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Russian Immunity

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The stakeout was going well. Meaning the trio of U.N.C.L.E. were bored out of their minds.

They were stationed at an abandoned warehouse in Warsaw, surveying the warehouse opposite them. Through the small area of clean window-which Solo had sacrificed his (now grimy) monogrammed pocket square to clean, thank you very much-they peered out of, they could clearly see the illicit nuclear arms construction happening just thirty feet away.

Napoleon was itching for action, but their instructions from Waverley were "Reconnaissance, nothing more" with a pointed look at Napoleon for good measure.

Illya shifted his 6'5 frame, the cramped quarters of the trio's observation deck mostly taken up by him.

As Illya's hand brushed Gaby's bare leg, he withdrew it quickly.

"Gaby, you are ice."

Gaby looked up from tauntingly keeping the binoculars out of Napoleon's reach.

"What?"

Illya placed his hand on Gaby's bare upper arm, looking at her with an expression almost like concern.

"You are freezing. Here," Illya began to shrug out of his wool trench coat, and handing it to Gaby.

Napoleon looked on with amusement at the large Russian's actions.

"Why, Peril, I didn't know you cared so much."

Illya immediately looked defensive. "Is good manners, nothing more."

Napoleon could feel a tangible opportunity for entertainment during this dreary stakeout.

"But offering a young lady your coat, Peril? That's courting mannerisms in the good ole US of A."

"Do you have a question to ask me, Illya?" Gabby prodded.

Peril's eyes widened comically for a half-second, before he regained his stone-faced composure.

"I am Russian. Cold does not bother me. I do not want to deal with you getting sick because you have inferior immune systems."

Napoleon was about to poke some more fun at the Russian bear, when a shout came from the building over.

"Time to go, boys," Gaby said, scampering to her feet, with Illya's coat dwarfing her petite frame and coming down to her tiny feet.

The hour and a half walk back to their five star hotel, Illya wished he had his coat.

"Illya? Are you awake?" Gaby called.

The sound of Gaby's "gentle" knocking (that could actually wake the dead) reverberated in Illya's ears, sounding tinny and strange.

"Do not come in. I am working."

"On what?" Gaby asked, as she entered through the door.

Illya groaned. The little chop shop girl could never listen.

"Illya? Are you alright?"

Gaby took stock in Illya's bright red nose, ruffled hair, and the large pile of crumpled tissues on his bed side table.

"I am fine. Just catching up on sleep."

"But you said you were working..."

"Working? Today is Sunday, an obligated day of rest," came Napoleon's voice, popping his head around the doorway of Illya's room.

At the sight of Illya, Napoleon's face broke out into a cocky grin.

"Feeling a bit under the weather there, Peril?"

The look Illya threw Napoleon's way was as cold as ice.

"I am fine. Just tired."

Gaby could hear the stuffiness in Illya's voice, and his slight sniffles were a dead give away.

"You're sick," she announced, sounding slightly shocked.

"I am not sick. I catch a disease from dirty warehouse," Illya replied, with a slight sniff.

"I hate to break it to you, Peril, but you've got a cold," Napoleon informed, his face lit up with a smile.

"I am not cold."

"No-" Gaby interjected. "You have a cold. Stuffed up nose, fever, chills, overall fatigue."

Illya turned his face away, a slight pout on his face, as if unwilling to acknowledge what he knew was true.

"I'll go find some chicken soup," Gaby said, before giving Napoleon a fierce look and exiting the hotel room.

"Inferior immune system, huh?"

Napoleon swiftly closed the bedroom door before the TV remote hit his face.

Gaby came back with chicken soup, tissues, water, and a thermometer.

"Illya? Are you awake?"

Illya's red nose was the only thing peeking out of the comforter.

"Mph."

"I brought you some soup," Gaby coaxed, watching as he sat up slowly with a cute little frown on his face.

Gaby set the tray on his lap, the steam still wafting from the soup.

"Can I take your temperature?"

A little nod deemed she could.

"39.3 Celsius," Gaby read, pulling the thermometer out from underneath Illya's tongue.

Illya was slowly spooning the soup into his mouth, shivering slightly, his hair slightly matted to his forehead with sweat.

Napoleon's face popped inside the doorway.

"How's Inferior Immune System doing?"

Illya let out a low growl, and Gaby had to hide her smile.

"Be nice, Napoleon."

"I'm nice," Napoleon defended. "I'm so nice that I got Peril a card."

Napoleon glided inside and laid the card on the bedspread on top of Illya.

Illya eyed it warily, as if it might explode. Slowly, he opened it, the words GET BETTER SOON Peril, written across the inside.

Below it, written in Napoleon's loopy handwriting, it read: "It's okay, not everyone can have the Russian superior immune system, I guess not even you. XOXO, Napoleon."

Illya closed the card with a grunt, sloshing the soup in the bowl slightly.

"Don't you have reports to write?" Gabby asked Napoleon, indicating towards the door.

"My hands tired from writing Peril his card. But, there is a lovely blond masseuse down in the hotel spa. I think I'll have her give me a rub down."

With a wink, he was gone.

Gaby fluffed Illya's pillows and pulled the comforter up farther.

"I'm going to put these away. I'll be right back."

As soon as Gaby had washed and put away Illya's dishes, she checked back on him.

Thinking he had fallen back asleep, she turned down the TV and prepared to leave the room when...

"Chop shop girl?"

A slight smile crossed her face. "Yes, Illya?"

"Will you stay with me?"

Gaby blinked profusely, in a state of shock.

Where was the Russian KGB agent, and what had Illya done with him?

The only explanation she could think of was that the fever was making him delirious.

"Of course," came Gaby's soft reply.

She settled into the bed next to him, awkwardly not touching him.

She eventually brushed his leg, and pulled it away, then accidentally did it again, and hesitantly left her foot there.

Somehow, within the next fifteen minutes, Illya was asleep, half of his 6'5 frame on her lap, with Gaby stroking his hair.

"So ein klein Bär," Gaby muttered, smiling.