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At this point they’ve seen each other naked countless times for various reasons, both for fun and for work-related activities.
It was a bit of a surprise to find that Gaby is a lot more blemished than Napoleon is. Her feet are a special case altogether, as the abuse they suffered through years and years of ballet has left its mark. A workshop filled with sharp and hot and heavy tools didn’t do her any favors, either.
Illya’s scars weren’t surprising, but the extent of them was. Maybe somehow he’d gotten Napoleon’s share transferred to his own skin. There are cuts and burns and bullet holes, some of them painting a very specific and ugly picture of how he’d acquired them.
They get a story for each one they ask about, ranging from mundane to horrifying, but the one on his temple just gets them silence and a refusal to meet their eyes in what Napoleon can only interpret as embarrassment.
There are still touchy subjects between them. They have learned not to prod, if it’s not necessary. Adding the scar on Illya’s temple to his specific list isn’t much of an issue.
So, considering Illya’s general state, one scar more or less shouldn’t make a difference for him – or for Napoleon, for that matter.
Still, when Illya pulls his turtleneck off over his head and reveals a new cut on his side, Napoleon can’t help but frown at it.
Gaby, already on the bed, does the same.
“You told medical you were fine,” she says, voice casual despite her expression. “Waverly will be disappointed with you, you know.”
Illya snorts and twists slightly to get a better look, running his fingers carelessly over the edges of the cut.
“Just a scratch,” he says, unbothered as always. Napoleon should be inclined to agree: it’s not very deep, and as long as Illya keeps it clean and covered, he should be fine.
It will scar, though, without proper treatment. Even as Illya stands and prods at it, the movement of his skin draws the edges of the wound apart and sets it bleeding again lazily. It’s not dangerous, but each movement and subsequent reopening will thicken the scar tissue it will eventually heal into, and for some reason, Napoleon doesn’t like the idea of another scar.
With a sigh, he gets up from the chair he’d just collapsed into. “Let me take a look anyway, Peril.”
Illya looks at him. The expression on his face is new, like he’s almost too suspicious to be irritated.
Gaby takes the chance to slink off the bed and into the bathroom, only to reappear with their rather excessive first aid kit.
Illya looks between them, that same suspicion still in place, before he lets out a familiar, long-suffering sigh. “Make it quick then, Cowboy.”
Napoleon nods easily, though he has no intention of rushing this. Illya sits down on the bed, clearly not expecting any significant involvement, but stays put when Gaby comes back next with some soap and water to clean around the wound. It might have to do with the way she’s leaning over him while she does it, or with the hand so delicately placed on his bare shoulder for balance.
One would think Illya would be immune to all the little touches, since neither Gaby nor Napoleon is inclined to keep their hands off him if the chance arises, but Illya still shivers slightly under her fingertips in a way that has very little to do with the cut on his side.
Gaby’s part in this is invaluable, because she has the numbing cream out and applied before Illya knows it’s happening. For all his scars, he’s somehow still stupidly attached to the notion of pain.
Napoleon uses the time to prepare a curved needle and a set of polyester sutures. They’ve invested in quality, or rather Waverly has. Napoleon used to do this with much worse materials.
Illya raises his eyebrows when he sees the needle in Napoleon’s hand, but keeps sitting still. “This is unnecessary, too much work,” he says, but his voice is wavering the tiniest bit.
Napoleon shakes his head. “Tell me if you need a break.”
Of course Illya stays stoically silent during the stitches. Napoleon should be rusty, but apparently stitching wounds is just like riding a bicycle. The seam closes, one tied-off suture at a time, and when Napoleon finishes the final one, the threads that are visible are even and neat.
Gaby lets out a low whistle and hands him a gauze pad for him to hold in place while she starts to wrap a bandage around Illya’s torso. “Didn’t know you could do that.”
Napoleon chuckles. “Well, I am good with my hands.”
Gaby snorts in return, but her amusement turns to daring in a few moments.
“Well, Mr. Solo, why don’t you give me another demonstration?”
Illya swallows heavily between them, suddenly very invested in the hands on him. There’s not that much cleanup before the following day.
*
He doesn’t even have to let Gaby in on his newly concocted plan; it’s more of a silent agreement. All scratches and scrapes that Illya smuggles past Waverly’s doctors get tended to with equal attention and care, no matter how small. Illya lets them do it, huffing and rolling his eyes and fooling no one. He’s no match for Gaby’s and Napoleon’s joint effort, and he knows it. And for all his half-hearted protests, he enjoys the attention just as much as he enjoys his “rewards” for cooperating.
*
The cut on his side does scar in the end, but the line is so faint and light, Napoleon can barely find it when he looks for it. It gives him an unexpected satisfaction, and when he meets Gaby’s eyes as she runs a hand over the same spot while Illya dozes between them, he knows she feels the same.
Sometimes he catches Illya looking at it, or rather searching for it, when he undresses or after a shower. His face is passive most of the time, but Napoleon knows him well enough at this point that he senses Illya is unhappy with something. Illya’s fingertips graze along the faint line and the little white dots, then over a raised and darkened scar only a little above it.
That night, when Illya comes to bed, Napoleon finds that same dark scar and puts his hand over it, hiding it from sight. Illya’s breath hitches, even though he tries to hide it, and Napoleon redoubles his commitment to preventing any more of those from marring Illya’s skin.
*
Illya is stubborn, to put it lightly. They know this, but it still takes them aback from time to time, simply because of the things he chooses to be stubborn about and the moments it flares up.
“No, you will leave it alone,” Illya says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, conveniently raising his hand to cover the stab wound on the front of his shoulder.
And maybe Illya is just testier than usual, because Napoleon for sure is. The mission until now has been anything but straightforward. They’re still in the game, even though they’ve been almost caught by their enemy for the fourth time, but Napoleon’s nerves are wearing thin.
He doesn’t know if it’s for better or for worse that Gaby is stationed somewhere else. He’s sure she’d be on his side on this, but her presence also would have significantly raised the chance of a fist fight.
“Why,” Napoleon says, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. It’s barely a question at this point.
Illya glances away, the grip on his own arms tightening for a moment before he lets go with a hiss.
He mumbles something in Russian, but they’ve been partners for long enough that Illya may as well have screamed it in his face instead.
“We never let you keep what?” Napoleon says, maybe snapping a little more than necessary, because now Illya looks down, shame gnawing at his features.
“The memories,” he says, this time in English.
Napoleon sighs and sits down heavy on the ratty bed behind him, the will to fight draining rapidly.
“I don’t understand, Peril,” he says, and somehow it’s still hard to admit it. He’s always hated not knowing something, but it’s worse when it’s about his partners, and worst when it leaves him helpless.
Illya still refuses to look at him, but his shoulders slump a little as well. Taking a chance, Napoleon holds out a hand, just like Gaby would. Between Illya and him there will always be friendly competition. Goading and challenging each other to do their biding comes easier, but Napoleon is tired and if Illya won’t let him treat his wound, then there is very little he can do about it.
Illya doesn’t reach to take Napoleon’s hand into his or press his lips against his knuckles like he would with Gaby’s, but he comes closer, close enough for Napoleon to reach the bottom hem of his stupid turtleneck to pull him the rest of the way.
Illya’s eyes are still cast down, but from his position sitting on the bed Napoleon can meet them anyway.
“We know you don’t like your scars,” Napoleon says carefully, keeping his voice low. “Why won’t you let us help?”
Illya frowns a little.
“I do not mind scars,” he says. “I do not like the bad scars.” That explains nothing, and Napoleon lets him know. Illya glances away, but his eyes return to him only a moment later. “Bad scars with bad memories.”
It doesn’t still quite make sense to Napoleon, but he thinks he’s getting closer. “So… you like the scars with good memories then?”
Illya nods, even though Napoleon can see he’s embarrassed about everything about this conversation.
“What kind of scars are good, then?” Napoleon says.
Illya pulls his shirt up a little on one side then. His fingers skim over the fine line that’s left after Napoleon has stitched him up the first time. Napoleon can’t help but repeat the action, making Illya twitch under his fingers.
“What’s good about getting stabbed?” Napoleon wonders out loud. He doesn’t really think he would get an answer, but Illya holds his breath for a moment before he speaks up.
“Was stabbed in place of you,” he says. Napoleon’s fingers stop roaming and he looks up again into Illya’s face. Illya has the same vaguely unhappy expression on his face that he always wears when he’s looking at himself. “It’s almost gone already. If you don’t stop, only the bad ones will stay.”
Oh. All right. Napoleon can’t say he really gets it, but at least he understands.
“Well, we just don’t like seeing you hurt,” Napoleon says. “Maybe we can look for something else that you could remember us by?”
Illya frowns, but at least doesn’t dismiss his idea at once. It takes a bit more coaxing to let Napoleon treat his wound, but in the end Illya seems tired of arguing as well.
*
Napoleon leaves a dark hickey on the scar on Illya’s side, like an overeager teenager. With his light complexion, it’s ridiculously easy. From the way that Illya presses into it the next morning, Napoleon can tell he was rough enough for it to sting a little. Illya doesn’t seem unhappy about it. Rather the opposite, really. This will do, for now.
Gaby picks up on the new routine easily once they reunite after the mission is over, and joins Napoleon enthusiastically, rough enough that hers don’t fade for weeks. Out of everyone, it’s still Illya who seems to enjoy it the most.
*
They’re on another mission and Illya is on his own. It’s not a secret that they prefer covers that allow them all to stay together, but there’s a special kind of joy in Waverly’s schemes pairing Napoleon and Gaby together. Still, with Illya’s wound-hiding tendencies still resurfacing from time to time despite their best efforts, it almost ruins the fun.
They watch him like a hawk, but there is no fighting, not even a chase or a break-in, that Illya could have gotten hurt in. Judging from his complaints about being the only one stuck on surveillance –his only report at their sole brief interaction in the two weeks of the mission – Illya is clearly safer than is good for him, and bored out of his mind as a result.
When they’re finally called back, they’re all the more surprised to find a small but ragged wound on his leg. It’s at least a week old and the scabbing is starting to peel off at the edges, revealing bright pink scar tissue.
Gaby is displeased, to say the least, and her gaze prompts Illya to talk without her having to say a word.
“Left kitchen drawer open,” he says and ducks his head. “Could not turn on light.”
Napoleon smirks. Their personal mission might have failed, but the opportunity to make fun of Peril almost makes up for it.
“So you hit a drawer in the dark and it hit you back,” he drawls. “First time fighting kitchen cupboards, Peril?”
Illya has the nerve to blush at that and shakes his head. Maybe it’s the few celebratory drinks they’ve had that makes him talk, or maybe he’s just been lonely enough on his own that he wants to open up to them. “Same thing happened before, but last time I was still child.” There’s a small smile curling around his lips, so Napoleon doesn’t feel the need to back off.
Gaby seemingly comes to the same conclusion and starts smirking as well. “So? Where’s the scar to the story?”
Neither Napoleon nor Gaby could have prepared for Illya raising his hand and tapping his temple.