Work Text:
Illya hunched forward, catching the sneeze he had been fighting a losing battle to contain in steepled hands, his elbows resting on the dining table. He sniffled, pinched his nose quickly, and sat back up with a little shake to clear his head, only to find Napoleon staring at him critically from where he sat across the table.
“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed this morning, Peril.”
“Congratulations,” Illya said, sniffling again as he felt his nose run, “you can count.”
Gaby called to them from the tiny hotel-room kitchen, where she was cracking eggs into a pan. “Are you feeling alright, Illya?” She paused to peer at him over the counter. “You look a little flushed.”
“And you sound congested,” Napoleon added, his eyes narrowing further, before he smacked his hand on the table and rose from his seat. “I’ll get the thermometer.”
“There is no need!” Illya called to his retreating form. “I’m just a little tired.”
Napoleon returned from his bathroom, brandishing a thermometer in his hands with an annoyingly flamboyant flourish. “From being sick.” He held out the tube to Illya the way a parent might hold out a spoon to feed an infant. “Open up.”
Illya would not submit to this. He kept his mouth firmly shut and his arms tightly crossed.
“Either you take your temperature,” Napoleon said, “or you’re not getting any of Gaby’s fabulous eggs.”
“That’s right,” Gaby added. “Napoleon and I have no problem eating your portion.”
Illya rolled his eyes. “You are the worst partners I could ever have.”
“Yes, we actually make you look out for your own well-being.” Napoleon gave a mock-gasp and clutched at his heart. “The horror.”
With a glare, Illya took the thermometer from Napoleon and slipped it beneath his tongue. He parted his lips in order to breathe around the device, the little glass tube hanging from his lips like an exotic type of cigar. Napoleon kept his eyes fixed on his watch, steadfastly ignoring the impatient drumming of Illya’s fingers on the table.
Napoleon pointed to his partner as soon as the five minutes were up, who instantly removed the thermometer as though it were causing him physical pain. Illya squinted at the mercury. “It’s American numbers,” he snapped, letting the glass device fall to the table with a clink. “I don’t know what this means.”
Napoleon edged close enough that he could tap Illya’s temple. “Come on, Peril. Use that brain. It’s just a little bit of arithmetic.”
“It’s stupidity, is what it is.” Illya dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing and sighing. “Either give me a real thermometer or do it yourself, if you’re so smart.”
“Let’s see,” Napoleon said, picking up the thermometer and holding it to the light as if he were inspecting a counterfeit bill. He tapped his chin. “101 minus thirty-two is sixty-nine, multiplied by five is 345, divided by nine is 38.3. What do you think of that?”
Illya lowered his hands and peered at Napoleon with reddened eyes. “Is not that high.”
“It’s a fever.”
“A small one.”
It was Napoleon’s turn to sigh. “Small or not, it’s still a fever, Illya.”
“Hardly.” No doubt detecting Napoleon’s rising desire to strangle him, Illya shrugged and let the matter drop. “Whatever. You owe me the eggs.” His breath began to hitch, and he rubbed at his nose in an unsuccessful attempt to stave off the inevitable. It was no use; he pitched forward with a sneeze. Still sniffling incessantly, Illya rose from the table. At Napoleon’s and Gaby’s questioning looks, he grumbled, “I left the tissues in the bathroom.”
As soon as his back was turned, Napoleon and Gaby shared a profound look, because he had known he was sick at least from the moment he got up this morning, if he was rifling through hotel-room tissues and remembering where he had left them.
***********
Illya returned to the kitchen with a crumpled tissue pinched to his nose, and the complimentary box of tissues the hotel gave them tucked beneath his arm, as he sneezed again.
“ Gesundheit ,” Gaby said as she plated up eggs and toast.
Illya gave a grumbling nod, before he realized Napoleon was not where he had left him. “Where is Cowboy?”
“Calling Waverley to tell him you’re taking a sick day since we know you won’t do it.”
“What?” Illya yelled, throwing down the box of tissues on the table. “I’m fine!”
Gaby opened her mouth to say something, but Illya did not stay to let her finish; rather he stalked past her and into the sitting area of the room where the telephone was kept, and where Napoleon currently was, leaning against the wall with the receiver pressed to his ear, nonchalant like a schoolgirl speaking to her friend over the line.
Illya grabbed at the wire and growled, “Napoleon, I will take this cord and wrap it around your neck.”
Infuriatingly, Napoleon merely chuckled into the receiver. “He’s actually right here threatening to kill me if you’d like to talk to him.”
With a brisk nod, Napoleon pressed the receiver to Illya’s ear, and the man had no choice but to take it from him lest it drop. Waverley’s voice, silk-smooth as always, greeted him on the other side of the line.
“Mr. Kuryakin, hello.”
“Mr. Waverley, sir,” Illya rasped, and cleared his throat a bit more painfully than he would have liked.
Illya could practically hear Waverley’s eyebrows raise. “Mr. Solo wasn’t kidding, that does sound like quite the cold you’ve got, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“I’m fine, sir,” he said quickly, swallowing down a cough. “We can still meet—“
“No, no, that’s taken care of. We’ve rescheduled for Friday. Nothing time sensitive, nothing that couldn’t wait a couple days. Take care, Mr. Kuryakin, and feel better.”
Illya blinked, feeling slightly dizzy at how quickly the conversation had turned against him. “I will, sir,” he said, and remained standing there, stunned, holding the receiver for a couple moments after his handler had hung up with him.
Napoleon patted him on the back and gave him a smug grin. Illya ducked out from beneath his touch, and grumbled. “Now what do we do?”
“That’s the beauty of a sick day, Illya,” Napoleon said magnanimously. “Anything you like.”
“Well, I would like to be meeting with Waverley…”
“My bad,” Napoleon cut in. “I should’ve specified. Anything you like, from a preapproved set of options .”
“So much for your American freedom,” he muttered, coaxing a laugh from Napoleon. Illya shuffled back toward the kitchen, leaving Napoleon to follow. “Well, what are these options?”
“First, I say we eat the breakfast Gaby has so kindly prepared–”
Illya cut him off with a sneeze.
“Bless you. Then, we can–”
Illya sneezed again, rubbing at his nose.
“Bud zdrovy.”
Napoleon rolled his eyes when Illya sneezed a third time.
“Second, I’d say, is finding you some more tissues.”
With a glower, Illya pressed a wet and crumpled tissue to his nose and gave a long blow. “Stop looking so happy about this,” he mumbled, feeling his ears pop. In all honesty, he was beginning to feel grateful Napoleon had made the call to Waverley on his behalf, though he would rather die ten times over from pneumonia before admitting it.
“Happy?” Napoleon repeated, pressing a hand to his chest in dramatic affront. “At your suffering? Never.” He herded Illya back to the table, where a plate of breakfast was already waiting for him. “I’m just ecstatic at the opportunity to laze about on the couch all day.”
“Lazy American.”
“What can I say, it’s in my blood.”
“Couch does sound nice, though.”
Gaby had sat down to join them, but paused halfway through a mouthful of egg. “What?”
“You heard me,” Illya growled, sniffling a bit and giving a soft cough. He rolled his eyes. “It’s Cowboy. He’s corrupting me. His weakness is probably what made me sick in the first place.”
“Whatever you say, Peril,” Napoleon said as he slathered his toast with altogether too much butter. “Whatever you say.”