Work Text:
In the kitchen, in the morning, first day off after a mission that had beaten them into the ground. Gaby is the first one up, and she smiles into her coffee as Napoleon staggers into the room with his hair all askew, pajama shirt mostly unbuttoned and falling off his handsome shoulders. Gaby keeps her lovers in blue pajamas — flannel for the cold, silk for the heat. It complements both of their eyes very nicely.
“Morning,” says Napoleon, gravelly with the vestiges of exhaustion. Gaby nods at him and pushes a bowl of cafe au lait to him across the table.
Right now, Napoleon looks as soft as the flannel he’s wearing. It’s spring, and so of course they chose to have their time off in Paris. It’s so beautiful this time of year. The windows in their little safe house, a flat in the Quartier Latin, are thrown open for the birdsong and bustle of the city.
“What shall we do today?” he asks.
“Ask Illyushka when he wakes up,” says Gaby. She knows what his answer will be, of course, but it’s fun to let her boys think they came up with the plans themselves.
Napoleon says “Mmh” like a sleepy cat and slumps into the chair across from Gaby. With his shirt unbuttoned like this, Gaby can see the rainbow of bruises across his chest, as well as the edge of a bandage. Gott sei Dank, it was only a scratch. She leans forward to kiss him on the line of his brow, and he smiles.
Illya comes into the kitchen next, still wearing his blue flannel pajamas. His hair is wet and combed, and his eyes are alert. Gaby does not let this fool her. It takes him three tries to successfully snag the correct sugar cube with the sugar tongs, and at the splash of the sugar into his coffee, he starts like a deer that has been poorly trained to suppress its reactions. His beautiful lips tremble with a suppressed yawn.
Gaby says, “Good morning, Illya darling.”
He grunts something back at her and sits at the table beside Napoleon. Napoleon drapes himself over the Illya next to him, then says, “So, what shall we do today?”
“We discussed this on plane,” says Illya. His voice is still hoarse, it seems, from all the screaming he had to do during the mission. “Shopping.”
Gaby smiles.
“Shopping?” Napoleon pulls back, fond surprise playing on his features. “That seems more like something I would say. I surely thought you would’ve said axe throwing or, I don’t know, watching a chess tournament.”
“No point in watching chess. I play it. I like shopping.”
“I know you do, I just thought. Never mind.” Napoleon looks at Gaby, and she smiles back. It’s true — this is an odd suggestion coming from Illya. He never suggests leisure activities that he actually enjoys. It would seem strange and masochistic to Gaby had she not also grown up behind the Iron Curtain. Rather than give in to enjoyment and possibility, people like them prefer to walk circles around their passions, to let others speak so that they may agree. It feels more like love, somehow, when the suggestion comes first from Napoleon’s gentle mouth.
Still, today, they have a plan.
Illya looks at Napoleon, his eyes grey and warm. “Shopping.”
Napoleon grins, pushes a hand through his messy hair, the curls not yet combed straight for the day. “Yes, alright. Let’s get dressed.”
Gaby nods, finishing her coffee. What shall she wear today? Something extravagant, surely. She knows what Illya will be wearing. It would be nice to match.
***
She decides on the sleeveless yellow minidress with the Mandarin collar. It has white piping on the hems and pockets, and she pairs it with a white-and-brown silk scarf around her neck, amber circle earrings, and her white sunglasses. Her white tights and chocolate-colored kitten heels complete the look.
Illya has also dressed up, and he matches her quite nicely, especially considering that he’s taken her arm as they stroll down towards the shopping district. He’s wearing a butter-yellow shirt tucked into brown trousers, which go with his brown flat cap. He wears a warm grey sweater vest overtop, his sunglasses hooked into the collar. She loves the look on him — it makes him look golden.
If Illya is golden, then Napoleon is all silver, sleek and respectable. He contrasts them in a deep blue suit with a blue and green striped tie. His waistcoat is grey, grey like Illya’s eyes, Gaby knows. Holding her other arm, he looks like such a gentleman. “Where first?” he asks, his voice smooth.
“There’s a dress shop that Waverly recommended to me,” says Gaby. “Perhaps there?”
“Here first,” says Illya, pulling them under the awning of a little jewelry boutique. “Lunch after, then the dress shop.” He gives Gaby a significant look.
Of course. Though he is completely unsubtle, he is right for stalling them a little. Better to do it later so Napoleon doesn’t get suspicious. She glances at Napoleon to gauge his reaction.
Napoleon appears faintly bemused. “Whatever you’d like, my dear. You suggested it.”
***
After a brief argument about cufflinks — “Cowboy. You cannot think that gold goes with black leather. Gold must always be with brown.” “On the contrary, Peril, I would argue that gold, being a classic metal, goes with everything!” — and a long, leisurely lunch at an open-air café, they are on their way to the dress shop. Both her men have their sunglasses on, but she keeps hers perched on her head, so that everyone may see the masterful eyeliner that Napoleon gave her this morning. He, being a longtime pickpocket and safe cracker, has dependably steady hands.
“What are you looking to buy?” he asks.
Gaby does not look at Illya, for if she does, he will give them away. “Some dresses for summer. Perhaps some other things, but we may have to go to another shop for that.”
On her arm, Illya snorts. She pays him no mind and instead turns to Napoleon to hear him say, “That sounds wonderful. If I may, I would love to see you in one of those marble prints that they have coming out. It would look daring, that’s for sure. Very mod, very New York.”
“I’m sure,” says Gaby. “I am looking for something more classic today.”
“Classic is nice,” says Illya.
***
Classic is nice indeed.
Beyond the door of the dress shop is a little vestibule. In the vestibule, there is a small desk, on which a young man dressed in a pinstripe suit is sleeping. The walls are fashioned from rich black velvet curtains, and Gaby can’t see the gap through.
Napoleon stops short as soon as he’s entered. “What’s this?” he asks, confusion playing on his features.
Gaby smiles, the small twist of her lips that Napoleon likes to call mysterious. “You’ll see.”
She strides to the desk, rapping her elegant white-painted fingernails on the wood. The young man starts awake and straightens up, saying, “Yes? Yes, hello?” in a voice still hazy with sleep.
Gaby says, “I have an appointment with Dorothy.” Dorothy as in Judy Garland, of course. Behind her, she can hear Napoleon whisper something to Illya, and Illya’s rumbling response. You will find out soon. Be patient.
“Of course,” says the young man. Gaby smiles at the line of kohl under his eyes. “The tailor will see you now.” He tugs at the curtain, revealing a triangle of light.
Gaby turns to look at her boys. Illya is smiling outright, anticipation sparkling in his eyes. Napoleon, clinging to him, looks incredibly lost, yet there’s a hint of anticipation in his face as well. She offers her hand to him, and he takes it. The three of them step through the gap in the curtains together.
The walls are lined in color. Bolts and drapes of fabric, a vase of feathers on a little side table, flowers everywhere lit by the innumerable lamps, filling the room with a quasi-daylight. In the center stands a raised plinth with a catwalk behind it extending to another velvet curtain.
“Oh,” says Napoleon, just now seeming to understand. “Illya?”
Illya shakes his head, cheeks faintly pink. “Not for me. For you.”
“For me?” His eyes shine. “Really?”
Gaby takes his hand and grins. “It’s already done, too. We just have to see you in it, make final arrangements.”
The curtain rustles and the tailor steps out onto the catwalk. “It’s done already,” the tailor calls, and Gaby nods.
“Go with the tailor,” she says to Napoleon.
He suddenly seems too large, too sharp, too blue for the riotous room. “Alone?”
“We are waiting here,” says Illya. “Go.”
He takes a deep breath, and nods, and steps up onto the plinth.
***
“Here,” says the tailor, handing a paper-wrapped package to Gaby where she sits waiting on one of the low couches. “While he’s changing. I supposed you might prefer him to try it on at home.”
“Thank you,” says Gaby. Across the room, Illya turns from his inspection of a bolt of chiffon.
“Is it done also?”
The tailor nods. “Finest lace, sized perfectly, dove-blue.”
“Thank you,” says Gaby again, and peels back the edge of the package, nearly breathless. She runs a finger over the elegant lace beneath.
Napoleon. In lingerie. Oh, just picturing it makes her dizzy.
Illya comes up to her, takes her face in his big hands. “Waiting is torture, is it not?”
“But worth it in the end.”
***
“Are you ready to see him?” asks the tailor, and then Napoleon steps out onto the catwalk, walking down to the plinth, then off of that and across the floor to Illya.
He is … stunning. Stunning.
His skin looks tan and warm surrounded by layers of geranium and blush pink. It’s a classic cut — A-line, a ball gown with a gentle sweetheart neckline that sweeps along the line of his chest to curve around his broad shoulders. Gaby marvels at the sight of them on display. He is as sharp as always, but this time less like a knife and more like a gemstone.
“Beautiful,” murmurs Illya, his hands coming up to cradle Napoleon’s waist. The waistband of the dress highlights it, transforming it into something dainty before sweeping down into elegant ruffles. He looks like a rose.
“You think so?” Napoleon’s voice is rough. Illya nods, pulling Napoleon in for a kiss and Napoleon’s arms go up around Illya’s neck and he lifts onto his toes even though he doesn’t really need to, even though they are so close in height.
Oh. Oh, oh. Gaby remembers this, this feeling, this wonder, this delight. The first time she wore a dress was like a revelation — like the kiss of spring. She sees it now in Napoleon’s face, the wonder blooming on his cheeks and in his eyes as he pulls away.
He’s crying.
“Oh, Napoleon,” says Gaby. She steps forward herself, feeling the silk of his dress smooth against her tights.
“Gaby,” says Napoleon, his voice like crushed velvet. “Can we take it home?”
And with that, her heart and her resolve shatter into a million pieces, and she throws herself into him with a perfect ferocity. “Of course,” she says, her mouth muffled against his beautiful shoulder. “Let’s go home and we’ll show you the rest of it.”