"Are you sick?" Gaby asks.
Illya stops what he's doing, packing away equipment to turn and look at her. He took immediate offense to the words. He was Russian and he was strong and a man and people like him didn't get colds or flus. That was weakness and nothing he would ever allow for himself. If there was a headache or a flush to his cheeks, if there was an extra sniffle thrown around here or there, it was because he was tired. Exhausted with the mission they'd just completed and the ever harrowing ordeal of having to deal with Solo.
He was not sick.
"No," he tells her and if his voice is a little lower than normal, it's because he's tired. Again. Not sick. "I am fine."
From the lounge chair behind him, he hears Solo call out. "You do sound a tad under the weather."
Wide eyes get turned to him and even Illya can feel the ice of his own glare. While they'd gotten to know each other over the course of the past few months more than he ever thought he'd get to know an American, there was still a constant rivalry between the two to prove who was better at their job. He didn't think it would ever truly be gone. He knew for certain that Solo had some strengths where Illya was lacking, but he also knew that Solo would readily admit Illya was better at certain aspects as well. There was a budding mutual respect there for each other's work. It was just a matter of finding what they were both good at.
"I am fine," Illya repeated, tone steely, like Solo had said one of the possibly most offensive things to date.
"Perhaps you need a vacation," Solo said, shaking the newspaper in front of him before he went back to reading it, hiding his face behind it before he added, "Or some soup and a neatly made bed."
There was a retort on Illya's lips, but he didn't get a chance to curse the man out or challenge him to a fight. Gaby, instead, spoke up, walking towards the kitchenette. "You're in luck, we have some. I don't mind making it for you."
Another sigh escaped Illya.
"I. Am. Fine."
Neither listened to him.
By nightfall, after a light meal of soup and crackers, Illya's sneezing and coughing. Hacking from beneath the covers he keeps kicking off and pulling back over him in rapid succession. One minute he's freezing, the next he's sweating into his pillow.
They're sharing a joint suite until the morning when they're set to travel back to New York and UNCLE headquarters. The bed next to his is empty, Solo still out enjoying the newspaper and the light show on the radio. Gaby's reading a book on a bed all the way on the other side of the room. Neither one of them had said anything else about him being sick. They'd forced as much soup on him as was humanly possible, but hadn't brought up sickness again.
Only now Illya has to admit that he's not feeling the greatest. There's a pressure in his chest and a congestion to his sinuses. He keeps the tissue near and every so often gets up to head to the bathroom. Sometimes to splash water, sometimes to relieve himself. On the last journey, he'd come back to a glass of orange juice and another glass of water next to the bed. He'd drank neither of them, still refusing to admit it.
But now, as he kicked the blankets off for the thirtieth time, he stared up at the ceiling, chagrined. Illya Kuryakin did not get sick. It was just simply something he didn't do. Not since he was a small boy.
Solo, for all the enjoyment he usually gets out of mocking Illya, hadn't said a word all night until now.
"You need anything, Peril?"
Grumbling slightly, the words I am fine are on his tongue again until he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a wheezing cough. He sighs afterwards, hitting his head against the pillow.
"A bullet," he answers instead, infuriated with his own weakness.
Solo shakes his head, but sets down his paper, his answer as annoyingly witty as ever. "That's an odd translation for an Aspirin."
When Illya wakes again, it's to the feel of something cold pressed against the back of his neck. It's either very late or very early in the morning, the room dark and the windows darker. The radio has long since gone silent and Illya feels the worse he's felt in a long time. He's been shot, burned, drowned - but this? This must be some new kind of torture.
He coughs, hands curling in the duvet and he realizes he's on his stomach. Laying on the bed and there's a small dip behind him that he doesn't have the strength to roll over and find the cause of. His curiosity is answered in the next moment when he feels a hand smooth back his hair, moving the washcloth on the back of his neck slightly and he shivers even though it feels good against his flushed, hot skin.
"He's still too warm," Gaby's voice is soft, speaking lowly and there's more concern in her tone than he cares to hear. Especially when it's over him.
Solo's voice is equally quiet and it's a strange change for him. Not something Illya's used to. The American is normally so loud, boisterous in everything he does. "They are sending a doctor. He should be here soon."
The words have a spike of fear and anxiety twisting Illya's gut and it finally rouses him. He pushes himself up, or at least tries to, but can't quite get his bearings.
"No," he croaks out.
"Illya?" It's Gaby. Her hand has found it's way to the back of his neck, covering the washcloth. "Illya, lie still. You've gotten very sick."
"I do not need doctor," Illya grits out, but the words are made less believable when his elbow gives out and he winds up face first in his pillow again. Gaby's hands on his shoulders helped to straighten him, letting his head rest against the pillow and he's ready to fight her until those smooth, small hands of hers begin to touch the side of his face. It's a comforting thing and his eyes close involuntarily against it.
"You have a high fever," Gaby points out to him, tipping her head to look down at him. "And you were crying out."
The frown that marrs his face would have been comical, but the fear that he'd made a fool of himself, or said something he couldn't hide from them anymore almost upset his stomach more than the fever burning through his skin. Gaby shakes her head, but it's Solo who gives him some reassurance.
"Unfortunately, it was nothing embarrassing or blackmail worthy." Solo promptly ignores the glare Gaby gives him, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his house clothes. "So rest assured."
His eyes scan Solo for a moment. This is a distinct moment of weakness for Illya. A moment where he finds himself unguarded and at a disadvantage. The two had enough respect for each other that Illya liked to think Solo was aware of this. Aware of the feeling and there was a gratefulness there that the man wasn't taking some sort of advantage of the moment. He may not have put it past him weeks ago. Taking advantage was something that seemed to make Napoleon Solo who he was, according to his file.
Now, however, he doesn't see that side of him. He sees only a man who is poking fun in the gentlest of ways. Respectful. He'd remember this.
Gaby strokes his hair again and his eyelids get heavier beneath the motion. "Sorry," he apologizes, but forgets what for the moment he says it.
"Stop," Gaby tells him, stern in the word, her hand settling on the side of his neck, comforting in everything she did. "Don't apologize."
Illya's eyes close again and this time he couldn't quite get them to open back up. He coughs, sniffles, keeps his head against the pillow and shivers cold sweat into his sheets. But Gaby's hand against his neck is such a grounding anchor, when the doctor finally comes to the door and she tries to get up and leave, his hand limply catches hers.
His awareness is already dimming, but he can still feel the press of warm lips against his temple. "Sleep, Illya," she whispers to him and he can hear Solo and the doctor talking somewhere in the background. "I'll be close by."
And he believed her.