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“Keep quiet. Follow me.”
Napoleon half-swam, half-floated to the edge of the harbor, dragging Illya along with him. The Russian was kicking half-heartedly to help to move his massive frame a little quicker, but it didn’t really help much. Finally they reached the dock and Napoleon clawed his way up the wood, then dragged Illya after him. The two men lay there, panting, until Napoleon noticed the Russian shivering.
“You need to get warm,” Napoleon said, standing up.
“Is fine,” Illya answered, stubborn as ever. Napoleon ignored him, rummaging through the boxes on the dock marked Vinciguerra Spedizione. Hopefully the Vinciguerras shipped things other than tools to enrich uranium. After a few minutes of searching, Napoleon unearthed a white blanket and pulled it out with a flourish.
“For you, Peril.” Napoleon strode over to Illya, propped him up in a sitting position, and quickly wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Illya’s stubborn expression didn’t change, but he did pull the blanket a little tighter.
“Thank you,” Illya finally said, staring at the ground.
“Thank the Vinciguerras for shipping blankets as well as atomic bombs,” Napoleon returned.
“Not for blanket. For,” Illya paused and took a deep breath. “For saving me.” His tone was half begrudging, half sincerely thankful.
“Oh,” Napoleon said, taken aback. “Um, you’re welcome.” He stared at his shoes and kicked at the dock.
“Why?” Illya asked suddenly, looking up at him.
“Why what?” Napoleon answered, feigning ignorance.
“Why did you save me?” Illya stared at him with those piercing eyes, and Napoleon felt, as he always did, that they could see through him completely.
“Well,” Napoleon began, searching for a quip or insult to lighten the mood. He couldn’t think of any. Damn it. He sat down next to the huge Russian. “Well, you’re my partner,” he finally said, clapping Illya awkwardly on the shoulder. Illya stared at him thoughtfully, or what seemed to be thoughtfully. He was difficult to read sometimes, as much as he wore his heart on his sleeve. Finally he nodded and shrugged the blanket off his shoulders.
“We must go,” Illya said, starting to stand up.
“Oh no we mustn't,” Napoleon replied, promptly shoving Illya back down on the dock - it was no easy feat - he could barely get his hands across the man’s broad shoulders. “We’re going to sit here a while to make sure you’ve warmed up and aren’t going to catch your death of cold.”
Illya’s eyes narrowed. “Russians do not catch death from cold. We live in cold.”
Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re a tough and terrifying ruski, Peril. I know.” He picked the blanket up from the worn wood and squatted in front of Illya, wrapping it around him again. As he settled the folds just so around the larger man’s arms, tucking in corners here and there, he became aware of how close their faces were. He risked a look up into Illya’s eyes and found Peril meeting his glance with a gaze. There was something there Napoleon hadn’t seen directed at him before, just Gaby. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Illya gazing gently at him the way he did at the petite mechanic, but assumed that was as ridiculous as this American-Russian partnership had been a few days ago. Well, you only live once, Napoleon thought and leaned forward to press his lips against Illya’s.
Napoleon could hear Illya take a quick, sharp breath and then he was kissing Solo back - his lips still a bit cold from his long dip in the harbor. Napoleon’s hand reached up, almost of its own accord, to caress Illya’s cheek then curl around his head to hold him tighter. Illya responded by slipping his tongue into Napoleon’s mouth, who made a really truly embarrassing noise as a result. Napoleon could feel Illya smile in response, and found himself smiling into the kiss too. After a few moments their lips separated but their foreheads stayed touching, steady against each other.
“All warmed up now?” Napoleon asked impishly, looking up at the Russian.
Illya huffed. “Always joking, Cowboy.”