Illya is resilient. Durable. It’s his job to take whatever is thrown at him and dish it back out threefold without so much as a flinch. He treats stab wounds as inconvenient and barely so much as gasps if he’s shot.

That’s probably why he’s so annoyed right now. Well, he’s annoyed for a lot of reasons, including the absolute nightmare of an extraction he & Solo just dealt with, but right now, the main source is the splitting ache in his forehead that seems to throb with every heartbeat. It’s like someone has picked up an ice pick and started hacking away at his skull.

He is a man who has been shot, stabbed, drugged, electrocuted, and more, and yet, this stupid little ache has him reeling. It’s somehow worse than the mission, which is saying a lot.

Illya’s kept his composure, though. Despite the childish urge to crawl in a ball in the backseat he’s been oh so kindly stuffed into as Gaby drives them back to the safehouse, he sits up straight, head against the seat, eyes closed. He had them open for a short while, but then a car passed by, and the headlights were so blinding Illya thought he might actually be sick. Thankfully, he was not, and all he had to do was fight the urge to scrunch his brows in pain and simply shut his eyes instead.

The only thing that would make him feel better would be Gaby & Solo shutting up. They aren’t particularly loud, but the radio’s dim, staticky buzz, their occasional, piercing laughter, and the hum of the car engine as it pushes faster than it likely should has him grinding his teeth. It’s everything to keep his cool, but Illya’s not a weak man, so he does. He can’t bring himself to trust his partners, even after all these months, with the knowledge that he’s this miserable over an achy head. He wishes he could open his eyes and scowl at himself, but the thought of being met with another set of passing headlights makes his head uncomfortably woozy.

He tries to count the minutes as they pass, but he can’t entirely think straight as the dull pounding continues relentlessly. It seems to seep into his mind from the outside in and suffocate any chance of higher thought. It doesn’t help that the rest of him aches as well – his fingers tense from firing so much during the firefight, his legs sore and tired. His whole body just begs to crawl into bed, and he wants to obey desperately.

Another sharp laugh makes the pain spike, and he’s certain he just frowned, but he allows it this once. He can feel the gentle, persistent tap of his trigger finger against his knee, not too far from where his leg is digging into Solo’s seat in front of him. He hopes it’s uncomfortable.

Deep breaths. Smooth and slow. That’s what Illya focuses on – that and the ache behind his brow, that is. He can handle this. He’s fine. He’s not weak or torn up over something so inconsequential. He’s dealt with far worse before, so he will be just fine.

So why has this damn headache all but knocked me out? He thinks bitterly. He grits his teeth again.

Solo decides to derail Illya’s train of thought by leaning over the seat to look at the backseat (he must have based on the shifting of the seat) and asking, “What do you think, Peril?”

Illya has not paid them any attention. He’s been too busy trying to keep his skull from busting at the seams. He lets himself scowl, properly, and it feels more cathartic than he’d like to admit. “Don’t care,” he sneers. He’s not lying. He truly doesn’t care. It’s hard to even try when he feels like this.

Solo laughs, loud & bright, and Illya keeps tapping persistently as his stomach shifts uncomfortably & head throbs horribly. God, being stabbed would be easier than this.

“Aw, come on,” Solo goads. “You’re not going to lecture me on how I… how would you put it? Was so reckless & American I was today?”

Illya sighs. “No.” He hears Gaby fight back a giggle.

Napoleon makes some noise close to a gasp, and Illya can see his offended expression almost perfectly despite being blind to it all. The American responds, “I’m shocked. Wounded even. Are you sure you haven’t been stabbed?”

“Being stabbed would be easier,” Illya grumbles because it’s true. He’d let Solo do it if it meant he could trade this pain for that one. “No, Cowboy, you are simply a headache I do not want to deal with right now.”

That is also true. He does not want to deal with him or even Gaby, who has started laughing in a way that is grating (but only because of his damned headache.) He just wants to find someplace dark & quiet and not come out again until he feels like something close to a person again.

He doesn’t need to see to know Solo just rolled his eyes, and by the sounds (and feel, with his knees digging into the American’s seat) of it, he’s facing the road again, and he & Gaby have resumed idle chatter Illya isn’t able to keep up with.

Normally, it’s rather nice, sitting back and listening to them rattle on about this, that, and the other. Illya has never been much of a talker, and it’s comforting, letting them fill space (not that he’d ever tell them that.) Unfortunately, this is not normal. No, right now he is being thoroughly beaten by a sharp, persistent pang that sits behind his forehead. He wishes he could lift his brain out of his skull and remove the source of the pain directly.

The rest of the ride is uneventful. Illya is not bothered again, and he pays no mind to the conversation ahead. They’ve probably just written him off as irritated from the mission, which isn’t an unfair assumption to make. It went spectacularly bad at the end. All it took were two lazy, misplaced guards, and next thing Illya knew, they were compromised and in the middle of a firefight. He’s grateful they at least got the information they needed. If they hadn’t… he digs his fingers into the flesh of his thigh before making his hand release and returning to the soothing tapping against his leg.

He'd never admit it out loud, but he’s also grateful they made it out mostly unscathed… especially Solo. He had a nasty one-on-one with one guard, and Illya had been certain the man had gotten stabbed. Once they tumbled into the car as Gaby played getaway driver, Solo had to lift his shirt and show off the scarred, toned, and absolutely uninjured mass of his stomach to convince Illya that he had not been injured. Illya still doesn’t entirely believe him, but somewhere between then & now his entire skull decided to crack apart, so he’s going to leave that to Gaby.

He feels the weight of the car shift, and Gaby pulls them onto a dirt sideroad, the one that leads to their safe house. With the threat of passing cars gone, Illya dares to crack open his eyes and stare out the window. The pang intensifies, and one nasty bump sends him attempting to blink away the pain, so he shuts them again. He thinks he caught Gaby’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but he can’t be sure, and since he isn’t sure, he lets it go. He just doesn’t have it in him to think straight.

A few more nasty jostles later (his skull vaguely felt a snow globe in the hands of an overenthusiastic toddler), and the car comes to a halt. He hears the engine die and car doors open, and that’s his cue. Illya pries his eyes open, and with a delicate grace, opens the door and slowly lifts himself out; if he stands up too fast, he will get dizzy from the surge of pain that always accompanies such an action.

He forces his eyes to stay open, and he carefully shuts the car door behind him. He takes a moment to relish in the feeling of not being squished against the back of his seat like a sardine when he sees Solo standing there with an odd look in his eyes that Illya can’t quite place.

Solo doesn’t say anything for a moment, but before Illya can tell him to speak, the dark-haired man asks, “Are you sure you’re fine, Peril?”

Illya stiffens and scowls. Of course, he’s fine. Why wouldn’t he be? He is a grown man with a lousy headache. He can handle himself perfectly well. He keeps scowling as he retorts, “Are you sure you haven’t been stabbed?”

Illya begins to properly stretch his legs as Solo’s expression shifts, and he shakes his head. Solo doesn’t say a word as he slinks inside, feet crunching against grass & gravel, and Illya feels his whole body come to a short stutter. Exhaustion sits deep in his bones. It’s been a long day, and the persistent ache in his head is not doing him any favors.

He takes a deep breath of the cool, crisp night air. It’s fresh and clean, and he’s able to relax for a moment. He soaks in the quiet hum of life that buzzes around him: crickets chirping, frogs croaking, rustling & crunching from some unknown creature of the night.

He could stand here all night. Despite the noise, it was peaceful & calm. Maybe it was the night air. Fresh air has always done him well, and even if his head is pounding still, it feels more manageable out here. He’ll happily take what he can get.

Unfortunately, he can’t spend his night outside, so Illya forces his legs to move toward their safe house. It’s a cottage. It's a little cramped for his liking but more than manageable knowing it has hot water. He’s spent enough nights without that to know it’s a luxury, and he is grateful.

He twists the doorknob open and slips inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. He turns to see Solo & Gaby huddled close together, elbows touching and glasses in hand. Napoleon is holding two while Gaby holds a third and a bottle of something dark and certainly alcoholic.

His heart swells a little as he sees them, both tired and a little rumpled yet eager to have an unwarranted celebratory drink. It’s almost enough to combat the ache that’s come back with a vengeance because Illya is in a lit room.

It’s an obvious invitation. He knows what Gaby is going to ask, and he wishes he could say yes, but he can’t, not tonight. For one, a part of himself is certain a stiff drink will only make the headache worse, so as wonderful as liquor sounds right now, he won’t be drinking.

On top of that, he really does want to stay up with them: bumping knees as they sit far too close, Gaby insisting on a second and third round, Solo telling the story of their mission with far too many embellishments, and Illya correcting every detail with clinical precision. He can’t, though. He still feels awful. Maybe they’ll have some aspirin in the bathroom, he needs to check.

Gaby & Solo have odd expressions, imitating a nonchalance neither of them are actually feeling. If they were indifferent, their bodies wouldn’t look so tight or like they were aching to squirm. He sees Gaby smile not quite hesitantly but worriedly. She lifts the glass and gestures towards him, asking, “Are you going to join us, or has Solo’s reckless, American ways ruined your night?”

Solo sighs and gives her a look, and it’s enough to make a smile tease the corners of Illya’s mouth.

Her voice, though. It was off. Careful, gentle, warm. Her large, brown eyes were soft with something that makes Illya itch to run out of the room and back into the forest but also bask in her concern.

Ah. That’s it. Concern. He’s curious why either Gaby or Solo would be worried, especially whenever he’s not even physically hurt. The weight of her gaze on Illya is heavy, but he’s not sure whether he likes the feeling or not. He wants to bask in it, but he also knows he doesn’t need it, so he’s better off not wanting it all.

He shakes his head no. His voice is clipped as he answers, “Drink without me. I’m going to bed. Good night.” He doesn’t mean to sound short, but the adrenaline has long since worn off, and the thought of just climbing into bed is making his body ache in kinds of new ways. He just wants some peace and quiet. Needs it maybe. That or an aspirin. Maybe both.

He turns and leaves, catching a glimpse of Gaby & Solo giving each other a look. They start speaking quietly to themselves when he’s almost out of earshot, and something about it makes anger rear its head. They’re probably relieved he won’t be joining them, won’t be there to bring down the mood. Maybe they’re happy to be alone, together, without him. If he knew any better, he’d say he could feel a spike of envy.

(And maybe, maybe they really were just worried but unsure of how to deal with it. Maybe that was a look of disappointment and whispers of concern. It’s a much charitable likelihood. Unfortunately, his skull is still being chipped away at by an ice pick, so charitability does not come naturally or easily at the moment.)

He hangs up his coat and hat before going to the bathroom so he can shower. He can feel the grime on him, and as much as he wants to lay down in the dark, he refuses to crawl into bed this dirty. Thankfully, the water is warm, so warm it even steams a little, which does wonderful things to his sinuses. The relief ends when he steps out and dries himself off, but something is better than nothing. He felt like he could think somewhat clearly for the first time since that headache plowed into him like a train.

He slips into his room, catching quiet murmurs and what must be a chuckle from down the hall. The only reason he doesn’t slam his door shut is because he knows the sound would send him reeling, but that’s it.

He’s fine. Completely fine. He has no reason to feel any longing for the pair in the main room or desire to join them. He shouldn’t be – and isn’t – wound up over the fact he is in here, alone & miserable, without them. He can only imagine the feeling of being sandwiched between them. He doesn’t need it, though. He’s fine, and this is simply a lousy headache.

He slips on a clean set of clothes, but before he pulls back the covers, he finds something on his nightstand that was not there earlier when he slipped his jacket off.

Underneath the lamp, is a glass of water and two aspirin tablets.

He does not feel so alone and miserable anymore.