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In front of a garish mansion, Somewhere in Panama, Napoleon narrowly misses the shot he takes at the last THRUSH goon of the day. The goon continues to run towards Illya. That means Illya has to dive after his own gun, kicked away from him a moment earlier by another thug. By that point the man is already looming over Illya, but Illya manages to hit him with two sleep darts just in time.
This is how Illya knows he has less than an hour to get his partner back to their hotel room and into bed.
The affair is practically finished, so Illya walks up to Napoleon, who stands blinking rapidly in the evening sunshine. Napoleon looks like he’s trying and failing to focus his eyes on the thrushie now snoring on the ground. Illya takes Napoleon by the elbow and starts to march him towards the car.
“Can you see where we’re walking at all, Napoleon?”
Napoleon nods, but scrunches up his eyes and leans lightly into Illya’s touch. “It’s just a flicker for now, but it’s already becoming hard to look at anything for long. And it’s spreading.”
They have been through this maybe eight times in total over the years, so Illya doesn’t ask what it is.
Napoleon manages to get in the car unassisted, but he leans against the window and keeps his eyes closed as Illya starts the engine.
It has been a hot and sunny day throughout Central America, which can’t help Napoleon’s current condition.
“Do you want to wear these?” Illya takes off his sunglasses and offers them to Napoleon.
Napoleon cracks one eye open and sneaks a look at the glasses. “Isn’t it better that you keep them? You’re the one driving.”
Illya’s eyes are actually quite sensitive to sunlight, that is why he tends to have sunglasses on him even if Napoleon doesn’t. “I’ll be all right without them. Go on, Napoleon.”
Napoleon takes the glasses with only a little noise of complaint. Illya drives as fast as he legally can. This will get unnecessarily complicated if they are stopped for a traffic violation.
“Sorry for leaving that last crook for you to handle,” Napoleon offers out of the blue after they have been silent for a while. “It’s lucky you’re so fast.”
“Don’t mention it,” Illya insists. “There’s a reason there are two of us.”
In normal circumstances, he would have said something mildly sarcastic about Napoleon leaving him to fend for himself, again. But the usual banter is put on a shelf whenever one of them is feeling genuinely poorly, at least for a while. It’s just considerate.
Napoleon sighs. By now, the flickering ball in his eyes must have grown into a translucent, pulsating tree or maybe a waterfall shape, obfuscating most of what Napoleon should be able to see behind it. That’s how he has described it to Illya previously, anyway. As Napoleon is even quieter than he usually is during one of his attacks, his ears might also be ringing.
“Any pain yet?” Illya enquires. He had aspirin in a jacket pocket, but said jacket and pocket are in New York and they are somewhere in the outskirts of Panama City. Hopefully Napoleon won’t suffer too much until they reach the hotel.
“Not exactly. There is a tingling on my scalp though, that sometimes comes before the pain.” Napoleon shifts restlessly in his seat, as if he’s trying to search for a comfortable position and not quite succeeding.
“Are you feeling nauseous?” Illya suddenly remembers. This is the first time he has bundled Napoleon straight into a vehicle after his aura symptoms have started. The cleaning of the car would surely come out of their salaries. “You’ll tell me if you need to be sick, won’t you?”
“I’m not going to throw up in the car, Illya,” Napoleon says, voice strangled but with a touch of indignation. He lifts the sunglasses to his forehead and opens his eyes a peep. “My sight is getting back to normal, though.”
“The pain will start soon then?”
Napoleon grimaces and turns away from Illya. “Yep.”
Illya has to make Napoleon open his communicator and hold it in front of Illya’s face. Illya informs the local police chief, a firm UNCLE ally provided with fancy communication devices to go with it, that some snoring never-do-wells can be picked up where Illya and Napoleon left them. And that the agents will unfortunately be engaged in another important task until morning and can’t come along to assist. Illya almost hears Napoleon roll his eyes under Illya’s sunglasses, but he doesn’t protest out loud.
In the hotel parking lot, Napoleon walks unaided but doesn’t look the picture of health by any standards. His complexion has gained a greyish tint.
Upon entering reception, Illya must naturally do the talking. “Good evening to you,” he nods briskly at a polite young receptionist. “My friend here unfortunately suffers from the occasional migraine headache. You wouldn’t possibly have any aspirin for him to take?”
The receptionist leaves for a moment and returns soon, giving them two aspirins out of a half-full tin. “Here. Could I get you gentlemen anything else?”
“Just the opportunity to rest in peace and quiet for a couple of hours.” Napoleon attempts to flash his default radiant smile, but the warmth never quite reaches his eyes when he is like this. He would never complain in front of hotel staff, but Illya is certain he must be very uncomfortable by now.
“Actually, could we also have a bucket, just in case?” Illya asks and feels Napoleon radiate disapproval at his side. But never mind Napoleon’s feelings on the matter. Illya is the one who would deal with sick on the floor, and he’d prefer for that not to happen tonight.
--
When they enter the room, Illya rushes to the window and starts drawing curtains without a word exchanged between them. While the room darkens, Napoleon gets himself a glass of water for the aspirins. After taking the pills, he lies down on his bed, covering his eyes with a hand. Illya plonks the bucket on the floor next to Napoleon’s bed and gives his partner a quick tap on the chest.
“Napoleon, you’re very overdressed for that.”
“Must we?” Napoleon complains and turns his head away from Illya. “Holy smoke, my head is pounding already.”
It sounds like the aspirin came too late, which was perfectly likely. Napoleon will be out of action for at least the rest of the evening. Time for damage control, then.
“If you keep lying there in your suit, it will get wrinkled,” Illya reminds Napoleon in his most paternal voice. “Then, once you feel better, you’ll be displeased with me for not insisting you remove it.”
“That doesn’t sound like me, Illya.”
“We’re not going to discuss this any further, I’m undressing you,” Illya says, and pulls a groaning Napoleon back into a sitting position.
Napoleon lifts his arms so Illya can remove his jacket, then Napoleon unties his tie in silence and hands it over. His shirt he takes off after opening only the two top buttons, pulling it over his head. Exhausted from this accomplishment, Napoleon falls back down onto the bed.
“Trousers, Napoleon.”
“I have no idea what you mean by that,” Napoleon says in his most annoying voice. He likes to be difficult sometimes when Illya uses British vocabulary out of old habit. And difficult he definitely is being, because Illya has heard him refer to trousers in front of Waverly before.
“Napoleon, don’t make me come over and undo your fly for you.”
At least that threat seems to make Napoleon laugh slightly, even with the pain. He lifts his hips and fumbles with the button and the zip so Illya can pull his slacks off. Illya hangs all items up with great care, so that future Napoleon won’t have to make sartorial compromises. This was supposed to be a short assignment, so they don’t have that many extra clothes with them.
Now dressed only in a white undershirt, briefs, and his black dress socks, Napoleon turns onto his side with a sigh and curls into a surprisingly tight ball for an adult man of medium size.
“Would you like to wear your pyjama bottoms?” Illya asks him.
Napoleon shakes his head, carefully. “Too hot.”
“I take it then that you don’t want a blanket either?”
“No, thank you.” It comes out quite muffled.
“What about the towel, would you like that?”
A silence. “If you don’t mind,” Napoleon finally says, quietly. He’s a little better at accepting help than Illya, but only a little.
Illya wets a hand towel under cold water in the bathroom and returns to Napoleon’s bedside. “Forehead or neck?” he asks, putting a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder.
Napoleon turns his head to look at Illya, a little miffed. “I can hold it myself.”
“Not if you’d prefer it on the back of your neck, you won’t. Or you can, but it’ll get awkward rather quickly.”
Napoleon turns his head away again with a sigh. “Back of neck please, if you could.”
That’s usually where he wants it anyway, but Illya felt it was more polite to let him choose. The damp cloth of the rolled-up towel is cool under Illya’s fingers, and it must work because Napoleon lets out a far longer, relaxed sigh. “That feels nice.”
“Good.” Illya lowers himself into a kneeling position on the bed. Napoleon breathes in slowly and out even slower. Illya keeps holding the towel against Napoleon’s neck, until it stops being cool.
“I think I should try to sleep this off a bit. Thank you again, Illya.” Napoleon shifts again, in search for his ideal sleeping position.
“No need,” Illya says and, as an afterthought, gives Napoleon’s shoulder a quick rub as he rises from the bed. “You’d do the same for me, after all. And frequently have, with very little thanks.”
Napoleon lets out a quiet “Uh-huh” in agreement.
When it’s Illya struggling, he accepts assistance if he must, but acting too grateful would mean acknowledging his own vulnerabilities in a way Illya still isn’t ready for. Not even with Napoleon, not even after years of Napoleon seeing parts of him no other living human has.
Napoleon has moved to lie on his back, face turned away from Illya.
Napoleon is usually so very alive, in his own relaxed way, that it’s always a bit jarring to see him like this. Especially when the hurt is not due to some visible ailment or injury. It’s rare enough to see him sit still for very long when he is awake. He is always moving or talking or charming someone or looking around or finding a new task or assignment to do. Even in hotel rooms, when he sits on a bed or on a couch in his socks, he seems to shift positions every five minutes when he talks to Illya.
Still, Illya feels almost proud to be one of the few people who knows how to deal with Napoleon when he is like this. According to Napoleon, the list gets even shorter when you discount his blood relatives from it.
Napoleon has settled down surprisingly quickly, his chest rising and falling slowly. After a couple of nights of erratic sleep, Illya is rather tired himself. There is probably nothing further he can do for Napoleon right now, so Illya lies down on the other bed to get a little rest too.
--
Napoleon has been asleep for about fifteen minutes when his communicator starts blaring. Illya jumps to his feet.
Napoleon buries his head under a pillow. “Turn it off. Turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”
“I’m trying!” It’s not an easy feat, finding a pen-shaped object in a room almost completely dark. Illya rummages through Napoleon’s nightstand and jacket pocket before he remembers that Napoleon placed his communicator in a shoe when they came in. Illya finally locates it in Napoleon’s left brogue.
“Thank god,” Napoleon sighs faintly as Illya accepts the communication request from channel D, which ends the noise.
“Kuryakin on Solo’s communicator, I’m receiving.”
“Mr. Kuryakin, what unfortunate circumstances have you gentlemen found yourselves in now?” Waverly sounds very serious. “Waiting for your report most anxiously, I was contacted by Police Chief Mendoza. Giving me his version of events, he also relayed to me you were unable to stay on scene and were in great hurry to be somewhere else. It is rather unlike you two, especially you, Mr. Kuryakin, to wander off without informing headquarters first.”
Illya is about to answer when Napoleon groans from the bed, “It is my fault, Sir. I’m sorry.”
Illya isn’t sure whether the communicator even picks up a faint voice like that from a distance. It does, because Waverly makes a little noise of acceptance on his end. “I take this to mean that Mr. Solo has, after an extended period of overexertion, developed another of his more substantial headaches.”
“There has been no overexertion,” Napoleon argues and hugs his pillow, eyes closed. “I forgot to pack my own sunglasses, sometimes bright light triggers it.”
“I take it he is in a bad way, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“I was going to call in a report, but a little later, Sir,” Illya tells Waverly. “He went to lie down on the bed still in his suit.”
“Good grief! Is it that serious?”
“It’s. Not. Serious,” Napoleon groans, hiding his face in the pillow. “I just need an hour or two.”
“Is he lying there in a suit right now?” Waverly wants to know, for some reason.
“No, Sir,” Illya replies. “I undressed him.”
“Quick thinking, Mr Kuryakin. I’m positive Mr. Solo will appreciate this later.” Waverly hums. “Come to think of it, he might already have appreciated it while it was happening, the funny fellow.”
“Respectfully, Sir, Illya, do the two of you have to discuss me as if I’m not in earshot?” Napoleon has crossed his arms on his chest. He hasn’t yet found a reason to open his eyes. Not that Illya can think of one either.
“You do sound like a man who needs his rest, if you don’t mind me acknowledging that, Mr. Solo.” Napoleon huffs on the bed but offers no further commentary. “I’d still appreciate a report, so would you mind stepping out somewhere else to give me one, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Of course, Sir. Napoleon, don’t make any sudden movements.”
“And don’t you quit our day job with jokes like that,” Napoleon tells Illya as Illya puts his own shoes back on.
There is a small balcony at the end of the hotel corridor, so Illya goes to sit there for the report.
“Was there something else you wished to discuss with me, Sir?” Illya asks coolly after Waverly expresses he is satisfied with the information provided.
“In fact, Mr. Kuryakin, yes. It hasn’t escaped Medical’s attention that Mr. Solo’s episodes seem to coincide with times he has been heavily encouraged to use up his vacation time, several times, and he has refused.”
Illya sighs. “I have also noticed a pattern over the years, Sir.”
“Sometimes you can make Mr. Solo see the light when no-one else can, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you think you could point out the effect this compulsion to remain in perpetual motion has on you both?”
“Us both, Sir?”
“Since it is you who ends up taking care of him, and then you are both tied up in that for half a day at the very least. I presume involving actual medical help is out of the question?”
“It is, Sir. All they could do for him is to administer fluids, and the noise and the lights in a place like that only makes it worse.” Illya had learned that the hard way during the first time Napoleon had an attack in his presence, as Illya insisted on dragging him into an emergency room then. Napoleon spent a considerable amount of time in the waiting room with his face hidden in Illya’s shoulder. By the time they were finally seen to, they had waited so long Napoleon’s head had almost stopped hurting.
“I see. Do you think you will be able to take your planned flight tomorrow, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“I’m pretty positive, considering how long this usually takes.” Illya rubs his own forehead a little. Sometimes Napoleon’s migraine gives him a little sympathy pain, too. “And I’ll try to talk to him about work-life balance, Sir. He’s unlikely to take any of it on board, but I will.”
“Good man, Mr. Kuryakin. I know I have a reputation of pushing my men hard, but I would prefer him not to work himself into a darkened room, with a friend having to wipe his brow.”
You might prefer that, but you sure as hell don’t do anything to prevent it until it happens again, expect make jibes about the vacation time piling up, Illya does not say to Waverly.
It wouldn’t be of any use. There will always be supervisors with high standards, and Napoleon is an adult CEA. It’s not completely on Waverly Napoleon has forgotten how to switch off for any longer than an average date and its aftermath take.
“Take care now, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Thank you, Sir. Kuryakin out.”
Illya goes to have a quick dinner in the hotel restaurant but doesn’t feel like lingering. He doesn’t like thinking of Napoleon alone and in pain. And if the roles were reversed, these days Napoleon might even cancel a date to see to Illya, unbelievable but true.
“Napoleon?” Illya enters the room carefully, but he still closes the door to the brightly lit corridor as quickly as possible. Napoleon isn’t exactly a snorer, but he is snuffling in a way that Illya recognises as a noise he only makes when in a deeper sleep.
Good. At least slumber can act as a natural painkiller. Illya brushes his teeth, undresses and puts a glass of water on each nightstand. Then he holds his hand against Napoleon’s forehead and against a cheek too to be sure, because a couple of times Napoleon has had a migraine just before he has come down with some virus. But he feels cool to the touch, so maybe overworking has been the culprit. Again.
Illya checks that the bucket is on the right end of the bed before he crawls under his own blanket. He gets a couple of hours of lovely uninterrupted sleep before the next unpleasant noise wakes him.
--
Illya always sleeps light and on assignments even more so. When the retching starts, he is holding the bucket next to his partner’s head before Napoleon has even had the change to sit up.
“Come on you, in here, if you must,” Illya encourages as Napoleon hunches over the bucket, gagging. “I’m adamant to get through this without having to touch any of your sick tonight.”
Illya can’t see that well in the dark, but it sounds and smells like Napoleon is mostly bringing up bile. Not too surprising, as he hasn’t eaten since last morning.
As Napoleon continues to heave, Illya puts a hand in his hair, on his forehead, on his shoulder, on his back and finally, on the bed. Everything is cold and wet.
“You’re all soaked with sweat, Napoleon. And so is the bed, at least that’s what I hope that is.”
“You hope so?” Napoleon has stopped vomiting but has started shivering. He sounds the kind of annoyed a person in pain can get. It naturally makes people quite impatient. “I didn’t piss the bed, in case that’s what you’re trying to implicate,” he huffs through clattering teeth.
“Of course not. But that bed and those clothes aren’t going to do you any favours like that. No wonder you feel cold.”
“It’s a migraine symptom, I’ll have you know.” Napoleon reaches for the glass on the bedside table and drinks from it.
“Freezing because you decided to lie in your own sweat? I can believe that.” Illya takes his small torch out of his briefcase and as he ignites it, makes sure to point it towards the floor and nowhere near Napoleon’s eyes. “Can I get you to agree to a shower? Some warm water might help with the shivers, too.”
“I’m not going to be able to stand that long,” Napoleon argues.
“Then sit down in the tub and let me help.”
Napoleon sighs. He has lifted himself into a sitting position, with some difficulty. “I’m feeling so rotten I would love to protest more. Not to mention that I might still have some dignity left I’d like to keep.”
“Napoleon, I can hardly leave you to lie there like that. I can see you shake, even in this light.”
“What do you suggest then, spike?” Illya’s partner might just have passed the most agonising part of his attack, if he has the energy to remember a nickname.
“If it isn’t excruciating, I could help you shower and get into fresh night clothes. Then you could take my bed, it’s dry after all.”’
“I’m not going to kick you out of your bed, Illya.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now, take my arm, you probably won’t even remember where the toilet is.” Illya takes the bucket in his other hand and gives the torch to Napoleon.
It is most convenient they have an en-suite bathroom this time. Illya wouldn’t dream of turning on the light, so Napoleon puts the torch in the sink, where it offers enough illumination without being overwhelming. The effect would be almost romantic, in very different circumstances.
Sitting on the edge of the bath, Napoleon does manage to get his sweaty undershirt off. He, however, groans rather pitifully as he tries to bend down to take off his socks.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Napoleon snaps as Illya kneels on the bathroom floor to remove Napoleon’s socks for him.
“Don’t you complain. I’d like to get back to bed as quickly as possible, and don’t have the patience to watch you struggle with clothes.” It is mostly true.
He doesn’t interfere with Napoleon’s briefs though; Napoleon is old enough to remove those himself.
Napoleon, sitting in the tub and leaning his head against the bathroom wall, starts to laugh a little as Illya points the showerhead towards him and asks if the temperature is a suitable one.
“It’s perfectly nice like that, Illya, thank you.”
“What is so amusing?”
“Ow, I forget it hurts if I laugh. I just thought about all those unpleasant characters we’ve given trouble over the years. What they would think if they saw us now, you hosing me down like I’m your best boar off to an agricultural show.”
“This does look somewhat mad, now that you mention it. Are you feeling any better?”
“I am a little, to be honest. Less cold at least.”
Thankfully, Napoleon can wash and dry himself without too much complaining. Illya fetches the pyjamas he refused earlier and helps Napoleon into them.
The madman does try to go back to his own bed with the drenched sheets, so Illya must intervene. “Your options are the following, Napoleon. Either you agree to sleep in the other bed, or I call hotel staff over to change your sheets.”
“Uh, no new people with their lights in here, please,” Napoleon says, but does lie down in Illya’s bed. “But you need rest too. I don’t think the armchair will give that.”
“It probably won’t,” Illya agrees and from the foot of the bed, starts to crawl into the space between Napoleon and the wall. “But this is far from the smallest space we’ve had to share together before.”
“True.”
They lie back-to-back. “Do tell me if it gets too hot for you, Napoleon.”
“I will.” Napoleon does his settling-in shifting again. “I’m starting to feel somewhat better, actually. The pounding has turned into a dull ache, still annoying but preferable.”
Illya had thought as much, as Napoleon’s voice has sounded less weak since the bathroom. “That’s good. You often do feel better by the time you are sick. Strange as it is to say out loud.”
“Maybe it’s the demons leaving the body,” Napoleon comments, and Illya does find it a little funny. One of the reasons they are as close as they are is that Napoleon can empathise with the darkness of Illya's mind far better than many of his casual acquaintances realise. Napoleon's solutions for keeping his own depression at bay are quite different from Illya’s, but they exist because he has use for them.
“Illya, you are such a good friend to me,” Napoleon continues. “I want you to know I really don’t take it for granted.”
Some people suffer from drunken sentimentality. Napoleon, plagued by some romanticism at the best of times, can get a little sappy at this point when his condition starts to improve.
“You are a good friend to me too, Napoleon. It is nice of you to say that.” Illya has stopped saying it out loud, because he tries not to go around stating completely obvious things. But he doesn’t mind repeating it twice a year if Napoleon goes first.
Illya braces himself for what comes next. When the worst pain subsides and Napoleon rediscovers his interest in using his words, things frequently become awkward.
Usually, what follows is Napoleon’s bi-annual speech on the extraordinary uniqueness of their partnership and personal friendship. That is still somewhat tolerable, but then Napoleon tends to continue with how happy he is not to be a man bothered by Illya being like that in the slightest. What a fool he would have been to dismiss Illya as a potential partner just because of meaningless prejudice (and he doesn't mean Illya being a Soviet). That Illya must surely be the smartest, most resilient, bravest man Napoleon has ever known, and that most red-blooded men in America could only dream of reaching the greatness of Illya Kuryakin.
That it’s none of Napoleon’s business, but he does sincerely hope Illya gets to spend time with some nice fellow every now and then, someone who can appreciate Illya’s many fine qualities. What man that way inclined wouldn’t be charmed, if they prefer the brooding intellectual type who could also fight back if anyone tries to give him or his companion trouble? If Illya doesn’t have to ask them to form an orderly line in the places his kind gather, Napoleon will be positively shocked.
It all comes from a place of appreciation, but Illya could still do without it.
But tonight, something even stranger happens.
“Me, a good friend to you.” Napoleon lets out a chuckle. “I’m not actually sure it’s that much of a compliment at all.”
“How come?”
Napoleon is quiet for a while before he answers. “Because the older we get, the more I feel like you are my only real friend.”
“Napoleon!” Pain really has a way to make people think the strangest things. “You are a popular man. I am very grateful for your friendship, but I can hardly say I was your only friend.”
“Oh yes? Name three of my other friends then, Illya.”
Illya doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know where Napoleon is when Napoleon isn’t at work, on a date, doing something outside of work with Illya, on one of his rare vacations, or at home without Illya.
But maybe that’s exactly it; maybe there isn’t anywhere else for Napoleon to be. No wonder he kicked up such a fuss about the broken arm, and about the threat of a spa stay when they faced the do-it-yourself-dreadfuls last year. Why he never takes a holiday anymore until his head almost splits in half. He doesn’t want to be off work, because he probably doesn’t know what to do with his time off. He is charming and appears terribly gregarious, but come to think of it, how many reliable platonic friends does he actually have?
“Well?” Napoleon is still insisting.
Illya racks his brain. “Well, that John fellow you’ve mentioned.”
“My college buddy, from the same track team. Haven’t seen him in over ten years.”
“Well, then… George Dennell. And, uh, Mr. Waverly?”
Napoleon vibrates against Illya’s back in delight. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Have none of the women you’ve been out with ended up becoming your friends?” Illya wonders.
He doesn’t tend to ask about Napoleon’s dating life because it is a boring topic, and he very definitely doesn’t want to create an atmosphere where Napoleon thinks Illya would be a captive audience for his sexcapades. Luckily, for such a modern man, Napoleon is old-fashioned enough not to offer any sensitive details unprompted. Illya would probably have to stick a fork in his own ear if he did.
“Not really,” Napoleon admits. “Either they are disappointed I don’t take anyone out on a romantic date more than three times, or they have gotten what they came for by then and move on. Or they are Angelique, and you would be offended if I called her my friend.”
“It would most definitely end our friendship, Napoleon, you lumping me in with her.”
“Illya, you have more in common with her than you realise.” Napoleon sounds gentler than Illya would care for. “She didn’t have an easy early life at all.”
Illya makes a face in the dark. She is a European around their age, what a surprise. “Many of us didn’t, yet we don’t inflict our past on the entire world.”
“No, just on the more acceptable targets, some of you.”
Illya turns around because he can hear the glint in Napoleon’s eye. “You must be feeling much better already, if you feel the need to get all clever like that.”
“I didn’t intend to be clever.” Napoleon has turned onto his back and is able to smile a little already. “But it is getting easier to think again, that's true.” He yawns. “Thank you for taking the trouble to look after me. I know this isn’t very rewarding for anyone.”
Illya puts his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. “Again, you do the same for me. Let’s try to get some sleep though. We’re supposed to be on a plane at eleven.” After thinking about it, he does give Napoleon a little pat on the cheek too, because Napoleon likes being touched himself and it’s probably the reason he touches Illya quite often. Napoleon’s smile widens, so it wasn’t a bad choice to make. Illya doesn’t plan to make a habit out of it, though.
“Goodnight, Dr. Kuryakin,” Napoleon whispers as they shift to lie with their backs against each other again.
“Goodnight, Napoleon.”
--
Their nightly conversation does present Illya with an idea. He doesn’t feel wonderful resorting to it, but needs must.
Napoleon wakes up without major pain or nausea and is already packing up his things by the time Illya rises. He does express appreciation for Illya ensuring his suit stayed presentable.
Like often the day after a migraine, Napoleon does walk around in a bit of a haze, so Illya picks up the baton and shepherds him into a taxi, to the right gate and onto the plane. He’s still exhausted himself, but at least it’s a five-hour-flight they can use to rest.
At some point, Illya is coaxed awake by a flight attendant offering coffee (or tea). He and Napoleon have been dozing with their heads together, like young siblings asleep in the back of a car.
“You do know a man could use more than one close friend, don’t you?” he says to Napoleon over the hot drinks. “Especially considering the nature of our profession.”
Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.
Napoleon drinks a little of his coffee and nods. “You’re right, of course. It’s not good to put all your eggs into one basket. I might just be a little too old for it, to start learning how to make friends I’m not trying to date or save the world with.”
Illya nudges Napoleon. “Just be your pleasant self but keep showing up more than you’re used to, I’d say. And if it’s a woman, try to touch her less than you normally would in the beginning.”
Napoleon laughs. “What have I become, having to receive advice on human relationships from Illya Kuryakin, the ultimate social butterfly?”
Over the years, you have become quite lonely, Napoleon Solo. I’ve given somewhat more of myself to the world as this strange decade has progressed; you’re retreating from it if anything. I sincerely hope it isn’t due to my influence.
“I observe, Napoleon. Sometimes a spectator sees more of the game.”
“Hmm. Well put.”
Having just encouraged Napoleon to get out there more in the non-romantic sense, Illya doesn’t like what he must say next. But he does say it.
“Napoleon, you get a migraine when you are overworked to the point you don’t eat or sleep anymore or think of anything else than affairs. Please tell me you are able to admit that to yourself.”
Napoleon shrugs. “Maybe.”
“We all need some real time off every now and then. And a dinner date followed by a night of passion is not sufficient recovery before diving into the next case.”
Napoleon grins. “Oh, it might even have the opposite effect, depending on the intensity.”
“Thank you, enough of that.” Illya is quiet for a while, before he plunges on. “You weren’t fit for a shoot-out by the time we exited the mansion. If I had been unconscious, for example, when you missed your shot, I might not be sitting here now.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought about that constantly since my eyesight started to go yesterday?” Napoleon grabs Illya’s arm with the hand that isn’t holding the coffee cup.
“Napoleon, I am here, I was alert myself, we are all right. But I beg of you, next time, let me know when you aren’t feeling well.”
“I will.”
“And Napoleon.” Napoleon is still holding onto his arm, so Illya places his own hand over Napoleon’s there. “Please rest before your performance is compromised. If you don’t care about yourself, think of me. I deserve you at your best when I have to put my life into your hands.”
Napoleon looks at him in open-mouthed silence before he turns to look out of the plane window. “You’re right, Illya. Oh jeez, you’re absolutely right. I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Illya tells him, because this is not the moment to agree or to call him a blockhead. “A little thoughtless maybe, sometimes. But do try to learn to unwind before you crash and burn. At least for the benefit of me, reportedly a dear friend of yours.”
“For you, Illya, I’d do almost anything,” Napoleon says with a smile. “Except listen to jam sessions. Or join a monastery.”
“Will you do my paperwork for the Affair, as I had to look after you for the entire evening and night?”
“Oh that is low, Illya.” Napoleon is grinning. “You know what, I will. There is a reason there’s two of us.”
"I did yours for two Affairs last month."
"I know. Thank you."
--
To everyone’s bafflement, Napoleon does take the following week off work. He sends Illya a postcard from Ithaca.
The week after that, they are in Greenland, and Illya has been left to perish in a snowdrift, drugged with who-knows-what. After a while there, someone larger than Illya throws him over their shoulders and starts to make their way down a hill.
“It’s all right Illya, it’s me.”
Delirious from the hypothermia and the drugs, he keeps insisting he is too hot, and that he must be put down immediately, and who are you anyway? Illya is so beside himself tears come to his eyes for the first time in twenty-three years. Not his finest hour in the field at all.
“Oh dear, comrade mine, we really must get you to sober up somewhere warm, if your mind has started to go all askew like that.” Napoleon continues to walk. “Don’t worry, it’s only a mile to civilization.”
“You can’t carry me for a mile!” Illya screams and cries a little into Napoleon’s parka.
“I can and I will.” Napoleon whistles part of a tune to show Illya how little he is affected by the extra weight. “I’ve just had a week of lovely rest and would carry you all the way to Nuuk if I had to. Now try to save your breath, I’ve got you.”
Illya settles against Napoleon, because that is his best option.
There’s a reason there are two of us.