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When Illya opens the door, he can already smell that Solo started breakfast. It’s one of the very few perks of their shared living situation, temporary as it hopefully might be. Illya will never understand the amount of money and time Solo will put into food, but that doesn’t mean he can’t reap the benefits.
He shrugs out of his running shoes in the hallway and wanders into the apartment. Solo sticks out his head from the kitchen, ugly apron over dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They’ve been working together for three months now and Illya doesn’t think he’s seen him in anything more casual than that, if the mission didn’t require it from him.
“Morning, Peril,” Solo says, letting his eyes roam up and down Illya’s sweaty form, like the difference between them wasn’t obvious enough. “Had a good run?”
Illya gives him a short yes and looks around the apartment. The bathroom door is slightly ajar and he can’t hear Gaby’s racket of a morning routine. It’s not unusual for her to sleep in, if they’re only back in town, so he will take the chance to grab a quick shower before she gets up.
He can still feel Solo’s eyes on him, so he turns back to him and raises his eyebrows. “Do you want something, Cowboy?”
Solo winks at him in the way that never fails to raise Illya’s blood pressure a little. “Not particularly. Breakfast is ready in fifteen.”
It’s too early in the day to concern himself with the Cowboy’s antics and he won’t jeopardize the calmness he feels after his morning run by pressing what exactly he means by not particularly, so Illya nods and disappears into the bathroom. He showers quickly and efficiently, so Gaby still has most of the hot water left, and dresses for a day in. There’s still a lot of paperwork to be done after all and Waverly hasn’t contacted them about a new assignment yet.
The smell of fresh coffee and what might be a full brunch spread hangs in the air, when he emerges again. Ridiculous, but Illya can’t help but look forward to it.
Gaby’s door is still firmly closed, which puzzles him slightly. There’s nothing like the smell of coffee to lure her out of bed in the morning. She did say something about not feeling too well yesterday, so he’ll just get her once everything is ready. Illya starts setting the table to make himself useful. Predictably, Solo brings out the beverages first, a pot of coffee for Gaby and himself and black tea for Illya in that ridiculously large mug, with the words “Who’s scared of the red peril” in big red letters on the side. Solo bought it on a whim last time they were in New York. Well, Illya isn’t too sure about the buying part, but even though he would never admit it, he did get a little attached to it.
“Could you get Gaby?” Solo says as he returns to the kitchen to carry out the rest, before Illya nods.
He knocks on Gaby’s door and listens. After a few moments of nothing, he knocks again. There’s a faint groan coming from inside and Illya pauses for another moment, before opening the door a little.
“Gaby?” he calls carefully, his head turned to the floor just in case. “Are you up?”
There’s another groan, followed by a wet cough.
Illya pushes the door open a little further.
Gaby is still in bed, blankets tangled around her as she struggles to get up. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her brow and her limbs flop around.
Illya is at her side in an instant. He hesitates for a moment to touch her, but then he carefully helps her out of the blanket trap and smooths is out over her.
Gaby glares up at him with half-closed eyes, her cheeks flushed and her long hair sticking to her skin.
Slowly Illya reaches out to feel her forehead, leaving her enough time to tell him off. She doesn’t. Instead, she lets out a sigh of relief, when his cold fingers touch her forehead.
“You’re sick,” Illya says. Gaby usually feels warm to him, but her general state leaves no doubt that it’s definitely warmer than she should feel.
Gaby attempts to shake her head, but apparently doesn’t dare to dislodge Illya’s hand. “I’m not.”
“I feared this would happen,” Solo says from the doorway, leaning casually against it with his apron still on. It’s true that Gaby’s mark wound up with a very convenient cold, giving her a lot more time to run around freely on the estate, but that Gaby could catch it never crossed Illya’s mind.
“Could you run by the pharmacy, Peril? I don’t think we have any medicine at home.” Solo says, tapping his chin in thought. “I’ll keep an eye on her and make her something else that she can actually stomach for breakfast.” Illya can see Solo’s brain working the situation over behind his eyes, something the American tries to hide most of the time. ”And we need groceries. I’m thinking chicken soup, but depending on how long this will last, we better stock up on everything.” Solo almost sounds like in one of their mission debriefs, which is not too bothered by anything, but Illya appreciates the attempt at sincerity.
Illya nods, mentally planning out his route already, then pauses. He’s never sick and the last time he was, he was still a child and his mother nursed him back to health. It’s becoming embarrassingly clear to him, that he has no idea what someone with a cold would need.
He looks at Gaby, who’s trying to keep her eyes open with a grimace. He doesn’t need to know anything about a cold to see that she’s miserable. He really can’t mess this up.
“Could you make a list?” Illya says, trying not to let it show that his lack of knowledge irritates him.
He expects a jab nonetheless, or at least one of Solo’s knowing smirks, but the other man just nods and turns back to their living room. “Sure, give me a minute.”
Illya turns to follow him out of Gaby’s room, when a sweaty hand closes around his, or at least tries to, because it slides off easily.
Gaby looks up at him blearily, but before she can say anything, her face scrunches up more. The sneeze rocks her forward, then she slumps back, eyes fluttering close. “I hate this.” Her voice is both scratchy and nasal, barely sounding like her.
Illya feels his expression soften. “It will be over soon. We’ll take care of you.”
Gaby scoffs and curls up on her side.
“You better.”
*
Illya would like not to admit it, but he would have been lost without Solo’s list. Maybe not completely, but half of it definitely wouldn’t have crossed his mind. It takes him an hour to go to all the different shops and the amount of bags he’s carrying makes him doubt that everything in there is truly necessary, but since it’s for Gaby’s wellbeing, there’s no room for error.
The apartment is quiet, when he comes back, the faint note of herbal tea in the air. Only one half of the table is cleared, the rest is still set with breakfast items now gone cold. Solo slips out of Gaby’s room with a dirty bowl half filled with porridge, just as Illya puts the bags on the free spot on the table.
“I called Waverly and we have the rest of the week off. You got everything?” Solo says, pushing back a lock of hair that has fallen on his forehead. Illya notes he’s still wearing his apron, before he nods.
He doesn’t expect the relief on Solo’s face, neither the casual pat on his shoulder, when Solo comes over to look into the bags himself. “I’m going to start on the soup and you’ll keep an eye on Gaby, alright?”
“Yes,” Illya says quickly, glancing at the bag with the cold medicine. She definitely should take some of that, so he pulls it closer and looks inside. There are different sorts of pills and cough syrup and something to clear congestion. His hands hover over one of the pill bottles a moment too long, so Solo notices his hesitation. Again he’s expecting Solo’s quick tongue to explore his weakness, but Solo only reaches over and pulls two items and sets them on the table.
“We’re going to start her on this now,” Solo says, then winks at him. “Good luck.”
Illya doesn’t quite know what the Cowboy means, but takes the two bottles Solo handed him and turns to Gaby’s door.
Knocking at the door, he listens carefully for her to call him in. Her voice is so weak he would have missed it otherwise.
When he walks in, Gaby is propped up on more pillows than Illya thought they possessed. Her nose and cheeks are red, but her overall complexion is pale. Watery eyes glower at him from half-closed lids. He gets the intention but the weakness of her glare is worrying. Illya would never think she looks terrible, but he comes close.
“I have something for you,” Illya says, leaning the door shut behind him. There’s a chair next to the bed, which he takes. Tissues are stacked on her bedside table, next to a steaming mug and a jar of honey. Illya sets down one of the bottles again to read the instructions again.
“I’m sick, not dying,” Gaby says, her nose audibly clogged up. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve never taken anything.”
“You’ll be sick longer,” Illya counters as he shakes out one of the pill from the bottle, voice firm even if it’s a bluff at best.
Gaby squints at him for a moment and Illya does his best not to squirm, then huffs as she sits up a little higher.
“Fine.” She beckons him to hand over the pill impatiently, then almost topples over as she reaches for the tea mug at the same time. Illya is quick to stabilize her with one hand, then quickly hands over the pill and the mug right after before Gaby has the chance to refuse.
She takes the pill without a fuss, but narrows her eyes at the cough syrup that Illya drops onto the spoon that was lying next to the honey jar.
Illya can see at the way her lips purse that she’s getting ready to argue, but as she takes a breath she starts coughing. There’s very little Illya can do without spilling the syrup but watch, even if he knew what to do. She coughs long and hard. Illya can almost hear the rattling of her lungs. He’s about to just drop the spoon and get Solo for backup, when it finally subsides.
Illya watches her sink back into the cushions, exhausted, but still awake enough to shoot Illya another halfhearted glare. Illya fills pinned under it, spoon and syrup frozen in the air. Gaby stares at him for another heartbeat.
“Fine.”
It lets Illya spring into action. He thinks about how to best hand over the spoon, when Gaby simply opens her mouth in anticipation. Illya hesitates a moment, then she sees the shadow of her usually so daring smirk.
He’s careful not to bump against her teeth, before her lips close around it. The bitter taste is probably the only thing that keeps Gaby from making more of a show of it. Her face crumples up instantly and she waves her hand, indicating the mug of tea again. Illya hands it to her instantly.
She takes a few gulps, then hands it back. It’s almost empty.
Burying back against the pillows, she lets out a hoarse sigh.
“This sucks.”
Illya can agree with the sentiment, if not with her choice of words. “You should rest.”
“I’m trying,” she says, letting her arms splay dramatically. “I could handle the cold if it wasn’t so boring.”
She turns her head slightly, shooting him a glance from the side.
“Entertain me.”
Illya holds her gaze, waiting for her to relieve the jest, but she doesn’t. They’ve been a team for three months now and Illya knows that his ability to entertain Gaby when she’s bedbound is about as great as his knowledge of caring for the sick. Solo is busy cooking though and he’s already managed everything else, so Illya is on his own.
“I could read to you,” Illya says, the idea sounding weak even in his ears.
Gaby grimaces, then turns her head to the side, burying her face into the pillow. “Do it then.”
Illya allows himself a small smile at the unexpected success and goes to pick a book. He’s not familiar with any of the titles, so he picks mostly at random.
He settles down again and opens it. Gaby is watching him from the corner of her eyes as he opens the book at the beginning.
Reading aloud is very different from reading silently, Illya finds. He stumbles over words and names, even as he slows down. Sometimes he encounters words he’s only ever seen written and never given a thought of how to pronounce them. Gaby snickers at some of his attempts, so at least it is indeed entertaining to her.
He’s about to finish the first chapter, when he hears Gaby’s breathing deepening. He lowers his voice a little and it takes only a few more lines for the breaths becoming the soft snores he’s familiar with. Closing the book silently, Illya is about to sneak his way out to let Gaby rest, when the snores suddenly dry up.
“Why did you stop?” Gaby mumbles, burying her head deeper into the pillow. Illya hesitates for a moment, partly to see if she would just fall asleep again, before he picks the book back up.
It happens twice more, before Illya resigns himself to his fate. It’s still almost enjoyable. He thinks he’s getting better at reading fluently and the book is entertaining enough.
After about four chapters, he’s interrupted by Solo, who’s knocking awkwardly against the door with his elbow. Illya turns to see him shimmy the door open, in one hand a fresh mug with tea, in the other a basin.
There’s a smirk on his lips as he hands Illya the mug. “I thought our local storyteller might use something to wet his throat.”
It’s the special black tea blend that Illya’s been hiding from the others, so he doesn’t have to share. He shouldn’t be surprised that Solo knew all along where it was. He takes a sip and finds Solo has put a little jam in it, just how Illya drinks it. The feeling swelling in his chest is curious, part muffled, part surprised, but mostly warm in a strange way. If Solo wasn’t still right next to him, he might have felt his own forehead to see if he caught Gaby’s cold.
Before Illya can reply anything, Gaby wakes from her slumber like clockwork.
She lifts her head, blinking at the brightness of the room and rolls to the other side to face them.
“How are you holding up, Gabs?” Solo says. Gaby only grumbles in return. Solo sets down the basin next to the bed with a playful sigh. “That’s what I thought.” The basin is filled with water. Solo fishes out a rag that’s swimming in it, lightly squeezes out the water and carefully places it on Gaby’s forehead. She lets out a pleased sigh at that.
“Better?” Solo asks. The hum he gets in return is affirmative.
Solo turns his head to Illya then. “Refresh that every now and then, will you?”
Illya nods. “Great,” Solo continues as he makes his way towards the door. ”I’ll get Gaby more tea, make sure she drinks it. And a towel for your hands. Soup is ready in an hour.”
Illya nods again as he watches Solo leave, mentally taking note of everything Solo has done or instructed Illya to do so far. It’s quite a lot to keep track off, but caring for the sick is definitely a useful field skill and the difference in skill level between him and Solo is embarrassingly large in that aspect.
He takes another sip from the tea, letting the strange warm feeling replace that train of thoughts. Picking up the book, he starts reading again. Solo slips in quietly a minute later not to interrupt him. Illya has to lean back a little so that Solo can reach Gaby’s mug on the bedside table. When he pulls back, there’s also a plate with some more food, some of them leftovers from breakfast and some obviously made fresh, everything cut into bite sized pieces. The fork is angled clearly in Illya’s direction and Illya becomes acutely aware that he forgot about having breakfast himself. Then Solo places a small folded towel on Illya’s knee, giving him a squeeze through it and making Illya stumble over the word he’s reading. He hears Gaby snicker again, not yet asleep, and Solo gives her an innocent inquisitive hum in return. Illya decided to ignore them and keeps his eyes on the page.
He makes Gaby drink more tea after each chapter ends, which she does with little to no protest, while he has some of the food. The chapters fly by and he changes the rag twice, before there’s a soft knocking on the door. Illya looks up to see Solo enter the room with a small tray, balancing two bowls of soup with a few slices of buttered bread.
“I think she could use a hand,” Solo says, then lifts the tray the tiniest bit to indicate that he doesn’t have one.
Illya looks at Gaby struggling, unsure how to intervene without embarrassing her. It’s not that she can’t sit up, from the looks of it, only staying up is the problem. Slowly he closes the book and sets it aside, then, even slower, gets up from his chair and sits on the bed, offering his shoulder as a lean to.
Gaby huffs, unimpressed. “Either get in here properly or get out,” she says, voice scratchy, before another coughing fit gets to her, making her sway precariously. Illya decides then to take the former, shuffling closer so that he can hold her upright with an awkward arm around her shoulders. Gaby leans in instantly, letting herself drop against him. Illya feels heat rising to his cheeks, looking to Solo for help. He should have known better, because the Cowboy only raises his eyebrows with a smirk, then proceeds to come over with the tray. Solo sets it down carefully across Illya’s lap.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Solo says. “Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?”
Gaby snorts noisily into Illya’s shoulder. Illya doesn’t know why she would find that funny. Maybe it’s the fever.
Nevertheless, he slightly rearranges the tablet with its contents, so Gaby can reach. True to his word, Solo is back soon, carrying a third bowl. Illya watches him sit on the chair he’s left open and put his feet up on the mattress.
“Bon appétit,” Solo says, before taking a spoonful of soup himself. Somehow, Illya is surprised that he went out of his way to eat with them. It’s nice, though. Illya watches Gaby maneuver the spoon first and deems it safe enough before he starts to eat. The broth smells rich and tastes even richer. He can’t suppress his eyes widening in surprise. He knows that Solo is a good cook, but this is chicken soup. Feeling Solo’s eyes on him, Illya clears his throat awkwardly.
"It’s good”, Illya says, not trying to deny it. “Thank you for cooking.”
Solo waves him off, even though Illya can tell he’s pleased with himself. “Very easy recipe, got it from the most precious old French lady back in the war.”
It certainly doesn’t taste easy.
“Did she just give it to you?” Illya hears himself ask for some reason he can’t quite explain other than it has something to do with the carefully hidden sparkle at the memory in Solo’s eyes.
“Of course not,” Solo says, smirking, and promptly launches into a story that sounds more as if he befriended a half-feral cat than a human.
Gaby seems fast asleep after the soup, not even waking when Illya detangles himself from her to help carrying everything out. It’s a small blessing for Illya’s strained vocal cords. He leaves the door halfway open, so he will hear when she needed help, as he joins Solo in the living room. The rest of the table has already been cleared. Only the rest of the medicine is laid out ready to grab. Illya spends a minute to familiarize himself with everything, then finds himself following Solo into the kitchen.
“Anything else to do?” Illya says, looking around. It’s almost spotless already. Except for the bowls they just used and the pot with the rest of the soup, there doesn’t seem much to do, and Solo is already stepping up to the basin to wash them.
“Not really,” Solo says, checking his folded up sleeves before turning the water on.
Illya doesn’t really know what to do with himself. For the lack of better things to do, he gets his chessboard and sets up the pieces. Absentmindedly he listens to Solo wash the few dishes and feels useless.
The chess match is not much of a distraction. He listens for Gaby, but she seems to be asleep for now. Solo joins him in the living room a little after, setting down another cup of black tea in front of Illya.
“Small pick me up before the night shift,” Solo says and sips on his own coffee.
“Night shift?” Illya asks before he can stop himself.
Solo shrugs. “It usually gets worse in the evening, don’t worry about it too much.”
Somehow, Illya doesn’t feel like not worrying.
*
It starts around dinnertime. Gaby wakes from her nap with a groan. When they to check on her, Gaby’s eyes are glassier than before, her movement more uncoordinated.
Solo maneuvers the thermometer into Gaby’s mouth. It’s a struggle to keep it in there around Gaby’s grumbling, but after a few minutes he pulls is back, checking the temperature.
He only hums and puts it away, so Illya doesn’t think it’s dangerous yet, even though he feels his own adrenalin spike at Gaby’s state.
They managed to keep Gaby awake long enough to get more soup and some medicine into her.
Her slumber is uneasy after that, her eyes scrunched up, throwing her head around as if trying to shake something off.
Solo beckons Illya to take his previous place, sitting against the headboard next to her. He doesn’t even hesitate this time, taking note of Solo leaving with the basin. Gaby notices his presence after a minute, pressing her head against Illya’s thigh with a groan. Illya carefully pushes strands of hair out of her face. Solo returns then and hands him a fresh cool rag, which Illya puts on Gaby’s neck.
It seems to help at least somewhat.
Solo settles into the chair occupied earlier. Neither of them talks, they only watch Gaby, who can’t seem to settle.
The relative peace only last a few minutes. Gaby starts mumbling in her sleep first, her hands restless scrambling at something unseen.
Solo readies more medicine from a different package, beckoning Illya to wake her up to take it. She doesn’t resist and it’s the most worrying thing she’s done so far. Her eyes seem to stare into the distance, blinks once, twice, then her eyes fall on Solo.
“I didn’t know,” Gaby says, voice almost a whisper. For a moment it looks like she’ll just trail off, unable to keep up with her own thoughts, then the glassiness of her eyes gain a layer of unshed tears. “Rudi. I didn’t know.”
Illya feels himself freezing in place. He doesn’t dare to look at Solo, painfully aware that he should not be here for this, especially not in the state Gaby is in. He doesn’t know if leaving them is worse though. Not looking at Solo leaves him watching Gaby though, feverish and grief and regret displayed so openly that even being in her proximity feels invasive.
“You told me already, remember?” Solo says, after a long moment of silence. His voice softer than Illya’s ever heard him, but there’s a roughness to it that Illya doesn’t like. “I’m not blaming you.”
Gaby shakes her head wildly, dislodging the wet rag. Solo shushes her, reaching out with his hand to still her.
“He hurt you,” Gaby says. There’s a rawness to her voice that Illya never wants to hear again. “I’m so sorry.”
Illya feels like he’s intruding as Solo leans over him to take her hand in his, squeezing her fingers lightly.
“He did,” Solo says, pauses a moment. “And so did others. He’s not special.”
It’s not quite a lie, more of a half-truth. Nightmares and flinches are hard to hide when you live in each other’s pockets. Illya has watched Solo change more times than he’d like to admit and some of his scars speak for themselves. Rudi wasn’t the first one leaving his marks on Solo, but Illya knows it’s not that simple.
Gaby still seems unhappy with the answer, but simply presses her lips together and shuts her eyes again, too exhausted to truly start arguing.
They silently agree to keep an eye on her for some more time, but the medicine finally seems to start working as Gaby falls into a deeper slumber. Illya doesn’t know what to say, so he’s almost glad when Solo speaks up first. “I think we’re in the clear for now,” he says, voice slightly hushed not to disturb Gaby. He nods with his head towards the door and slowly steps away from the bed, setting down Gaby’s hand at the last moment. They leave the door only leaning against its hinges, so they can listen for signs her fever is spiking again.
Illya hovers at the door, somehow expecting Gaby to call them right back, just like when he stopped reading earlier. Solo doesn’t seem to be too worried about it, rolling his shoulders as he crosses the small living space.
“Good job, superagent,” Solo says, coming to stand at the sideboard where they keep their drinks on. “You want a drink? I want a drink. We definitely earned it.” His tone of voice is the kind of light he uses when he doesn’t actually feel like talking. Illya can respect that.
Solo’s hand hovers over the Scotch, but Illya doesn’t think it’s one of the evenings Solo would enjoy it.
“No, thank you, Cowboy,” Illya says. Solo did earn it, he’s right about that. Illya not so much.
It would have worried Illya immensely only a few months ago how easy Solo is able to read him. To be fair, it still worries him sometimes. Solo throws him a look, a little sideways and curious, as his hand stops moving.
“’No, thank you’ as in no drink or ‘No, thank you’ as in not earned it?”
Illya is torn between avoiding his gaze and meeting it. After a split second he realizes what exactly Solo is doing. Diversion tactic. Easier to avoid talking about the ugly parts of Rome, when he has Illya to pick at. Given the vast difference in terms of discomfort attached to the subjects of conversation, Illya lets him have it.
“I went shopping. With your list.” Illya says. And that’s truly it. Everything else was Solo’s doing.
“I don’t think you understand,” Solo says, raising his eyebrow. “I’ve never seen a worse patient before. While you were gone this morning, I was thinking about cuffing her to the bed, but not in the fun way. This was a two person job and you did your part.” His smirk returns then. “Quite well, if I may add, for an amateur.”
Hearing the words is oddly relieving, even though Illya doesn’t truly agree and wants to show that even less. He hums, dragging it out a bit to induce some vague sense of if you say so. Well, Illya is going to review everything they’ve done today, let Cowboy see what happens when he calls Illya an amateur.
Solo goes back to contemplating drinks, the Scotch discarded for now, as Illya thought. He settles on the couch and leans back with a dramatic sigh. Lifting his glass, he cheers towards Illya and knocks the drink back in a way that Illya would expect from Gaby, but not from him.
Having noticed Illya’s look, Solo waves him off. “I’ll stay up for a little longer, keep an eye on our bed escape artist,” Solo says, “You can go to sleep, Peril. Tomorrow is just more of the same.”
It’s a weak distraction from the way Solo’s finger trembles in the first moment it lifts from the glass.
Illya looks at him, then the glass, then the Scotch, which was subtly moved into the back row of their assembly.
“I’m not very tired,” Illya says, just as inconspicuous as Solo was. Between spies who see each other daily for months now, that pretty much amounts to not inconspicuous at all.
There’s a tired smile playing around Solo’s lips, as Illya makes a show of sitting down into the armchair and setting up his chess game. Solo doesn’t do all that much, just stays sitting on the couch, staring into the air deep in thought. Illya doesn’t know if he should try to have a conversation or just leave him be.
The decision is taken from him, when he hears a grumble from Gaby’s room, then footsteps just before the door opens fully.
Gaby squints against the lights in the living room, looking disgruntled and dissatisfied with about everything. Her blanket is slung over her shoulders like a cape, dragging over the floor. Looking around, she zeros in on Solo on the couch and stomps over with surprising vigor. The fever spike seems broken for now, her steps too steady for anything less.
Without further commentary, she walks past Illya and his chess board and flops down onto the couch, lying down on her side with her head in Solo’s lap. Solo’s eyes are slightly widened as she draws her legs up and makes herself more comfortable. He waits for her to finish clumsily rearranging herself, facing Solo’s stomach most likely to hide away from the lights.
“Everything alright, Gaby?” Solo asks carefully, hands in the air as if she’s not already touching him.
“Lonely,” Gaby mumbles. Only moments later, a soft snore fills the silence between them, courtesy of Gaby’s stuffed nose.
Illya and Solo exchange a glance, communicating not to mention this to her any time soon if they value their life.
Then Solo lets out another dramatic sigh, straightens Gaby’s blanket as much as her death grip allows and lets his hand rest on her shoulder.
“Told you she doesn’t stay put,” Solo says.
Illya hums in acknowledgment and pretends to go back to his chess game instead of watching his partners. Gaby is mostly cocooned up, except from her face pressed into Solo’s stomach. Solo is looking down at her, half exasperated, half fond, and it does strange things to Illya’s stomach. He expected to feel something about this, and he does, but it’s not the spike of jealousy he doesn’t want to admit he’s expected. The feeling is warmer, something he doesn’t know how to place.
To distract himself, he gets up and brings a fresh rag for Gaby and the paper Solo had to abandon in the morning. Solo nods at him in quiet thanks, using only one hand to hold it up, letting the other stay on Gaby’s shoulder.
Illya sits down again. Looks at his partners again. The strange warms doesn’t fade.
With a frown, Illya puts his hand on his forehead, feeling his temperature. That’s not it. Probably.
“Don’t you dare, Peril” Solo says, not even lowering his paper. “If you’re getting sick as well, I’m calling Sanders and go back to the CIA.”
It’s an empty threat, Illya knows. Still, he is somewhat insulted.
“I don’t get sick,” Illya says.
*
(Illya gets sick two days after. Despite multiple threats, no calls to the CIA were made.)