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Illya and Napoleon walked into a hotel room. Illya dropped his jacked with great difficulty on the floor and started to take off his gun holster over his shoulders. Every movement made his shoulder blade burn. He went to the bathroom and began to remove his turtleneck.
“Do you need help?” Napoleon asked.
“No,” Illya said. He would manage by himself. He had managed before. He yanked the shirt off with his left hand; that didn’t hurt as much. He felt how the dried blood had glued the shirt to the wound and now it was slowly detaching. Illya gritted his teeth and grunted quietly when he had to pull the shirt away from his skin.
“Are you sure?” Napoleon asked while he poured himself some Scotch.
“Yes,” Illya assured him.
Napoleon nodded even if he didn’t believe him. He removed his black jacket and threw it on the couch’s armrest. He sat in an armchair where he could see in the bathroom. He knew Peril couldn’t manage without any help, but he was curious how long he would try.
Illya dropped his shirt on the tile floor and kicked it farther away. He turned in front of the mirror to see the wound on his shoulder blade. It wasn’t too deep or too wide, but it needed stitches. He had already informed Solo that he didn’t need to go to a hospital. He could stitch himself; he had done it before. He dampened a hand towel under a running tap and reached to wipe the blood around the wound. It didn’t bleed that much anymore, but it stung and every movement in the right side of his back made the edges of the wound stretch and pain vibrate through him.
“I’ll let Gaby know we got back,” Napoleon said and stood up.
Illya frowned. He turned to see Cowboy from the open door. “Don’t tell her about this,” Illya asked and nodded toward his back.
“As you like,” Napoleon promised. “She will notice it eventually though.”
“But not now,” Illya muttered. He didn’t want her to worry, or get angry. It wouldn't be as bad in the morning. Soon it would be stitched and bound and it would be hours since it happened. He took the first aid kit when the wound was relative clean. He snipped a little string and threaded it through the curved needle. He took three painkillers in his mouth and ducked to drink from the tab. The skin tightened on his back and Illya grabbed the sink with his left hand when the pain shot through his whole back. He straightened himself slowly and scooped water into his mouth with his palm instead. He took a deep breath and turned sideways in front of the mirror. He bend his left hand over his shoulder. Illya let his breath out in a frustrated huff through his nostrils. His hand didn’t bend far enough to stitch the wound. He bent it again, determined to manage it himself. It made no difference. He couldn’t reach. Still he tried again.
Illya glanced at Cowboy, who had come to lean in the doorframe. “What?” Illya grunted.
“I didn’t say anything,” Napoleon noted. ”I just came to see how you are managing. Maybe it would help if you would dislocated your left arm,” he suggested and smiled a little annoying smile. “Your arm would reach better.”
“Did you come there just so you could annoy me?” Illya asked, frowning.
”Not only,” Napoleon claimed. ”I came to see how long you are going to try before you accept that you need help and actually ask for it.”
Illya glared at him from under his brows.
“Do let me know when you are ready to admit that,” Napoleon said and left.
Illya leaned on the sink with his left hand. He could hear Cowboy opening a bottle and pouring a drink. Illya gritted his teeth; he hated to be helpless. Cowboy came back and handed the glass to him. He hadn’t poured just one or two fingers of Scotch; he had poured half a glass. Illya sighed and took the glass. He took a big gulp and felt the liquid burning his throat and warming him all the way into his belly. He looked at Cowboy who looked back at him, waiting but not grinning.
“I cannot reach to make the stitches,” Illya muttered slowly and unwillingly.
“Really?” Napoleon smirked.
Illya rolled his eyes and huffed from frustration.
Napoleon let out a low chuckle and reached out with his hand. “Needle.”
Illya gave the needle to him and sat down, useless and irritated, on top of the toilet. He took another big gulp. Napoleon handed him the bottle he was holding in his hand and Illya poured more in his glass. Napoleon walked behind him to look at wound. He took the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit and just poured it straight to the wound.
“Ебать,” Illya grunted and jerked. He only barely was able not to break or drop the glass. “Warn next time,” he hissed between his teeth over his shoulder.
Napoleon grinned behind his back and wiped the shoulder blade clean with the already damp and bloody towel. Illya hadn’t done a very good job. Solo poured some rubbing alcohol on the needle. “Are you ready?” he asked before starting.
Illya gulped more of his Scotch. ”Go for it,” he breathed out. Illya clamped his teeth together and closed his eyes when the needle went through the edge of the wound. He wasn’t going to make a peep. Every time the needle went through his skin he held his breath. He only let it out when the needle didn’t touch him and let his body relax a bit before tensing all his muscles again for the next stitch.
“Was she sleeping?” Illya asked to get something else to think about.
“No,” Napoleon answered. “And she didn’t sound tired. With your bad luck she will be here soon.”
Illya hummed. He wished that Gaby wouldn’t come. Not at least before Cowboy had stitched him up.
“Is it that you don’t want to make her worry or are you actually afraid of her?” Napoleon wanted to know.
“I am not scared of her,” Illya declared. “She could fit in a suitcase. No one is scared of something like that.”
“That’s a lie, right?” Napoleon made sure. “I mean, you know that she scares people. You have seen it. Sometimes she stares at the marks so intensely that she makes them sweat. And I think she does the same to you. So that’s got to be a lie.”
“She does not make me sweat by staring at me,” Illya said, frustrated, and sipped his drink.
Napoleon hummed. “I feel like that it’s a lie, too,” he muttered.
“I do not care what you feel.” Illya breathed out over his shoulder and then closed his mouth when the next stitch started.
“Now that definitely is a lie,” Napoleon said smugly. “You care what everybody thinks about you. And when you believe they think something bad, you act out, like a child.”
“What?” Illya huffed and turned. The string yanked his wound and he squeezed his eyes closed for a second when the pain rushed through him. “That is not true,” he said slowly when the pain settled down.
Napoleon pushed him back facing away from him. “And most of the time it’s all in your head. People don’t think you are nearly as bad as you think of yourself.”
Illya frowned.
“You should give us the benefit of the doubt. We are not as bad either. We don’t walk all the time hating and despising you like you like to think,” Napoleon talked. “I mostly think that you are only a little inconvenient, sometimes actually quite useful. And Gaby… well, God knows what happens inside of her head. Mostly I reckon she probably thinks of you naked.”
Illya grunted a little when the needle went through his skin. “No, she does not,” Illya snorted. “Please don’t talk about her like that.”
“It would be more effective if you defended her honor when she was actually in the same room,” Napoleon pointed out and then frowned at the wound. “This is not going to be that neat. It’s ragged. You will have a scar.”
“It is not going to be first,” Illya replied, relieved that they had moved on from Gaby. “I can handle a scar.”
Napoleon didn’t doubt that Peril would be fine with his scars. He himself would still go to an actual hospital to find out if a dexterous fingered nurse would make neater stitches than a quack who was drinking Scotch before starting.
Illya gulped his drink and clenched his teeth when the needle again went through the already burning edges of his torn flesh. He leaned forward and rested his left arm on his thigh. Illya didn’t like to be unable to do something by himself. He liked doing things because then he knew it would be done properly. He didn’t doubt that Cowboy was doing a fine job, but he would’ve preferred to do it himself.
He lifted his gaze through the open bathroom door to the hotel room door when he heard a weak rattle there. “Is it done?” he asked impatiently.
“No,” Napoleon answered. ”And does it matter? She will find out eventually.”
“It would not be as bad if there was no blood anymore,” Illya muttered and sipped his Scotch. The rattle continued at the door. ”She is struggling.”
”That’s why she is practicing,” Napoleon smiled.
Illya, who was looking at the door and listening to the rattle, was surprised by the next stitch and he grunted faintly before he got his mouth pressed tightly shut. He let his head hang when the pain went through him and lifted it back up when the stitch was done.
There was a low thump by the door.
“She flopped against the door and probably leans on it,” Illya suspected.
Napoleon chuckled. “She is like you. She isn’t going to ask for help. She is rather frustrated and on the wrong side of the door. Then she will knock.”
“What good the knocking would be if she needs to learn?” Illya wondered.
“That’s true,” Napoleon nodded. ”So only you have been stubborn today,” he noted.
Illya scowled at him over his shoulder. The rattle continued.
“When are you going to give her keys back?” Illya asked and gulped more Scotch.
“When she is better than that,” Napoleon said and pointed toward the door. “She is slow and loud. And she hasn’t even got herself in. Now in a car she can get in with her pick in only seconds. A few more and she has said car running. It’s doors in buildings that she struggles with.”
Illya smiled when he heard the rattle. He could imagine how annoyed she was already. His smile withered away when the needle went through his skin again.
The door clicked. “Finally,” Napoleon muttered.
Gaby pushed the door open and stepped in. She waved her head slightly like she was completely carefree and not annoyed at all by the fact that Solo had taken her keys and given her picks instead. The last few days she had wanted to murder people every time she needed to enter a hotel room.
Illya gritted his teeth when his eyes met Gaby’s. She stopped for a second, scowled, and then marched to the bathroom in her pajamas. Illya gulped down the rest of his Scotch.
“What has happened?” Gaby asked tightly.
”Nothing,” Illya claimed. ”It is only a scratch. Few stitches.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” Gaby demanded of Napoleon. “You said everything went smoothly. And why didn’t you go to a hospital?”
“He didn’t want to tell you.” Napoleon pointed to Peril. “And he also didn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Gaby stared at Illya, who turned his eyes away from her. His jaw tightened when the needle went through. Gaby bent down and grabbed the bottle from the tile floor. She poured more in Illya’s empty glass. She took the glass from him, sipped, and handed it back. Then she walked to Napoleon to look at the wound.
“They would’ve done a better job at the hospital,” she judged.
“He was trying to do this himself,” Napoleon defended himself.
Gaby leaned against the wall and huffed. “I can believe that.” Illya glared at her and she glared back.
“Last stitch,” Napoleon let Peril know before pushing the needle through his skin.
Illya didn’t like that Gaby was looking at him. He gritted his teeth and turned his face away.
Gaby pushed herself away from the wall and walked back to Napoleon. She knew Illya would prefer her not looking at his face when he was hurting, so she let him be at pain in peace.
Napoleon made a last knot and cut the string. “That’s done,” he said.
Gaby rinsed the bloody towel and poured some of the rubbing alcohol in it. “This is going to sting,” she warned before wiping the rest of the blood from the stitched-up wound. Illya shivered some, but didn’t make any noises. She was quick and threw the towel in the sink. Napoleon handed her gauze and medical tape. She attached the bandage over the stitches on his skin, gentler then Napoleon would have. ”It’s all done,” Gaby said.
“Thank you,” Illya said and slowly stood up.
Gaby bent to lift the bloody and ripped shirt from the floor and threw it in the trash can. She pushed Illya away from the sink and started wiping the blood from it.
Illya took his glass and walked into the living-room. He flopped on the couch and gulped his drink. He looked at his empty glass. Illya liked Scotch. And he had drunk enough to want to drink some more. He frowned at his empty glass; the bottle was still on the bathroom floor. He looked at Cowboy, who finished his own drink in an armchair.
“Thank you,” Illya said slowly, with a lot of effort. He didn’t usually have to thank him for anything, because both of them could handle their own business.
“You are welcome,” Napoleon nodded. “Maybe next time you will accept help sooner.”
“Doubtful,” Illya muttered to his empty glass.
Napoleon grinned. “I can believe that,” he said. He sort of liked that Peril didn’t try to pretend that things would miraculously change just because he needed help this time. He would struggle asking for help next time as much as now. He stood up and went to get the Scotch from the bathroom floor. Gaby was drying her hands on a clean towel and followed him out. Napoleon opened the bottle and Illya lifted his glass. Solo went back to his armchair, poured himself another and then for Gaby, who had got herself a glass and came to jiggle it next to him.
Gaby went to sit on the couch next to Illya. She leaned her head on the armrest and lifted her bent legs on the couch. Gaby looked at the patch on Illya’s shoulder blade. She was glad that nothing more severe had happened.
Illya sipped from his glass and sighed deeply. His back didn’t feel that bad anymore. Nothing felt that bad anymore. He sipped again. Earlier he had been a little hungry but now he felt just fine. Maybe tired, but nothing more. All of them sipped their drinks in quiet.
“You should go to sleep,” Gaby said gently when Illya’s eyes eventually tried to close and he jerked. She poked his side softly with her toes.
“I am not tired,” Illya muttered.
“Oh, my bad,” Gaby smiled and nodded like she believed him.
Napoleon stood up and went to the bathroom. Gaby lifted herself to sit and swiped some of the hair from Illya’s forehead. “Is your back hurting?” she asked.
“No,” Illya said and looked at her. He tilted his head. ”You are beautiful,” he sighed.
Gaby smiled. “And you are drunk,” she pointed out. “And I am a very good person and stopped you from saying something you could regret tomorrow.”
“You are probably beautiful tomorrow too,” Illya muttered.
Gaby hummed, pleased. She leaned back to the couch and the armrest. Illya pushed her bent legs closer to the back of the couch and lowered himself to lie down. He let his head rest on Gaby’s stomach and curled his hands close to her. Gaby wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, but because she didn’t want to push Illya away she let him stay there. His breathing settled when he fell asleep.
Napoleon grinned when he returned to his chair. ”There’s some drunk on you, did you notice?”
Gaby frowned at him and let him be, too. Napoleon could grin as much as he liked. Gaby didn’t mind. She let Illya sleep on her, brushed his hair from his forehead again. When she didn’t look at Napoleon she didn’t give him the chance to lift his brows knowingly. Gaby knew he would be watching. But if she wanted to brush some hair from Illya’s forehead, she would do it.
“You should’ve seen Peril trying to stitch his own back,” Napoleon said.
Gaby smiled and looked at Napoleon. “Did he try for long?”
“So long that I suggested he should dislocate his arm so he could reach better,” Napoleon told her.
Gaby chuckled quietly. She turned her face to Illya. Stubborn fool, she thought. Her stubborn fool, she had started to think. Nothing had been done about that yet, but still Gaby felt like Illya was hers. Gaby took her glass from the couch where it rested against Illya’s side and sipped.
Napoleon yawned.
“It’s really late. You should go to sleep,” Gaby suggested.
“You should go to,” Napoleon remarked.
“I’m not tired,” Gaby sighed. “Too many thoughts. Too many knots.”
Napoleon nodded to her and stood up.
“You can stay here, if you want,” Gaby said and waved toward the bedroom. “He’s not going to get up from here.”
“Do you need to get out of there?” Napoleon asked.
“No,” Gaby said, quietly watching Illya on her lap. Her other leg was pinned between Illya and the couch, the other rested bent against the back of the couch. His back was covering her hips down. ”This is fine.”
Napoleon went and pulled the bedroom door closed behind him. Gaby leaned on the armrest and laced her fingers through Illya’s hair. He breathed evenly. It was quiet and peaceful. Illya moved his cheek on her stomach and made Gaby smile.