We Could Lie and Call it a Game
It’s no different in London where they wait out their next mission, Gaby and Illya have taken up a small bit of domesticity, spending their last few hours in her flat. Napoleon has bugged it and so has Illya. Gaby probably knows the latter, if she knew the former he would have a cherry red hand print across his face.
“You don’t think he knows do you?” Gaby’s breathless tone comes through the bug in a burst of static. Napoleon smirks against the rim of his glass before letting his head fall back against the wall, waiting for Illya to reassure her — waiting for their kissing to resume.
“Of course not,” Illya’s voice is gruff, thick with his accent and then she does something that makes his breath catch.