Chapter Text

Illya just barely has enough sense left to not slam the door behind him; he shuts it firmly and stalks down the hall, fists clenched and starting to shake, his breath coming too short and too fast. He turns the corner and yanks open the door to his hotel room, eyes narrowing even further when he spots Napoleon leaning against the wall by the window like he owns the place, drink in hand.

Hearing the door open, Napoleon lifts his gaze from the view outside. "Peril, there you are! I-" he cuts himself off and straightens. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Illya grits out. Avoiding his partner's concerned look, he steps in and kicks the door shut behind him. "Out of my room."

"Well, I would, but you're blocking the door." Illya ignores him and heads for the bathroom. His ears are starting to ring and even his vision is shaking at this point.

Napoleon follows him. "Seriously, what happened? I thought it was just a check-in." There's a pause, and the other man must've noticed his trembling by now because his voice softens. "Peril. Illya. Hey, look at me?" And Illya hates hates the gentleness in Napoleon's tone, and he hates even more that a part of him likes it. So he turns and punches the mirror.

The glass crunches under the blow, spider-webbing his reflection into a million pieces. He keeps his fist pressed against it for a moment, feeling blood well up on his knuckles, then he jerks around to face Napoleon, fully intending to push him out of the way and go for the coffee table.

Napoleon knows how dangerous he is like this, has seen the wreckage of his anger before. But he simply squares his jaw, pulls out a handkerchief, and before Illya can protest, catches his bloodied fist in his hands. He tuts softly. "Did you really have to do that to the mirror? You know how much I like my own reflection." He wipes away the blood and splintered glass, then sets the cloth on the counter and reaches for Illya's other fist. He runs his hands up and down the taller man's arms, soothingly from wrist to elbow and back again, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. He doesn't say anything else, just stands there and holds him, Illya's harsh breathing filling the quiet.

They stay like that for a while, Illya doesn't know how long, before he releases a long shuddering sigh and haltingly drops his head down to meet Napoleon's gaze. It's warm but not pitying. He wouldn't be able to stand it if it were.

Illya's fists are somewhat relaxed now, and Napoleon slides his hands down to cradle them. He squeezes lightly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Illya shakes his head. "No, I . . ." He can't get the words out, but Napoleon seems to understand. He just steps backwards and tugs Illya towards the couch, pulling him down to sit next to him.

Napoleon let's go with one hand to reach into his pocket, and pulls out a small rectangular wooden box, patterned with alternating dark and light brown squares. It's about five inches by two inches and an inch thick, with hinges on one side and a clasp on the other. "It's a travel chess set, see?" He sets it on his knee and fumbles, one-handed, with the clasp. He makes no move to let go of Illya's hand, though, and Illya doesn't suggest it.

The box opens to reveal a miniature chess set, the pieces carefully packed in velvet slots. Napoleon dumps them out on the couch and flips the box over, balancing it on his lap. Fully opened and laid flat, its patterned surface serves as the board. "I got it in Naples; remember that store we cased?"

Illya does. T.H.R.U.S.H. had set up shop disguised as a dusty knick knack store; in reality, they'd been smuggling weapons and ammunition.

"You stole it," he says flatly.

"Appropriated," Napoleon corrects with a careless wave of his hand. "Besides, the store was a front; I doubt they cared or even noticed. Anyways, I thought that since we don't always get to stay in five-star hotels with marble chess sets . . ." He trails off awkwardly, out of character for the usually smooth and put-together man. He looks away, picking up one of the kings and rolling it between him fingers. Feelings are not really something any of them have skill with, and Ilya is . . . touched by Napoleon's gift. There is a strange, fluttery warmth in his chest, and his limbs no longer shake. Napoleon is still focused on the chess piece in his hand, so he allows himself a small smile.

"Do you play?"

Napoleon looks back at him. "I'm no prodigy, but know the gist of it."

"I'll teach you."

Thankfully, chess doesn't require more than one hand apiece. They set up the board together, and play until Gaby knocks on the door, demanding they take her to the five-star restaurant across from their hotel.

Illya is still frustrated with his KGB superiors, but it's not something he can change right now, so he turns his attention to the story Gaby is telling. She is gesturing wildly with her fork as she recounts the story of a particularly impudent bellhop, cheeks flushed. Usually, it wouldn't be so easy to let these feelings of helplessness and anger go, but sitting here, with the sensation of Napoleon's knee pressed against his and the weight of the chess set in his pocket, it seems almost effortless.