This Is Not The Russian Way

He’d visited Illya in the hospital, but mostly before he woke up. Then Waverly had sent him and Gaby off on a mission, which had infuriated Gaby. Napoleon, on the other hand, had been thankful for the distraction and the excuse not to linger around, even though leaving Illya like that made part of his chest ache that he’d rather not think about. Now they’re back, though, and Illya’s out of the hospital, and he is torn between a desperate need to see his partner and the urge to run away without looking back.

Seeing Illya wins out. He can always run later.

He elects to visit Illya’s apartment alone, not wanting any witnesses for this, even though Gaby saw him in the aftermath of Illya’s injury and probably knows too much already. He’s never been here, and it is, unsurprisingly, extremely spartan. Illya answers the door looking fairly normal at first glance, though you didn’t have to look long to notice the way his face was still drawn and thinner than it should be or the way he held himself, slightly hunched over his sling-bound right arm.

He lets Napoleon in wordlessly, like he doesn’t know what to say, though Napoleon’s visit wasn’t a surprise—he’d called ahead, and so already spoke briefly with Illya on the phone. Seeing him, though, is an entirely different matter. Napoleon isn’t a particularly casually tactile person, at least not like his partner is, but he’s overcome with an intense, overwhelming need to embrace Illya. To feel his body, warm and solid in his arms, to experience the rhythm of his breathing and the thump of his heart firsthand.

Jesus Christ, he’s a mess.

Illya might touch him a fair amount—a brush of a hand against a shoulder, or on his lower back, almost like he doesn’t know he’s doing it—but they’ve never hugged. Of course they haven’t, they’re two grown men and spies besides, on opposite sides of the Cold War, even though they’re partners now and Napoleon might be a little in love with him—

“Can I hug you?” Napoleon asks before he can stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

Illya blinks at him, clearly surprised in that understated way of his. Napoleon immediately wants to take the question back, but then Illya nods, and he forgets all the reasons he shouldn’t want this. He takes a step toward Illya, then another when Illya doesn’t immediately change his mind, until he’s standing no more than a few inches front of his partner. Obviously it’s going to be a slightly awkward hug for many reasons, not in the least because Illya’s right arm is in a sling and trapped between them, but Napoleon takes a deep breath and carefully wraps his arms around Illya’s waist as Illya’s other arm tightens around his back.

He is warm, and solid, and his heartbeat knocks steadily against Napoleon’s too fast one, and the relief that courses through Napoleon is so fucking intense that he feels momentarily lightheaded. Fortunately a large Russian is currently supporting him, so he doesn’t swoon embarrassingly. He thinks—hopes—that maybe Illya won’t notice how hard he’s clinging, but that was folly.

“Is ok, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, half into the side of Napoleon’s head.