Illya learned the lesson that the son of a traitor is almost certainly a traitor as well, soon after his father disappeared from his life. He also learned that no matter what he did, the Party would not be convinced otherwise. Even if they might entertain the notion, it would still take years of hard work for Illya to regain even a small part of his previous privileges, to regain the same privilege a simple factory worker would consider his right.
His mother was of no help, and by the time he'd understood the reason for his father's absence he'd already wished a thousand times he didn't have a father at all. He'd imagined himself having been made from snow and old magic by a crone in the woods, or cut from a birch branch...anything and everything but having grown from the seed of a man who'd most likely not even survived his first year in Siberia, long before Illya realized how long he'd be suffering for his father's greed.
The son of a traitor did not have it easy during his school years: Teachers were of no help when not punishing the bad seed for his father's sins; the students had been even less gentle. The army had almost been a relief: His instructors were still actively out to torture him, but they were out to torture every green recruit so getting singled out and taking his lumps without complaint had almost been a point of pride then. After he'd proved himself a very capable killing machine and a star at following orders to the letter, his superiors had finally taken notice of his potential as more than a living example of the Party's power.
He had no friends, not even casual ones, no one who'd miss him except his mother and he had his doubts about her. Illya had accepted that his only chance to escape was committing himself to completely following orders and Party doctrine. He was still trapped, but the cage was roomier and had more comforts. Most importantly, as long as he's KGB, no one but his colleagues and superiors can touch him. Illya has respect for the first time in his life and maybe it is based on fear, but he doesn't really care as long as they don't bother him.
Living under constant monitoring is not as much of a strain as he'd have expected. The missions might leave him waking up screaming from nightmares on occasion, but at least he has a small apartment in a half decent neighborhood, food on the table, and on occasion, the chance to indulge in things he'd only imagined as a youth. Despite everything, or maybe because of it, he had grown up with a great appreciation for...beauty. There had been so little beauty of his life: architecture, fashion, design; first Soviet and then later, after he turns out to have an aptitude for western languages, western objects of art. Every time he manages to acquire a pass to the Lenin's Library, he tries to finish his work early so he can spend the rest of the time going through magazines and books that could only be found there. Beauty is beauty he figured even then, even if said beauty was created by the enemy. He memorizes every picture to be able to cherish them in the long periods in between visits.
They send him to the GDR not because he's earned their trust, but because they have no one better to ferret out spies and other traitors to the Party. Outwardly he turns into another shining example of the ideal Party member and one of the top KGB agents. Inside of three years, he's their top agent, and no one except his superiors know about the tight leash he's on and will be on for the rest of his life.
He becomes part of a team, settles in: never one to show initiative lest his motives for taking control get questioned, he was always ready to volunteer for extra duty. Perfect obedience does reward him with some leeway when he occasionally does go off mission as long as results benefit his superiors. Improvisation and acting in the best interest of the party without specific orders was taught during his training after all.
He doesn't put down roots and settle down exactly, but until Teller and the Cowboy crash into his life, he considers himself content.
Illya might not be married, something that is...questionable at his age, but he has managed to soothe any suspicions by pointing out that there are not a lot of women on his social level (or even below it) who'd be willing to marry him accepting all the consequences of his tainted history. He's always had sex when it was expected: both in the army to prove his manhood and later. Sex that never managed to keep his attention as much as it occupied the minds of his colleagues, or anyone else he had known. He never saw the point of spending energy and the little money he earned in pursuit of it.
Acting as Gaby's fiancé, anyone would have taken advantage. Drunk or not, she had been willing. Illya suspects Solo probably would have taken advantage of the opportunity. Once she's in bed, he goes for a walk instead, reciting the last of the General Secretary's speeches from memory until he has his body under control again.
Gaby is different.
Of course being a subversive she would have to be, but she is strong and intelligent, everything a man might want in a mate. Illya apparently doesn't think so because she is a traitor to the Party and is unsuitable in every way because of it. Briefly, he entertains the fantasy of everything working out, of rehabilitating her and Gaby going back as his wife in gratitude; the ultimate proof of his loyalty to the Party.
With an attractive wife on his arm, doors might open for him that would otherwise remain shut. A wife would make things easier, only it doesn't work out that way and he's less disappointed than he would have expected to be if he'd bothered to think about it.
Gaby turns out to be even more unsuitable than he'd previously assessed. Solo is still a dick but one Illya can count on in dangerous situations. In return for suffering them both, Illya gets to remain in enemy territory, fight threats to the State and visit all the places he could only dream about in any other position.
At first he pretends to be the mindless brute they expect him to be, but that is hard to keep up what with living practically on top of each other as they do during missions. They notice him acting 'out of character' and neither Solo nor Gaby can resist pushing and prodding, scratching at every little chink in his armour they manage to find. They look to break his resolve, make him question his loyalty to the Party and State, seduce him into western corruption with books full of beautiful pictures of all sort of things and random side trips to museums going to and from missions.
The only person Illya is mostly sure isn't after anything other than his skills is Waverly, he of the post-addiction twitches and sarcastic words mostly leaves all of them alone when not doling out missions no one with anything to lose would ever accept. He at least doesn't want to get 'chummy' with any of them not even after Solo tries to become his best friend. He is a completely different type of superior from what Illya is used to, enough so that he'd gladly work for the man if he hadn't been a depraved, capitalist bastard.
They are in Paris because some crazy people with a bird fixation and too much money on their hands decided that the City of Lights was the ideal place to set up their 'organization'. Of course, it hadn't taken them long to discourage everyone involved from pursuing their plans further, and they have even left all the major landmarks standing though the Eiffel Tower had—wobbled a bit, but that was entirely the Cowboy's fault as far as Illya is concerned.
With nothing much to do, while waiting for their next assignment, Gaby insists on going to Montmartre because she's heard things about it and is curious. Illya goes along because he's heard things too, and as far as he is concerned it's far too dangerous for a woman to wander the neighborhood alone, even one as bloody-minded and vicious as Gaby. Solo, not one to be left behind, is there to gawk at them playing tourists.
Possibly, Illya thinks, he's there to gawk at the local color as well because there are a lot of loose women out and other corrupt individuals Illya would prefer Gaby not to see, only he isn't her father, nor her lover, so he has no say in the matter. All he can do is come along and protect her if worst comes to worst.
To his own surprise, he bears it relatively well, even if he says so himself, ignoring everything he isn't willing to deal with until they come upon the entrance of a bar. It’s in one of the more out of the way little streets they are crossing looking for adventure. Next to the door half hidden in the shadows, a couple is clawing at each other, feeding on each other's mouths. One of those short-haired women Illya isn't sure he approves of, pressed against the wall by her man pinning her in order to get as close as he can, practically mating for all the world to see.
Gaby, while a skilled agent, isn't as stealthily as she likes to believe, or as they would like her to be eventually. He catches her by the arm to keep her from falling, drawing the attention of the couple who spring apart like scalded cats, and Illya is shocked to realize that both are male.
He's frozen in place, barely hears Gaby's squawk from shock or indignation. All he can do is look at the men who square their shoulders looking mulish almost like they expect a fight. Whom they are planning to fight Illya isn't sure, he certainly isn't going to bother touching such degenerates if he can help it. Doesn't want to be in their presence for longer than he has to be.
Solo being Solo, of course, doesn't bat an eye: the con man's mask stays in place placid and amicable. It makes Illya wonder: wouldn't every normal, healthy, male object to the presence of defectives? From the look of it Solo doesn't, the observation throws into question Illya's assumption that his 'partner' is a healthy male, has him questioning whom he's working with. He doesn't bother asking for clarification in a dark alley situated in the bad part of town. More evidence is needed, and he's going to find it eventually: even Solo can't keep up the act of a womanizer forever if women are not to his taste.
They make it back to the hotel eventually, the episode fast forgotten among the all the seedy delights side of Paris has to offer. Once inside his room, Illya allows himself a sigh of relief, it might be premature but he's done his best, nothing more he can do. Mechanically he undresses and starts his ablutions avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. His thoughts return to the non-incident in the ally, to Solo's reaction...or lack of it.
Solo might be...'blue', a pederast, sodomite, but he lacks the limp wrist and femininity that Illya would expect from one with the defect. If it wasn't for lack of reaction—Solo's lack of moral fiber had been in the briefing he'd sat through, sodomy hadn't been, but his superiors might not have found the information relevant considering they were supposed to work together. Not that Illya would have refused the assignment had he known, not if it was for the good of the State and he didn't actually have to do anything with the information. He, of course, isn't in any danger from Solo should the American decide to try something. Illya's moral fiber is strong, has always been strong since it was his only defence against everything life has put him through.
Nothing Solo could offer could be better than the safety of his position.
Though he is curious, Illya doesn’t understand what the attraction is. Why a man would choose another man, when there are women available? Soft, curvy, sweet smelling women, who more often than not complain that Illya is too rough, too much for them to handle. Even when he holds back, he still leaves them bruised by the time he's done, forgetting himself at the moment of climax. The only benefit of a male would have to be the fact that they are sturdier, can handle more...
The thought of using Solo like a woman; Illya imagines pressing Cowboy into the mattress, hands cuffed behind his back to get them out of the way, spreading his legs roughly, cutting those damn expensive trousers off to expose the soft cock and balls trying to crawl back into Solo's body. He would need something to ease the way probably, women, at least most of the women he'd been with had needed something to ease the way, a man would certainly need something as well: grease, or oil, lotion, spit and sweat, something—slick.
Illya imagines himself taking by force, and discards the thought at once. Even if a degenerate like Solo would probably accept and even enjoy something like that eventually, it is not to Illya's taste. He wants acceptance, and maybe, just maybe some enjoyment. Sex is pleasant after all, judging from the way others pursue the activity, maybe Illya could find more than physical enjoyment in the act for once.
Enjoy the act between a man's thighs.
He wants to stop thinking about it, only for his thoughts to stray to the subject again and again. How rumpled Solo would be after Illya fucked him: hair tousled, shirt wrinkled, tie askew chest covered in bite marks. His mouth waters at the thought of sinking his teeth into Solo's flesh and leaving marks of his possession on Cowboy's body.
Frustrated with himself, Illya eventually stalks out into the night hoping the cool air and threat of mugging will chase the evil thoughts away. He's distracted enough that he doesn't realize he's being followed for a whole block. There are enough people still on the street that he has to walk several more blocks before Illya can duck into a side street and wait for Solo to round the corner as well.
As he slams the American into the wall, every thought he'd been trying to banish returns, and Illya finds himself pressing forward against the thief's body. "Peril?" Solo questions, "You having one of your episodes?" And as usual, Illya has to fight to swallow a laugh.
"You are homosexual." He states instead, forcing a thigh between Solo's legs to make him rise up on tiptoe, "Sodomite?" Watched in the pale light of the moon the way caution turns into anger on Solo's face.
He doesn't expect the fist in the ribs, or getting shoved aside.
"Whatever you're about to say, Peril, I'd advise you to keep to yourself," Solo snaps stepping away from the wall to dust off his suit with short, sharp gestures.
"That is not answer," Illya points out mildly, disappointment already starting to churn deep in his gut. Had he miscalculated that badly? Homosexuality is illegal and immoral, no one but a sodomite would defend it in another! Or were the Americans already so deprived that they condoned it?
"That's as much of an answer as you are getting! And if you bring up the subject again, I will be talking to Waverly about changes to the team." Illya steps back in shock, not having expected such a threat. Solo should not be in a position to make such a request, on the other hand, he's the only Soviet and the capitalists are bound to stick together against him.
"You should not have followed me." He sighs, accepting defeat. If Solo hadn't followed, Illya wouldn't have given in to impulse, and his current position wouldn't be under threat.
"After tonight's little incident? You decide to take a walk in the middle of the night?" Does Solo expect him to go to that club? And do what? He wouldn't even have been outside if it wasn't for the evil thoughts, resting up since they could be summoned for another mission at any moment.
"I want air, not whatever you imagine I have planned." He snaps in turn, hating himself, and Solo for eliciting those emotions in him. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, straightens his cap and turns away, ready to go back to the hotel. Back in his room, Illya can drink himself into a stupor or simply try to sleep, his options are endless. "Peril!" He hears behind him, bowing his head and raising his shoulders like a stray dog expecting to get kicked. "Why the curiosity all of a sudden?" Solo from right behind his back.
"Does it matter? I mistaken." Illya wants to leave, maybe run all the bridges along the Seine to burn off all of the conflicting feelings churning inside, maybe then he will feel normal again.
"Illya?" Solo's hand lands heavily on Illya's shoulder, and it might as well be a stone chained around his neck.
"What you want, Cowboy?" He demands hoarsely.
"Did I misunderstand?" The American whispers urgently against his shoulder and Illya absurdly wonders if Solo still gets annoyed when he's reminded that he's shorter. "Was there a specific reason you wanted to know?"
"Does not matter," Illya says, not sure if he's trying to convince Solo, or himself.
"Are you—?" Solo doesn't finish the question, but Illya knows what he's asking. He wonders what will happen if he admits to curiosity? They have both been planting bugs, to keep a hand in if nothing else, depending on either of them having missed one he'd be admitting deviancy to either Solo's government or his own, at the very least leaving an incriminating confession on tape.
"No!" He snaps, turning around and bowing until there is less than an inch between their lips.
"Oh,—shame." For an instant, Solo looks feral and hungry, but his face turns into a casual, amicable mask he usually wears. "Well, since we don't have better things to do—" He shrugs delicately, and Illya has the distinct impression he's being mocked, "I might as well join you on your walk."
It's exactly what Illya doesn't want: to suffer any more temptation and be mocked for it. Not that his speculation has left him disappointed. With a few quick motions Solo rights himself, so no evidence of their scuffle remains: the suit perfectly correct again. Illya wipes blood out of the corner of his mouth, licks it off the side of his hand, jerks his head up at the soft, throaty moan from Solo's direction. He swipes his tongue across his skin again, studying the interest in the American's eyes. "Do not mock, or I be angry. I make mistake, I apologize."
He turns away from the shrewd gaze, walks off towards the Seine hoping Solo will lose interest before long. Soon enough, he realizes that his hope is idle as Solo effortlessly follows along as Illya weaves his way along streets narrow and wide trying to escape his thoughts. He isn't sure how long they wander around in silence, or who leads the other back to the hotel.
The elevator is far too small, Solo's cologne too pungent after the crispness of the night air. Illya tries to hold his breath but when the doors open on Solo's floor he still finds himself stepping out. Solo doesn't look or act surprised, but then Illya wouldn't have either if their roles had been reversed. Still, Solo stops with his keys in the door maybe getting second thoughts—, and Illya steps close, as close as he dares in public breathing against the back of Solo's neck.
The hand on his belt isn't much of a surprise, not as it should be, and isn't accompanied by a wave of disgust or second thoughts. Solo drags him over to the bed, the door falling shut behind them with a bang that makes Illya twitch. The room is mostly shadow, he has to trust his memory to keep from bumping into anything as he's pulled over to the narrow bed. Once there, Solo turns eyes flashing in the pale light of the moon, hands snaking around Illya's waist. "Want to close your eyes and think of Mother Russia?" Solo's breath is hot on his throat, less than a centimeter between their bodies.
His hand itches to slap the annoying man, instead, he balls his hands into fists and breathes through the anger. "Illya—whatever you are thinking—" He ducks down, searching for Solo's mouth in the dark and finding it after some awkward licks. Solo's body is tense, and getting tenser with every moment, but he isn't pulling away or barring Illya's exploration of his mouth.
Solo needs a shave again, but his skin is too smooth for a man, he smells expensive, but feels solid against Illya's body. He hasn't been under the impression that Solo is soft since the end of the first mission, but hasn't ever had to actively think about this fact. Now he wonders if Solo is going to fight him, or? Illya wonders what etiquette might be involved? Does the one initiating get to be on top? Or are there other customs that need to be observed. "I'm glad we had this conversation, Peril." Solo mumbles against his jaw, pushing Illya away. He wants to growl his displeasure and return to kissing Solo's mouth, but the man steps away laying a finger on Illya's lips. "Let me walk you out." The conman says pushing him down onto the bed then stomping over to the door opening and closing it audibly before returning.
Illya doesn't like being on his back, but if he gets up—there are bugs in Solo's room or enough of a chance at them being there that the conman is worried about them being overheard. Solo takes off his jacket and tie draping them carefully over the bed, toes off his shoes and returns to tower over Illya who's still fully clothed, including his hat getting uncomfortably hot and wondering what the hell Solo is looking at. He kneels on the bed, hand brushing Illya's with an uncharacteristic tremble, on its way towards the tab of the zipper that holds his coat closed.
His hand shakes, Illya shoves it under his back to keep from doing anything rash, more rash than what he's doing already. If he doesn't move, doesn't initiate things, he could still explain his presence away later. Solo tugs on the tab, and the opening zipper seems to be overly loud drowning out the sound of their breathing. His coat being spread open is a relief until Solo's hands come to rest on his chest, far too heavy and hot through the thin fabric of his turtleneck.
Solo curls over and around him, until his lips find Illya's ear. "Be sure, Peril." He whispers, then trails his lips across Illya's cheekbones and nose to the other side. "I don't want to die." This is when his hands make their way under the edge of Illya's turtleneck, shocking on his bare skin. The sound that escapes his throat should only come from a dying beast, Solo freezes on top of him tense and probably ready to flee Illya's rage, only it isn't rage he's shaking with; it is fear.
He shouldn't be wanting this, shouldn't be allowing this to happen even if it could somehow give him leverage over Solo. It is far too dangerous of an experiment, his superiors will not approve because allowing this to happen will mark him a degenerate as well. Solo's hands on his skin make his head spin, Illya pants for air and with a Herculean effort reaches up to yank on Solo's vest tearing the buttons off to bounce across the floor. "Careful," Solo warns, sitting up and Illya has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the loss.
For a moment he hopes that Solo has found his common sense and is about to throw him out of the room, instead, Illya gets to watch Solo get out of his vest and suspenders, unbuttoning his shirt only far enough to drag it off over his head. Illya has known that Solo is in good shape from the start, he'd felt it fighting their enemies and each other. He didn't expect it to really matter because he isn't doing this for his enjoyment, it's curiosity and doing what is needed for the benefit of the State. Illya shouldn't like the way Solo's breathing speeds up when he leans down again burying his face in Illya's abdomen, breathing wetly against his skin.
Solo should be trying to fuck him, or get fucked, not petting and licking like one does with a cherished lover. He half expects something more theatrical, not this, definitely not this, not Solo exploring his body with mouth and hands, and definitely not his own need for more. Solo's tongue traces every muscle group he comes across lingering extensively on Illya's navel until Illya has to bite the sleeve of his coat to keep from crying out. He'd never considered that part of his anatomy as erotic in any way, shape or form, but Solo seems to be enamored of it moving on almost regretfully to scrape his teeth along Illya's hipbone.
Thief's hands make short work of Illya's belt and trouser fastenings while Illya is distracted by Solo's mouth. Then Solo's soft snort shakes Illya from his analysis of all the new sensations ravaging his body. He raises himself to try and locate the cause of Solo's amusement: the American is playing with the elastic of Illya's underpants. Perhaps Solo has changed his mind? Noticing Illya's scrutiny, Solo crawls up his body to lick at Illya's lips annoyingly. "I must introduce you to decent underwear, Peril. Your taste is perfectly atrocious."
"Is functional, no holes." He shrugs not sure why Solo is making a problem out of perfectly functional underwear. Solo groans softly against his throat, "You're going to be the death of me!" Illya would agree with the assessment: if Solo doesn't get himself killed first, it was very likely that sooner or later Illya would receive the order to take the American out.
"Not tonight." He assures the man, hoping it will be sufficient motivation for Solo to go back to what he was doing before.
"Kind of you." Solo's amusement is a flash of white teeth in the darkness, and a large hand snaking its way into Illya's underwear to close around his attentive flesh.
It turns out that he can't keep his implied promise not to damage Solo, the hand on his member is electrifying. Illya's back arches in shock, his hand spasms, and tears the expensive sheets Solo has somehow managed to wheedle out of the hotel staff.
"Play nice, Peril." Solo chides, nipping his way down Illya's chest in counterpoints to the stroking.
None of it should feel this good, the women he'd been with never managed to elicit even a tenth of the need Solo has managed to tease out of his nerves with just a few touches and leaving Illya mostly clothed. Hot breath on his member, Solo's hand on his right wrist too light to do any good if the American aims to restrain him, but the shakes subside a little. It is enough for Solo, who shamelessly buries his face in Illya's crotch.
Inefficient, useless, a prostitute's trick.
Illya shoves the sleeve of his jacket into his mouth, grinds his teeth into the fabric to smother a scream as Solo swallows him down. This would be the ideal moment for the thief to bite down, a rare chance to deliver a critical injury to the enemy. Waverly would be perturbed, but he would probably understand and the idea of dying in ignominy has a perverse sort of attraction. Dying in a male American spy's bed, would make the Party forget his father's crime: his whole family would be wiped from history disgrace and all.
All Solo does is suck slow and steady, taking more and more of Illya's flesh down his throat until the American's nose is brushing Illya's pubic hair. Unsure what is expected, Illya fights every impulse to move or thrust into the hot cavern taking him in, only allowing himself to claw at the bed occasionally. Solo moans around him, digs his fingers into Illya's hips and fights to take more despite choking.
Prostitutes, Illya suspects, could not be less skilled.
Solo shifts, straddles Illya's leg, humps against it as he sucks. The American's hand tightens around Illya's wrist, pulls at his arm until Illya allows Solo to drag it over and—put it on the back of his head. One uncontrolled twitch later Illya's fingers are tangled in Solo's far too neat hair, clutching hanks of it while he forces Solo down.
What kind of man works to have his mouth fucked?
It's a shame and relief that the room is far too dark for Illya to even try an attempt to see Solo's expression. Sick hedonistic abandon for no apparent reason is confusing. At least Illya now understands why all of Solo's women like him so much.
Solo pulls away, and Illya's first instinct is to drag him back. He barely refrains reminding himself that the American needs to breathe.
"Dear god!" Solo gasps, gulping air—then goes back for more. His tongue mapping every centimetre of Illya's skin filling his throat with Illya's flesh again and that, that's the exact moment Illya realizes that everything isn't as he thought: despite their positions, Solo is the one in control and—Solo's tongue twists and strokes—and Illya cannot think any longer.
It takes all of him to keep from begging.
Solo just sucks harder, tightens his hold on Illya's hips and he's flying.
There are no fireworks, no bright lights or angels descending from the heavens, but an unexpected and complete awareness of his body, of a part of him sliding down Napoleon's throat to become part of him. His body feels like he's floating up from the bed: weightless and free. Illya can't remember feeling this way before, so light and content. When it stops, and Illya drops back on the bed his body feels heavy, too heavy to move even a finger. All he can do is lie there, broken, corrupted.
Napoleon, Solo, moves over him, from the sounds Illya concludes that the American is undoing his trousers. He tenses expecting—he isn't sure what he's expecting, reciprocation is probably expected? Solo buries his face in Illya's abdomen again, the motion against his leg continuing. He blushes realizing that Solo has taken himself in hand: is pleasuring himself curled around Illya, licking the sweat off Illya's skin between huffs of air.
It feels far too intimate, unbearably so; Illya wants to shove the American off and run, forget this ever happened. Only he's the one who initiated it, the one who was weak. He's put his position and the State in danger for what?
Solo comes with a muffled curse and groan, teeth scraping across Illya's skin and rolls off almost at once leaving him to run if he so chooses. It wouldn't be that hard, he's still mostly clothed, still wearing his cap even—barely managing, he turns his head to look at Solo's face. Sprawled next to him, Illya expects him to look pleased with himself, instead Solo—looks pained, not like he just got off and compromised a rival in one go.
He should be taking advantage, doing something to minimize the damage, instead, what he does is roll to his knees and lean over Solo to study his face closer. The American doesn't meet his eyes: he turns away instead, jaw tight as if waiting for something, Illya has no idea what. Illya would love to demand Solo explain to him what just happened, if he could be reasonably sure the room isn't still bugged in some way. He leans down rubbing their cheeks together, listens to Solo's startled gasp; the sight they must make, deviancy must be an indicator for insanity, because the way Solo's fingers dig into the back of his neck, the way his mouth waters to sink his teeth into Solo's throat to mark him as Illya's for all the world to see, it can be nothing else but insanity.
He turns his head, trembling when their lips brush in a parody of a kiss, and forces himself to rise. Solo always seems larger than life, looking down at him down, Illya wonders why he looks so small all of a sudden. Since asking isn't an option, he puts his clothing to right as best he can and slips out of the room.
Illya doesn't bother turning on the lights in his own room, sheds his clothing and slips into bed without washing Solo's touch and scent from his skin. They are going to be leaving in a day or so, Paris will become a distant memory that will fade a little more with every mission and every new city they move through. This failed experiment will not happen again, but will forever hang over Illya's head ready to be used.
He throws off the sheets to let the night air cool his body's reaction as his imagination presents various ways in which Solo might use Illya's error in judgement, imagines new ways in which to betray the State whose approval he desperately needs.
Continuing the family tradition in style.