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The first thing Napoleon says when he wakes up is: “Told you I was sick.”
His head is pounding, and there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t hurt. Even breathing is painful, and cold fire burns through his lungs with each inhale. The world is a bit too bright. Napoleon feels ready to sleep a week.
He wriggles so he’s curled more comfortably. Illya stares down at him from the side of the bed, and Napoleon thinks he almost, almost, looks guilty.
“Did I hit anything?” he says, coughing to clear his throat. It doesn’t feel like he hit anything, though when he hurts everywhere it is hard to tell. He had been following Illya down the hotel corridor, and now he’s horizontal in his bed in pyjamas. There is only one conclusion.
“No,” Illya says softly, “I caught you.”
“Oh,” Napoleon says, his voice quiet enough to be mistaken for an exhale. “Thank you, Peril.”
He passes out.
-
There’s something soft and cool resting across his forehead. Napoleon presses against it, enjoying the pleasant feeling. He hears murmurs, frustrated and sad, though he can’t make out the words. Then the cool thing vanishes, and Napoleon sinks back into darkness.
-
When he wakes up again, everything hurts a little bit less. Illya is still at his bedside, sitting in a chair with his long legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He’s engrossed in a book of some sort, and Napoleon lies awake, staring, waiting to be noticed.
Minutes pass, and Illya doesn’t look up even once. Napoleon’s patience snaps.
“Peril.” Speaking turns out to be a bad idea. Something scratches hard at Napoleon’s throat, and he slips into a coughing fit.
Illya looks up, straightening in alarm, and waits until Napoleon’s coughing finally subsides. “You okay, Cowboy?” he says, putting the book aside and standing up.
“I’ll live,” Napoleon says hoarsely, blinking blearily at the giant man-shaped blur looming above him comes slowly into focus. It feels like someone took sandpaper to his throat.
Last time, it had been morning, and now the late afternoon sun is filtering through the window, tinting everything orange. It catches on Illya’s hair and lashes, turning it gold. Napoleon looks away, and then decides to stare openly.
“What time is it?”
“Five. Sit up.”
Napoleon pushes against the mattress with wobbly arms, and leverages himself into a semi sitting position. Illya grabs a pillow and stuffs it behind Napoleon’s back.
“Already?”
“You slept a lot.” Illya hands Napoleon two white pills and a glass of water.
“Huh.” He puts the pills in his mouth, and accidentally drinks all the water when he goes to wash them down. His thirst quenched, he stares at the glass, and then hands it back to Illya. “What did I just take?”
“Medicine.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He goes to the bathroom, climbs back into bed, and immediately falls asleep.
-
He wakes up twice in the night, and both times, Illya is stretched out beside him in bed, staring at him in the dark.
The first time, Napoleon nearly has a heart attack. He turns around in silent protest and goes back to sleep.
The second time, he snuggles. Illya wraps his arms around Napoleon and pulls him close. Napoleon doesn’t wake until morning.
-
“Read to me.”
The next morning, Napoleon is bored. He sprawls lazily in bed, his eyes closed against the exhaustion weighing down his limbs and the dull pain in his body. According to Illya, Waverly has grounded them both for the time being, Gaby is in Asia, and their hotel stay has been extended another week to allow him to recover. Napoleon has taken his medication prescribed by an UNCLE doctor two countries away, and even had some fruit for breakfast. He feels great, all things considered.
“This book is in Russian.”
“Even better,” Napoleon murmurs, then he coughs once, and buries his face in the covers, willing his body not to turn it into another fit.
It doesn’t. His insides calm, and Napoleon pokes his head out again. He catches a glimpse of Illya staring him like a kicked puppy, before the mask of an emotionless spy slips back over his face. Illya looks down at his book, sighs softly, and then he starts to speak. His rumbling voice washes over Napoleon, low and soothing.
“Когда́ де́ло бы́ло прочтено́, Степа́н Аркадьич встал, потяну́вшись, и, отдава́я дань либера́льности вре́мени-”
“Is that Anna Karenina?”
“Yes,” Illya mumbles. He sounds self-conscious. That’s adorable, Napoleon thinks, absolutely adorable. There’s a witty comment lurking at the edges of his mind, something sharp and smart and hilarious. Napoleon grasps at it and it slips through his fingers.
“Start at the beginning.”
“I’ve already read the beginning.”
Napoleon looks at Illya from under his lashes, his lips pressed into a pout, making sure to look extra sad and pitiful.
Illya stares back at him, rolls his eyes, then flips back the pages.
"Все счастли́вые се́мьи похо́жи друг на дру́га, ка́ждая несчастли́вая семья́ несчастли́ва по-сво́ему…”
With a satisfied smile on his face, Napoleon closes his eyes, and listens.
-
“Cowboy, I am not going to feed you.”
“But I’m sick.”
“You can hold a spoon.”
“But what if I spill it all over myself?”
“It weighs nothing.”
“Perhaps to you, a physically healthy person.”
“Then you can skip dinner.”
“You want me to starve?”
“I don’t care.”
“Illya, wait, wait come back.”
-
Things get a little worse before they get better.
“I’m cold.” Napoleon curls in tighter, shivering beneath the blankets. He peeks over at Illya, looking for sympathy, but the Russian doesn’t even look at him, and turns another page in his book.
“You have a thirty-eight degree fever, Napoleon.”
“I’d be dead.”
“Celsius.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Napoleon grumbles, as though he hadn’t spent nearly half his life crusading around outside the US first as an art thief and then as a spy.
Illya sighs loudly.
“Come warm me up.”
That earns Napoleon a glare. “No, you need to cool down.”
Napoleon grips his blankets firmly, just in case Illya decides to take them away. “You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I’m the only nurse you’re going to get.”
“At least you’re pretty to look at.”
Illya drops the book and actually shoves him with his foot. Napoleon laughs and rolls over, dodging the strike, then gets accidentally wrapped in the bedsheets.
-
“I want a macaron,” Napoleon decides one morning.
“You’ll get one when you’re better.”
“But I want one now.”
“No,” growls Illya. He flips another page in his book, it’s something French this time, and he refuses to translate it.
“Go buy me one. I want a chocolate macaron.”
“I’m not leaving this room, Solo.”
That makes Napoleon’s heart warm a little, and he grins. “Then call up room service.”
“We have a budget, it doesn’t extend to sweets.”
“Argh.”
“You can have as many as you want once you’re better.”
“Can I have you once I’m better?”
Illya glances up, looks over Napoleon’s unkempt appearance, and frowns.
“What?” The grin falls from Napoleon’s face.
“I’m not sure, I’ll have to think about it.”
“That’s not fair.”
-
Napoleon sleeps a little more. Actually, he sleeps a lot more, and every night he’ll find Illya curled on the bed beside him. Illya brings him food, and water, and makes sure he takes his medicine. It’s incredibly sweet, though Napoleon never gets to thank Illya with a kiss like he wants to.
Slowly, Napoleon gets better, and their week is almost up.
“I’m fine,” Napoleon grumbles as he passes the Russian. “Stop hovering.”
He’s back in his proper clothes after a shower. The weakness is mostly gone from his limbs, and his lungs feel clear and normal now. Napoleon wanders about the hotel room, stretching his legs after too long cooped up in bed. He finally feels human again.
Illya follows him and leans against a wall of whichever room Napoleon walks into, scrutinizing him for weaknesses like a hawk regards his prey. He’s still staring, eyes narrowed, when Napoleon finishes the tour and walks right into Illya’s personal space.
“I’m feeling slightly peckish,” he says, staring intently at Illya.
Illya frowns, “There’s food-“
Then Napoleon leans and kisses him.
There’s mischief in the American’s eyes when he pulls away. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Peril.”
Illya stares, eyes wide, and his hands rise carefully to Napoleon’s waist. Napoleon’s smile grows wider.
Illya coughs.
Napoleon takes a giant step back, and Illya’s eyes grow even wider, disbelief etched on his face as his hand rises to his mouth.
“Are you-” Napoleon watches Illya, awe in his expression.
Illya coughs again.
“You’re sick,” says Napoleon.
“No.”
“I’ll call Waverly.”
“Cowboy.”
“I promise I’ll look after you.”
“Cowboy, No.”
-
They get another week of vacation. Illya fully recovers by the third day, but Napoleon never lets him make it off the bed.