered her gun slowly, bending to the ground. She kicked it over to Victoria just a bit too quickly. Victoria didn't shoot, but her eyes followed the gun.

Gaby slipped a knife out of her expensive Italian boots and held it behind her back. In the moment before Victoria's gaze returned to them, Napoleon palmed it.

"You're both fools," Victoria said. "If I hadn't lived, someone else would have come after you. You make a distinctive set, you know, playing the European gadflies."

"Sure," Gaby said. "Why Illya?"

Victoria arched two perfectly plucked eyebrows. "Who better to test a device on than a man with more strength than three ordinary people?"

It wasn't particularly hard to pretend at shock, at disgust. "That's terrible."

"Yes," Victoria said, "but you see, when the world leans away from nuclear fission, when we become -"

The knife whistled past Gaby's ear and buried itself in Victoria's left eye. It was too small to do true damage, too small to kill from a throw - but in the moment where she screamed in agony, Gaby was there to take the gun from her and shoot her dead.

"Ah," Napoleon said. "Well."

"What?" Gaby whirled on him, still holding the gun. On impulse, she raised it and shot the cyanide device. Bits of it flew everywhere.

"No, no, that was good," Napoleon said. "Only, we've got to get him out of there somehow."

The gunshots hadn't woken Illya. How much sedative had Victoria used? Gaby tossed the gun to Napoleon and went to Illya's side. He was badly beaten, and his pulse so sluggish that for a horrible, panicked moment, she thought it wasn't there. Steel and leather both locked him down, and wires...

She felt sick just then, genuinely ill. Wires pierced his skin in at least a dozen places.

She really should have kept Victoria alive.

"Gaby." Napoleon spoke softly. She didn't look at him; she was afraid to look at him. "She was working with someone else. She wouldn't have known how to do this herself."

That he was right didn't make her any less frightened.

"You grew up around mechanics," Napoleon said. "You are, in fact, a mechanic yourself. You can fix this."

Ah. Yes. But - "This is -"

"Forget what it might or might not be," Napoleon said. "Get him out of there."

She still couldn't look at him, and she certainly couldn't look at Illya's inert face. Instead she focused on the device. Wires, yes, steel, yes, but what was it for? A single thick tube ran from the supports holding Illya up into the wall - no, she thought, going over to inspect it. This part of the room wasn't a wall. It was an enormous humming...generator.

"Kinetic energy," she muttered. Torture with a salable byproduct. Turning a human being into a kind of battery.

She could fix this. She shrugged out of the stolen doctor's coat and got to work.

That Illya's body lay inert under her fingers was horrifying, but the machine around him was only a machine. It drew power from Illya and was controlled by a panel near where she'd killed Victoria. She didn't touch the panel for longer than it took to sever its connection to the machine that held Illya in its grip. Then she went about unwinding the wires, unhooking gears, and generally disassembling it, until the last wire was out of Illya's arm and she and Napoleon could lift him.

"Nice work," Napoleon said softly.

"Putting things back together is a lot harder," Gaby said. "Luckily, that's not a concern here."

Between them, Illya started. His head came up and he slurred, "I'll give you nothing." As suddenly, he fell unconscious again.

"Let's get him out of here," Napoleon said. "I don't want to be anywhere non-secure when he wakes up for real."

She understood the implication, and agreed to some extent. Illya would be dangerous. They walked slowly, together, down the basement hall.

Getting him up the stairs was a bit of a logistical challenge, but they managed. Rather than attempting to sneak out, they left through the alarm-rigged exist in the first floor stairwell. By the time people began evacuating, Gaby was speeding down the road back towards their hotel.

Presumably the danger was gone, but of course she wasn't ready to bet on that. She kept an eye out for any potential tails all the way until they'd laid Illya on the bed. After that, all they could do was wait for him to wake up.

"I wonder," Napoleon said, standing and staring down at Illya's body, "what they'll think when they find her."

"Victoria?" Gaby shrugged. "Whoever was paying her bills can't be surprised someone wanted to kill her."

"Naturally," Napoleon said, "but no one should have been able to escape that trap."

Gaby looked between them. Napoleon's expression as he looked down at Illya was unreadable, like he was wearing the mask of a very handsome, very detached man. His arms lay slack at his sides, but his right hand twitched a little, like he wanted to reach out and wouldn't allow himself to do so.

"He's going to be okay," Gaby said. "He has good people on his side."

Napoleon smiled, just a bit. "I'm on my own side."

"Don't give me that shit."

If he was surprised by her language, he didn't show it. "The truth?"

"Shit," Gaby said again. She lowered her voice when Illya twitched, his brow furrowing. "You'd die for either of us."

"It's part of my job."

"Is fucking us part of your job, too?"

His expression shifted into placating smoothness, like she was a fling who'd just caught him with another woman. It was not, Gaby thought somewhat uncharitably, a good look for him. "Gaby. Stresses while working -"

"Don't you dare. Do not."

She wasn't even sure what she meant - don't you dare argue, perhaps, or don't you dare pretend not to care. He clearly did, but he was also an idiot. He opened his mouth to argue anyway, but then Illya's eyes flicked open.

He didn't panic, which was impressive. His hands clutched the sheets and pressed hard into the mattress, as though to establish that he wasn't strapped into that terrible contraption anymore. He looked between them, eyes wide.

"Ah, here," Napoleon said, and offered Illya a glass of water, moving so hastily he almost sloshed it.

Ilya sat up a bit and sipped it, then said in a hoarse voice, "Victoria?"

"Gone," Gaby said. "Shot."

"By Gaby," Napoleon said. "You owe her a great debt of thanks."

Gaby shot him a dirty look. "Napoleon helped as well."

"I'm tired." Illya leaned back into the pillows. "Stop fighting."

Napoleon didn't look like he had a scrap of guilt. He did, however, take the water from Illya's trembling hand, and say, "You're very luck you're the size of three normal men. She'd have killed you otherwise."

"She needed me alive." It was hard to understand him, tired as he was, garbled as his accent was. "She wanted Gaby." His hands twitched again. "I gave her nothing."

"Of course you didn't," Gaby said. "You're the best agent the KGB has." In spite of herself, her voice caught on the last word.

Napoleon didn't say anything a muscle in his cheek jumped as he stared down at Illya.

She was not, admittedly, particularly surprised that he possessed all the nursing skills of a porcupine. She reached out on her own, touching Illya's brow. For a bare second he shied away from her before allowing her to smooth his errant hair back.

"Are you hungry?" she said. "Can I get you anything?"

"She only had me for a little while," Illya said. "I'm fine."

She knew the anger that rose in her was inappropriate, and that expressing it wouldn't help anything. He was traumatized and hurt. He wanted to sleep. All of that was eminently understandable.

Still, the anger raced down her spine, heated her cheeks. "I'll be right back," she said, and let herself out into the hallway, sparing a bitter moment to remind herself to berate Waverly for booking them a room that couldn't even pretend to be a suite.

The door clicked after a moment, and Napoleon stepped into the hallway. "Go away, Solo."

"Illya fell asleep the moment you left his sight," Napoleon said. "I felt as though my bedside manner was wasted with him."

"And you think it will do you good here?"

"I think you're the prickliest person I've ever met," Napoleon said, "and I think you'd rather slap him again than admit what you're feeling."

"You're one to talk," she said. But he was right, of course.

"Detachment is a benefit to my industry," Napoleon said. "Admittedly, I find it's gotten in the way lately."

"Just say what you mean," she said, throwing up her hands, "not any of this -"

He kissed her.

Unlike last time, he wasn't smooth. He didn't hold himself back, didn't smile into the kiss and stroke her neck with the sort of practice that told her all he had to do was mentally adjust for a slightly different frame. This kiss was desperate, the sort of clumsy-with-feeling action she'd thought - worried - he was incapable of.

The door behind them clicked, and Napoleon stepped back. But it was too late, of course. Gaby's lipstick was smeared, and Napoleon's cheeks were flushed. Illya - exhausted, leaning on the door frame, but aware all the same - took in both details, then narrowed his eyes.

"I see," he said.

"You really don't," Gaby said.

"No. It's fine. Solo can rent you a room." Illya met Napoleon's gaze, and if his voice was relatively calm, his eyes promised murder.

Gaby would have absolutely none of that. "Get inside," she said, smacking him on the chest.

"Gaby -"

"I can have Waverly on the phone in five minutes, and he'll give me permission to fly you to London, where he'll train you on interpersonal relations for two weeks. Unless you want an elderly British man telling you about British-universal rules of comportment, get inside."

"That's a very specific threat," Napoleon said from behind her.

She turned to glare at him. "You too."

"I'm not scared of Waverly," Illya said, but he let himself be herded inside. He was wrapped in a blanket, Gaby belatedly realized, and looked more than a little ridiculous. Hopefully whatever Victoria had put in his system wouldn't prevent him from remembering this in the morning. She didn't intend to say it twice.

"Sit," she directed them. They moved to sit on opposite couches. "No. Sit next to each other."

They did so, both glancing at the other uneasily.

She looked at Illya. "I didn't lie to you."

"Yes you did. You hid your status as a British agent. That counts as lying."

She just barely managed not to roll her eyes. "Okay, fine, I lied to you. But when I told you I was scared, I was scared. When I wanted to dance -"

"You'd had a lot of vodka."

"I. Was. Scared," she said, glaring at him. "Also, I wanted to dance."

"To dance undercover? To dance to forget the fear?"

"I spent a long time behind the iron curtain," she said, "so, yes, I was afraid. I wanted to dance with you. Idiot."

He'd been shaking, as he always did when given some offense - no, that was unfair. Mostly he shook when he thought he was being rejected. Now, she stepped forward enough to grab his chin and tilt his head up so he was looking at her straight on. "I wanted to dance with you," she said again, "because you fascinated me, and because we had an entire room to ourselves."

He didn't respond. He did keep looking up at her, blue eyes just a little wider than normal.

She saw the moment Napoleon began shifting, the moment he decided Illya's sobering up and Gaby's yelling inherently excluded him. "Don't move," she snapped, glaring at him.

He froze.

"You're an idiot too," she said. "You kissed me because you're scared just now. Admit it."

He looked over at Illya. "I -"

"You want both of us," Gaby said. "But you're all wrapped up in that American ladies' man bullshit."

"It's not -"

"Bullshit," she repeated more loudly.

"I will admit, I have hesitated," Napoleon said. "For various reasons. Including emotional attachment."

God, he sounded like some sad screenwriter's idea of a robot. "Good," Gaby said. "Now that we've established you're both idiots, I'm going to bed." She whirled on her heel and stomped into the bathroom.

When she'd completed her toilette and settled down so that she was no longer on the cusp of actual violent anger, she went back into their room. She expected to see Illya and Napoleon pointedly ignoring each other. Instead, Illya was lying in his bed again, and Napoleon was on top of him, and they were kissing.

It was a beautiful image, moreso because Illya had his arms around Napoleon, and for once, Napoleon didn't seem to be pretending he wasn't interested. She almost hated to interrupt.

Almost.

"Have you decided to join us, then?" she said to Napoleon. "When we haven't been drinking, I mean."

He smiled at her. It almost looked honest. "Who says I haven't been drinking?"

"Answer the question."

"Gaby," Illya said. "This is the sensible thing to do. His turn to be sensible."

She looked at him for a long moment, during which he gave up nothing. Then she looked at Napoleon. "Solo?"

He shrugged. "Neither of us, I think, wants to lose you. It's useful having a woman around."

She was about to snap at him when Illya smacked his head. "Say the right thing!"

Napoleon grimaced - a genuine, unattractive grimace. His suit was wrinkled, too, Gaby realized, and his hair was mussed. "Fine," he said. "The truth is, we'd like you to stay, Gaby."

It was hardly a flowery declaration. Illya didn't even add anything to it; he only sat there like a large, blushing lump. But then, Gaby had never been one for grand declarations. She liked action: a motor working as it should, a favor returned in a timely fashion. And Illya and Napoleon, lying there in admittedly awkward positions, asking her to trust them.

The joke was on them. She already did.

She waited, keeping her expression blank, long enough for both of them to begin looking distinctly nervous. Then she raised her eyebrows. "You'd better make some room for me, then."

They shifted, making space between them. She half wanted to protest, but then what was the point of all this if she tried to hold herself on the outside? Solo was already doing that enough for all three of them. It wouldn't do.

So she lay down between them, and turned so that she faced Napoleon. Illya stroked her shoulder and kissed her neck, and she let Napoleon see her shudder, her nipples tightening.

"You're not getting away from us," she told him, just a bit breathily. She knew he wanted no declarations, but she wanted no more misunderstandings.

"It's more appealing than some other sentences," he said.

A lukewarm sentiment at best, but then he leaned forward and kissed her, his hand covering Illya's on her shoulder. He kissed wonderfully, pressed tightly against her, his cock rubbing her hip, his hand cupping her face. When she pulled away, she met his eyes long enough to see a bit of fear there. He probably thought he'd hidden it, but she was no CIA fool; it was very clear to her. It was enough to make her lie back, cradled in Illya's arms, and tug his hair, saying, "Do your job, American."

He laughed outright at that, but did as she said. He kissed her breasts and rubbed a hand between her thighs. She didn't bother hiding the way her breath caught, even though he was being too gentle, too careful.

Before she could tell him so, Illya said, "You ought to fuck her harder."

The words sounded clumsy coming from him - clumsy, and almost unbearably attractive. Napoleon evidently thought so too, if the way he stiffened and looked up at them was any indication. "Pardon?"

Illya shifted enough to cup her breasts, pinching her nipples. It was a signal, and she obeyed it, pressing herself against Napoleon until he slid his fingers inside, then fucking herself on him, roughly, until he joined in too. "Like this," she said, and reached up, twisting to kiss Illya, crying out as Napoleon curled his fingers.

She was the one who put her fingers on her clit, though, the one who pressed hard, moving faster and faster until she was coming in both their arms. God, there was so much of them that it was almost insulting, but it worked when it meant she was touched everywhere, when she came over and over with hands on her and in her, with Napoleon kissing her, with Illya biting her shoulder.

At the end of it, she could barely move. She rolled to the side, laughing as Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Kissing in private was one thing, apparently; being left to each other while Gaby lounged was different.

"Take care of him," she told Napoleon. "You're the one who told me."

"Told you what?" Illya said, but of course she didn't answer. Let it be a mystery.

He was awkward, of course, but that almost made it a better picture. Napoleon had to take it slowly, had to be gentle. He used his mouth on Illya, too, and then Illya got defensive and returned the favor - a bit of a comical sight, Gaby thought, until she realized that Illya was ready to go again just from having gotten Napoleon off. In the end they traded, over and over, until they were all three so exhausted that the bed didn't seem to small to share.

It was, Gaby thought as she stretched in the sunshine the next morning, a very promising beginning.

-

They gave the mission report together, with Gaby and Illya sitting in chairs in front of Waverly, and Napoleon leaning against the wall. It was a bit unfair, Gaby thought. From here, Napoleon could entirely avoid Waverly's somewhat tired, very British consternation.

"I'm sorry, I want to run through this one more time. You say Agent Kuryakin was kidnapped?"

Gaby nodded. "For a very brief period of time."

Waverly eyed Illya. "And how exactly did they move you?"

"I was unconscious," Illya said.

"And then attached to a, ah, battery."

"A complex mechanism," Gaby said. "I'd never seen anything like it."

"And you disassembled the battery."

"Yes."

Waverly glanced up at Solo. "And you bugged Agent Kuryakin to begin with."

Napoleon inclined his head. "And helped in the hospital break-in."

"Where you proceeded to shoot Victoria, a multimillionaire who was presumed dead, dead."

"Technically, I shot her," Gaby said.

"Right." Waverly looked down at the paper. "Of course."

"Anything else?"

"No, nothing at all," he said. "I trust you enjoyed the remainder of your vacation?"

Gaby smiled. "Very much."

"Of course." Waverly closed the file. "Dead, villainous shipping magnates aside,, we've had several reports of a mechanism similar to the one Agent Kuryakin was found in - in Rome, in Kyoto, and in Hawaii. The latter is, of course, the most interesting, given its US military presence."

"You're sending us to Hawaii," Napoleon said.

"I'm sending you to Hawaii."

Gaby looked at Illya, and together they looked at Napoleon. Even Illya smiled a bit.

Gaby turned back to Waverly. "When do we leave?"