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He tries to be quiet.
It doesn’t exactly help with his nerves, because he shouldn’t have to slip back into his own apartment like a thief, but the walk has cleared his head enough that he believes he has got himself under control at the moment, and the last thing he wants is to wake Solo up and go for round two.
His hands sting as he begins to readjust to the warmth indoors: he isn’t sure how many hours he spent walking, exactly, but it was more than enough for him to be reasonably sure that Solo is going to be asleep already, which means that he can avoid another blow-up simply by keeping out of the bedroom.
As it turns out, he’s only half-right: Solo is indeed asleep, but he’s on the couch, a light still on and his neck in a position that spells future trouble.
In spite of himself, Illya feels his stomach unclench a little, some of his wariness melting away at the thought that Solo might have anticipated that he wouldn’t want to sleep with him upon his return and he decided to leave him the bed.
Except, well, that isn’t how Solo curls up on a couch that he’s chosen as his spot for a nap: it looks a lot more like he was sitting in a mildly uncomfortable position and he still managed to fall asleep. Which means that he was probably waiting up. Which means that he wants to talk. Again.
Illya swallows, the knot in his throat tightening because he really, really doesn’t want to get in another fight: he’s had enough jabs at his family history for two lifetimes, thank you, he’s done for the night.
He has every intention of walking past, getting himself to the bedroom and possibly locking the door too – not that that could force Solo to stay out, but there’s a chance, if slim, that he might respect the implied request –, but, well—he looks so uncomfortable. There’s even a slight grimace on his face, like he isn’t even sleeping decently, and he has one leg tucked under the other, it’s definitely going to fall asleep, and does Illya really want to listen to him complaining about neck pain tomorrow?
He doesn’t have to talk to him, he can just—wake him up, tell him to fuck off to bed, take the couch. He will not get much sleep either way.
He sighs, walking up to Solo in two strides and bending over him to shake his shoulder before he can overthink himself out of it. “Cowboy.” Solo blinks at him, sleepy and confused. The wave of affection washing through Illya is really uncalled for and it leaves him tasting something bitter in the back of his mouth. “You should go to bed,” he says, curtly, pulling back and walking past him to duck into the kitchen.
“Wait, what—” There’s shuffling, some muttered cursing, then Solo follows him, because of course he does. “What time is it?”
Illya glances at his watch. “Seven past four.” He doesn’t turn, getting his hands on the first thing within his reach, which happens to be a grocery list. There’s no discernible reason why he should be attentively reading that in the middle of the night, but, well, it’s better than nothing.
Solo keeps standing behind him, by the door, letting the silence stretch out for a little too long. “That was a long walk,” he finally comments, carefully.
Illya hums noncommittally, though he doesn’t dare hoping that it will be enough to end the conversation. In fact, Solo doesn’t leave, and irritation quickly rises through his chest, clogging his throat as he turns around. “What?” he snaps. “Haven’t we talked enough for tonight?”
Solo’s face twitches unhappily at that, but he holds his gaze. “Yeah, probably, I just—” He gestures helplessly in his direction. “I wanted to apologize. I crossed a line, I shouldn’t have—yeah, that was uncalled for.”
Illya blinks at him. Okay, that he hadn’t anticipated.
He manages a nod. “Thank you,” he says, earnestly enough, though truth be told he isn’t sure what it is that is going on in his head right now. He mostly feels uncomfortable. “It’s late. You should go to bed,” he adds then, because that is true as well.
Solo nods. “Right—will you join me?”
The uncharacteristic tentativeness makes him want to say yes, pretend like nothing even happened. The knot in his stomach vehemently disagrees, twisting and turning until he almost refuses.
Almost, because Solo is staring at him like, in spite of how unsure his voice sounded, he’s fully ready to stand there for as long as it takes to fix this, and Illya—he may not want to talk, but he loves him a little more for being so annoyingly stubborn, for refusing to take the out.
“Give me a few minutes,” is what he ends up saying.
Solo takes it with the bare hint of a relieved smile and a quick nod. He leaves him standing there, trying to breathe through his leftover rage. Things are a lot less complicated when he can get angry and break bones, rather than—stand in silence until he feels like it’s safe enough to share a bed with the person who pissed him off in the first place.
When he does head to their bedroom, not yet fully relaxed but thinking that it’s probably as close as he’s going to get under the circumstances, there’s only Illya’s lamp left on, and Solo is uncharacteristically turned on his side, back to where Illya is supposed to lay down. Like he’s giving him space.
Illya smiles a little, feeling somehow warmed. It doesn’t last long: his stomach then churns, something ugly making its way through his chest, but it’s not anger, or at least not the explosive kind that would make him think that walking back out is the best course of action, so he swallows through his raising nausea and he carefully lowers himself on the bed.
Lamp turned off and his eyes on the ceiling, he doesn’t feel the least bit tired. He doesn’t move a muscle, half-heartedly wondering if Solo is still awake or he has somehow managed to fall back to sleep already. It is late enough for it.
Part of him wants to turn around, reach out for his partner and pull him closer, because maybe it will be easier to chase away the bad taste in his mouth if he can act like nothing even happened.
Solo beats him to it, not by touching him but by breaking the silence.
“I really am sorry,” he says, quietly, staying unnaturally still.
Illya swallows, not feeling any irritation at his remorseful tone, but not finding much compassion within himself either. It just—what does he have to offer to that? He could say that it’s alright, but he knows better than to lie to an expert liar, and he is not too good at the craft anyway. He doesn’t even understand what he’s thinking here, how can he possibly share it?
“I know,” is what he ends up saying, because at least he’s sure that he believes him. He pauses. “I shouldn’t have pried,” he adds, because he shouldn’t have. That’s what led to this disaster in the first place, and over a bad mood that would have probably been gone come morning. He should have left it alone.
It's just—because it would have been gone come morning, it felt important not to let it slide. Solo trusts him with his life every other day, he just wanted to make sure that he knows he can trust him with everything else too.
“You weren’t prying,” Solo snaps, sounding quite affronted on his behalf, to the point that for a second it seems like he’s beginning to turn around.
Illya wants to laugh at the thought of ending up in another fight, this time over how actually he was perfectly right when he started pushing for something that Solo clearly didn’t want to give. Maybe he would laugh, if he weren’t feeling so shitty about all of it.
“You were worrying—and trying to help—it’s just—” Solo stops for a moment, taking a breath. “I guess I had forgotten how irritating Sanders is. I’d been itching for a fight all day.”
That much Illya had noticed: they spent the whole op working side by side with the CIA, and today Sanders had been personally present, which made Solo vibrate like he was just a moment away from hitting him, or anybody, in spite of the ever-present smile on his face. It’s just—well, Illya had never considered himself in the line of fire: when he started pushing for a talk he didn’t really think Solo would take out the big guns against him.
His fault, he supposes: you make friends with a bear, you end up forgetting you are not safe from its claws.
Still, he comes up with a bit of a smile, suddenly in need of easing the tension. “I thought that was my line,” he says, playfully.
Solo huffs, amused.
Illya eagerly anticipates a rebuttal, some snarky comment, anything, because there’d usually be something there, Napoleon Solo always wants to have the last word—even at the cost of bringing up disgraced fathers and dead mothers.
It should probably tell him something about how guilty he feels that he isn’t going out of his way to answer, yet all that Illya can focus on is the knot in his stomach and the pressure behind his eyes, and he hates it.
This is so stupid, they were only words, and Solo hardly even meant them, right?
It’s stupid.
He shifts to his side before he can think it over twice, his hand already tentatively reaching out, only slightly unsteady. It barely takes his fingers brushing against his shoulder for Solo to quickly turn around, already scooting closer as he asks under his breath for permission to touch him.
Illya ends up wrapped around him, with his face hidden in Solo’s neck and pressed against him hard enough that after a few moments he has to pull back slightly to give himself room to breathe. Solo’s arms around him loosen a little at that, but they don’t let go.
He breathes, bowing his head slightly even though he isn’t sure what he’s trying to hide, or what he’s hiding from, and it feels marginally better, it feels solid and hopefully strong enough protection against a few cruel jabs.
It isn’t about the words, he’s heard that kind of insult often enough, it’s just that he’d long since stopped thinking it could come from him, and he isn’t sure if he feels stupid or hurt or angry—
“I’m very sorry,” Solo says again, squeezing him a little tighter. “I don’t know how to fix it—what do you need me to do?”
Right, that’s a good question.
He shrugs. “This is fine.” He puts some effort into not making it sound too flat, because Solo is trying and he at least deserves some warmth, but he isn’t sure he has much else to offer. “Let’s just sleep.”
Solo hesitates, long enough that Illya assumes he’s going to protest. “Alright,” he eventually says instead. “Like this?”
He hums. “Like this.”
“Okay.”
He just made a mistake. It happens. Illya certainly knows a few things about messing up and second chances. He won’t hold a little slip over his head forever, and they were only words, after all.
If he just sleeps on it, he’s sure it will feel better in the morning.
“Sweet dreams, Cowboy,” he says, maybe slightly too late, but it still has the desired effect: Solo snorts quietly, hugs him a little tighter and lays a quick kiss on his head.
“Goodnight, Peril.”
The knot in his stomach loosens just a fraction. It’s a start.