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“Ow,” is the first, very eloquent consideration out of Napoleon’s mouth.
He blinks some fog away from his eyes, the throbbing pain in his head dissuading him from doing much of anything else, and slowly Illya’s face comes into focus, his eyes skimming over him with enough apprehension that it makes Napoleon just a tiny bit worried, if he’s being honest.
“Am I dead?” he asks, miserably, which, he will admit, sounded smarter in his head. His poor, poor aching head. He hopes he isn’t dead, it would be unfair to be dead and still be hurting so much.
Illya lets out a breath, probably a show of annoyance. “No,” he says, drily, and he doesn’t really sound like he’s too happy about that. Which, rude.
“Pity,” Napoleon huffs, still lying flat on his back because as soon as he turned his neck slightly to the right it sent a whole explosion of pain everywhere from the back of his head down to his neck. He thinks he felt it a little in his fingertips too, for some reason. “I was hoping I could avoid you telling me ‘I told you so’.” To be fair, he doesn’t remember Illya warning him off whatever stupid thing he was doing, at the moment, but experience tells him it probably happened.
Illya considers him for a few seconds, pressing his lips together. “I told you so,” he says then, pointedly, because he’s a bastard.
Napoleon huffs. “Funny.”
“I wouldn’t say so,” Illya muses, looking him over once again and then glancing in front of him. God, Napoleon hopes no one will come to try and kill them. “A little pitiful, though.”
Sometimes Napoleon truly wonders what he keeps this complete asshole around for. “Oh, fuck off.”
Illya doesn’t answer, pinning him with another very loaded stare. Really, he should take him out to dinner first. “Can you stand?” he asks then, like that’s somehow a reasonable thing to ask.
Napoleon snorts. “Of course! I’m just lying here because it’s comfortable.”
“Alright,” Illya nods, pulling back slightly as if he were about to get up. “I’ll go then, after all, you have it all under control—”
He huffs. “Just help me up, Peril.” Asshole.
When Illya does pull him up, the world sways and his stomach turns miserably on itself, which is—highly unpleasant. It must show on his face, because Illya keeps one arm around his waist and throws Napoleon’s arm over his own shoulders, taking a few seconds to adjust their positions and looking him over.
“Alright?” he asks.
Napoleon swallows, thinking that yeah, it should be fine, he probably won’t throw up—he realizes that nodding would probably be a bad idea just in time to avoid a disaster. “Yeah, let’s go,” he says instead, not really looking forward to dragging himself around like that but holding onto the hope that soon enough he will get to lie down somewhere more comfortable than a sidewalk.
Illya is about 80% of the reason why they do get to the car, Gaby looking at them with a face that says ‘Really, guys?’ but refraining from scolding them, at least. Napoleon must really look like shit. He feels like it too, so.
His head hurts. And he feels faint. And sick. And god, he doesn’t want to get in the car. He’s going to die there, he can feel it.
“You can’t sleep,” Illya warns him, settling next to him in the backseat.
Asshole.
And because he’s an incoherent asshole, he makes sure to make him as comfortable as he could possibly be while suffering in the back of a shitty little car: he keeps one arm around him, gripping his jacket to keep him up if need be, and he lets him get settled against his shoulder. Napoleon miraculously finds a position that makes the ache in his head marginally less throbbing, and he lets out a relieved breath, even as the car starts moving and he quickly has to open his eyes, trying to keep an eye on the road as to reduce the chance of losing his lunch.
Illya shifts a little to accommodate his position, so that he doesn’t have to strain his neck to see ahead.
Napoleon thinks oh, yes, much better at the same time as thank you, Peril, that’s nice of you, and somehow he manages not to say neither, instead awkwardly patting his chest in thanks.
That is why he keeps the asshole around, he reasons with himself. Pillow.