On the road again.
Illya rubs his temple with his fingertips and throws a quick look in the rearview mirror. Napoleon is fast asleep in the backseat, slumped in a heap, his head wedged into a corner. He looks pale and tired in the flickering light, his skin is stretched over his cheekbones. The ordeal from the latest days has caught up with him.
Illya swears silently that he will never go back to Eastsnout if he can avoid it. He focuses forward again, and peers through the drop-covered front window. Icy looking rain is pouring down, somehow a well-fitting end to their adventures in medieval rural England. He has long stopped whistling.
He lets the wipers' regular swishing and the soft breathing of Alexander Waverly lull him into a cocoon of safety, his only goal to get them all to Heathrow in time for their overseas flight.
A growling snore from the backseat and a mumbled nonono starts him, making his heart stutter for a few beats.
"It seems our Mr Solo is in need of a brief respite from his duties," a now dry Waverly rumbles quietly, nodding.
To whom? Illya wonders, irrationally. Is he nodding at me? Am I expected to answer?
"Yes, sir," he whispers over the swish—swish—swish. "This mission has been a tad taxing."
"Understatement, Mr Kuryakin." Illya can feel Waverly's right eye twitch towards him. "You both need your beauty sleep. Be sure to rest up during this weekend. I am not expecting the paperwork on my desk until 2 pm Monday afternoon."
How gracious, Illya thinks. He suppresses his ingratitude after a second of indulgence. He knows to accept what he is given. "I will take care of Napoleon myself. Rest assured, sir."
With that, Illya stares straight ahead at the black, bottomless asphalt, all the while indulging in secret and exciting images of exactly how Napoleon and he will be spending their weekend off. In bed, of course; Waverly's orders.
The first lights from the airport, standing neatly in a row, marking the runway.