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“I love you.”
“Tell me that when you get off the morphine, darling.”
Napoleon doesn’t so much as look up from the article he’s reading in The Observer when he responds. He’s sitting next to the hospital bed that Illya lies in, close enough that if Illya were to look his way, he’d certainly see Napoleon’s fingers clench momentarily in the newspaper, the only tell Napoleon isn’t able to suppress on a dime. In his peripheral vision, however, Napoleon can see that Illya hasn’t so much as opened his eyes.
He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since the doctors declared his condition stable half an hour ago, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely present mentally yet.
“I will,” Illya states, apparently as resolute in this matter as he is in all others. “Because I mean it. I do love you, cowboy.”
In much the same way it gets when he’s half asleep or half out of his mind on the best liquor money — usually Napoleon’s — can buy, Illya’s accent is as thick as molasses, vowels rounded and consonants curved in that ever familiar and endearing fashion. Napoleon tilts his head to look up from his newspaper at Illya. His eyes still aren’t open, but his lips have twisted into a poor facsimile of that particular grimace that he seems to save especially for Napoleon.
Illya’s normally strong and handsome Greek sculpture-esque features are marred by the evidence of the SNAFU earlier, as well as subsequent attempts to patch him up. He is, for wont of any flowery language to describe it otherwise, bruised and battered. Two black eyes, a thick bandage over the bridge of his nose and another on his right cheek, under which Napoleon knows lies a horrid gash. On his left temple, the side furthest from Napoleon, a nasty-looking row of stitches stretches thick from eyebrow to earlobe, red and swollen.
As horrid as all of that is, however, what lies beneath the cheap fabric of the hospital gown is even worse. It had been several hours before they had even realized that Illya was missing; two more before they’d located him in the dark and dank basement of one of the most heavily guarded T.H.R.U.S.H. hideouts in England.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I take your words with a grain of salt, peril,” Napoleon retorts, doing his best to keep his tone light and jovial.
This, of all things, gets Illya to crack an eye open. His usual death glare is dampened only slightly by the state he’s in, pupils like pinpricks in the brilliant blue of his irises and trembling as they make contact with Napoleon’s own. The rest of his face takes a few more seconds to catch up, but then everything is cooperating, working together to produce a positively ghastly scowl with that Soviet efficiency that Napoleon has come to expect from Illya, beaten half to death or not. Napoleon swallows around a sudden and inexplicable lump as it forms in his throat. Seeing Illya in this state is nothing short of stomach-churning.
“You do not take me seriously.”
It’s clearly meant as a question, regardless of the phrasing. Napoleon maintains Illya’s intent gaze for several beats before dropping his eyes back down to the newspaper. After Thursday’s general election, the conservatives have narrowly lost their majority, the first such upset in thirteen years.
“Of course I’m taking you seriously, peril,” Napoleon replies, flashing his pearly whites. He does not look up. “But I also know that you’re about three sheets to the wind at the moment, and I’ll be surprised if you remember any of this in the morning.”
A clammy hand shoots out and closes around his wrist; Napoleon very determinedly does not startle. Instead, he looks up, blasé expression plastered on his face. Illya pushes himself up, hunches in on himself. His grip is so tight that his fingers have gone pale and bloodless with it.
“Cowboy,” says Illya, voice syrupy like it’s been coated in honey. In stark contrast, his eyes are wide, and his breaths come in short bursts. “Listen to me.”
The hand around his wrist is shaking so hard that Napoleon’s own hand judders with it; Illya’s other arm wobbles dangerously with the effort extended to hold himself up.
“Listen to me, peril,” Napoleon replies, shooting for unimpressed but instead landing somewhere closer to pleading. “Lie back down, or else you’ll open up your stitches, and then where will we be?”
“Cowboy,” Illya repeats. It’s a wheezing gasp of a word. His eyes do not leave Napoleon’s, and he makes no attempt to move.
“Peril,” Napoleon responds in kind. He stands, newspaper falling to the floor as he leans over Illya in an attempt to manhandle him so that he’s lying down once more. Illya goes without a fight, which is surprising. His grip around Napoleon’s wrist remains viselike, which is less so.
“I love you,” Illya says again, and though he really should know better, Napoleon’s heart skips a beat or two. “You must believe me.”
His voice is surprisingly steady and clear, for all that he’s hopped up on enough medication to make a bear tap dance to Mr. Sandman, but a tremor has overtaken him, and he shivers like he’s been caught in a snowstorm. He’s still staring at Napoleon, and what else is Napoleon to do but nod along?
“Alright, peril,” he says, head bobbing all the while, “alright. You get some rest, and we can talk more about this in the morning, okay?”
“Napoleon,” Illya says with force, ignoring his words entirely. “I love you. я люблю тебя. вас очень люблю.”
He keeps repeating it, not just in English and Russian but in all of the other languages he speaks as well, German and French and Spanish and Italian and several more that Napoleon doesn’t recognize, all the way up until his words trail off and the rise and fall of his chest evens out. His grip on Napoleon’s wrist gradually loosens until his hand falls away; Napoleon makes sure that it rests comfortably on the bed, stroking the deceptively soft skin of the back of his hand for much longer than is strictly appropriate.
Napoleon picks his newspaper back up, turns the page to the sports section. The Yanks and the Reds are neck and neck at the Summer Olympics, and, in usual fashion, beating the absolute crap out of everyone else. Napoleon smiles to himself.
“Napoleon,” Illya mutters then, barely audible. His eyes do not open.
“Yes, peril?”
“Illya.”
Napoleon blinks. “Yes, Illya?”
“I love you, Napoleon.”
Napoleon closes his eyes and counts to ten, inhaling and exhaling long and slow. And then, finally, when he’s sure he can say the words without his voice trembling: “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, alright, Illya?”
“Promise,” Illya insists, the drugs coursing through his veins rolling the r and elongating the s.
More sure this time than he has any right to feel: “I promise.”