Chapter Text
He’d heard what Solo had said. About the painting, about Sanders, about not meaning for any of this to happen, about not wanting Illya to get caught up in it.
He can understand this. He does not understand precisely why Solo had come to the exact conclusions he had–why he’d needed to steal a painting, why he couldn’t have trusted Illya to make his own choices about it all–but he understands the situation.
He’s more than willing to forgive his partner. It’s all he really wants.
It’s just that, at the moment, all he really wants, more than anything at all, is to sit.
His ankle hurts and his body feels impossibly heavy and over the last minute or so he’s been growing increasingly more dizzy, such that he can only just focus on what’s being said.
Solo says something about losing him, and Illya’s body gives in.
His ankle folds beneath him and at the same time, the dizziness gets so bad that he can barely see.
And then he’s on the ground and everything hurts, and he’s still so dizzy, but at least the weight is off his ankle.
Solo is beside him, kneeling, and he’s saying something but Illya’s ears are ringing too much for him to be able to hear it.
And then Solo’s hands are on him, on his face, and they’re really cold, and Illya hadn’t thought that he’d been hot but they feel so incredibly nice, as though he’s been burning alive this whole time and has only just now realised it.
“–really warm,” he hears Solo say. The ringing in his ears is going away now that he’s on the ground. He feels a little less dizzy, too, which is good.
“Hm?” he asks, not sure that he can manage to string together the words in order to ask his partner to repeat what he’d said.
“You’re really warm,” Solo repeats. “Are you sick?”
Illya shrugs. “Don’t think so.”
Is he sick? He thinks that he would have noticed. Sure, before and during the mission he’d felt tired, and a little achy, but he’d been fine. It is not as though they can postpone missions every time someone feels slightly worse than normal.
Solo’s cool hands are on his cheeks again, and then on the back of his neck, his forehead, his own hands.
“I think I’m going to have to disagree with you there. You’re definitely sick.”
“Oh.”
“And I saw you favoring your right leg. Are you hurt?”
This, he does know the answer to.
“Yes.”
Solo sighs. He doesn’t sound irritated or angry. He looks sad. Illya does not like it.
“I’m sorry. This is my fault. Can I–I mean, I understand if you don’t want me to help, considering. But if you do. I can help.”
It takes a minute for Illya to parse this statement. It is, he concedes, Solo’s fault that his ankle is hurt. Or, at least, it’s Solo’s fault that those men had shown up. Perhaps it is the fault of those men that Illya’s ankle is hurt.
But these kinds of details are not so very important. And now that there has been an explanation, now that Illya understands what had happened and why, he thinks that everything is more or less okay. There had been a reason for his partner’s actions. A reason that Illya can understand, even if he is unclear on some of the details.
There is no reason for any break in the trust between them.
There is no reason for anything to change.
“It’s okay,” he says, and when Solo does nothing, realises he could be a bit more clear. Maybe he really is sick.
“You can help.”
Here, finally, is that care that he’s grown to expect. That he’d wanted, if he can admit that to himself. That he still wants.
Solo helps him sit up with his back to the wall, lets Illya lean his head forwards onto his shoulder when the dizziness returns, and helps him.
He brings Illya cool water to drink, cleans away the blood, prods at Illya’s nose (thankfully not broken, is the verdict), wraps his ankle and finds some ice for it, and manages to convince him to take a bit of medicine for the fever.
Illya would normally never let anyone give him medicine. It is just not something he does.
But he feels bad, not horrible, but bad enough, and he trusts Solo to not harm him.
He takes the pills and lets his partner help him into bed. They lie down together, Illya’s head pillowed on Solo’s chest and Solo’s fingers in Illya’s still-sweaty hair.
In the morning, he will still be ill and hurt. They will still have to decide how to sell the painting, how to get the money to Sanders, how to make sure that they are both protected.
But for now, they are okay, and Illya falls asleep quickly, feeling as safe as he ever has.