There was a slight draft coming from somewhere and Napoleon pulled a small throw blanket from the back of a chair, draping it gingerly over the sleeping figure of his partner.
He stared at his friend; Illya’s face looking placid, almost childlike as he slept quietly on the sofa.
It had been a rough night, with the man tossing and turning, calling out in Russian as he fitfully dreamt into the wee hours.
Solo, concerned for his partner, sat in a nearby armchair, nodding off periodically, but staying awake for the most part though the night.
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