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“Can you feel this?”
“If I say yes, will you stop pestering me?” Napoleon shoots back as he bats Illya’s hands away from his leg. “Nothing broken. Go check on Gaby.”
Illya frowns, poking Napoleon’s shin once more, sending a dull throb of pain through his leg. Being almost blown up, as it turns out, is painful. Not that Illya would know, arriving late to save their asses.
“No, I’m fine,” Gaby says from somewhere behind them. She coughs, then groans, sharp and deep.
In a flash, Illya is gone. Napoleon listens to their back and forth—I’m fine! No, you are not!—as he takes a moment to breathe. Which also hurts. His life is awful. When he tunes back in, they’re still arguing, Gaby’s tone increasingly testy.
Napoleon sighs. “Hang on, Gabs, let me take a look.” With a grunt, he pulls himself up, finding his partners as he expected: Illya hovering and clucking like a broody hen, Gaby eyeing him as if considering a chicken dinner. As he walks over, Illya gives him a peevish look, but stands and wanders a short distance away, giving them space.
“I’m fine,” Gaby grits out when Napoleon crouches next to her, bristling with that fierce independence which, depending on the day, is either something he loves about her or something that drives him up the wall. Right now it’s a bit of both.
“Legs?” he asks.
For a second, she just glares, like she’d rather murder him than answer. But then she glances away and mutters, “they’re fine. I can wiggle my toes.” It’s still all reluctance, but she does answer, which is more than Illya was getting.
“Good,” he responds, unsentimental. “Head?”
She makes a tetchy huff. “Feels like I’ve been blown up. But just a little sore. It’s fine.”
He’s a little skeptical, but he takes her at her word, suspecting that this is why she tolerates this from him and not Peril. Illya fusses. It’s rather endearing, in Napoleon’s view, but Gaby doesn’t agree. So instead Napoleon treats her like one of the guys from his old unit, which for some reason works for her. He asks about her arms and back, receiving similar “apart from recent explosions, I’m alright” responses.
“Torso?” he questions last.
Gaby winces, the first real hint of pain she’s shown him. “Might’ve cracked a rib. But I’ll live.” She looks up at him, then, and perhaps she sees some worry in his eyes, despite his efforts to hide it, because her expression softens slightly. “I’m okay. I promise.”
“Well, you’re not fighting fit, soldier,” he quips, pleased when she grins, “but you’re gonna make it. C'mon, let’s get you up. Peril, give us a hand.”
“I leave you two alone for an hour,” Illya grumbles as he helps get Gaby to her feet, “and you are blown up. Nothing but trouble.” They limp their way to the car; battered and sore, but together.
‘Not a bad Saturday’, Napoleon thinks, 'all things considered.’