They're debriefing with two of Waverly's subordinates, and Napoleon can feel Illya getting angrier and angrier next to him. It had been a hell of a mission, beginning with their contact getting poisoned and ending with an armed chase through a Methodist chapel. Two civilians are in the hospital, Gaby will be on crutches for a month, but all the men across the table can talk about is their lack of subterfuge.

The other agents, Denforth and Hastings, are obviously new and British to the core; they're not pleased with an arrogant American and a monosyllabic Russian 'mucking things up.' It doesn't seem to matter to them that they'd gotten the files they needed or that no one had died.

Napoleon is sneaking glances at his partner, in between placating the pair of them with tight nods and disarming smiles. While Illya's obviously not happy, he's not shaking with rage either. Napoleon entertains the thought that they might get out of here before dawn after all.

"And another thing! That Teller woman ought to be reminded where her priorities lie, or she could find herself reassigned."

He spoke too soon.

Illya goes very, very still next to him. "Her name," he says carefully, "is Agent Teller." He gives Agent Hastings a glare that normally has people reaching for the nearest weapon. Napoleon would know, he's been on the receiving end of it many times. Hastings must be blind, because he continues.

"Then she'd better act like an agent; civilian involvement is unfortunate but her mission was to retrieve the files. Not play the hero. I'd say she got off lucky with a wound like that." Denforth nods smugly with his partner, and Napoleon can see Illya's fists start to tremble underneath the table. All he wants is to get cleaned up and go to bed. Perhaps check on Gaby. Have a drink. But if Illya gets in another fight with a fellow agent, he really will be reassigned.

He closes his eyes for a moment and utters a quick prayer, then he carefully reaches out and rests his hand on top of Illya's. The other man tenses even further. Denforth begins to flick through paperwork, oblivious to Illya's glare. Napoleon gently strokes the side of his hand with his thumb. "Deep breaths," he mutters. Illya shoots him an annoyed look, but slowly, ever so slowly, his fist unclenches, until it's lying flat against his leg, shaking.

Napoleon keeps stroking as he reaches for the stack of papers with his other hand. "Well, we'll be sure to pass that along. We'll just sign these and be out of your hair." He gives them a strained smile and scribbles his signature down. He slides the paper over to Illya, who signs it so rigidly it's like he's carving his name into solid oak instead of signing a mission report.

Napoleon stands and allows his hand to slide up to the other man's shoulder. Illya stands as well, brow furrowed but hands stable. "We'll be going then. Gentlemen." He leaves before they can answer, pulling his partner along. Illya is uncharacteristically compliant, and Napoleon slows when they reach their rooms, turning and letting his hand finally drop. "Are you alright? You're quiet."

Illya nods curtly, not meeting his eyes. "I am fine. I do not like that man."

Napoleon smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "Couldn't agree with you more, I felt like punching him myself. Now get some rest. Gaby will be fine."

The corner of Illya's mouth twitches. "I do not take orders from you, Cowboy."

Napoleon laughs and turns away, opening his door. He steps in, then turns to shut it. "We'll see about that. Goodnight, Peril." He closes the door. He sincerely doubts the other man will sleep much tonight, and definitely not without checking on Gaby first. It's the only reason why he doesn't do so himself.

He stretches, cracking his back, then grabs his robe and heads for the bathroom. He deserves a bath. A nice long one. And maybe a drink.

Definitely a drink.

- • • • -

"We'll see about that," Napoleon says, laughing. "Goodnight, Peril." He closes the door. Illya stands there for a moment, then heads for the elevator. He knows he won't be able to sleep tonight until he sees Gaby with his own eyes, and he knows that the only reason Napoleon hasn't checked on her himself is because he knows his partner will.

He presses the button for the elevator, and stands back to allow a handful of agents to get off when it arrives. They nod to him as he sidles past them, and he tips his head in reply. He recognizes one or two of them from past missions. They'd all been tolerable, why had Waverly assigned Denforth and Hastings to this one?

He gets on, presses the button for the infirmary, and folds his arms as the doors close, eyeing the corners distrustfully. There are cameras everywhere here. Not as good as his own agency's, but better than the Americans'.

Speaking of Americans . . .

Illya's brow furrows. No one had ever been able to do that. Granted, not many had tried. The closest he'd ever come to not giving in to the shaking anger he often felt was when Gaby grabbed his arm in Rome, her voice tight as she told him to hand over the watch. Even then he'd barely kept it together, and he'd still injured one of the muggers.

There had been people in the past who'd tried to restrain him during such episodes, to hold him down or try to talk him out of it. But Napoleon had done no such thing. All he'd done was cover Illya's hand with own, warm and still. He'd told him to breathe, whispered it out of the corner of his mouth so Hastings and Denforth couldn't hear. Rubbed his thumb gently back and forth.

If anyone else had done that, he would've thrown off their hand and bared his teeth at them. It would've felt like mockery. Why is it different with this man, this infuriating, unorthodox, and reluctant American agent? He doesn't know. But he intends to figure it out, to know why this man can stop his rage with just a touch.

The elevator dings, and he looks up with a start. With a shake of his head, he strides out of the elevator and looms over the nurse at the front desk. "Teller," he grunts. "Gaby. British, brown hair, gunshot to right calf. What room?"

The nurse looks at him over the top of her glasses, unimpressed, then turns to her computer. She hits a few keys and nods. "Hmm, Teller, she came out of surgery about half an hour ago. You're Agent Kuryakin, yes? I'll give you her room, but you're only allowed fifteen minutes. Patients need their rest and doctors need their space. Am I clear?"

She turns back to him and raises an eyebrow. Illya glares, then nods. The nurse rolls her eyes. "Room 112. Fifteen minutes."

He turns and heads for the the recovery wing, the nurse muttering behind him.

"Field agents!"

Illya strides past the row of endless, identical rooms. 108, 110, 112. He knocks quietly on the door, then eases it open. Gaby is slumped in a mound of pillows, snoring lightly. He allows himself a small smile. She's alright. Her hair is a mess, and she has a bruise on her chin, but she's alright.

Her injured leg is under the covers. He knows that touching her would wake her, bullet wound and anesthesia be damned, so he edges around to the end of the bed, squinting to read her chart in the light from the hallway. It's a through and through, no shrapnel, and the bullet had missed the bone with millimeters to spare. She'll need crutches for several weeks, but no permanent damage. She's alright. Satisfied, he stands, and after one last look, he leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

He still doesn't think he'll sleep tonight.