You're my favourite pretend fiancé.
The words echoed through his head as he lay motionless in bed. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to make much out in the dark. He tried to visualize the patterned plaster from memory.
She hadn't smiled as she said it, she'd almost seemed shocked by her own words. He knew he had probably mirrored her expression.
Him? Her favourite?
It should have been a silly comment, easily dismissed. But Illya mulled over the words all through the night.
____
Solo was enjoying an espresso on the balcony when he heard a knock at his door. "Coming," he called out, cinching his overpriced robe a bit more tightly around his middle. He sauntered through the luxurious room to open the door to a foreboding Russian.
"Peril! Just in time. Join me for an espresso," he exclaimed in a practiced cheerfulness. Was the man ever genuine? The taller man shook his head disdainfully before he followed his counterpart.
"You know why I am here?," the strongly accented voice rumbled. Solo smirked but didn't reply immediately, continuing his task of pouring a second cup of the devastatingly delicious beverage. It had ruined him for any other coffee substance, and he wondered what Kuryakin would think of it. Passing him the steaming drink, he let the pause continue a moment.
"Well, I have been making a study of the different scowls to be found on that face of yours. Its a pity, really, a smile would vastly improve your features, Peril." There was a grunt in response and Napoleon bit back a smile of his own. "The furrow of your brow suggests you aren't just angry at life in general, as you tend to be. Your eyes are an especially charming shade of red today - what is it I'm thinking of, Soviet Scarlet? It's a lovely colour on you - so I'm assuming it has to do with someone you care about. As I haven't insulted your mother recently, I'm guessing you're upset about Gaby being my fiancée now."
"It is not real engagement," Illya snapped, and the American spy chuckled, leading only to more fury. "I'm warning you, Solo -"
"What, no Cowboy? You wound me, Peril." Napoleon smiled, letting his cocky façade lessen slightly. "You should really try that, you know, it's delicious."
Illya glowered over the rim of the cup as he took a sip. His partner grinned as the angry face faltered slightly. "Good, no? Listen, Peril, we both know I'm not exactly a team player. None of us are. But I'd like to think we've reached an understanding of sorts. You saved me from the chair, I saved you from drowning -" Napoleon elected to ignore the scoff Illya let out - "and we both saved our dear little Gaby. We're not a team, but we aren't exactly mortal enemies anymore, are we? Or did the ceremonial scotch and bonfire mean nothing to you?"
The Russian rolled his eyes at the pout on Solo's face and took another tentative sip of his java. "Don't forget Gaby saves too," Ilya pointed out, following the comment with a heavy pause. "She is not a toy for you," he muttered. "I know your ways, Cowboy."
"I would never hurt her, Kuryakin." The softness of the words startled him, and he looked up quickly to meet Napoleon's eyes. "I'm a thief, not a monster."
____
Illya left the room no less brooding than before. A part of him knew that Cowboy would never intentionally harm Gaby. It was like he said, he's a thief, not a monster.
But that was just it, wasn't it? The American was an art fanatic, a reveler in all things beautiful. And in Illya's mind there was nothing so beautiful as his ex-pretend-fiancée. The most exquisite work of art he'd ever encountered.
I'm a thief, not a monster.
He knew that.
But when a charming thief comes along, what's to keep a masterpiece with a monster?
A/N: Please read and review! I am so glad to have someone appreciate this little musing of mine. I thought of the idea idly one night as I was drifting off, and thought I'd try my hand at the spy story. Hopefully it's not too angsty haha.
Love and peace!
-FF
