Archive of Our Own ^beta

Snow falls in sheets, smothering a tall pine forest under the cover of twilight. A beacon of solitude and the only sign of life for miles, a log cabin stands alone as a soft orange glow pours from its windows. The lone figure outside its wall, Illya, pushes past icy wind and into the cabin. He slams the door closed behind him, finally sheltered from the storm. His teeth clatter and body shudders, and he takes a moment to shake soft powder loose from his being onto a small rug.

“Perimeter’s secure!” Illya calls out, unsure where everyone is at first glance, and he locks the door behind him while tearing off his thick, wool gloves.

The cabin is cold (everything is achingly cold in a painfully familiar way) but not dark. A few lit candles dot the main room Illya stands in, but much more helpfully, the stony hearth along the back wall houses a slowly growing fire. Napoleon crouches in front of it, edges of his body lit in orange, while tending to the fledgling flames.

Illya glances around for any sign of Gaby, but she’s not in the room. He can easily hear her, however; behind a closed door in the next room over, cupboards open and close, and metal rattles about. She must’ve found the kitchen and began an inventory of what they have. Hopefully, it’s sufficient.

He stays right by the door, relishing in the feeling of dry, still air and hard wood beneath his feet. In all honesty, he could have skipped the perimeter check. After their (impressively successful) mission, he wasn’t that worried they’d be followed, but protocol is protocol. He refuses to risk their lives for something as simple as skipping a perimeter check.

“Any firewood out there?” Napoleon asks in response, calling out behind him as his eyes remain trained on the fire. At this point, Illya isn’t sure if his partner’s focus is to ensure the fire properly catches or have an excuse not to leave the haven of warmth. If it’s the latter, Illya really can’t blame him; the cabin may shelter them from the storm, but that’s about it.

“Yes. Lots of it, all dry, all kept on the back wall, there,” Illya explains with a clarifying gestures towards the back wall of the cabin. “At this rate, UNCLE will have to dig us out.”

Napoleon scoffs as he stokes the fire, “If we can even contact them. I just hope our radio can get a signal out through this storm.”

That simple poke causes the fire to catch quickly and roar, like some magic key unknowingly needed. Flames climb up the kindling and onto the larger logs, ripping through and searing their bark. The orange glow grows, and Illya breathes a sigh of relief; at least they won’t freeze to death out here.

He shivers, again, and he itches to huddle with Napoleon by the fire, letting the heat drape over his face. He can’t, though. There’s much left to do outside, so he can’t take off any of his layers, and he’d prefer not to track snow through their cabin. As such, he settles for lingering in the cabin’s meager warmth by the door.

Satisfied, Napoleon turns around and looks at Illya. He’s almost perfectly obscured by the barebones furniture this living room boasts but only almost (and even less so when Illya shifts his weight just right to see him better.) The fire is a handsome backlighting that paints the planes of his face in harsh shadow, tracing the very edges of his features in an orange glow. He looks handsome, but he is Napoleon Solo, so that is no shock. Sometimes, Illya wonders if he’s capable of looking not handsome – not that he’d ever say that out loud. The man’s ego is far too large, as is.

Illya shrugs and fights back a violent shiver as he says, “If we can’t get ahold of them, we’ll just wait out the storm. We’ll be fine. We have firewood. We can melt snow for water. UNCLE has yet to let us starve.”

”Yet,” Napoleon parrots as he rolls his eyes. He pauses, and a small smile slips across his face. He adds, “Though, if anyone knows how to wait out a snowstorm, I suppose it ought to be the Red Peril.”

Illya smiles and makes no attempt to smother the expression of fondness. He’s lingered long enough, though. He begins to tug his gloves back on and says, “I’m going to bring in some firewood. Don’t lock me out.”

“Illya,” Napoleon exasperates. “It’s closer to dawn than to midnight. Just wait until morning, once the sun rises.”

It’s meant to be a suggestion, but Illya is too headstrong for his own good; he can see the demand Napoleon would rather make beneath his careful phrasing. Nonchalant yet sharp, Illya snips back, “Sure, and we can dig ourselves out to go get it if this storm doesn’t let up.”

Illya leaves no room for question, nor does he wait for a response. He simply pulls a flashlight out of his pocket and stomps out into the cold night. As such, he does not see nor hear Napoleon sighing loudly, pulling on his coat, and telling Gaby he’ll be helping Illya if she needs them.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Between the two of them, it takes no time to bring in more firewood. They drag in log after log while Gaby collects buckets and fills them with fresh snow to melt into the water; hopefully, they won’t need it, but until they get an idea of how long until extraction, it’s better safe than sorry. In between preparing buckets of snow, Gaby even begins a pot of… something on the stove that makes Illya’s stomach growl and reminds him how long he’s been working. He doubts it’ll be a Solo Specialty, but he’s not one to complain about a warm meal (especially when he’d eat burnt squirrel at this point.)

The snow never stops falling. It coats the landscape in endless layers, and sharp winds stir up the fresh powder and slice through Illya’s many layers. He’s grateful for Napoleon’s help, enough to offhandedly thank him when he finds the chance. The night drags on, growing harsher and colder with every passing minute, and before the chill becomes more than he can stand (and the snow grows any higher than his ankle,) Illya call it a night, pleased with the indoor stockpile he & Solo have put together.

With their work finally done, Illya find himself sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Napoleon on a threadbare couch. Their coats and outerthings hand to dry by the fire, and neither say a word as they greedily soak in the warmth of the flames. No jokes, comments, or jibes; just Illya with his head hung low, chin nearly to his chest, and Napoleon staring blankly into the hearth, head propped in his hand. For the first time in hours, Illya doesn’t feel like his nose is going to snap off like the tip of an ice-coated branch, and he imagines his partner feels similarly.

Like an angel, Gaby saunters into the room with padded footsteps and two full bowls, catching the men’s attention. She shoves one in each of their hands, and Illya could cry. He mutters a very grateful “spasibo” as he takes what must be some kind of chili, given the fact it’s comprised of three kinds of beans and only beans (not that he’s complaining.)

Napoleon stares for moment and asks, “Is this dinner or breakfast?”

“Do you care?” Gaby says, arms crossed over her chest. “Now, eat up. If I’m hungry, you two must be starving.”

Illya doesn’t add anything, and neither does Napoleon. The American just gives a shrug that says ‘you’re not wrong’ and dives into the meal, copying Illya. It’s nothing fancy, just a meal from a handful of cans, but it settles the ache in his stomach and warms him from the inside out.

Gaby continues, “There’s a small woodstove and a sink in there – no running water. The pantry is almost entirely canned goods, but there’s some dried meats, too. Nothing fancy but more than enough to last us a week or two if we are stuck here for that long.”

Illya nods along as he shoves spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. The longer he sits, the more fiercely exhaustion settles into his limbs, weighing him down. He wants nothing more than to curl onto this couch and fall asleep right this very second, but between the mission and collecting firewood, he’s filthy and desperately needs to clean up.

In all honesty, the mission went… surprisingly well. No one was hurt, they weren’t tracked down to the safehouse, and there was no scramble to escape. The worst that happened was a short scuffle with a guard outside, forcing Illya to roll around on the forest floor a bit, but he would’ve had a harder time wrestling a dog. They got in, destroyed the intel on UNCLE, and got out effectively undetected. Incredibly successful.

Getting to the safehouse may have been harder than mission itself. All UNCLE could offer in terms of transport was an ancient, noisy snowmobile (now tucked away in a flimsy shed), so not only did they have to navigate here in the middle of the night during a snowstorm, they also had to constantly look over their shoulder for any sign of a tail. The journey was as nerve-wracking as it was long, and Illya’s glad to be done with it.

Illya’s attention snaps back into place when Gaby grumbles, “There’s one problem.”

“Beside the lack of electricity and running water?” Napoleon asks, but Gaby ignores him.

“There’s only one bed,” she explains, and Illya swears under his breath. An image springs to mind: Illya, curled around one (or even both) of his partners. The two or three of them soaking in each other’s warmth, their heartbeats beating in tandem. He grips his spoon for dear life as he fights away both the treasonous thought and the blush threatening to spread to his cheeks.

Illya knows what he can & cannot have in life. He knows what’s attainable and what’s downright greedy. He almost had something with Gaby, but that fizzled out between his fingertips ages ago, and Napoleon…

No. No, Illya lost his chance with Gaby, and anything he feels for Napoleon will stay tucked deep inside his chest where it is safe and hidden. Napoleon is a ladies’ man, and he has never deviated from that persona; it is ludicrous to think that would change for anyone – especially Illya.

Napoleon deadpans, “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope!” Gaby says, spitefully chipper. “Waverly forgot to get us a safehouse with more than one bed. Two of us may be able to fit on it, but someone will have to sleep on the couch.”

“I will do it,” Illya offers. “I don’t think I can stand up.”

Napoleon snorts, quickly swallowing down another spoonful of chili. “I don’t know if I can, either.”

“You? Sleep in tactical gear?” Illya teases, which earns him an eyeroll.

Napoleon leans back against the couch and points at Illya with his spoon. “We’ve slept in much worse conditions, Peril. Remember South Vietnam?” he reminds, and Illya’s nose wrinkles. Suddenly, the frigid chill that refuses to leave his fingertips doesn’t seem so annoying.

“Well,” Gaby starts as she drifts closer to the fire, “while you two reminisce, I’m burying the last of the chili outside and getting ready for bed – and I will be sleeping in that bed. You two can argue who gets to join me.”

“So forward,” Napoleon teases, but she just glares his way, spins on her heel, and marches into the barebones kitchen.

As she mills about, Illya nods his head towards what he imagines is the bedroom (he can’t say for sure, he hasn’t checked) and says, “You take the bed. I’m too tired to move. I’m fine with couch.”

“Are you sure?” Napoleon asks. He sets his bowl on his knee as he looks Illya head on. “Between the two of us, I think Gaby likes your company better.”

Illya shakes his head with a bittersweet smile. “Maybe she does, but I’m too tired. You take up less bed, anyways. I can sleep here, watch the fire.”

Illya goes to take another bite, but he finds his bowl empty. He blinks and frowns, but Gaby’s already set the chili outside. However, before he can even think to complain, Napoleon snatches Illya’s bowl out of his hands – and placing his own, mostly eaten bowl in its place.

“I’m full, you can finish this up,” is all the American says before standing up and walking into the kitchen. Illya’s cheeks are stained pink, and it’s not because of the cold air that’s nipped at his face all night.

⋆⁺₊❅.

A loud peal of laughter erupts from the kitchen, and Illya startles awake. He tries to clamber up from the couch, but his legs tangle in a blanket. His brain lags behind as he pieces together where he’s ended up now, but one look at the fireplace (now accompanied by a pail of melting snow on each side) reminds him of the day’s events.

Traveling to the Vosges mountains. Destroying the intel on UNCLE. Winding up here in the middle of cold, blissful nowhere.

Illya relaxes and rolls his shoulders. The muscles across his back are tight & uncooperative. He doesn’t always have the luxury of free time, but today, he does. Probably. Not unless UNCLE has suddenly decided it can get to them in less than a day. Either way, he will find the time to stretch and do a proper body weight workout. His aching joints tell him it’s desperately needed, especially after sleeping on this poor excuse of a couch.

He untangles his legs from the blanket (which is now dirty, no thanks to the fact he’s still in his tactical gear) and swings them onto the floor. Illya rubs a hand over his weary face, brushing away flakes of dirt onto the floor. He ignores them and stumbles towards the kitchen, the source of Gaby’s cackling.

Illya settles into the doorway and leans on the doorframe, taking in the scene before him. The windows are lit with gray light, showing an overcast day – but it is day. The glass is too frost-bitten and foggy for him to make out much, but he has a feeling that snowstorm was as awful as he feared.

Gaby sits at the dining table with her back to Illya, crouched over something and softly laughing; her shoulders bounce as fiercely as her tightly done ponytail. Napoleon stirs a pot over a small woodstove, wrapping up a joke Illya has no context for, with his back also to the doorframe. The pair are dressed warm, looking especially cozy in two thick sweaters.

Illya can’t stop himself from interrupting, voice rough from sleep, “Both your backs to the door? You two are terrible spies.”

Napoleon clears his throat, and as he turns around, he answers, “I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to wake up, Peril. Sleep well?”

“I’ve slept worse,” is Illya’s way of saying ‘I slept like shit.’ Gaby catches on, and she turns in her chair, a sharp but somewhat apologetic smile on her face.

“Well, if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll let you sleep in the bed,” she teases warmly, and Illya can make out a few mechanical parts littered across the table. She must be tinkering on something; he itches to know what. Typical Gaby. His chest warms.

Napoleon interrupts, “I would’ve let you take the bed, but you fell asleep still holding your bowl. I figured I should let you rest.”

“That’s actually kind of you, Cowboy,” Illya answers, tone teetering between teasing and genuinely appreciative. The gesture and the way Napoleon so readily let him have the easy comfort makes his chest tight in a way he understands and hates to acknowledge.

“I have my moments,” Napoleon says, continuing to stir his pot. “By the way, I was able to contact UNCLE. We’ve got at least four days out here until they can get us. The storm did a number on the roads, and rumor is there’s another one hitting tonight. I hope you brought a good book. Or five.”

“I brought a puzzle,” Gaby chimes in, returning to her tinkering. “You can join me if you’re civil.”

If there’s one thing Gaby loves, it’s fitting pieces into a whole, working picture. It’s no wonder she’s grown so fond of puzzles after buying one on a whim one day. If anything, he’s surprised she hasn’t picked up the hobby sooner.

“What are you working on, now?” Illya asks, curiosity finally getting the better of him. Gaby moves her body to show him, and Illya steps into the small room, trying not to crowd her space as he looks over her shoulder.

“I found a broken radio in the back of a closet. It’s crank-powered, so no electricity. If we’re stuck here for this long, might as well see if we can pick up any good frequencies. I’d like to listen to something besides UNCLE-mandated security channels,” she answers, and Illya can see all its working parts laid out on the table. If anyone could make it work, it would be her. She continues, “Oh, and under the floorboards, there’s a few bottles of vodka. Which I plan to enjoy later.”

Illya smiles and shakes his head. “You’re one interesting woman, Ms. Teller.”

“Well, the two of you are stuck with me, so I hope you’ve gotten used to it,” she answers. To anyone else, it’d be a joke, but Illya (and Napoleon) know better.

Illya refrains from putting his dirty hand on her shoulder, but he quickly says, “We wouldn’t have you any other way.”

It scares him how easily he says it and how true the statement is. He wouldn’t trade her for the world. He couldn’t. Before the silence gets too heavy with sincerity, Napoleon reliably adds, “We’re not stupid enough to think, much less suggest, such a thing. I like having all my fingers, personally.”

“The better to steal pretty things with, hm?” Illya teases.

Napoleon turns and smirks at Illya. “With some people, I can steal their hearts with only two or three.”

Gaby howls with laughter again, and Illya can’t stop the snort the escapes him. He shakes his head and smiles wide before saying, “I work with children.”

Satisfied with himself, Napoleon changes the topic. “We haven’t found a tub yet – we think we overlooked it in the shed – but we did find a sponge. Just grab one of the buckets by the fireplace and take it to the bathroom when you’re ready to clean up. There should be an extra towel in there.”

Illya thanks him and slips out of the room, laughter still dancing in his throat. The warmth carries him through the motions of finding clean, warm clothes, grabbing a bucket, and locating the washroom.

Once ready, he happily tosses his clean clothes atop a small table and peels his shirt off with a relieved sigh. Dirt rains onto the floor, and Illya wrinkles his nose. Was he really that dirty? Maybe he should have cleaned up last night – but from what Napoleon was saying, it sounds like he didn’t have much choice in that matter, no thanks to his weary body.

He peels off layer after layer of grimy, dark tactical gear and discards it onto the floor in a pile. He absently hopes he can make his clothes last for the next few days. He didn’t plan for quite this long; they were told to pack light, but he supposes that’s his fault, isn’t it? A spy is nothing if not prepared.

Finally undressed, Illya takes the sponge kindly left out for him, dips it in the bucket of (still rather icy) water, and slowly begins to clean the worst of the dirt off. It’s no substitute for a proper bath, but he certainly won’t complain. It’s better accommodations than South Vietnam, that’s for damn sure.

However, while sponging off his side, he discovers something odd. If not for the sponge bath, he may have never seen it. It likely would’ve drifted past his radar until he twisted wrong and felt a strange tug, but clear as day, he finds a small laceration – an annoying cut, really – stretched across his side. Where in the world could it have come from? It must’ve been that scuffle. He can only assume that idiot guard got a lucky hit Illya never noticed.

The cut is speckled with dried blood and dirt, so Illya gently sponges at it. (He can really feel it now that he’s noticed the damn thing exists.) However, he doesn’t pay it much mind after cleaning it; he continues sponging off the rest of his body, keeping an eye out for any more lucky strikes, but there’s nothing else. Considering his track record, that’s rather impressive.

Still, he really wishes he hadn’t been cut – or that he heated the water before heading in here. The light sponging will help, but in spite of its size, the cut has still been dirty for hours. If anything, it needs proper disinfecting, which he doubts this place will have given the state of its pantry, so it seems like he’ll be settling for cleaning it by pouring clean water over. If only he had heated up that damn bucket before heading in here.

A gruff, irritated noise slips out of his mouth, but there’s no alternative (especially since he’s not going through the song & dance of heating some water now just for this.) He could ask Gaby or Napoleon if there’s any antiseptic, but this little cut isn’t worth the worry. He’s done far worse in the name of health & safety; he can handle a little cold water.

With a steady grip, Illya cups his hands and ladles some water out of the bucket and over his side. The cold sting makes him gasp and shiver as icy water trails down his leg and onto the floor.

Illya hesitantly repeats the process once, then twice, and by the end of it, his teeth are gritted to stop the chattering, and his skin is speckled with goosebumps. It’s fine, though. He needed to do it. He may be hyperaware of just how frigid the air is and how stoney cold the hardwood floors are, but it had to be done.

Before a proper shiver can settle in, Illya quickly towels himself off (and makes a note to wash his hair if they get their hands on a tub,) and he slips into warm, dry, clean clothes. He’s still cold, but that feeling will fade in a matter of minutes, especially once he settles by the fire. The thought makes him hum with contentment.

He gives his dirty clothes one last shake to free the last of the dirt, and he slips out of the bathroom to put everything back in its rightful place – including placing himself in front of the roaring fire.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Snow dusts the mountains, and Illya, draped across the couch, watches it fall. He feels no need to do anything beyond lay here and enjoy the scenery. His chess set lays abandoned on the coffee table, has been abandoned for some time. The sun dips low into the sky, though Illya can’t see the sunset; the only sign of the day retreating into night is the ever-growing darkness blanketing the landscape.

He pulls a moth-eaten blanket close to his body, not that he’s cold; the fire, still crackling, warms the entire room pleasantly. He simply likes the soft brush against his skin despite the small holes littering its body and nibbled edges.

He wonders how tall the snow has grown since the start of the day. Hell, he wonders if he’ll even be able to see out of the windows tomorrow if it keeps falling at this rate (though it likely won’t.) He’s certain there’s a snowdrift along one side of the cabin, but he’ll investigate tomorrow to confirm (so long as they’re not buried in here by then, but again, that’s very unlikely.)

He could’ve (should’ve) checked for that today, after he finally dragged himself off the couch and cleaned up, but between the warm stew in his belly and his partners’ convincing to take just one day to rest, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to step out into the cold. He’ll worry about snow drifts and water sources and everything else tomorrow. For once, he can afford the luxury of waiting.

Napoleon is nestled into the other end of the couch, lost in the pages of some thriller he brought with him. Not for the first time today (or in the past hour), Illya resists the urge to poke his socked feet into Napoleon’s thigh. He looks far too comfortable to be worth bothering, so Illya restrains himself.

He wants to do more than just poke his thighs; the urge to stretch his legs across the couch and settle his feet into Napoleon’s lap is strong. Worse, the desire to pull Napoleon from his corner of the couch and into Illya’s warm arms burns like a sudden blaze, and the feeling is strong he has to blink it away. It’s difficult to swallow down, so warm, sudden, and overwhelming – an unshakeable daydream where he can feel the heft of Napoleon’s weight in his arms, smell the last dredges of pomade still trapped in his hair, feel the rise and fall of his chest…

Illya throws his gaze down to the floor, away from Napoleon, like losing sight of him will water down the intensity of his emotion. It doesn’t, but he chokes down the feeling, regardless.

With near perfect timing, Gaby swears loudly and with impressive creativity from the kitchen. He can only assume the radio she found is getting the best of her, and he takes full advantage of the moment to flee the room and check on her, not noticing the way Napoleon’s gaze follows him carefully.

Gaby paces around the table, hissing with vitriol as she looks between two pieces of metal Illya does not recognize. He’s always envied her ability to understand machines, pry them apart and put them back together like it’s nothing, like the inner workings are an old friend. He’s never had her gift and never realized how much he envied the ability until he met her.

Illya draws near, and Gaby notices his presence. She glares at him (because she is glaring at everything, but her gaze does soften when it settles on Illya.) After an almost too-long moment, Illya prompts, “What’s wrong?”

With a huff and iron-strong grip on the obstinate parts, she stomps over and shoves the two objects she’s holding in Illya’s face: a misshapen metal disc, not quite a gear, and a shrunken-down bike chain. “Look at these! Can you believe I have to work with these?!”

Illya nods and hums as he takes in the two parts. He blinks, tilts his head, and squints thoughtfully. Blinks and hums again, and he comes to a very clear conclusion.

He has no fucking clue what’s wrong.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Gaby quickly interrupts him. She waxes frustration after frustration over minute technicalities Illya does not understand, not in the slightest. Her level of detail and insulting creativity impresses Illya but not because he didn’t expect it – she simply always impresses him at these matters.

She continues ranting, all of it flying over Illya’s head in a daze, but she’s made it abundantly clear Illya’s job right now is to be her sounding board, and he accepts his role without question. He takes a seat at the table, nodding thoughtfully and humming in agreement as Gaby wishes hellfire upon the fool who broke this poor radio.

The radio itself is strewn across the table, some pieces half put-together and others merely a pile of scraps. Most of her work seems to have been accomplished with a simple set of screwdrivers.

“Illya, I just- I don’t know!” Gaby flusters, and Illya snaps to attention as she sighs. “What do you think I should do?”

Illya swallows thick and fixes his face as best he can. His heart races as he feigns thoughtfulness. He doesn’t even have half a clue what’s wrong. How can she expect him to help or have even a clue what to do?

She continues staring expectantly, and as his heart rate continues building, Illya blurts out, “Maybe it doesn’t go there? Maybe the last person fixed it wrong?”

“No, because if…” Gaby starts, but she pauses. She looks down at the parts she holds, mumbling to herself, and Illya can practically see the lightbulb flash on over her head.

She beams at Illya, smile so bright it lights the whole room. “These pieces don’t work because that dummkopf didn’t know how to put them together!”

Illya smiles gently at the sight, but in the blink of an eye and faster than even he can react, Gaby dashes up to him and plants a kiss square on his cheek, wiping his smile clean off his face. A look of dopey shock and a soft blush appear in his smile’s place as she throws herself into re-sorting gears and gizmos, not at all noticing how Illya is frozen to the chair.

After a few seconds, the shock settles, and Illya hobbles out of the dining chair into the living room. Napoleon glances up, and the corners of eyes wrinkle with a smug, knowing look that infuriates Illya.

“Did I miss something?” Napoleon asks.

Illya blushes harder and lies, “No.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

Tall pines stand guard throughout the woods. Small pawprints dot across fresh power, and only the hints of bushes poke above the tall piles of snow. A crisp breeze rustles the snow-frosted branches of stoic evergreens, and two pairs of feet crunch fresh power down flat; the forest is peaceful yet very much so alive.

Illya leads Napoleon through the snow-laden forest, stomping awkwardly with snowshoes and carrying buckets. It took some convincing on Illya’s part to drag Solo along, but it worked in the end. He flicks his gaze back to check on Napoleon. “Keeping up, Cowboy?”

Napoleon glares at him, but he trails close behind – even in the massive, clunky snowshoes. Napoleon sniffles, cold air irritating his sinuses, and retorts, “Despite what you may believe, I have used snowshoes before. It isn’t a Russian-exclusive skill.”

“I never implied that,” Illya answers, turning his head forward. “I implied you Americans are too soft for a real winter.”

“Well, you Russians would melt in a Texas summer,” Napoleon snaps back. “Besides, what about Alaska? They may be more Russian than you.”

Illya snorts. “Because we sold it to you.”

The wind rises and whips fresh snow into their faces. Illya lifts an arm over his face and pushes past while Napoleon complains, “Well, I would’ve let you keep it. These mountains are lovely, but god, it is cold. Did we have to get water right now? We’re more than fine off melted snow.”

Illya purses his lips and keeps his gaze straight ahead. “The river’s only a few minutes’ walk away. Better to get some water we don’t have to melt now in case the storm comes back. Besides, I found the tub in the shed. Don’t you want to finally bathe?”

Illya’s argument is convincing enough because Napoleon makes an affirmative noise, and he’s grateful the man bought it. While Illya does want a bath, that’s not why he drug Napoleon out here. No, it’s because he’s out of decent options for wound care.

Even though he’s dealing with an over glorified scratch, the last thing Illya needs is an infection, kilometers away from civilization. However, he can’t clean it with soap (they only have lye, far too abrasive), which leaves him with flushing the wound with water, and while fresh snow is cleaner than river water, melting it takes too long. Finding a water source was and is a necessity for Illya.

Not that Gaby or Napoleon know that. Illya tightens his grip on the empty bucket in his hand. Sometimes, he thinks he’s being a child, keeping something this small to himself, but at the same time, it’s a measly cut. No one needs to fret over it because there’s nothing worth fretting about. If it becomes a problem, he’ll tell them, then.

The trees thin and the ground drops into a small clearing divided in two by a half-frozen stream. The snow quickly slopes down into the bank of the river, which flows lazily. Its edges are frozen, and hunks of ice travel downstream towards warmer pastures.

Napoleon sets his two buckets down and stretches his legs. “I’ll give you this, Peril. At least you didn’t make me walk a few miles. I forgot how much I hated snowshoes.”

Illya is tempted to copy Napoleon, give his legs a rest. He’s out of practice, and his hips are unhelpfully reminding him of that. Instead, he sniffles. It is rather cold and dry out here.

Illya doesn’t stretch; he pushes forward towards the river’s edge, slowing down and toeing carefully towards the riverbank. He’s not sure where the land ends and the ice starts, and the twenty-odd centimeters of snow aren’t helping. Illya calls out over his shoulder, over the ever-blowing wind, “No one in their right mind builds a cabin this deep in the woods without water nearby.”

And then, despite all his careful toeing and testing his footing, the ground drops out from beneath him, and Illya plunges into a thick well of icy water.

With only seconds to react, Illya scrambles to get a handhold on the surrounding snow and ice, using all his strength to keep the flowing river from pulling him under into a certain, frigid death. He gasps for air, but his head is pulled under the tide, and only his hands and forearms breach the surface of the water.

Sturdy hands, Napoleon’s hands, wrap around his wrists and struggle to pull Illya up. Illya kicks his legs, adrenaline flooding his system, and he fights to help Napoleon, but the man is so quick yet too slow, all at the same time, when pulling Illya out onto the snow’s surface.

When Illya’s head finally breaches the water’s surface, he gasps again, and frigid air slaps him across the face. However, Napoleon is just barely able to drag Illya onto the snow and towards the tree line, not stopping even as Illya struggles to gain his bearings.

“I can’t take my eyes off you for two seconds,” Napoleon spits out, voice thick with worry. “How was it frozen? Rivers can’t freeze!”

Illya coughs a lungful of water onto the snow, and his body violently shakes as the wind whips around them. He can feel ice and frost forming on his hair and skin, and it stings. He pulls himself onto his knees, mentally chastising himself for not checking the ground more carefully.

How could he not realize that of course the river was so wide? How did he not think to brush back the snow? If he had, maybe he would’ve heard the ice cracking and been smart enough to pull back. Some Russian he is.

Illya rips off his wool gloves and wrings out the water before pulling them on and groping at his (very soaked and decidedly not wool) overcoat. After a brutal sneeze and through clattering teeth, Illya answers, “Misconcet- Miscep- Wrong. Top of river c-can freeze. Water flows un-under ice.”

Napoleon grabs Illya by the shoulders and hefts him onto his feet, and Illya wobbles for balance on his snowshoes. Hissing, Napoleon says, “Well, maybe we should have checked for that. Jesus, you’re literally freezing. Gaby’s going to kill us.”

Without a word, Napoleon wraps his gloved hand around Illya’s wrist, all but hauling him back to the cabin. Illya quickly shakes the hand away (they’re on snowshoes, how can Solo expect him to stand close?) and follows close behind. The cold seeps through the layers of jackets and thermals, sticking to Illya’s skin as he fumbles at the zipper of his jacket.

However, the zipper has begun to freeze, and no matter how hard he tries, Illya’s trembling hands can’t pull it loose. He moves onto his thick, wool toboggan, ripping it off and wringing out the water as Napoleon rambles, “Who do you think Gaby will kill first? Me because I let this happen, or you for having the audacity to fall in a river?”

Illya tugs the hat back on and wipes at the frost freezing to his eyelashes. His cheeks are freezer burnt, and he sneezes. “You. She’ll feel bad for me, so you’re first on the chopping block.”

“You’re right,” Napoleon concedes and sniffles. “Next time, check the ice and don’t fall in, please.”

Guilt rises up Illya’s throat. It was such a stupid mistake to make, and yet, he did. Even the slightest opportunities for tragedy take advantage of any misstep Illya makes. No matter his best efforts, he always makes the wrong move and inconveniences everyone.

He knows the bite in Napoleon’s voice won’t last. The frustration will mellow and wane once Illya isn’t in danger of hypothermia, but Illya hates to throw such… wrench, that’s the word, in their plans for the day.

His teeth continue to chatter, somehow audible even over the piercing wind cutting sharply through his wet clothing. Now, they’ll have to focus on warming Illya up, and Napoleon will have to get the water himself (if he deems it worth the trouble, anymore. Illya will understand if he doesn’t.) He tries to swallow his guilt, but it settles in a lump in his throat.

Illya tries for his zipper again, but it won’t budge, and he finally gives up. He glances ahead to Napoleon, an ask for help on the tip of his tongue, but he thinks better of it. Illya needs a wool jacket. Maybe he should ask his mother for one. She’s always trying to push scarves and mitts onto him; a jacket should be doable.

The wind whips up, again, and lashes across his face and cuts straight to the bone. Napoleon pushes on, stepping awkwardly on unsure feet, and Illya wishes he could see his face rather than his back, make sense of what to say or do. If nothing else, he should apologize, but the silence between them has grown too tense and awkward for such a thing. In English, the phrase “breaking the ice” is used to break conversational tension, and remembering that fact makes Illya think better of speaking at all.

They trudge through the woods, Illya shaking like a leaf in the wind the entire time, but the walk isn’t long. Soon enough, they walk through a light waft of smoke, pushed in their path from the chimney by the wind, and the cabin with its half-built snowdrift reveals itself through the crowd of pine.

They dart for the cabin, and Napoleon slams the door open while Illya beelines for the fireplace. He’s getting snow (which will turn to water) everywhere, and he’ll need to clean that up later since it’s his mess.

Illya doesn’t see Gaby so much as hear her as she goes through a few realizations. From the bedroom, she asks, “Back so soon? What’s- Scheiß, Illya!”

Napoleon interrupts her next words, asking, “Can you grab Peril some dry clothes? He wanted to go ice fishing with his bare hands. Did you put away the stew yet?”

“Did you fall in the river?” Gaby yells from the bedroom as Illya can only assume she searches for a dry set of clothes.

Illya kneels in front of the fire, the warmth washing over him. He tears off his hat and gloves as he sniffles and answers, “The ice was thinner than I thought.”

Gaby stomps back in and violently throws a pile of clothes onto the couch. “You imbecile. I leave you alone for five minutes, and you fall in a river. I cannot trust you two to do anything. Napoleon, you were supposed to look after him!”

“Thank you for telling me you hadn’t put away the stew, yet,” Napoleon sharply ignores. “And who do you think pulled him out? Anyways, I’m heating it back up. I heard hypothermia is quite taxing.”

“I do not have hypothermia,” Illya yells into the kitchen as he fails to open his zipper for the millionth time. Gaby stomps over and takes over, yanking it open with a rather violent tug, and finally, Illya peels the sopping wet, half-frozen hunk of cloth off him. He feels about three degrees warmer.

Illya continues, “Barely t-took us five minutes to get back inside. You are being dra-dramatic, but who does that surprise?”

“Well, forgive me for wanting to keep you from turning into a popsicle,” Napoleon snaps back, and Illya thinks he hear the man throw a small piece of wood into the woodstove with a loud, angry thud.

“There is no need to worry,” Illya says with yet another sniffle as he continues to peel off layers – second jacket, followed by his sweater. “I will be fine.”

“You better,” Gaby mutters with narrowed eyes. She slips away from Illya, but he’s not sure where to.

Illya works off his pants, though they give him trouble. They’re half frozen to his thermals and determined to meld into his legs and turn him into Jack Frost. Unable to force an apology past his lips, Illya offers, “I’ll be fine soon. I promise. I can still help get the water later.”

“Wrong,” Gaby answers quickly. She stomps behind Illya, and for a moment, he thinks she’s going to choke him from behind, maybe using her arm or a broken chair leg. It’s very unlikely, but she’s so furious he wouldn’t put it past her.

Instead, she viciously towels his hair. “You are going to sit your ass down and take it easy. Waverly is still a few days out, and I’m not playing nurse if you get sick. If we want water so bad, we’ll fill up that damn tub with snow and let it melt in here, however long that takes!”

Illya can’t see or hear, well, his world muffled by Gaby’s violent toweling, but he thinks he hears Napoleon step into the room. The man sounds closer when he says, “Melted snow is fine by me. If you’re that hellbent, we can get the river water tomorrow – if you’re feeling better.”

They didn’t need the water. Not really. They’re both right that despite the slowness, melted snow has been plenty sufficient. Illya put himself in unnecessary danger, and for what? A more convenient way to care for a nothing wound? He must be losing his mind.

Illya tosses his pants aside and peels off the last few layers he has on. Gaby shoves the slightly damp towel in hands, and Illya dries himself off as Napoleon drags a dining chair over to the fire. The man picks through the pile of clothes on the floor and hangs them over the chair to dry, and for some reason, it puts a pit in Illya’s stomach.

Illya doesn’t look at him. He can’t stomach it. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so guilty, but it feels right, like some divine punishment, so he mulls on it. His partners’ gazes settle on him like a fog, burning the back of his neck, and Illya can’t ignore it as he dries himself off.

Then, Gaby trudges off into the kitchen, but Napoleon continues staring. Illya shivers, still icy cold from being dunked in the river. He’s practically naked. It’s… embarrassing. Uncomfortable. Unlike before, where he could barely speak over the tension, Illya now blurts out, “We are not warming me up with skin-to-skin contact.”

Napoleon laughs, and it warms his core. “What are you implying?”

“I can feel you staring at me,” Illya defends as he tugs on a dry undershirt.

“And yet, you’re the one who brought that up,” Napoleon chirps back. Illya can’t see him, but he clearly imagine his smarmy grin.

“I’m half-naked, and you are staring. It’s hard not to hear your thoughts.” Illya pulls a sweater over his head.

“Will you two stop flirting!” Gaby barks from the kitchen. “You are incorrigible!”

“He started it!” Napoleon snaps back, and simultaneously, Illya says, “He’s staring!”

She pokes her head through the door and hisses, “I don’t care. Stop flirting.”

Napoleon & Illya freeze in place, and some kind of uncomfortable awareness hits them. Illya tucks his head down. Napoleon clears his throat and takes a careful step backward, quietly declaring, “I’m… going to change out of this. I put the stew back on. I know you’ll be hungry.”

Napoleon flees, and Illya only lifts his head back up when he hears the bedroom door close. He begins to tug off his boxers but pauses. He feels… exposed. He’s normally not shy, not like Napoleon (Americans are so awkward about nudity.) However, he suddenly can’t ignore the air licking his unclothed skin and the discomfort of exposure, and he darts into their tiny washroom to finish dressing.

⋆⁺₊❅.

It looks worse.

Illya pokes at his inflamed side in the quiet of the bedroom. Gaby and Napoleon sit in the kitchen, eating a late dinner while Illya takes refuge here. All day, they’ve watched him like he’s some kind of zoo animal, tracking his every movement as if they don’t even trust him to breathe without supervision.

It’s infuriating. Insulting. Shameful. He’s not sure whether to keep swallowing apologies or let his claws stretch and force things back to normal. Make them stop looking out the corner of their eyes when they think he can’t notice.

He told them he was getting ready for bed, that he was tired after nearly drowning today. It’s not a lie (he is a little worse), but it’s not truthful, either. He couldn’t care less about getting ready for bed, but he couldn’t stand another second of their staring. If he spends one more second being watched, he’s going to pounce like the wild animal they treat him like. That he is.

Illya continues to poke at the warm edges of his cut. Why do they keep staring? Because they don’t trust him not to get into trouble, even locked inside? Because they wish the river swallowed him whole? (No, they’ve saved his hide far too many times for that to be the case.) Because they’re worried? It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t understand them, and sometimes, he thinks he never will.

He doesn’t understand this cut, either. Illya strains his head down to get a better look, no mirror to offer him assistance, and confirms what he already knew. The edges are red and warm to the touch. It hurts about the same, but it should hurt less by now. Why is this of all things giving him trouble? He’ll need to keep flushing it with water when his partners aren’t busy tracking his every movement

A curt knock on the door sounds, and Illya quickly fumbles to throw his thermal shirt back on. He grabs a thicker sweater and answers, “Da?”

The doorknob creaks and fights against being turned, but the door opens, and Napoleon steps through. Illya says, “I’m done. I can help clean up.”

“Stand down, Peril,” Napoleon says, arms crossed and leaning in the doorway. He finally washed the pomade from his hair, and now, accompanying the swath of wavy hair atop Solo’s head, a single long, dark curl hangs across his forehead. Illya resists the urge to bridge the gap between them and brush it out of the way.

Napoleon taps a finger against his arm, choosing his words like he always does, and he stares. His bright, blue eyes bore into Illya, and Illya flexes his fingers. He nearly snaps when Napoleon finally says, “You gave me quite the scare today. I hope you don’t plan on making a habit of this.”

Illya rolls his eyes and busies himself by tucking away some of his things that don’t need tucking away. “Do you want to nag me on anything else? You’ve been staring all day. Go ahead and get it off your chest.”

“Illya, I’ve been- I’m not here to nag. I just want to make sure you’re… okay.” Napoleon’s voice hesitates & softens ever so slightly at “okay”. If Illya really peeled back the layers, he might even find a hint of vulnerability.

Illya looks to his hands and the busy work he’s committed himself to. He swallows and answers, “I’m fine. I’m Russian. Takes more than a cold river to take me out.”

“You could’ve drowned,” Napoleon emphasizes drily, and Illya can hear his eyes rolling. “I still think you might be part polar bear, but I prefer not to put that theory to the test just yet.”

“Good thing you were there to save the day, then, hm?” Illya snips. It’s harsher than needed, and Illya almost feels bad, but something hot and unpleasant thrums under his skin.

Napoleon huffs more than sighs and says, “I save your life, and this is the thanks I get?”

The churning sea of anger in Illya’s chest is overtaken by a wave of guilt. The two emotions wage a bitter war, eager to drown out the other and leave Illya gasping for air. The floorboards creak by the door, and the guilt swells. With lungs full of guilt-ridden seawater, he just barely makes him speak instead coughing out the words, “Thank you. For helping me. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t there.” His words hang in the air and drip with shame.

Napoleon pauses, and the air stills. The floorboard creaks again, and Illya tenses. The two of them linger there in the bedroom, breathing in tandem without looking at each other. The fire softly crackles in the hearth in the room over. Dishware clanks together in the kitchen. Silence creates a divide miles long.

Illya gathers his courage and glances a look back at Napoleon. It’s been too quiet, and a skittish part of him is desperate to know how the man’s reaction. Peeking over his shoulder, Illya sees Napoleon standing by the door, not leaning on it. For a moment, something heavy rests on Solo’s face, but it morphs into a cautious smile (but the heaviness in Napoleon’s eyes doesn’t leave.)

“I’m glad we don’t have to find out,” Napoleon finally says, breaking the still air, and he slinks off into the kitchen.

Illya doesn’t follow. He folds a toboggan in a hundred different ways, unable to find the best way to pack it up while thinking about that one stubborn, dark curl and icy eyes that hold a hundred truths, none of which Illya can decipher.

⋆⁺₊❅.

It’s only by the grace by feigning sleep on the couch that Illya slithers his way out of Gaby dragging him in the small bed with her. The idea of her curled into him, the sound of her soft breath, the brush of skin against skin, the warmth of her small body pressed into him... God, he doesn’t know if he could endure that. The flames of his affection have never waned, but her’s surely have after so long, so he intends not to torture himself like that.

Twilight buries the forest outside their frostbitten windows. The cabin is dark and quiet. The only signs of life are the occasional pop from the fireplace and Napoleon’s soft snoring. (The man swears he doesn’t snore. He does. Illya wishes he capture the sound and make him listen, though he’d likely call Illya a fraud and claim that is someone else snoring. Impossible man.)

Illya sniffles, adding another sign of life. He ought to be asleep. Not too long ago, his watch told him it was well past midnight. He dozed earlier, but he’s wide awake now and can’t fall asleep. He took advantage of everyone sleeping and cleaned his (still infected and unhappy) cut, but now, he just can’t get settled. Maybe Gaby’s insomnia has started to rub off on him. He prays not.

Thankfully, the moon is full, and even in these late hours, he can at least gaze out into the woods. The snow sparkles under the moonlight, dotted with paw & hoofprints. Creatures big and small making a life in this isolated corner of nature. The snow has stopped falling, making the tracks clearer. Illya wasn’t sure if it would ever stop, in all honesty.

He doesn’t miss Russia often, anymore. It was hard when first joined UNCLE. He’s used to trotting across Eastern Europe, sometimes even farther, so being far from home is normal – except, he doesn’t return home, anymore. He doesn’t have his apartment a few blocks from Lubyanka. He doesn’t visit his mother on the occasional weekend. Settling into his new life in England was far from easy.

His gaze flitters over to the bedroom, door ever so slightly ajar to let the heat of the fire in. He supposes… they made it easier. They became friendly in Rome and good partners in Istanbul. If their relationship blossomed into… something else, Illya wouldn’t complain. The thought first hit him on the sunny beaches of Istanbul, watching Napoleon toss a yowling Gaby into the waves, but her smile was wider than the horizon, and Napoleon’s laugh sounded like fluttering doves. He has never let that thought out, and he never intends to.

His heart aches. It swells in his chest, but it has nowhere to go and no one to hold it, so he looks back onto the forest and sniffles, again.

He would have been better born a bear. Everyone says he’s more animal than man, anyways. All tall, imposing muscle, snarling teeth, and merciless claws. He does better when left alone, and this trio is the most painfully perfect exception. Maybe one day, his childhood fairy tales will come true, and a spirit will have some pity on him and let him shed this human skin. Let him become something he understands, morph into something he’s better at being than a person.

He's too angry. Too brutal and sharp. He can’t stand to be wrong, much less admit it, and people are beyond his understanding. He’s better off tracking down elk for his dinner than trying not to bewilder the poor soul at the farmer’s stand.

The floor creaks, but despite instinct, Illya doesn’t whip his head around. He knows it’s one of his partners, and the light footsteps tell him which it is.

Gaby totters next to him and curls around his arm. He nearly freezes at the sudden touch and warmth, but he forces himself to relax. She mumbles, “You should be asleep.”

“So should you,” he softly mumbles back. “Bad night?”

Gaby shrugs. He can feel every atom that connects them together. He loves to feel her touch, and yet, it is liable to drive him mad. She answers, “I slept for an hour or so, so not too bad. I don’t know what woke me up, but I blame Napoleon.”

“Not as good a bedpartner as he claims, hm?” Illya teases, leaning into her for just a moment. Just a moment.

Gaby scoffs, “You’re impossible. Why don’t you go lay down with him and see for yourself?”

It’s not a question, not really, and Illya looks out the window, hoping that spirit may come save him. “I’m not tired,” is all he says.

“Why are you awake?” Gaby asks. She does not let him go. Illya can feel the mark of her body seared into his skin, past all the layers of clothes.

He nearly reminds her he never fell asleep, but then, his plan would be seen right through. “Bad dream. Couldn’t fall back asleep, so I decided to watch the forest.”

Gaby nods against his arm and joins him, staring out into the dimly lit quiet. She whispers, “I don’t realize how much I miss home until it snows.”

Illya’s chest aches in understanding and sympathy. The night and his weary limbs make him soft, so he tells her, “My family used to have a house out in the countryside. We would often go there in the summer, but sometimes, we would go in the winter. There was no one for miles and miles, and I could just run and climb and not worry about anything besides getting home before dark.”

Gaby runs her thumb back and forth across his forearm, and the wild animal inside Illya howls; he’s not sure if it’s delight or pain or longing. He doesn’t understand himself very well. She responds, “I didn’t always live in Berlin. I grew up on the edge of Paderborn. I don’t remember much before my parents died, but I remember the snow. It was so beautiful and stood taller than me, but I was just a child, so everything was taller than me.”

“If we ever get a vacation,” Illya starts, and Gaby huffs a laugh because that will never happen, “we should drag Cowboy back here. Not here, but to the Alps one winter.”

“Do you promise not to fall in any more rivers?” Gaby asks. She frames it like a joke, but it isn’t. There’s an edge, just like everything else about her.

On cue, Illya sniffles, but he answers, “I promise. Trust me, I do not want to make a habit of it.”

“Good,” Gaby agrees with a nod, and she pulls away. Illya’s arm feels cold and empty, and for a moment, his body follows her as she drifts away. “I need you to stay in one, not-frozen piece.”

Illya looks down at her, and she looks beautiful. Her hair is braided away, but her messy bangs and wisps of her hair curl around her face. Her face is lit oh so gently in the soft moonlight and warm fire. Her eyes sparkle, and her lips are pulled into the sweetest line. He could mistake her for a nymph, carrying promises of freedom from the modern world. He would agree in heartbeat if she asked. He fears he would do most anything if she asked.

“You should go to bed,” she whispers, eyelashes fluttering as she meets his eyes.

Illya thinks of sharing the space with Cowboy. Rough hands, soft snores, being forced to slot their bodies together and soak in his heat. He gulps and sniffles – damned runny nose. “I’m not tired.”

“Then…” Gaby starts, and she grabs Illya’s hand. Her hand is not soft, but it is as delicate as it is calloused and rough. The perfect oxymoron. “Why don’t we share that vodka and a game of chess?”

Illya smiles. “You are a woman after my own heart, Chop-Shop.”

Gaby smiles in kind and withdraws her hand, using it to lightly smack Illya’s arm. “Go stoke the fire, Teddybär.”

He hates and loves that nickname. His cheeks flush, but he listens and stalks over to the fireplace.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Gaby can’t sit up straight, and Illya giggles at everything she says, no matter how ridiculous or nonsensical; he is so glad she remembered the vodka. It’s a miracle they haven’t woken Napoleon with their nonsense (or the cruddy radio Gaby fixed, which plays more static than song,) and their game of chess has long been forgotten. Hell, the sun is going to peak over the horizon any minute now, but god, he is having the time of his life.

In slurred German, Gaby recounts tales of ridiculous ballet instructors, ducking between classes to kiss her then girlfriend without getting caught, and her foster father’s bizarre love for model ships. At the tail end of one story, she claims in very slurred German, “And for all that trouble, guess how much they offered for the car?”

“What?” Illya giggles, matching her German reflexively. He leans over the board, into her space. He loves watching her, especially when her face gets so flushed and her smile stretches so wide.

“200 Reichsmark!” she barks, and the pair of them howl with laughter.

Gaby’s shoulders dance up and down, and she leans down into her lap. Illya rests his forehead in his hand as laughter quakes his body, but when the pair of them look up, their faces are close. Dangerously close. Her breath is heavy with vodka, and her hair is delicately mussed. Her lips are two petals, soft and hypnotic.

Illya is drunk. Dangerously drunk. It is so late that it has become early, and they are stuck together in this cabin for at least another day or two. He shouldn’t do something he regrets. He really shouldn’t.

And yet, his body draws in closer, and so does hers. Two orbiting bodies, bound to crash. His eyes dare to flutter shut, and he hopes she does so as well, and they get so close when-

The floorboards creak violently, and a door nudges open. They both snap away, the tension binding them together dissolving in that instant. Illya’s heart aches in a full body way, and he feels another lost chance slip through his greedy, greedy fingers.

Napoleon grumbles, “What are you two doing… so early…?”

Realization dawns as he sees exactly what he just broke apart, and he awkwardly clears his throat. “How long exactly have you two been awake?”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Gaby admits not-so-sheepishly. “We found a way to pass the time.”

Napoleon sees the bottle of vodka on the floor and sighs rather dramatically. “Have you two been drinking all night? The sun is almost up.”

“Is called having fun, Cowboy,” Illya teases, but before he can make any other retorts, he sneezes violently. The sudden sinus pressure (or copious vodka) makes his head ache, and he frowns.

“Yes, Cowboy,” Gaby follows up, leaning so dangerously far she may fall off the couch. “We know how to have a good time.”

“I don’t know who is enabling who…” Napoleon says and rolls his eyes. “Well, you two are definitely drunk enough to sleep without much issue, now.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Gaby purrs, but she yawns an instant later. “Well, not much.”

“Come on, Chop Shop,” Illya says, lightly poking her shoulder, but there’s enough booze in Gaby that she wobbles. “Let’s give Cowboy some peace & quiet.”

Napoleon takes on the noble task of herding his two partners to bed. Illya applauds him for so smoothly dealing with himself and Gaby. (Definitely Gaby. She refuses to listen to anyone when sober, and it’s a hundred times worse when she drinks.) He makes the pair drink some (a lot) of water and corrals them into the bedroom, and for the first time, it’s Illya who hesitates to listen.

“Come on, Peril,” Napoleon coos, hand warm on the middle of Illya’s back. Illya knows he’s much too drunk because he wants to curl himself around his- the American. “I’ll keep you up in the kitchen if you sleep on that godawful couch. You’re not being noble insisting on staying out there. I can confirm, she sleeps better when she can strangle someone in her sleep.”

Illya grumbles and wobbles on his feet as he mulls over his options. Share his hesitance with Cowboy? Crawl into bed and subject himself to bitter longing? Flop onto the couch, regardless? Napoleon adds, “She’s already asleep. You won’t bother her.”

Something about knowing she can’t hear him (and the fact there’s some blood mixed into the alcohol in his veins) has Illya murmuring in slurred Russian, “I still care for her. It hurts to…”

If Illya were sober (or at least less drunk), he would have kept that embarrassing secret to himself (in his heart, right beside the words, “and I care for you, too.”), but no, he lets the words tumble out, and now, he wants to run into the woods, find that river, and throw himself in it, let Mother Nature have her way with him.

Napoleon’s hand tenses at Illya’s back. Illya understands, if Napoleon feels for Gaby how Illya sometimes suspects. The hand relaxes and still tries to guide Illya to the twin bed. “You’re drunk, Illya. Just go to bed. Knowing her, she’ll be up within the hour.”

It’s far too easy for Illya to nod and listen, letting Napoleon’s steady hand guide him to the worn mattress and plush quilts Gaby is curled under. He hesitates at the bed’s edge, but a soft push convinces Illya to crawl under the covers.

Gaby is curled towards him. She’s beautiful when she’s fast asleep; there’s a peacefulness to her features, a reminder she is much younger than him and deserves a far more joyous, carefree life. Not the one they have now. Not one with him.

And yet, Illya, in his drunken stupor, cannot stop himself from curling an arm over her tender form. She’s warm like fresh laundry, and her hair is cotton soft. Her breath dances across the small stretch of his neck not covered by his turtleneck, and he’s never regretted his choice in nightwear more.

His arm almost hovers over her, and then, he hears Napoleon pull the door closed behind him. Illya swallows thick and takes a chance; he settles the weight of his arm on her, and carefully, like everything will shatter if he’s too brazen, he pulls her into him. His heart aches and cries and cheers, and like usual, Illya drowns in an ocean of emotion he cannot fathom. They wash over him, and tears prick the corners of his eyes.

He notices he cannot breathe through his nose, as well. How convenient. Still, he allows his eyes to flutter shut as his head swirls. The worst part of drinking this much, especially once he hit thirty, is how often he gets vertigo when laying down. It sounds impossible, yet here he is, head reeling.

Gaby’s breathing in his ears deafens all other noise. Amidst the horizontal vertigo, Illya clings to the gentle sound. He memorizes all the places where they touch, and as sleep tugs on the corners of his mind, he finds her splendorous presence rather grounding.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Illya forgot another very unfortunate side effect of hitting his thirties: hangovers.

They’ve never been easy, no, but they’ve grown exponentially worse in recent years. For example, right now, he really wishes he had listened to himself last night and thrown himself in that river.

His head pounds, and he hasn’t even opened his eyes, yet. His stomach is one massive queasy pit, and his entire body aches. Worst of all, he has a damn stuffy nose, and he can only breath through his mouth.

All in all, he’d rather been stabbed – properly stabbed – than this misery.

His one solace (and torment) is the warm weight of Gaby beside him. Cold air tickles his stubbled cheeks, but her body exudes a warm that seeps into his core and makes him want to curl around her tighter. He doesn’t know whether she is asleep or awake and also wishing away this nightmare hangover, but she is here, body pressed against his.

His arm rests atop her. Her head nestles into his collarbone, tucked beneath the blankets & quilts. Their legs intertwine in a messy dance. Horribly enough, her hand rests on his hip, a few of her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his sweater and against bare skin.

Just a few fingers, more so fingertips than anything else, against his side, and despite the pounding pain in his brain, he wants to run from the contact and closeness. It’s nothing but a tease of what he craves he could have with her. The wild bear in his chest roars in agony, knowing how it wants to meld her to his skin, but he must settle for this: fingertips ghosting his side.

Every point of contact between them aches, like a heavy weight sits on every one, all of them impossible to ignore and sickeningly sweet. The vertigo he felt last night doesn’t compare to the dizziness here. (In all honesty, that was far worse, but this is its own hell.)

She rustles and moans unhappily. She mutters a string of swears that Illya could not repeat without blushing, and he sympathizes. He sympathizes very, very deeply.

His chest rumbles as he whispers in a sleep-addled voice, “I never should have let you talk me into this.”

Gaby murmurs unhappily and nestles into him deeper. Beneath the covers, she mumbles, “Less talk.”

Illya likes her idea, and he clamps his mouth shut – not too shut, he has to breathe, after all. However, his body suddenly reminds him that he drank a rather ungodly amount of alcohol, and he has needs to attend to that he doesn’t want to deal with. He’d much rather stay curled into Gaby until he felt like a person again (or, if he had his way, the end of time itself.)

The body needs what the body needs, though. Illya emits a rather pitiful groan and begins to untangle himself from Gaby. He cracks his eyes open and is very grateful to be greeted by closed curtains. Gaby, meanwhile, murmurs equally pitifully and pokes her head out of the covers, not unlike a turtle.

“Where are you going?” she pleads, hand tightening on his hip. Illya needs to find a new, less horribly traitorous body when they return to London, one that doesn’t drag him away from heaven incarnate.

“I don’t know how much we drank, but my bladder does,” he answers in a rumble. Gaby does not let go, so Illya is forced to move her hand with his own. It’s so delicate, so rough, so her. He’s going to cut off his hand for this act of treason, he swears he is.

Gaby does as Illya suspects, and though she does not stop him, she complains, “Bastard. You’re so warm. Come back?”

If anything, Illya is cold, but he’s been told he’s a human heater, so he’s not shocked she finds him warm. He can’t say he won’t come back because he so desperately wants to, but he can’t come back, either. He’s gotten this lucky, and he can’t stand to torture himself much longer.

He merely stumbles out of bed, causing a floorboard to creak (that makes him and Gaby groan in tandem.)  No choice but to persevere, he pushes on and shuts his eyes in preparation for the disgustingly bright main room. The door shudders open, and Gaby grumbles at Illya to close it behind him.

He does as she asks, and thankfully, the day is overcast, so it isn’t nearly as bright out as he feared. He sees Napoleon in the main room leaning over Gaby’s puzzle (she’s going to gut him for that), and the man gives Illya a very knowing look. A smirk rests on his lips as Illya ignores him and stumbles into the tiny bathroom.

All he can feel as he sorts himself out is his pounding head, his stuffed nose, and the chill in his bones. It encompasses his whole awareness in the worst possible way, and Illya is a well of utter misery. However, while he has his moment of privacy, he steels himself upright and checks on his side.

Unfortunately, it looks worse. Much worse. His queasy stomach rolls, and Illya makes a pained noise. It hurts, worse than it ever did before, and even in this dim lighting, it looks very red. The small stretch of it is not just warm but hot to the touch. It’s bad. Very bad.

He’s going to need to clean this as much as possible. Why in the world did this thing have to be such a pain? His head throbs just from the thought of effort, and a small part of him wants to cry. However, that would make this situation infinitely worse, so he stifles the feeling.

Thankfully, there is some clean water left here for freshening up, and Illya swallows thick as he tests the water with his hand – which is damn near freezing, of course. No matter how cold it is, though, his cut is desperately infected – dangerously so. If Gaby was right that Waverly is a few days out, then he needs to play damage control until he can get his hands on some proper antiseptic or penicillin or soap.

Carefully, Illya pulls his clothes away from the cut, clearing the area as to not soak himself if the water drips too far down. Just to be safe, he holds a towel on his hip it to catch the runaway water droplets. He breathes in deep and thinks back on his training. Submerging himself in icy lakes. Days spent running in a snowy tundra. He’s the KGB’s damn best; he can handle some cold water.

Without thinking, he scoops up the water and lets it run over the cut, hopefully flushing out some of the infection. It sears his skin, icy cold, and Illya flinches, but he lets the water run down. Unfortunately, for all its coldness, it does not soothe his cut. It just irritates it in a new, uncomfortable way. His body aches and head throbs for the hundredth time just this morning. Heavens, he’s pathetic.

He repeats the act once more. More icy water over inflamed skin, trying to purge infection as best he can while shocking his skin almost painfully. Maybe something in the river got into it, and this will help clear it – or at least soothe it, so it’s no longer hot to the touch.

He swallows thick. He can’t believe this damn cut is giving him such problems. It’s always the little wounds, isn’t it? He can handle this just fine, though. He can. He will.

With a steel resolve and a churning stomach, Illya fixes his clothes and tumbles out of the bathroom onto the couch. Napoleon is in the spare chair, pouring over Gaby’s scenic puzzle, and Illya can only spare a small sympathy for Napoleon because as hungover as he is, that man will be mauled once Gaby wakes up and sees what he’s done

“Good afternoon,” Napoleon greets gently, and Illya screws his eyes shut at the noise. He groans in response.

“That sounds about right,” Napoleon answers, and Illya hears him move. Napoleon’s voice moves across the room as the man continues, “Considering how much you two drank last night, it’s a miracle you didn’t get alcohol poisoning. You didn’t drink a drop of water, did you?”

Illya moans another wordless answer. “That’s what I thought,” Napoleon sighs with disappointment. His voice is close, punctuated by the floorboards in front of him creaking. (Of course, they creak. Everything creaks. Nothing in this damned cabin can be quiet. It exists to torture Illya.)

Illya cracks an eye open and sees Napoleon holding a glass of water and some pills, which Illya takes without hesitation. It’s worrying how much he trusts Napoleon with his life, but they’d be terrible partners on the field if he didn’t. Illya downs the glass and hands it back without a word.

Napoleon continues torturing Illya by talking, saying, “When Gaby comes back to the land of the living, I’ll fix some pasta. I think I can make a passable pasta sauce with what we have. It’ll be better than Depression cooking if nothing else. We’ve got time before Waverly gets here, so we may as well eat somewhat well in the meantime.”

The thought of food would sound heavenly, if not for his rolling stomach. The sensation is compounded by the sudden memory of nearly kissing Gaby last night, their lips drawing near, and then, he admitted to Napoleon that he cared for her. Illya groans again. Will that forest spirit please manifest and put him out of his misery?

“God, you really are miserable,” Napoleon comments. “Normally, you’d insult or tease me by now. I feel like I should be worried.”

“You should stop talking,” Illya mumbles as he buries his head in his arm. His head pounds, but he hopes whatever Napoleon gave him will help.

Napoleon scoffs. His voice carries across the room as he says, “I’d be more insulted if you didn’t look so awful. That’s what you get for drinking until sunrise. And I hope you know sleeping on that couch killed my back.”

“Cowboy,” Illya pleads. In a sudden wash of warmth, a blanket drapes across Illya. He chances opening an eye to see Napoleon smiling, soft and sincere, but when he realizes Illya is looking, it fades into a sharp smirk.

“Sorry, Illya.” His tone doesn’t match his expression; it lacks any teasing quality. Illya supposes Napoleon can only hide so much of his gentleness.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Consciousness pulls at Illya, and he drifts into wakefulness as he tugs his blanket further up. He must’ve dozed off while waiting for the hangover to fade. There’s commotion in the kitchen, and he’s reminded of his first morning here, Napoleon and Gaby awake and cooking while he slept on the couch. The smell of acidic tomato wafts into the room, and Illya…

Illya’s stomach rolls. His head may no longer feel like an overripe melon, ready to burst, but his stomach remains staunchly queasy. His skin is damp with a sheen of sweat, and he shivers as he pulls the blanket even tighter across his body. His nose remains completely blocked, and he’s forced to continue breathing through his mouth. God, he needs to brush his teeth. His mouth feels utterly rancid. However, that requires moving, and that seems an awful task he’d rather put off.

From the kitchen, he hears Gaby squeal gleefully, and he cracks an eye open. From his position, he can just see through the kitchen doorway, and Napoleon’s arm wraps around Gaby’s middle as she giggles. It’s not a perfect picture, partially obscured, but it’s a lovely one. His chest aches ever so bittersweetly.

He ducks his head down and nuzzles into his blanket. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but either the stubborn infection or his dip in those frigid waters seems to have made him sick. His hand slithers down his side, slips beneath his sweater and against the cut. The skin is no longer hot, but it’s warm enough to be an issue. He needs to get up and flush it out again, but that presents its own dilemmas.

For one, getting up would alert his partners, leading to questions and prying eyes, and he doesn’t need their coddling. He’ll be just fine letting this run its course, and if he’s not better when Waverly arrives, then once they land, he can get what he needs. He can’t stand to bother them with this of all things, and he’s bounced back from far worse, so worrying them is unnecessary. The other issue is that he would rather like to melt into the couch and never leave it, but he can power through that temptation more easily.

However, he really needs to keep this cut as clean as possible, and now’s not the time to take chances. If he’s lucky, when they ask why he feels so poorly, the excuse of a “hangover” will go unquestioned.

Illya wipes his face with the blanket, wiping some of the sweat clinging to him. His stomach remains thoroughly unsettled (he should probably eat something), but he can power through that. He will power through that. He takes a deep breath and rises off the couch, moving quickly to the small washroom.

Gaby nor Solo call out to him, so he celebrates the small success by sneezing violently. The gross amount of congestion, coupled by the sneeze, makes his forehead throb for a moment, and Illya swears under his breath as he prepares to repeat the wound-cleaning routine.

He plants his feet firmly as he presses a towel to his side and flushes the wound clean once more. The water is still icy cold, and he hisses through clenched teeth. He glances down at the cut, and while it does look better, it’s not by much.

The towel is thrown over a small rack, and he sighs. The more he moves, the more achy he realizes he is. It settles in his bones, and he desperately wants to curl under a comforter, right now. It’s also shown him how delicate his stomach is. Illya posts himself against a wall for support as he swallows the waves of nausea threatening to spew out any lingering vodka and the remains of yesterday’s lunch. (He really does need to eat. He forgot he skipped dinner.)

He mulls over his next options. Crawling into bed sounds wonderful, but he needs to stay hydrated and get something solid in his system. He’d love to pull on a change of clothes, but he doubts he’s packed much else that’s still clean, not unless one of those two have done laundry (and knowing them, that’s highly doubtful.)

It looks like his only option is to go eat something, drink some water, and crawl back under a thick quilt until something compels him to move.

With a grumble, Illya trudges out of the washroom and towards the kitchen. Napoleon is no longer holding Gaby, instead stirring a pot and rambling about the merits of a Jane Freilicher, likely an artist from the way he’s talking. Gaby is straining a pot of pasta, absently nodding along, but Illya knows she’s giving him her full attention.

Gaby notices Illya first, and a smile turns the corners of her mouth. “Have you finally recovered?” she teases.

Illya takes a seat at the table and groans, “Not at all. I always forget you can drink me under a table once I’m a few shots deep.”

“It’s not your fault Germans are better drinkers than Russians,” Gaby coos condescendingly, and she shakes the last of the water from the pasta.

Illya begins to shake his head, but he thinks better of it, not wanting to endure the vertigo. “No, you’re just a medical anomaly.”

Napoleon chimes in, “We have a bit more paracetamol if you’d like.”

“Nyet,” Illya answers, slipping into a touch of Russian. “I need to get something in my stomach.”

Napoleon tosses a potholder onto the small wooden table and carries a small pot of sauce over. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

Dinner is fixed in a flurry of motion. The sky is dark, but the fire from the small woodstove and a lantern keeps the room manageably lit. Illya traces the figures of his partners as they finish preparing their meager meal of shelf stable pasta. Napoleon’s defined arms and trim waist. Gaby’s gently sloping shoulders and dark hair. The pair work in almost perfect tandem.

Illya snaps to attention as he realizes Gaby has asked him a question. He nods lamely, unsure of what he’s agreed to, and watches her fix him a bowl.

She places his spaghetti in front of him, and normally, Illya would dive straight into this, what with Napoleon’s pasta being somewhat of a delicacy, but his stomach churns at the sight of food. His struggling appetite seems to collapse to dust right at this moment.

So, he waits for Gaby & Napoleon to fix their own plates and settle at the table, and once they start eating, Illya lifts his fork and does his best to choke down the pasta. He needs to eat, and it will make him feel better. Between bites, he quietly sucks in air through his teeth, no thanks to his stuffed nose. However, dinner seems to go rather well… for a few bites.

Once Illya really starts to chew, swallow, and taste, he comes to very unfortunate realization he will not be able to keep this down – and the realization comes a little too late. With one hand gripping his thigh in a steel vice, Illya shoves his bowl away with a curdled frown. He is forced to admit, “I… don’t think I can keep this down.”

Napoleon & Gaby look at him with matching concern, and as much as it makes his skin prickle, the softness makes him want to crawl into their laps and stay there. Gaby lifts her hand like she’ll check his temperature, and she asks, “Are you coming down with something?”

However, before her hand can make contact (he’s gotten enough skin to skin contact from her, anyways), he snaps, “I’m just hungover. I’m fine.”

Gaby pulls her hand back, but her brow sets itself firmly. Napoleon chimes, “Peril, you’ve never been so hungover you’d pass on my cooking. You took a dunk in a river, yesterday. It wouldn’t exactly be surprising if you were under the weather.”

“It takes more than a river to get me sick,” Illya insists. Apparently, it takes a river and the world’s most petulant cut, but he keeps that to himself.

However, that’s all he can keep to himself, and in a sinking wave of realization, Illya jolts up from his chair and darts out of the kitchen towards the front door. Chairs scrape as two sets of footsteps follow him, and Illya throws open the door so he can toss the noodles and remaining vodka in his stomach onto the snow piled outside.

He groans with effort and a bit of misery, and he leans against the doorway, propped against his forearm. The cold sends a thick chill through his being, however, and Illya quickly shuts the door before he begins shivering.

He turns around to see his partners staring in matching displeasure. Napoleon’s arms are crossed, and his lips are pulled into a thin line Illya interprets as worry. Gaby looks utterly livid, which means she’s also worried. Illya’s hands want to shake under the combined weight of their gazes.

Gaby’s the first to speak, her emotions boiling over and bursting out as she says, “No, Illya. You clearly aren’t sick. You are clearly fine.”

“I am,” he insists, but he imagines his defense doesn’t hold up very well considering his current state. He shivers, still feeling chill from outside seep into his bones, even as a bead of sweat trails down his neck.

Gaby ignores him and stomps forward, crowding his space. Her hand shoots up, silently demanding once again to check his temperature, but Illya doesn’t immediately lean down. Something boils within him, shunning their care and concern, crying out that he is fine and fully capable of surviving without relying on these two, but… he knows that’s wrong. He hates that the notion is wrong, but it is.

In Vancouver, Gaby kept him conscious while Napoleon stopped him from bleeding out from a very, very lucky shot. In Rio, Napoleon saved Illya from an underground THRUSH facility that had set their hearts set on torturing every name possible out of him. In Kyoto, Gaby talked Illya down from an episode in the quiet of their hotel room for no reason besides she didn’t want him to hurt himself.

They’ve kept him alive and well countless times, and not once have they asked for anything in return. Whether he likes it or not, he is tied to these two, and maybe he should do damage control, limit his connections, but that feels pointless after so many years. Maybe he doesn’t have to share every ache and scratch, but if he is so obviously sick in such a small cabin, with no way to leave, he is only fooling himself in protesting that he is fine.

Illya finally leans down and lets Gaby’s cold hand brush against his forehead. Her anger flickers into worry, and she tuts for Napoleon to do the same. Illya does sigh unappreciatively as Napoleon copies her, but the American nods along as Gaby says, “You are not fine. You have a fever.”

“Sorry, Peril, but she’s right. We don’t need a doctor to know you’re sick,” Napoleon agrees, taking the chance to brush a piece of sweat-stained hair from Illya’s forehead. The motion is dizzying, though that could be nausea-provoking vertigo.

Illya rolls his eyes, but he knows they’re right. He doesn’t like it, but they are, and now, he gets to be subjected to their coddling. There was really no use in hiding it, and they are doing this from a place of care, but even knowing that, his skin itches.

“Do you think you could keep down plain noodles? We don’t have much that’s easy on the stomach, but that shouldn’t be too difficult,” Napoleon offers, and Illya nods in agreement because he does need to eat, nauseous as he is. Napoleon continues, “You’re very warm. Maybe we can bring it down with a bath.”

Gaby’s strengths have never included gentleness or quality bedside care. Thankfully, Napoleon’s strengths do. It still surprises Illya how competent the man is with taking care of them when they’re sick, but it could just be that compared to Gaby, Napoleon is a saint.

Illya nods mindlessly, eager to keep something down, and he lets his partners herd him back into the kitchen for a much simpler meal of plain noodles. Gaby fixes a small bowl and apologizes for nothing to put on it. (“This place doesn’t even have lard,” she huffs. “I need to start itemizing everything wrong with this godawful pantry.”) Meanwhile, Napoleon drags out the largest pot they have and starts boiling buckets of snow to heat it up to a humane temperature; is he actually drawing Illya a bath?

As Illya chews on small forkfuls of spaghetti, he’s trapped in a whirlpool of feeling. His body aches, his stomach occasionally lurches if he even chews too fast, and he still can’t breathe. On top of that, he feels so humbled by the concern his partners are showing, yet at the same time, a fury slowly wells up over being forced to rely on them instead of trusted to do this himself, and he can’t shake an anxious buzz that settles under his skin.

These waves of overwhelming feeling aren’t unfamiliar – just incredibly unappreciated, especially when he’s already sick, though that’s not doing him any favors. He just had to get sick and subject himself to this. All of this could have been so easily avoided, but he had to get sloppy and get cut. His cut had to get infected. He had to cut corners and not thoroughly check the ice. He just had to continue being himself and put himself in this position. It’s so infuriating, and he doesn’t know why he must be like this.

He can no longer stomach eating, and the nausea is not to blame. He pushes away his half-eaten bowl. It isn’t much, but it’s something, and it’s enough to make Gaby pleased because she only gives him half a glare.

Napoleon comes back into the kitchen to check on his (rather massive) pot of slowly heating snow. He checks on it with a determined look, and Illya says, a bit nasally, “Cowboy, you don’t need to draw me a bath. You can’t heat the water fast enough.”

Napoleon, annoying prick that he is, completely ignores Illya and walks back into the living room. Illya huffs and furrows his brow before (slowly, carefully) getting out his chair and following him. His body aches with the effort, and in all honesty, Illya would rather just go to bed than deal with a bath. Napoleon throws another log onto the fire (Illya does not regret bringing in all that firewood), and Illya repeats, “Is not necessary. I’m going to lay down.”

Napoleon stokes the fire and serves Illya a sharp look. “You clearly don’t understand how warm you are, then.”

“No because I am freezing,” Illya answers, and it’s true if not over-the-top because he is cold. The last thing he wants to bother with is barely lukewarm bathwater when he could be curled under a quilt.

Napoleon rolls his eyes and stokes the fire once more. Satisfied, he wipes hands on his pants and says, “Which is the problem. You’re too hot, and your temperature needs to come down.”

Illya, despite the chill running down his arms, smiles wryly and teases, “Too hot? I’m flattered.”

“Can it, Peril,” Napoleon answers. He walks into the washroom, likely to search its cupboards for lye, and continues, “And I thought I thought too much of myself.”

Illya settles onto the couch and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. He tries to suppress a sneeze and fails, so he makes a pained noise and wipes his nose against his sleeve. “Many women back in Moscow would agree that I am, as you said, ‘too hot’.”

Napoleon barks a laugh from the washroom and pokes his head out of the doorway just to tease, “Who? The grandmothers you’d carry groceries for? Sorry, Peril, I’ve seen you flirt. You’re about as graceful and suave as a sedated kitten.”

“Well, how am I supposed to flirt?” Illya huffs, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. He’s sick and miserable. He should not be treated this way. He’s punched men for less.

Napoleon walks up to Illya and leans over him, bracing himself against the back of the couch. He’s close, much closer than he should be to any sick man, and Illya can’t decide where to focus: the one curl hanging ever so gently across the gentle lines of his forehead, his bright blue eyes with just a spot of brown in them, or his strong, thick neck.  A tender smile stretches across Napoleon’s handsome face, and he purrs, dragging his eyes across Illya’s form, “There’s another reason why I’m drawing you a bath, and I hope you know it’s entirely selfish.”

Illya blushes red hot, and he could easily blame it on his fever, but only a fool would believe that lie. Napoleon’s breath is hot and close, and Illya itches to sit up and press his lips against Napoleon’s, wiping that smile clean off his face and melting into his heat.

Napoleon stands up straight, drawing his hand back, and his flirtatious smile morphs into a self-satisfying grin. “That is how it’s done.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

Illya’s tall stature and lanky limbs make fitting into things difficult. Clothes often must be heavily adjusted. Long enough beds are near impossible to find. Doorways are a nightmare, especially in eastern Asia. Another example he can add to the list is squeezing into this tiny tub.

How in the world is he supposed to soak when he can’t even stuff both legs inside? The water is warm and pleasant, yes, but that doesn’t mean much when his exposed skin is cold to the touch, even with the door cracked to allow the fireplace’s heat can swell inside. He does ache less. The warm water soothes his tired joints, and he is clean, so he’s grateful to have that, at least.

He hoped a soak would make him feel better. It was the only reason why he agreed to Napoleon’s request (and nothing to do with his demonstrative flirting.) However, he’s teetering between pleasant and cold, the lye is irritating his cut, and he can’t lay on the rim of the tub because the aluminum is so thin and sharp. He’s ready to be out of this torture device.

The stillness is broken by Napoleon, the ever-diligent nurse, slipping into the room. “Drowned yourself yet? I’d hate a repeat of Rome. Or Bermuda. Or just yesterday, at the-.”

“I get it. I do not have good luck with water,” Illya sniffles as he rolls his eyes. “You are terrible nurse. Too mean.”

“Do you want to deal with Gaby?” Napoleon asks as he walks over and kneels by the tub. He keeps his eyes very carefully placed above the rim of th. Such an American.

“No…” Illya sulks after a moment. Knowing what’s coming, he turns his head towards Napoleon, but instead of a trademark smirk, he sees a softer smile. The man places a hand to Illya’s forehead and mutters more than says, “Not great, but better.”

“Am I free to go, yet?” Illya grumbles. “These accommodations are as terrible as your bed manner.”

“Like you’re a good patient,” Napoleon scoffs. He, once again, brushes a hair from Illya’s forehead that sends his stomach in somersaults (and not in a nauseous way.) “I can’t make you do anything, so if you’re so unhappy, yes, you’re free to go.”

“Thank heavens,” Illya sighs, and he almost begins to stand out of the tub, but he stops just short. His side. He’ll get the, uh, third degree as Solo likes to say if Napoleon or Gaby catch sight of it. He hesitates awkwardly as Napoleon stands.

“What are you waiting for?” Napoleon asks. Illya knows he must curious as to why Illya isn’t leaping out of the tub since he doesn’t care to coddle Napoleon’s American sensibilities and loathes that tub.

“I’m saving myself a headache and preserving your delicate sensibilities,” Illya lies, pulling his knees to his chest and shooing Napoleon away.

With a fiery look behind his eyes, Napoleon teases, “That ship has long since sailed, Peril, but fine, have your privacy.”

The American slips out of the room without much fuss, and Illya sighs with relief at the uncharacteristically agreeable action. He stands up from the tub and looks for a towel, but… he doesn’t see it. He hums flatly as he looks, the chill slipping under his skin once more, and in a flash, the door opens.

“Sorry, I forgot I…” Napoleon trails off, missing towel in hand, and Illya knows exactly why the words died on his lips. God. Derʹmó. This is not what he needs.

“When did you get cut?” Napoleon asks, and Illya stomps forward to snatch the towel from his hands. He towels his waist, hiding it from inspection for at least a few moments longer.

“On the mission. Is a small cut, barely a scratch,” Illya insists as dries himself as strategically as he can to hide his cut from view (which is to say, barely at all.)

Something sharp settles in Napoleon’s voice. “Look, I try not to pry, but if that’s infected-.”

“I can take care of it,” Illya snaps, and he gives up on hiding it. If Napoleon wants to pry, let him. Illya doesn’t care. He starts to dry his arms, and he just barely avoids sneezing into the towel.

Napoleon scoffs, “Because you’re so up for the task. Illya, if that is why you have a fever, then maybe, oh, I don’t know, you should think to tell us?”

Illya staunchly does not look at him and swallows a wave of guilt & nausea. “And let you do what, Cowboy? What I’ve been doing? When UNCLE finally picks us up, I’ll get it looked at. Until then, there’s nothing to be done.”

Tensions fills the air, and all warmth seems to flee the room, leaving a chill to nip at Illya’s still-wet skin. He quickly finishes drying and starts pulling on clothes as Napoleon searches for words. Something angry & malicious inside him smiles at the man’s speechlessness, but then, Napoleon says, “Have you once considered that we care? That we would like to keep you in one piece?”

Illya’s shoulders tense. “Yes, which is why I let you drag me into this bath, but there’s nothing you can do about this, so why bother?”

“So why-?” Napoleon starts, and he sighs sharply, more of a hiss than anything else. “You’re impossible. You’re stubborn as a mule and just as inconsiderate.”

“Inconsiderate?!” Illya snaps, spinning on his heel, even though he only has his pants on and needs to finish dressing. “What does me telling you about this change? I am sick, maybe because of this or the river. Who knows, but we are stuck in the middle of nowhere with laughable supplies, so we can’t do anything about it. Why do you care? Why? You can’t fix it.”

“If you hadn’t tossed your lunch earlier, would you have even told us you were sick?” Napoleon pivots, arms crossed and face tight.

Illya gapes for a moment before pulling on an undershirt. “If it got bad enough, yes.”

“So that wasn’t bad enough. Just like how this infection isn’t bad enough-.”

“Why must you insist on knowing every little fucking thing wrong with me?” Illya hisses, fists clenched and heart racing.

“Because I give a damn,” Napoleon snaps, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Forgive me for caring about you, Illya. It’s not like we’ve worked together for years now or that I’ve saved your sorry ass countless times.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Illya asks. In some ways, he understands, but a small part of him aches at hearing that and doesn’t know why.

“What does- Are you actually serious?” Napoleon asks incredulously, staring at Illya with blatant confusion. “I care about you, for worse apparently, and that means if you are unwell, I like to know. I don’t want you to suffer like some tragic hero, but if you are so insistent on bearing every cross alone, then please, don’t let me stop you.”

Illya’s heart pounds furiously. Panic and fear take ahold of his chest, and Illya can already see the world he’s come to love crashing around him, all thanks to him. Instead of saying something honest or smart, Illya snaps, “Like you’re much better. I don’t even know your mother’s name! You’re so afraid to even think about letting people in.”

“Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” Napoleon hisses and glares. “Fine! I’m a damn hypocrite, but that doesn’t change how impossible you are.”

Napoleon stomps up to Illya, teeth set into a snarl, and jabs a finger to the Russian’s chest, biting out, “You wouldn’t let us help you if it killed you.”

“Neither would you!” Illya yells, stomping his foot into the cabin so hard dust shakes down from the ceiling. “Despite what you think, I want to know you. I enjoy your company, and I do care about you.”

“Well, great news, Peril! So do I. What are you going to do about it?” Napoleon seethes, lips twisted into a furious smile. Anger pounds in Illya’s head, and he shakes from a thousand emotions. He feels so terrible he may curl onto the floor right here & now, but at the prompt of Napoleon’s taunt, only one action feels right or plausible, even if it is a damn well stupid action.

Illya grabs Napoleon by the collar and smashes their lips together, and only a small part of him feels guilty for kissing the man while so sick. Napoleon stiffens for half a second, but like he has to let reality settle in, his body melts, and his hands meet the curve of Illya’s waist.

Illya has seen these hands at work countless times in countless ways, but all he has ever craved is to be held by them like so. A warmth blazes inside him, stronger than any fire, and it pours through his veins like liquid gold. His head swims with the dizzying knowledge that this is what his lips feel like, that he can hold such tenderness.

They break away for a moment before following with one then two tender kisses, and they rest. Illya stares at Napoleon with wide-eyed wonder, chest heaving, as he wraps his around reality and what is infection-addled brain is capable of. It’s hard to believe that the Napoleon he sees now, pupils blown wide and a smile teasing his face, just kissed him. The usual cool mask has cracked, and there is only joy beneath, and Illya’s heart sings.

Slowly, Illya lets go of Napoleon’s collar. His hands slide down his arms, and one settles all the way down on Napoleon’s hip. Napoleon licks his lips and says, “Well, then. That’s certainly something you could do.”

Illya swallows, irritating the base of his throat, and lets himself smile, even if only ever so slightly. “I hope it was… the right thing.”

Napoleon smiles wider, but it dissipates in an instant. Something tighter, more cautious, crosses his eyes as he asks, “I… I thought you cared for Gaby like… that.”

Ah, yes. Illya takes a deep breath and flicks his gaze to the floor. It feels dangerous, admitting anything, but after what he did, he supposes he must take another risk. He sheepishly admits, “I do. I… care for you as well. I don’t know why, but I am fond of you both. I always dreamed of having you both, but I understand that not everything is meant to be.”

The smile crawls back onto Napoleon’s face. “Maybe it can be meant to be,” Napoleon says, teasingly like he knows a secret Illya doesn’t. “You should talk to Gaby. You might like what she has to say.”

Illya’s heart swells three sizes, and it’s too good to be true. It must be too good to be true, and yet… Napoleon has never been a tease. Not like this, and especially not to him. Even as he broaches into new territory, this feels… secure.

With her ever-perfect timing, Gaby knocks on the door. She pokes her head inside and looks between the pair curiously. “Have… you two made up?”

Napoleon turns around, and with a smile, he says, “Most definitely. I think Illya needs to tell you something.”

Illya lets go of Napoleon and crosses the space between him and Gaby. Her eyes are full of cautious curiosity, and Illya brushes a wisp of hair from her face. He softly whispers, “Maybe I should show you instead.”

Hand on her chin and leaning down slowly, giving her every chance for an out, Illya closes the last gap between them, and he kisses her lips tenderly. His heart soars as he feels her soft lips press against his in a kiss so chaste and tender yet full of years of yearning and want.

She gasps against him and melts before pulling away. Her cheeks are flushed with a wordless, joyous shock. Illya smiles ever so gently, and Gaby softly says, “I can’t believe you finally kiss me when you’re sick.”

Napoleon snickers from behind them and bittersweetly adds, “Jesus, you’re right. I better not have caught anything.”

Gaby’s brows shoot up to her hairline, and Napoleon explains, “Do you remember that pub in Dublin, a year back in October?”

Another wave of realization washes over her, and her mouth gapes open as she stares between Illya and Napoleon. “Are you serious?” she prompts Napoleon.

Illya clears his throat, sniffles, and with flushed cheeks, admits, “I… have rather strong feelings for the two of you. Ever since Istanbul, I’ve imagined what a life having the both of you could be like, but I thought it would never happen. I thought I lost my chance with you, Chop Shop.”

“Oh, Illya,” Gaby coos, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek. “You never did.”

Napoleon steps close and rests his hand on Illya’s waist. “I think we have some talking to do tomorrow. Let’s get ready for bed. It’s been a long day.”

Debating it for a moment, just as the two begin to pull away from him, Illya asks, “Can I ask one thing of you?”

⋆⁺₊❅.

The evening draws to a quick close. With the knowledge of Illya’s cut and infection (that she rips into him for), Gaby finally has the trump card needed to convince Waverly to hurry up and get them an extraction team. The rest of the evening blurs by in a rush of euphoria and mundanity: cleaning the kitchen while standing too close, holding hands just because they can, sharing new stories of times when their love blossomed so strongly yet never was shared.

Now, Illya’s request has finally been fulfilled. He is still “sick as a dog”, with frequent sniffles, more infrequent sneezing, and a constant ache to his body, but it’s suddenly more manageable. The three of them have squeezed themselves onto the small twin bed this cabin has, and they are a tangle of limbs and love.

Illya feels as though his heart will ooze out of his chest. Tears prick his eyes as he finally, finally realizes he has not just one but both of his partners as partners, including both meanings of the words.

Illya lays in the center with Gaby and Napoleon each curled on one side each. Gaby rests her head just beside his heart and a hand on his belly. Napoleon noses into the crook of Illya’s neck, his own hand resting atop Gaby’s. All three of their legs are a massive tangle. They’re a mess, barely fitting with Gaby & Napoleon resting more on Illya than the mattress, but he doesn’t care. He couldn’t care, not when he has everything he’s ever dreamed of. Not when he has them.