This is by far the longest chapter I've ever written. I'm pretty satisfied with the way it went, though. Be ye warned: fluff ahead! That said, it still satisfies the original prompt. Hope you enjoy! Reviews are awesome!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the DVD and fond memories.
"Open up, Cowboy!" Illya pounded on the door for the third time in five minutes. "We are going to be late for our meeting." He raised his hand to knock again when the door finally swung open. Napoleon stood there in a robe, blinking sleepily at him.
"What are you doing? Waverly is waiting. We will be late," Illya reiterated, pushing the door all the way open and walking in. Napoleon obligingly stepped aside to let him pass.
"I overslept," he mumbled. "Give me a minute." He disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door. Illya narrowed his eyes in the direction that his partner had vanished. As far as he knew, Napoleon was an early riser.
"If you wouldn't be up so late with women and alcohol you wouldn't oversleep," he called to the closed door. It opened, revealing a now mostly dressed Solo fumbling with his tie.
"There weren't either of those things," he shot back. "I was just tired." Illya hadn't been expecting that admission, prepared for Napoleon to brush off his comments with sarcasm and a smile. He didn't have anything to say to it, either, so he just harrumphed and gestured impatiently for the American to finish dressing so they could go.
Gaby was waiting for them in the lobby downstairs. Unlike Napoleon, Illya had undeniable proof that she had drank heavily last night. Her favorite pair of sunglasses were perched on her nose, and her arms were crossed. Neither of his partners seemed to be in a chatty mood, which suited Illya just fine. They walked a few blocks east to the restaurant where Waverly would no doubt be already waiting.
Paris in January was cold and rather drab, as well as damp. There hadn't been a good snow for awhile, and the old was packed down and muddied by the feet of hundreds of passers-by. Illya decided that if he had to deal with cold and snow he would much rather be in rural Russia, where at least the view of the sky was not blocked by towering buildings made of stone that matched the road. He kept his thoughts to himself.
The cafe that they had been told to come to was a cozy one, with large windows in front to let in the natural light, but enough lamps on the tables to warm up the winter rays a bit. A rush of warm air left as Illya opened the door and herded the other two inside. Waverly was waiting at a back table, in the corner. He had a newspaper unfolded in front of him and a small coffee cup on the table that was half empty.
"You're late, you know," The Brit raised one eyebrow at their windblown and slightly disheveled appearance. He didn't seem too put out.
"Cowboy decided to sleep in," Illya declared, seating himself where he could watch the door. Waverly glanced at Napoleon, who only shrugged and sat down across from Illya. The Russian decided to keep a closer eye on him-he'd never seen him this quiet before. Before that conversation could go any farther Gaby plopped down in the remaining chair and sighed heavily.
"I need coffee," she said matter of factly.
"Of course," said Waverly, shaking his newspaper into submission. "I recommend the café crème, it's very popular."
"Fine," said Gaby, waving her hand, "as long as there is caffeine." Napoleon ordered a cappuccino, and Illya stuck with plain espresso.
"Now then," said Waverly after their coffee had arrived, "I'm afraid that this mission is somewhat of a reversal from your previous ones. Instead of retrieving information, I need you to plant evidence. False evidence, of course, but since we're absolutely sure that Monsieur Bouchard is up to no good, what with his smuggling ring and all, it simply comes to the matter of proving it. The French government is a tad impatient, so they've asked us to...expedite the matter. All right?" He paused, evidently prepared for questions or comments, possibly concerns. Silence. Illya cleared his throat.
"When are we supposed to do this?" he asked.
"As soon as possible," Waverly replied, "tonight if you can pull it off. Think you can manage that?"
"After a few more cups of coffee, probably," Gaby put in.
"Whatever you need, my dear," Waverly told her. "After all, you'll be distracting Bouchard on the other side of town, so you'll need to be at the top of your game." The three spies rolled their eyes almost as one.
"I'm shocked," Gaby said. "I never would have guessed that I am the distraction. Again."
"Really?" Waverly smiled, the picture of innocence. "I thought you would have been used to it by now. Bouchard will be frequenting his favorite gentleman's club on the other side of the city. You'll come in shortly after he arrives. Make an entrance, sweep him off his feet. Then, when you get the signal from Solo and Kuryakin, leave him there. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours."
"Of course," Gaby commented dryly, "that is provided that these two do their jobs correctly."
"Well, yes," Waverly allowed. "I'm sure they're up for it, aren't you, boys?"
"We'll try not to let you down," Napoleon said, the first words he'd spoken since they had arrived at the cafe. Illya grunted his agreement.
"Very well. I'm off. The plans of Bouchard's building will be in your rooms when you return. Best of luck." Waverly disappeared out the door.
The three of them left soon after.
Illya was getting very tired of knocking on Napoleon's door. Luckily, this time Gaby was with him. Napoleon had been teaching her the basics of lockpicking, and she had the door open soon enough-though not as fast as the American. He seemed to have an innate talent for getting where he wasn't supposed to be.
"He'd better not be entertaining," Gaby muttered, letting Illya enter first. They had come down to discuss their plan of action for the evening.
Illya walked into the room and looked around. Something wasn't right. The curtains were drawn and the weak January light was barely filtering through them, leaving the room dim.
"Solo?" Illya called, pulling his gun. There was no answer. He walked to the adjoining bedroom and pushed open the door. Gaby trailed him. He stopped short when he saw Napoleon laying on the bed, still fully dressed. Illya made his way over and put his fingers to the American's neck to check his pulse.
He was just as startled as Napoleon was when the other pulled away suddenly, only half upright.
"What are you doing in here?" Napoleon squinted at him. It took him a moment too long to notice Gaby. "And Gaby?"
"We came to discuss the plan," Illya said, flustered. "What are you doing?" Napoleon looked around.
"Resting my eyes?"
"Is that a question or answer?" Illya looked at him suspiciously. His face was flushed, and he still looked confused.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Gaby grumbled, moving forward and putting her hand on Napoleon's forehead. He flinched, but held still.
"Your hands are cold," he complained.
"No they aren't," she retorted, "You are warm." Both men stared at her, uncomprehending. She sighed, exasperated. "He's sick. He has a fever."
"I don't get sick," Napoleon stated. Gaby threw up her hands.
"Well you are now. We'll have to call Waverly and tell him to postpone the mission."
"That's ridiculous," Napoleon said, "I'm perfectly able to-" He stood up and blanched. Illya caught his arm before he made contact with the floor, cautiously depositing him back on the bed. The American had turned an interesting shade of green.
"Are you going to throw up?" Illya asked suspiciously.
"No?" Napoleon replied hesitantly. Illya rolled his eyes.
"Stop answering questions with questions. There is no way I will let you be my backup when you can't even stand up properly."
"I can stand just fine," his partner muttered mutinously. "It was a head rush."
"No," Illya and Gaby said together. There was silence for a moment. At least now Illya knew why the American had seemed off all day. He'd never seen him with so much as a sniffle, but if it was anything like his own infrequent illnesses then it would probably be bad. He made a decision.
"You're staying here. Gaby and I will complete the mission. There were no safes to crack-I don't need you." Illya regretted his choice of words when Napoleon gave him a pitiful look, like a kicked dog.
"Fine," Napoleon told him, "I don't want to go anyway." He leaned forward to take off his shoes and almost face planted in the floor, Illya's arm once again the only thing between him and a painful landing. Gaby made an exasperated noise and crouched to pull his shoes off. Illya watched his face and was surprised to see embarrassment. Apparently being sick destroyed Napoleon's filters. That or he was just so out of it that he didn't realize he was making faces.
Shoes removed, Napoleon flopped back onto the pillows and turned to the other side, facing away from them.
"Fine, have fun being out in the cold." Gaby and Illya exchanged a look. It wasn't like Napoleon to be spiteful. Sarcastic, yes-but not childishly petty. They left the room and made their way back to their own room.
"Should we call Waverly after all?" Gaby asked him. He considered, but shook his head.
"Who knows how long it's going to take for Cowboy to get over it. We might as well go ahead and complete the mission."
They did complete the mission, but not quite the way they had planned. Gaby did an admirable job putting up with Bouchard's advances, right up until he crossed a line and she slapped him, sweeping out of the club in a huff. It didn't really matter in the long run, but her departure was ahead of schedule and Bouchard-who's evening had been thoroughly ruined-headed for home with Illya still in the study. He was barely able to stash the fake documents behind one of the paintings before slipping out a window right as Bouchard walked in.
Illya cursed himself for getting used to having Napoleon as a back up as he dropped from the roof onto a car and disappeared down a side alley. It was getting too easy to rely on others-but he was reluctant to give it up, for some reason.
Gaby met him at the designated corner. She was huddled inside her coat, breath visible in the cold night air.
"Took you long enough," she told him.
"It's done," he reminded her. They made their way back to the hotel.
"We should check on Solo," Gaby said as they climbed the stairs, "he could be dead by now."
"A little cold is not going to kill him," Illya retorted. They ended up in front of his room anyway. This time, Illya didn't even bother knocking. He'd swiped the spare key from the desk when they had left earlier.
This time Napoleon wasn't in bed. Illya had a brief moment of panic before he heard the awful sounds coming from the bathroom.
"All yours," Gaby said, "I'm going to make myself a drink. She headed towards the liquor cabinet with a single-minded determination. Illya cautiously made his way to the bathroom. The door was open a crack, but the light was off. He pushed it open farther and flipped the switch.
There was an inarticulate groan when the light came on, followed by more retching. Napoleon was wrapped around the toilet in the most undignified position Illya had ever seen him in. Eventually the current round of heaving stopped and the American slid back to lean against the tub, hand coming up to shield his eyes.
"Go 'way. Turn off the light." Illya crouched in front of him, tentatively reaching out to check his temperature. He couldn't say for certain, but he thought it had risen from earlier. There was a fine sheen of sweat on Napoleon's face, which was scrunched up in pain.
"You going to make it, Cowboy?" he asked, although it was a stupid question. He couldn't think of what else to say.
"No," Napoleon groaned. "Leave me be." He was shivering. Illya decided that it was too pitiful to ignore.
"Are you done in here?" He didn't want to drag him to the bed if he was just going to have to come straight back. Napoleon cracked one eye to look at him.
"Maybe?"
"Didn't I say to stop answering questions with questions?" Illya grumbled.
"Prob'bly," Napoleon said with only slightly more confidence. Illya decided it would have to do. He slung Napoleon's arm over his shoulder and slowly raised him to a standing position, keeping in mind what a sudden change in altitude had done earlier. There were a couple more quiet moans, but nothing else so Illya decided that they were in the clear.
In the main room, Gaby was sitting on the couch sipping something amber colored out of a glass.
"He's still alive?" she guessed.
"For now," Illya grunted. She got up and moved ahead of him to the bedroom, pulling down the covers.
"I'll get him a glass of water." She disappeared into the other room.
"You had better appreciate this, Cowboy," Illya told his semi-conscious partner. He pulled off Napoleon's shirt and pants and pulled the covers over him. Napoleon mumbled something and pressed his face against the pillows. Gaby came back with the water and set it down on the table. They both stood there, looking at each other for a minute, not knowing what to do.
"Should we call a doctor?" Illya asked, finally.
"I don't know," Gaby said. "I'm not even sure where we would find one." She perked up a bit. "But I did see a drugstore on the next street over. I can go get cold medicine. That should help." She grabbed her coat and was out the door again before Illya could offer more than a weak protest. He would rather have gone himself instead of Gaby going out alone with full night coming on, but she would have scoffed at him. Instead, he focused on Napoleon, who was still shivering. To be fair, it was chilly in the room. He decided to start a fire in the main room.
Soon there was a decent sized blaze going behind the grate and the room was noticeably warmer. Illya paced back to the bedroom to make sure Napoleon hadn't gone anywhere in his absence.
The problem was-he had. Illya sighed. This time he could guess where. He stepped back over to the bathroom and, sure enough, Napoleon was heaving over the toilet again. At least he had enough sense to keep it confined, Illya thought. He'd dragged the comforter with him, apparently still somehow trying to keep some dignity.
"Come on, Cowboy," Illya said when he seemed to be finished. Again. "The bathroom floor is not a place to stay." He was getting an overwhelming sense of deja vu.
Napoleon decided to rebel halfway to the bedroom, leaning towards the couch in front of the fireplace like a determined drunk.
"No, to the bed," Illya told him. Napoleon ignored him. Typical. Giving in, he let the American pull him towards the couch. Somehow, in a less than controlled fall, Illya ended up sitting on one end with Napoleon curled up against him, facing the back of the couch. All he could see was a shock of almost black hair-the rest was cocooned in swathes of blanket. He thought about getting up, but the thought of wrestling with clingy, delirious Solo wasn't worth it, and the fire was nice.
Illya woke to the sound of the door clicking shut. The fire had burned down a bit, but it was still bright and the room was still pleasantly warm, so it hadn't been too long. He looked up to see Gaby with a bemused expression on her face.
"How did that happen?" she asked softly, gesturing to his predicament.
"He's clingy," Illya half grumbled. She snorted.
"Right. Well I got aspirin and a couple of hot-water bottles. How is his fever?" Illya put his hand to Napoleon's forehead. He couldn't tell, really, but it didn't seem to be drastically different.
"About the same, I think," he told her. She nodded.
"At least it hasn't gotten any worse." There was a mischievous spark in her eyes. "Since you've got this covered, I'm taking the spare bed." She vanished into the bedroom. Illya started to wonder if hanging around two spies was beginning to rub off on her, as often as she disappeared. Resigning himself to an uncomfortable night, he settled in.
The next time, it was movement that woke him. Specifically, Napoleon sitting up.
"What the hell?" the American asked. Illya regarded him calmly. He looked less like death warmed over and more like someone who'd had a terrible night of sleep, so that was a plus. His voice was still raspy, but he was speaking in complete and understandable sentences. Also a plus.
"I thought you never get sick," Illya said. Napoleon frowned. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and he looked like a child, wrapped in the comforter.
"I don't."
"Well you did." seeing an opportunity, Illya levered himself off the couch, stretching out the kinks in his back.
"Is that why I feel like shit?" Napoleon asked pitifully.
"Apparently," Illya told him seriously, "when Americans are sick they talk about all sorts of things." Napoleon eyed him.
"What sorts of things?"
"Oh, many things that are interesting to know." Illya had to turn around to hide his grin as his partner groaned and flopped full length on the couch, pulling the blanket over his head.
It had been a long, worrying night-but the next week was going to make up for it. Especially if Napoleon never realized that he hadn't said much of anything at all.