Solo and Kuryakin made their way out of the building; as usual Napoleon was untouched, his clothing perfect and not a hair out of place.
Illya however, was covered in dust and debris, his hair was filled with plaster bits. His white shirt was rumpled and grey, his navy blue suit, though ill fitting to Napoleon, might not be salvageable.
“You’re a real mess Illya.”
“No thanks to you. If you had arrived when you should have then I would not have been caught in the explosion.’
“Sorry, your suit’s ruined tovarisch.”
“My suit? This is yours...I borrowed it.”