Archive of Our Own

Aleksey could tell from the frantic, half-crazed energy in the compound that something big was happening, so he was not entirely surprised when Sorokin and Proskurivsky woke him before sunrise with a knock at his door so aggressive that the wood rattled in its frame. He wasn’t surprised when he was hustled into the back of Sorokin’s car, the only car the group had access to, and carted off to the compound, an abandoned factory deep within the industrial district where the air was thick with soot and the music of machinery drowned out his thoughts. He wasn’t surprised when he could hear the raucous clamoring of men in the foreman’s office, which they had converted into a makeshift cell and even-more-makeshift torture chamber.

What did surprise him, however, was the name that slipped through Sorokin’s lips as they ascended the stairs.

“We caught him prowling over by the Square. He must have thought it would be safe to show his face around here again. Lucky for us, eh? Real opportunity of a lifetime. Gentlemen,” he said with a flourish, sharing a wolf-like grin with Proskurivsky over Aleksey’s head that made his hair stand on end. The man posted at the door, some senior member of the group who hasn’t yet bothered to introduce himself to Aleksey, opened it carefully and allowed them inside. “May I present to you, Oleg’s bitch.”

Aleksey’s stomach sank. Proskurivsky broke into a wide grin, clapping Sorokin on the back and congratulating him for finally managing to get his hands on the man who’s been plaguing their business for years. Aleksey could barely muster a smile, still reeling from the shock of seeing him– Illya Kuryakin, swaying on his feet against the far wall, arms stretched protectively in front of him. The men around him were shouting, taunting, but for the most part they kept their distance. He was almost certainly drugged, but he was fighting the sedative with more effectiveness than Aleksey had ever seen.

The door shut behind them. Kuryakin hit the ground hard with one knee, trying and failing to push himself back to a standing position. The attention in the room diverted to Sorokin, and he in turn shifted it to Aleksey.

From the pocket of his worn gray suit, he produced one of his good knives and pressed it into Aleksey’s hand. “Well?” he asked when Aleksey hesitated. “What are you waiting for? Get him ready.”

Aleksey glanced nervously from the knife in his hand to Kuryakin, still fighting the sedative on his knees. “He’s not done fighting yet.”

“Come on, be a man!” Proskurivsky cajoled, shoving him forward with a large hand on his back.

Be a man. Aleksey was reminded of his initiation, when he was brought blindfolded to a hotel somewhere and shoved in front of a girl– a whore– and two bottles of vodka. Be a man. Drink up. Show her a good time. Be a man.

The knife was in his hand. All the men were looking at him, except Kuryakin, whose piercing blue gaze was stuck firmly on the middle distance. He swallowed, throat dry, and took a few hesitant steps toward Kuryakin. Kuryakin’s right hand braced against the floor now, and his head hung between his shoulders. Aleksey closed the distance, trying his best to hide the way his hands shook as he raised the knife to slice Kuryakin’s shirt in two. Someone had managed to get a cuff around his left wrist, binding him to some exposed piping along the wall.

Aleksey had just barely slid the tip of the knife into the stiff fabric of Kuryakin’s shirt when his right hand lashed out, seizing Aleksey’s wrist and twisting until the pain forced him to drop the knife, which clattered to the concrete floor. The men roared with excitement, taunting him and Kuryakin in equal measure. Aleksey couldn’t hear them. Kuryakin’s harsh blue eyes caught his, determination and desperation danced across his expression.

“Don’t do this,” he said, gripping Aleksey’s wrist, far more like a command than a plea for mercy. “Don’t do this. If you don’t touch me, he will spare you.” His grip on Aleksey’s wrist slacked enough for him to twist out of it.

“Oleg doesn’t scare me,” he replied, hoping that Kuryakin was too far gone to catch the lie. He retrieved the knife and pushed Kuryakin’s slack hand to the side.

Kuryakin grabbed at his wrist again, without any real force this time. His gaze remained deathly serious. “I’m not talking about Oleg.”

“Shut up,” Aleksey demanded.

Kuryakin fell silent. His head lolled against the exposed piping, his long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as he fought to keep his eyes open. Finally, Aleksey cut the shirt from his body. He hadn’t been a part of the group for long, but he had already stripped several people for torture. There was no reason for his hands to be shaking as much as they were, no reason for the dread clawing at his throat as he moved the knife lower to tear through the thick canvas of Kuryakin’s pants. Aleksey had to admit, bare of fabric it was clear that Kuryakin was a man. His body was chiseled, musculature strong and defined from years of conditioning. His chest was decorated with thick, blond hair. Years of famine were undetectable on Kuryakin’s frame, which made the jealous, angry thing in Aleksey’s chest rear its head. It made the guilt and fear easier to swallow. Why should Kuryakin get to eat, to live well, all because he was willing to sell out anyone in his life? Why should he thrive, when Aleksey had to fight every day to eat because he valued his humanity, his loyalty? Why should he profit from being a part of the machine? At least when Aleksey died, he would die fighting for something. He may not embody masculinity like Kuryakin, he may never serve in the army, may never have the constitution to work in a factory or sow a field, but he at least he will be a man and die with honor.

“Alright, back off!” Sorokin snapped, moving in to take Aleksey’s place, seizing Kuryakin by the hair and jerking his head up.

Kuryakin’s eyes snapped open, zeroing in on Aleksey as he retreated. His mouth moved as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. For a moment, Sorokin simply held him by the hair, tilting his head this way and that, inspecting him. Then, he kicked him hard in the ribs. Kuryakin choked and exhaled long and deliberately through his nose, but that was all he gave by way of a reaction. Sorokin scowled and kicked him again, harder. All the air left his lungs in a rush and he wheezed, but he still refused to give Sorokin the reaction he was looking for.

“Listen here,” Sorokin growled in his ear, reaching back for his knife that was still clenched in Aleksey’s fist. “I don’t want anything from you but your suffering, and you know better than anyone– that makes me particularly dangerous. So start playing the game, and maybe I won’t get creative with my knife. Beg me, nice and pretty, and I’ll spare you the worst of it.”

Come on, Aleksey begged silently in Kuryakin’s place, just play along. He’ll hurt you, and he won’t stop. Please play along.

Kuryakin looked up defiantly and spat at Sorokin. Sorokin’s features contorted with rage, his face went all red and his beady eyes got all squinty as he glowered down at Kuryakin. He gripped Kuryakin’s jaw with one of his big, meaty hands, keeping the other firmly in his hair so he couldn’t move. Aleksey watched the struggle with bated breath until Kuryakin was finally forced to yield and open his mouth, gasping sharply in pain. Sorokin wasted no time spitting in his open mouth.

“Swallow it, bitch,” he demanded, with enough force that droplets of saliva sprayed out and got stuck in his thick brown mustache. 

Aleksey couldn’t look away as Kuryakin’s beautiful body arched and twisted in a desperate bid to get away from him. There was something equally beautiful, vindicating, in the way that Kuryakin was forced to surrender. Cornered, on his knees, humiliated and bruised, Aleksey couldn’t deny that the image sparked a rush of something just north of arousal to sing through his blood.

Sorokin kicked him again, then let go of his hair and shoved him to the ground and kicked him once more. He stepped back, eyes wild, grinning like a victorious gladiator. The rest of the men then descended upon Kuryakin like a swarm of angry wasps, kicking and punching and grabbing at every inch of skin they could reach. Aleksey took advantage of the chaos to slink back against the far wall, closest to the door. Kuryakin still refused to give them the reaction they were looking for, and Aleksey’s chest felt tight at the thought of what Sorokin would do– would let his men do, too– when he got bored of the physical violence.

Eventually, Sorokin stepped back. His wicked grin was still plastered across his face. “Proskurivsky,” he called, and Proskurivsky stepped out of the mass of bodies and came to his side. Sorokin clapped him on the shoulder. “Stick him.”

Proskurivsky produced a needle full of a viscous, clear liquid from the pocket of his suit coat. Kuryakin’s eyes snapped up once again, and this time all the color drained from his face. He scrambled backwards, only to collide with the concrete wall and exposed piping behind him. There was nowhere to escape to, surrounded as he was.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head desperately from side to side. “No, comrade, don’t–”

“I’m not your comrade.” Sorokin took the needle from Proskurivsky’s hand and seized Kuryakin’s arm.

Kuryakin thrashed, and it eventually took the combined effort of three men plus Sorokin’s left hand to subdue him enough to get the needle in his arm. It didn’t take long after the injection for the last of the fight to drain from Kuryakin’s body. The drug left him docile and sweet, and that north-of-arousal feeling crashed through Aleksey’s body once more.

Clearly, Aleksey wasn’t the only one feeling something. The men kicked Kuryakin around a little more, listening to his pathetic whimpers and cheering when he began to sob, but eventually the atmosphere began to heat up again. Someone grabbed Kuryakin by the jaw again, and they didn’t have to fight nearly as hard this time to get him to open his mouth. Then, Sorokin unzipped his slacks.

“If you bite me, I will take you apart inch by inch. I will make sure you live through the worst pain you’ve ever felt; you will beg me to die. Am I understood?”

Kuryakin nodded mutely. Aleksey turned and pushed the door open, trying his best to pass the guard on the stairs nonchalantly. He willed himself to walk calmly down the stairs, no matter how loud his body was screaming at him to run. His stomach was rolling, guilt crawling up his throat in the form of bitter bile. He wanted Kuryakin. They would’ve let him have a turn if he stayed, even if they didn’t really like him. Sorokin was always fair when it came to torture. The thought made him sick.

He stopped in the bathroom, the only part of the factory aside from the office that the guys put a lot of effort into making operational, and threw up yesterday’s meager dinner into the sink. He didn’t even get any relief after that.

Once he finished washing the evidence of his discomfort down the drain, he stepped out into the crisp morning air. At some point during this whole ordeal, the sun had risen. The early light fell gently across the thin layer of frost coating the grass growing between the factory and the street. For a moment, all he could think of was the way that Kuryakin’s eyelashes fell against his strong cheekbones. Then he shook himself out of his stupor and began the long walk home.

–

Illya resurfaced through the haze of the sedative with a groan. He opened his eyes slowly, only to squeeze them shut again when the fluorescent lights sent a spark of pain lancing through his skull. His entire body ached, his scalp felt raw and tender where the leader had gripped his hair, his jaw throbbed where fingers had dug in to hold it open, each breath ached where his ribs had been kicked in. At least nothing felt broken. It was hard to tell with ribs. Someone had come by and hosed him down after the crowd lost interest which left him soaked and shivering, listening to the steady drip of runoff water into the drain in the middle of the room. The hose lay abandoned on the other side of the room, creatively connected to a faucet. He wondered if they had installed that faucet when they took over the place, or if the previous management had added it when the factory was still operational as some sort of firefighting measure. He didn’t think they had enough technical knowledge between them to install the hose themselves, it must have been the factory management.

They had left him slumped against the wall, wrist bruised by the cuff latched too tightly around it. He couldn’t remember them leaving, couldn’t remember much more than brief flashes of what they did to him which was probably a blessing. It will be worse next time. The leader will think he’s successfully broken Illya in, and when he discovers that he hasn’t, he will be merciless. Illya could dissociate on command. He had stockpiled skills in his toolkit to protect himself from torture. He just had to survive long enough for Napoleon and Gaby to bring the calvary to rescue him.

He just had to survive. He had to figure out what they wanted, why they were so angry with him.

For the better part of an hour, he waited for them to come back. When he was fairly certain they'd gotten bored of him and would not be coming back for a while, he tried his best to gather the thoughts in his aching head. There was only one formal entrance to the room he was in, but beside the door was a large, boarded-up window. Unfortunately for him, the wood looked strong. He was only half conscious when they brought him in, blindfolded and stumbling, but he could guess from his spotty memories that he went up about thirty five steps. So, jumping out of the window, assuming he can break the boards, would result in a fall that’s somewhere around twenty feet at minimum. It’s not ideal in his injured state, but he could do it if necessary. Napoleon and Gaby would know for sure that he was missing when he didn't respond to his four-hour check in. He had no idea how much time had passed.

Now, the men. What did they want from him? His thoughts moved sluggishly, as if his brain had turned to molasses. He conjured images, faces in the crowd that he recognized, and he fought to connect names to faces. How could he have let his guard slip so far, especially in such familiar territory where old enemies and new enemies lurked around every corner.

The leader. Aleksandr Sorokin. He must be in his thirties by now. Illya tried to remember how old he was the last time they had met. He had looked at his identification, he had seen his birth date stamped. Were he not still drowning in sedatives, he would have no problem remembering exactly what was written.

Anyways. Aleksandr Sorokin, black market dealer. Specialized in Western goods, yes, that was it. He must be angry that his flow of goods was disrupted. Illya wasn’t here to deal with Sorokin, but he was here to deal with one of his associates. He should have been more careful. He should have watched his back for old grudges.

He was just about to place the name of the second man, the man with the needle, when the door swung open and slammed into the concrete wall beside it. Despite himself, Illya flinched. He forced his eyes open despite the pain that the fluorescent lights caused him.

“Having fun yet?” Sorokin sneered. He was standing in the doorway, leering over Illya, twirling his knife idly in his hand.

Illya spat again. He would not engage, he would not beg. He would not give Sorokin what he wanted again.

“I liked you better when you were all drugged up. Should I get Proskurivsky back in here to dose you up again?”

Illya let the threat hang in the air. He just needed to survive until Napoleon and Gaby came.

Sorokin sighed idly and dragged a folding chair closer to him. They had set them up before they dragged him in, or maybe they were there all the time, so they could watch him be hurt like they were at a theater. “No matter, we have all the time in the world.” He lit a cigarette, a French brand, with an East German lighter, and grinned at Illya again. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then blew the smoke in Illya’s face. “I’ll get you to beg eventually. Especially now that I’ve got the taste for it.”

He smoked in silence while Illya languished on the floor, trying his best to ignore the smell, the taste of Sorokin and all his men lingering at the back of his throat, the flashes from earlier intruding into his thoughts. He would not give Sorokin the satisfaction. Eventually, Sorokin’s cigarette dwindled down to a stub. He fixed his grin on Illya again and glanced down at the cigarette. Illya was still too sluggish to do anything as Sorokin took his hand with mock-gentleness and pulled it towards himself. He took the hot end of the cigarette and ground it into the tender skin of Illya’s wrist. Illya hissed and looked away, but he couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Sorokin goaded.

Illya didn’t respond. Sorokin lit another cigarette.

By the time Sorokin got bored, Illya had a constellation of burns on his wrist and sweat running down his temple. Sorokin left him to the silence of an empty room once more.

About an hour later, the door slammed open and Proskurivsky– yes, that’s his name– stepped in, needle in hand. Illya put up only a token fight. In the end, he welcomed the embrace of the drug and let it steal the pain and memory from him. The surrender was a relief.

–

Napoleon paced the length of the flat that he, Gaby, and Illya were posted up in, wearing tracks into the already-worn wood flooring. He could feel Gaby’s eyes on him as he walked to the window, pivoted, and made his way back towards the pantry, pivoted–

“You’re making me dizzy,” she called from her seat at the small table posted up in the corner of the room.

Napoleon stopped pacing and shifted to rocking back and forth on his heels, anxiousness buzzing through her blood. “He should have checked in two hours ago, when the sun came up. He’s never missed a check-in before. Something’s wrong, Gaby.”

“I know it is, but exhausting yourself by wearing a hole in the floor isn’t going to save him. We’ll find him.”

“He shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Come sit down.”

He really didn’t want to. Sitting on the couch was useless. Every minute they spent waiting for their equipment to pick up a signal from the bugs on Illya’s clothing was a minute Illya spent in the enemy's hands. But Gaby was right, there was no point in wearing himself out. He dropped his head into his hands and sat in the chair beside her. “I should have gone with him. I knew we were too close to home for him to be safe.”

“And let them take you too? I know you’re worried about him, I am too, but you tailing him would only have made things worse. We got almost all of the documents Waverly wanted, now we just have to wait for him to send in some support.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Gaby was right again. Rescuing a single person was exponentially easier than rescuing two, and Illya did successfully take out any imminent global threats before vanishing by delivering some blueprints for a nuclear warhead drafted by a rocket scientist (always with the damn rocket scientists) to a drop point. So where had he gone? Who had taken him? Napoleon barely wanted to think about the possibilities. The KGB loomed at the forefront of his mind like always. If his employer had decided to unexpectedly reclaim him, there would be no way they could find him. Not even UNCLE resources could save him from Oleg’s grip. If it was a splinter cell or someone holding a grudge from before, then their chances of finding and rescuing him were infinitely higher. Napoleon just had to hope for the latter. Even then, splinter cells and unaffiliated groups were capable of just as much violence as institutions were, at least on an individual basis. He wished he wasn’t stuck here, waiting for the monitor to light up with coordinates. He wished Illya had come home safe.

“It’s my fault,” he muttered, head still in his hands.

Gaby scoffed, “That’s ridiculous. You know that’s ridiculous.”

“I should have gone with him. I knew it wouldn’t be safe. I should have told Waverly that we wouldn’t take missions in Russia.”

“Why don’t you go lay down and get some sleep? We’ll need to take shifts, and I think you’ll feel more comfortable watching the monitors overnight.”

Napoleon lifted his head. Strike three, Napoleon, Gaby’s right again. The bedrooms of the flat are outfitted with blackout curtains, and he knew that he wouldn’t get any sleep overnight. He would be too worried that Gaby had fallen asleep. He trudged to the bedroom, pulled down the shades, and collapsed onto the bed. The scent of dust permeated the room, it soaked into the comforter and blanketed him in kind. There was nothing else he could do but rest up and be ready when Illya came back online. Still, sleep was slow to come. He tossed and turned, trying to control the thoughts racing through his mind. Eventually, he succumbed to a shallow, dreamless sleep.

–

Aleksey spent the rest of the day nursing his wounded pride with a strong glass of vodka, one after another until the anxious feeling in his chest was so far away that it became nearly unnoticeable. Bitterness rose up to take its place, anger and resentment boiling just under his skin. Kuryakin had looked right at him and asked for him to stop, long before he had broken and begged Sorokin. Had he recognized him? Did he even remember him at all?

The summer he turned fifteen he had taken to following  Proskurivsky’s— who had turned nineteen in the spring— gang around. That was before he had met Sorokin, so he was less upfront about his distaste for Aleksey’s presence. Still, no one ever really wanted Aleksey around, in the same way that an older sibling complains about their younger brother always tagging along. But they let him stay on the outskirts of their group because they felt bad for him, because his dad had been arrested earlier that year for being employed by the university at the wrong time, and he didn’t bother anyone enough for Proskurivsky to tell him to get lost. So he tagged along. Aleksey didn’t mind being brushed off, anyway. It didn’t really matter when they still let him listen to the records they picked up before they sold them off to someone else. One time, Proskurivsky even gave him a pair of denim jeans he deemed too damaged to sell. They had holes on the inner thighs and the cuffs were in the process of unraveling, but he treasured those jeans until they couldn’t be considered a garment anymore. His Mama never asked where he got them. She probably didn’t want to know.

Today the guys had decided to linger by the tennis courts, waiting for Anya– who, according to Proskurivsky, was the prettiest girl on the block– to get done with her lesson. Proskurivsky was certain that he was charming enough to get her to kiss him on the street. Aleksey wasn’t so sure. He didn’t really see what Proskurivsky saw in Anya, he liked girls, sure, but not girls like Anya. There was a girl in his class named Natasha who he thought about sometimes, but she was as smart as she was pretty and he wanted to spend time with her more than he wanted to kiss her. Proskurivsky didn’t want to spend any more time with Anya than he had to. He just wanted to brag about landing her.

The guys hollered when Anya came around the corner, and she tried to walk the other direction a second too late.

Proskurivsky whistled and called after her, “Hey, baby!”

“Get lost!” she called back, walking faster.

He jogged after her, laughing, and the guys pushed in to surround her, “C’mon, give me a chance won’t you? I don’t want a lot.” He reached out and grabbed her upper arm, and scowled when she tried to shake him off.

“Let go of me.”

“I’ll let go of you if you kiss me.”

“Andriy,” she said, leveling him with a glare. Aleksey took a nervous step back, still lingering at the edge of the group. “Let go of me.”

For one tense moment, Aleksey thought Proskurivsky would do it. He hoped he would. Instead, he grinned, gripped her arm harder, and slammed his lips against hers. He was still grinning when he pulled back, but if looks could kill Anya would’ve had him six feet under. Aleksey’s throat was tight with anxiety as he watched.

“See, was that so bad?”

Anya’s fist came out of nowhere, colliding with Proskurivsky’s jaw hard with enough force to cause him to lose his grip on her arm. He stood still for a second, blinking away the shock of the blow. Then he hit her back.

The guys went wild, cheering and whistling as he wound up again. He never got the chance to hit.

“Hey!” a sharp bark cut through the noise. Everyone scattered at the shout, fleeing in random directions like mice from a hawk. Proskurivsky shoved Aleksey out of the way and bolted down an alley, leaving him frozen in shock on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet but froze again when the man– well fed, clean cut, in uniform, Aleksey was screwed– snapped again, this time at him, “Don’t go anywhere, I want to talk to you.”

Consigned to his fate, Aleksey fought and failed to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks as he sat on the curb while the man offered a hand to Anya.

“Do you need me to call someone for you–”

“Leave me alone,” Anya slapped his hand away. Aleksey’s breath caught in his throat as he waited for the man to strike her, or even just threaten to strike her, but instead he simply raised his hands in surrender and let her go.

The man sat beside Aleksey as he watched Anya disappear down the street. Aleksey appreciated the time to get himself together, but he couldn’t stop crying. With a sigh, the man produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him. He took it gratefully.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Aleksey.”

“I saw you,” he said, still watching the street instead of Aleksey. “When they moved in, you stayed back. Because you know better than to get involved, right?”

Aleksey nodded and sniffed as his tears finally began to run dry.

“They’re not cool, guys like that. They’ll get you in trouble and they won’t help you out of it. You should hang out with your other friends.”

“I don’t have any other friends.”

Something akin to sympathy crossed the man’s expression– Kuryakin, that was his name. Everyone knew Kuryakin. Everyone tried to stay out of his way. “No?”

“No.”

Kuryakin frowned. “Well you should meet some. Do you play any sports? Maybe you could join a chess team if you’re not very athletic. Or maybe you could meet some people in your classes at school.”

“I don’t play any sports, and I hate chess. And I don’t like school.” Not wanting to sound petulant or ungrateful for Kuryakin’s advice and still very wary of offending him, Aleksey added hastily, “I like math though. I want to work in the rocketry program some day.”

“I think that’s a good plan,” Kuryakin nodded sagely. “So you’re planning on applying to one of the polytechnics?”

Aleksey shrugged, “Maybe. I might just work. Mama could use the extra money, and my Papa’s gone…” he trailed off with another shrug.

“So is mine.” An unintelligible shout down the street caught their attention. Kuryakin must have been able to make out what the person said because he wiped his palms on his slacks and stood up, offering a hand to Aleksey to help him up as well. “Do me a favor,” he said, still holding Aleksey’s hand in his firm grasp. “Find some better friends, and don’t let me see you again until you’re in the news for sending someone to space, alright?”

Aleksey nodded. “Okay.”

Kuryakin smiled and ruffled his hair. “Good man.” Then he was gone.

Aleksey watched Kuryakin retreat down the street towards the shout. All he could think as he stared at Kuryakin’s broad shoulders was “that’s what a man should be.” Strong, unyielding, masculine. Proskurivsky would laugh at him if he said that out loud, but it was true. He may be a rat, but at least he had honor. At least he was able to provide for his Mama.

It wasn’t until Aleksey got home that he noticed the thick wad of rubles tucked securely in his pocket. He burst into tears again in the middle of his tiny flat.

Whatever. It didn’t matter now if Kuryakin remembered meeting him when he was a snot-nosed little kid. Aleksey had the power now. Aleksey had money. Aleksey had notoriety. Kuryakin had nothing, not even his clothes. Yeah. Take that.

Somehow, the thought of revenge didn’t make Aleksey feel any better.

–

Illya was drifting aimlessly through a haze of muted colors and sounds. Everything around him felt warm and dampened, and when he cracked his eyes open it was like surfacing through a cool, clean river. He was in the living room of Napoleon’s apartment, sprawled out on the couch. The scent of spice drifted through the space, and Illya looked to the kitchen to see Napoleon standing before the stove, stirring something in a pot over low heat.

“Ah, Peril,” Napoleon said, light and jovial, “you’re awake! Careful now–”

He groaned as he sat up, leaning heavily on one arm, the other wrapped securely in a sling. Napoleon left the pot to stand dutifully at his side as he stood up. “Cowboy,” he grumbled without any real bite, “you are hovering.”

“I can’t help it. You worried me back there, and I want to take full advantage of your minor incapacitation to treat you right. My mother always said I was more of a mother hen than she was.”

“She was right,” Illya scoffed. But still, he couldn’t deny that having Napoleon dote on him did feel nice. It made the ever-present ache in his body a little bit easier to bear, if only for a moment. He was so warm here.

Napoleon laughed good-naturedly and hauled Illya up from the couch with one arm. It was surprisingly fun to be hauled around, Illya had grown so used to always being the largest person in the room. Letting his guard down was a relief. “Come try the sauce, let me know if it’s too spicy for your fragile constitution.”

He led Illya to the pot and offered him a taste of the sauce with the wooden spoon he had been using to stir it as it simmered. Illya took the spoon between his lips, reveling in the intimacy of letting Napoleon feed him. There was no one to judge here, no masters to answer to but themselves. Just him and Napoleon. The sauce was pleasantly spicy without burning his tongue, and it warmed him from the inside out. Napoleon took the spoon away and set it on the counter beside the pot, and chased the taste of the sauce on Illya’s lips by kissing him. Illya let him. The only reason that he and Napoleon stopped was for air. They lingered a breath apart, their foreheads touching as they caught their breath. 

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door slammed open.

Napoleon sighed, “That would be Gaby. I sent her out to get a salad. Would you believe it if I told you that I have no lettuce in my apartment?”

“No lettuce?” Illya echoed. “But Cowboy, what will you put on your American burgers?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if the joke would land. But then, Napoleon doubled over in laughter. “Was that a joke, Peril? Did I thaw your icy heart enough for you to attempt to make a joke?”

Illya didn’t get a chance to answer, because the door to the apartment opened and Gaby stepped inside, balancing a package of premade salad in one hand as she took the key out of the lock with the other.

“I see you two have been busy. Illya, it’s nice to see you awake.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Napoleon mused, whisking the salad from Gaby’s hand and placing it on the kitchen table. “Have a seat. I just have to pour this sauce over the noodles, then dinner will be served.”

“Oh, wonderful!” 

Gaby sat, and Illya sat beside her. The memory began to blur at the edges, slipping through his fingers. He didn’t want to go yet. He didn’t want to return to clarity, where he was cold and aching and terrified. He wanted to stay here, in Napoleon’s apartment, with his partners. He reached out for Napoleon, but his fingers caught nothing but sunlight.

–

Aleksey made his way back to the factory around noon the next day. He was still jumpy and ill at ease. Something in his stomach refused to settle. Sorokin was posted up at a card table on the factory floor, sipping on a glass of vodka. He sneered as Aleksey entered.

“We missed you yesterday. You missed all the fun.”

“I wouldn’t consider seeing your tiny prick ‘fun,’” Aleksey countered. He was irritable and grouchy, and Sorokin’s presence did nothing to make him feel better. “And I don’t want to put my dick near any of the guys,’ that’s a recipe for contracting every disease known to man.”

Sorokin shrugged, “Your loss. Take him now, he’s all docile. I think Proskurivsky’s up there already.”

Aleksey shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But something in him urged him to go upstairs, and it was insistent enough that he followed it. 

Sorokin was right, Proskurivsky was already up there. He had pulled a chair over and sat facing Kuryakin, watching him stir and mumble incoherently. He didn’t look up when Aleksey entered, but he called out in acknowledgement.

“He’s coming out of it.”

“I see,” Aleksey replied, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Kuryakin whimpered and shifted on the concrete floor. Proskurivsky greeted him with a swift kick to the ribs. Aleksey took his seat, his hands wrapped around the legs of the chair just for something to hold onto. Kuryakin curled his legs up defensively, protecting his midsection to the best of his ability without the use of his arms. At some point, someone must have hitched the other wrist to the exposed piping along the wall. He blinked some of the drug induced bleariness from his eyes as Proskurivsky tugged him around until his back was exposed. Proskurivsky handed a length of stiff electrical wire to Aleksey and gestured to the bare, unbroken skin of Kuryakin’s back.

When Aleksey made no moves towards Kuryakin, Proskurivsky rolled his eyes. “We saved the first strike for you.”

“Oh,” Aleksey wasn’t quite sure what to say, how to get out of doing this. “I didn’t think Sorokin was capable of restraint.”

Proskurivsky snorted, but his expression remained flat. “Sorokin wanted you to prove you can do it. Come on, be a man.”

Oh. Well. Aleksey raised the cord, hands trembling. He moved to strike, but Kuryakin whimpered again and a pang of sympathy lanced through his chest. The cord fell uselessly to his side. 

“You pussy,” Proskurivsky snapped, seizing the cord from his hand and cracking it across Kuryakin’ back in a sharp, cruel arc. “You little bitch. I knew you couldn’t do it–” the cord came down again, across the exact same spot. “Every time he asks you to do something, you fuck it up–” crack! “Be grateful. This is the last time I’m covering your ass–” crack!

Aleksey watched Proskurivsky whip Kuryakin in cruel, expertly laid stripes. Maybe he should have just manned up and done it. Maybe it would have been kinder to Kuryakin if he had done it, in all his inexperience. For the first ten stripes Kuryakin kept his mouth firmly shut. He took each strike beautifully, without so much as a whimper. Then Proskurivsky broke skin and the whimpers started. Kuryakin’s head dropped into the space between his bound arms, his back arched exquisitely as he struggled to get away from Proskurivsky’s relentless blows. A spark of heat raced through Aleksey’s blood despite himself. The vindication, the power Proskurivsky wielded over Kuryakin, was glorious.  That was what Aleksey was chasing when he joined the guys in the first place, that feeling. Power. Glory. Vindication.

Proskurivsky turned his strokes southward, kicking Kuryakin’s legs wider apart and standing on the chains hastily attached to his ankles so he couldn’t close them. He struck Kuryakin twice on the inner thighs, grinning at the sound of his poorly muffled sobs. Then, he thrust the cord back into Aleksey’s hands.

“Hit him,” Proskurivsky goaded. When Aleksey took too long to reply, he shoved him. “Hit him, pussy! Hit him, or I’ll cut off your sad excuse for a cock and feed it to him.”

Aleksey hit him. Between the legs, full force. Kuryakin screamed.

“What do you want from me?” he wailed, struggling to turn and look at the two of them over his shoulder.

“Payback. For meddling in my business,” Proskurivsky replied easily.

“I had orders–”

“I had comrades I have never seen again. I have no sympathy for your orders.”

Proskurivsky took the cord back and continued to strike him until his screams gave way to breathless sobs that shook his entire body. He discarded the cord carelessly, tossing it halfway across the room, and finally stepped off the chains. Kuryakin didn’t shift for a long time, but eventually he tenderly drew his knees together. Proskurivsky didn’t help him flip back over to take pressure off his knees, he just watched him shift and struggle to rotate himself. The smile was gone from Proskurivksy’s face. 

As Kuryakin struggled on the floor, Proskurivsky turned his attention back to Aleksey. With a sigh, he wrapped one arm around him and allowed him to lean against his chest. Aleksey hadn’t even noticed the tears streaming down his face until he caught sight of the damp patch left on Proskurivsky’s shirt.

“It gets easier. You need more exposure. I’m proud of you.” Aleksey was ashamed of the way that Proskurivsky’s praised warmed his chest. “He’ll need another dose of the sedative. Watch him while I go get it.”

Aleksey nodded his assent and waited until his footsteps had fully retreated down the stairs before he crossed to Kuryakin and helped him flip over. He grimaced as the lacerations on his back connected with the cool metal of the wall behind him, but ultimately he settled into a position that seemed as comfortable as he could get. Aleksey hesitated for a moment, deliberating. Kurykin’s features were soft with relief. His eyelashes fell gently against his cheekbones. Would it really be so bad to kiss him right now?

Before he could make a decision, Kuryakin croaked, “Could I have some water? I haven’t had anything to drink since I got here.”

“Yeah, sure.” Aleksey scrambled to his feet and cranked the faucet, dragging the hose across the room to Kuryakin. He guided the gentle drip into Kuryakin’s mouth and watched, enraptured, as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful.

Aleksey let him drink until he heard the sound of Proskurivsky’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. When Proskurivsky returned, he had a needle ready in his hand. Kuryakin didn’t fight, Aleksey didn’t think he had any fight left in him, but he eyed the needle warily all the way until Proskurivsky was plunging the liquid into his arm.

Once Kuryakin succumbed to sleep, Aleksey left. He stayed on the factory floor just long enough to hear Sorokin’s congratulations before he excused himself, muttering something about the heat and slinking off towards his flat. Sorokin let him go.

He laid around until nightfall, nursing drinks and his pride in equal measure. Under the cover of darkness, he slipped back into the factory. The man posted up to watch the door had fallen asleep, which made it incredibly easy for Aleksey to make his way up into the loft. He ascended the stairs, uneasy to the core. When he reached the top he was relieved to discover that Kuryakin was asleep, curled up around himself as best he could. Good. It would hurt less while he was asleep. Aleksey approached him carefully, with the same caution one would use when approaching a sleeping bear. Kuryakin looked battered, worse than he was when Aleksey left him earlier today. His ankles were rubbed raw from the ropes tied too tight around them. His wrist didn’t look much better, there was blood seeping from beneath the metal cuff, probably torn open when he pulled too hard to get away from blows. The left side of his face was black and blue. His abdomen, protected by his legs, was probably bruised just as badly. 

Kuryakin’s eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, flicked up to meet him as he approached. His body tensed defensively.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Kuryakin’s piercing blue gaze held Aleksey’s as he got closer, but his pupils were dilated and he had a far away look, like he was looking through Aleksey rather than at him. Kuryakin gave a huff of pain as he curled tighter around himself.  

“Does it hurt?” Aleksey asked, still cautious.

When Kuryakin answered, his voice was raw from overuse. “Yes.”

“Can I check if your ribs are broken?”

Another defensive twitch. Kuryakin’s knees did not move. “No.”

Aleksey sighed and knelt beside him, pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and sawed through the ropes binding his ankles. The cuff around his wrist can’t be removed without a key. Glancing down at Kuryakin’s face for a moment, Aleksey took advantage of the moment and shoved his knees away from his abdomen. Like he thought, the damage to his ribs was worse than the damage to his face. The entirety of his midsection was black and blue. His ribs were almost certainly broken. It looked like breathing hurt.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Aleksey promised. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Kuryakin blinked up at him, eyelids heavy with sedative, and Aleksey was struck once more with the desire to kiss him. He brushed his blond hair away from his forehead where it was plastered to his skin with sweat. He traced the outline of his dry lips with his thumb, and Kuryakin made no move to bite him. 

Aleksey leaned down and kissed him. Kuryakin exhaled into the kiss, surrendering so sweetly that Aleksey couldn’t figure out why he had waited so long. It wasn’t so bad, was it? Kuryakin’s heart was racing in his chest. He wanted this. He had to have wanted this, or he wouldn’t be sighing into Aleksey’s touch. He kissed him again, this time with more confidence. The hand he wasn’t using to support himself over Kuryakin wandered south. When he rested it over Kuryakin’s chest, Kuryakin grabbed his wrist.

His gaze was far more lucid when Aleksey met his eyes again. “Did you ever apply to one of the polytechnics?”

Aleksey’s heart lurched in his chest. He had remembered. He pulled his hand out of Kuryakin’s grip as if it was a branding iron. He had remembered. Aleksey was crying again. Stupid. Come on, be a man.

He fled the loft.

—

Illya watched Napoleon pack in slow, unhurried motions. Oleg’s orders played on loop in his mind as he studied Napoleon’s back, the delicate creases of his shirt where it was tucked into his pants. His fingertips drummed incessantly against his upper thigh in a desperate attempt to purge some of the excess frantic energy from his body.

“–Feeling okay?” Napoleon was asking. Illya couldn’t reply, the words were caught at the base of his throat in a painful lump. Napoleon let the silence hang between them for an uncomfortably long time. “So, what now? Mission accomplished? Head back to Russia?”

“Something like this. You?” Illya’s voice was remarkably steady for the amount that his body was shaking. 

“New York.” Napoleon shuffled some things around in his suitcase. Illya’s hand drifted preemptively toward the gun tucked within his jacket pocket. “Got something for you.”

Illya nearly dropped the gun in his haste to catch the object Napoleon threw at him. His father’s watch. He fumbled with the clasp in his haste to get it back on his wrist. He looked up at Napoleon in shock. “You know what my mission is?”

“Same as mine was. Kill me if necessary, to get that…” Napoleon gestured to the disc. “But you can’t do it.”

Illya simply shook his head and put his gun safely back in his jacket. He was tired of being afraid. He crossed the distance between himself and Napoleon and took his hands in his. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as Napoleon laid a finger over the pulse point in his wrist. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” he said softly, as if he were speaking to a wild animal who had been backed into a corner. Illya shook his head. It wasn’t Napoleon hurting him that he was worried about. Napoleon would never hurt him.

He took a deep, steadying breath and leaned his forehead against Napoleon’s.

“Does it hurt?” Napoleon asked, his brow creased with worry. He must have seen the way Illya’s breath caught as he stepped closer.

“Yes.”

“Can I check if your ribs are broken?” The same tenderness remained in his expression.

“No,” Illya shook his head. A deep sense of shame permeated his mind. He didn’t want Napoleon to see the lacerations that decorated his back. He didn’t want Napoleon to worry.

Napoleon sighed worriedly, but he let the matter lie. Illya was tired of being afraid. He leaned forward once more and kissed Napoleon boldly on the lips. Napoleon kissed back with electrifying passion. When he pulled back for air, he swept Illya’s hair away from his eyes and smiled gently at him, lingering a breath away from his lips. His thumb traced a loving path across his lips, a warm, tingling sensation chased his fingertips. He let his lips fall apart in surrender and welcomed Napoleon back in for another kiss. Napoleon was gentle, nothing at all like the harsh burn of a forced intrusion down his throat. His hands danced soothingly across the tender, flayed skin of his back. 

“Come to bed,” Napoleon urged, drawing the curtains in front of the balcony door closed. “Come on, Peril, I’ve wanted you this whole time.”

Nothing had ever felt as right as falling onto the plush bed with Napoleon. He let Napoleon tug his shirt up and over his head. Napoleon kissed him and laid him out on the sheets as if he was as precious as his coveted works of art. Illya felt like he was on fire, a kind of beautiful, purposeful, cleansing fire, from which he would arise born anew. Here he was safe, free from leering gazes, free from pain. This is how it should have gone.

“I’ll get you out of here. Just hold on a little longer.” Napoleon’s breath was hot against his ear as he caressed Illya’s chest with the same reverence he paid to the rest of his body. He jolted at the touch, and when he pried his eyes open he found Aleksey’s sharp green eyes peering back at him.

“Did you ever apply to one of the polytechnics?”

Napoleon scrambled off the bed and left Illya confused and alone, half naked on the sheets.

–

The sun was just beginning to break the horizon as Aleskey retreated to the factory floor. The man who was supposed to be guarding Kuryakin had left at some point, which meant Aleksey had the complex to himself. He made a beeline for the mini-fridge where Sorokin kept his expensive vodka and his nice glasses, and he poured himself an overfull glass. When he finished that one, he poured himself another.

Distracted by getting drunk, Aleksey didn’t hear the rumble of an approaching car until Proskurivsky was standing beside him.

“Does Sorokin know you’re drinking his vodka?” Proskurivksy asked with a sneer.

“Fuck off.”

Proskurivsky grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back from the card table he was seated at. “Listen here, asshole. No one even wants you here, they only put up with you because I keep telling them it’s more trouble to kick you out than to let you tag along. One day, Sorokin’s going to kick your ass and I’m not going to help you.”

“Okay, okay!” Aleksey groaned, raising his hands in surrender. “Whatever. I’ll buy him a new bottle.” He hesitated, trying to come up with a subtle way to ask Proskurivsky for what he wanted. “Did Kuryakin have anything valuable on him when you brought him in? I could use the extra pocket cash.”

Proskurivsky shrugged, releasing Aleksey’s collar. “The guys already picked over it. Whatever’s left is in the breakroom. Don’t leave the door open too long though, Kuryakin’s stuff was bugged to hell and back.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Aleksey scampered off to the breakroom, checking over his shoulder to make sure Proskurivsky wasn’t watching him. As it was, Proskurivsky had disappeared up the stairs to the loft. He shut the breakroom door behind himself and took a long moment to gather his nerves. Proskurivsky was right, most of the gadgets that Kuryakin had entered with had been snapped up already. The only things of note left were his jacket, his dress shoes, and a metal box, which Aleksey assumed contained the bugs they found on him. Someone had long since taken his standard-issue sidearm, which disappointed Aleksey. Well, he supposed, he would have no use for sidearms once the KGB came for their asset anyway.

He opened the metal box. Sure enough, bundled in a scrap of fabric was a handful of tiny chips. Aleksey had never seen this kind of technology up close, so he took a moment to turn the smooth electronic over in his hands. Then he slipped two of the chips in Kuryakin’s dress shoes, bundled the rest back up in the fabric, returned the metal box to its initial position, and stepped out of the breakroom with the dress shoes in hand.

The walk across the factory floor was agonizing. Aleksey had never been a very good liar, so he hoped against hope that Proskurivsky, if he had wandered downstairs at any point, wouldn’t ask any questions. Proskurivsky had returned to the main floor, but he did nothing more than glance from the shoes to Aleksey with an eyebrow raised in judgment. Aleksey shrugged and Proskurivsky shrugged in return, so he kept walking without a word. Proskurivsky made no move to stop him.

Aleksey’s heart hammered in his chest as he took the bug-laden shoe around the side of the factory and placed it along the wall, obscured by a patch of overgrown grass. Whoever was watching the bugs should be able to receive transmissions from them now. He hoped they would come quickly. Privately, he also hoped they would come when all the guys were gathered at the factory. He didn’t want to wish harm upon them, he knew he should be focused on being the bigger person, but he couldn’t deny that a fierce sort of anger had taken root in his chest. But what’s done is done, and now all he could do was wait.

–

Napoleon had taken to staring out of the window of their flat when Gaby told him to take a break. He knew that she wanted him to lay down, but he couldn’t convince himself to leave the monitor just in case. Something could happen at any moment. Gaby was out gathering medical supplies, so she couldn’t yell at him for watching the monitor instead of resting. Just a few minutes longer, then he would lay down.

The scratch of a key in the lock startled Napoleon, and he reached for his gun on instinct. He dropped it just as fast when the door opened and Gaby hustled in, two grocery bags slung over her arm.

She didn’t quite glare when she saw that he was awake, but it was a close thing. “I thought I told you to rest.”

“You did,” Napoleon replied. “But I couldn’t. And no one was monitoring the, well, the monitor, so I figured I would make myself useful.”

“You won’t be useful if you collapse from exhaustion before we find Illya.”

That was technically true, but Napoleon disagreed regardless, “Be that as it may, I simply couldn’t bring myself to lay down.”

He expected Gaby to continue to argue with him, but she simply set the grocery bags down on the table and began to sort the supplies into their nearly empty first aid kit. She was quiet for a while. Napoleon stayed quiet too.

“I get it,” Gaby said as she shut the first aid kit. “I’m worried about him too. The UNCLE agents are on standby for the minute we find him.”

“It was my fault.” He couldn’t explain where that feeling was coming from, couldn’t explain why he wouldn’t stop insisting on that particular truth. All he knew was that it felt like the truth.

He opened his mouth to explain all that to Gaby, but the words died in his throat before he could even start. Because there, blinking green on the monitor, was a set of coordinates. The tracker was back online.

They found him.

–

The factory was buzzing with energy when Aleksey returned in the late afternoon. He made his way to Sorokin through pools of long, dark shadows, dodging through men who didn't spare him a second glance.

Sorokin lit a cigarette. Without looking in Aleksey’s direction, he said, “Proskurivsky got gutted.”

“What?” Aleksey couldn’t have heard him right.

“Like a fish,” Sorokin shrugged. His voice was steady and emotionless, but Aleksey could see his hands shaking as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Kuryakin got his hands on a pocket knife somehow. Must’ve lifted it from someone’s pocket.”

Aleksey immediately patted his pocket. The color drained from his face when he came up empty. Had he been so careless as to leave his pocket knife on the floor after he cut the ropes around Kuryakin’s ankles? Or had Kuryakin lifted it from his pocket when he had been distracted with a kiss?

Sorokin was still talking, “Anyways. It was a real gruesome scene when I walked in. I kicked the shit out of him for it, though. So he shouldn’t get any more ideas, not unless he wants me to start breaking more than just ribs. The guys brought Proskurivsky out back to bury him, if you want to say your goodbyes.”

“Oh.” 

Aleksey couldn’t come up with anything better to say. He trudged out back numbly, mostly still in shock. Sure, he had never really liked Proskurivsky. He was a bully, he was standoffish, he didn’t even like Aleksey all that much. But he was just so… constant. It was hard to imagine the scene as Sorokin described it. Proskurivsky, loud, cruel, brash Proskurivsky silent and pale with blood loss. The image was so incongruous with the man Aleksey knew.

The guys had dug a grave out back and were already in the process of shoveling dirt back in by the time Aleksey made his way outside. He was a good, proud atheist. He had never prayed in his life, not even when he watched the cars that took his Papa away disappear over the horizon, he didn’t even know how. But he was struck suddenly by the desire to appeal to– he didn’t know. Maybe not God. God wasn’t real, anyway. But something. Something higher than himself. Something capable of forgiving him for all that he had done, capable of forgiving Proskurivsky for all that he had done.

A gunshot rang out and he instantly dropped to his knees. One of the guys in front of him collapsed to the ground, blood pooling from a circular wound right between his eyes. Another shot, another man down. Aleksey had always thought he’d die like a man, bravely, facing down the bullet, but as more shots rang out all he could think about was terror. He heard the rumble of tires across the gravel out in front, the heavy fall of bootsteps coming his direction. He didn’t raise his head until someone kicked him hard in the ribs and forced him onto his back. He had expected the men descending upon the factory to be soldiers, outfitted in uniforms provided by the KGB. Instead the men seemed to have no single uniform, they seemed to be wearing whatever tactical gear they could get their hands on in a scramble. The man looming above him was clad in all black. Aleksey could see the bulk of a bulletproof plate beneath his vest and the bulk of a bag strapped to his back.

“Where’s Kuryakin?” the man demanded, rifle trained on the space between Aleksey’s eyes.

“He’s upstairs, in the loft! You should hurry, I think he’s really hurt.”

Something just shy of furious crossed the man’s expression, darkening his gaze like a storm cloud. “Did you hurt him?”

Aleksey couldn’t bring himself to lie. He had done enough. “Yes.” 

Though terror still gripped his chest, a single spark of relief lanced through Aleksey. Kuryakin would be free. His men would tear apart the Earth to find him if they had to. He had done enough.

The man planted his feet on either side of Aleksey’s shoulders and fired his rifle.

–

The first thing that hit Napoleon as he opened the door was the overwhelming metallic scent of blood. The kid outside had said that Illya was hurt– that he had hurt Illya– so Napoleon was prepared for the worst. Downstairs, the small but dedicated strike team that Waverly had managed to drum up for them was making swift work of the other gang members so that Napoleon could dedicate all his attention to Illya.

Illya.

Illya was covered in blood. He didn’t seem to be moving either. Napoleon couldn’t tell from the doorway if he was breathing or not. Protocol demanded that he approach slowly so as not to startle Illya, but he couldn’t wait a moment longer to make sure he was alive. He ran to Illya’s side.

As soon as Napoleon was within five feet of him, Illya’s eyes snapped open. He lunged, one handed, for Napoleon’s throat, but his aim was shaky and his grip was weak, and his shoulder wrenched in a way that looked painful as the cuff around his wrist prevented him from using his full range of motion.

“Easy there, Peril.” Napoleon caught his wrist in his own firm grip, closing the last of the distance between them. Illya looked like he had taken several beatings. He almost certainly had. At least, now that Napoleon had a closer look, it didn’t seem like much of the blood was his. Illya’s nose was bloody, but that seemed to be it. The rest of the visible damage on his body was ugly, fierce bruising, some of which was still black and blue and some of which had faded to more sickly shades of green and yellow. “It’s me, Napoleon. I’m here to help you.”

Illya blinked up at him owlishly. His pupils were huge. “‘Poleon?” Recognition flashed through his expression and the fight drained from his body. He slipped his free hand into Napoleon’s, threading their fingers together.

“It’s me,” Napoleon repeated. It would be easier to pick the lock on the cuff with two hands, but he couldn’t bring himself to untangle his fingers from Illya’s grasp. He settled for taking a pair of bolt cutters to the chain. He could remove the cuff himself at the safehouse. 

Illya groaned as Napoleon prodded at his ribcage, feeling for breaks and fragments of the bone throughout his abdomen. Nothing seemed imminently dangerous, but Napoleon winced in sympathy. Breathing must kill. Illya whimpered as Napoleon urged him to turn over. The sight of his back was more gruesome than his shattered ribs. His back is more wound than skin. The deep lacerations laid across it in uneven stripes– how long had they whipped him to get wounds this deep– had just begun to scab over. Some were still slowly oozing blood, some were red and angry around the edges, hot with infection. Napoleon reached into his bag for the first aid kit, incredibly thankful that Gaby had stocked up on bandages. The gunshots on the floor below had fallen silent, so Napoleon took care to bandage Illya slowly to spare him from as much pain as possible. When he was sure that he had covered the worst of the damage, he traded the first aid kit for a long, wool coat, which he slung over Illya’s shoulders. He deliberated for a moment about helping Illya walk down the stairs so he could feel a bit more independence, but that seemed like more trouble than it was worth given his current state. In the end, he hefted Illya into his arms and carried him down the stairs like a child who had fallen asleep on the car ride home.

Gaby was waiting for him in a car outside. Napoleon bundled Illya into the backseat, then climbed in beside him. “We’re going to have to drive over the border,” he said solemnly, tugging Illya so that he was laying across his lap.

“Weren’t we going to treat him at the safehouse?” Gaby peeled out of the parking lot ahead of the other vehicles that had come with them.

“He needs a hospital,” Napoleon placed his hand against Illya’s forehead. He was burning up. “We have to take him across the border.”

Gaby nodded, “I’ll radio the others.”

Napoleon thanked her, then turned his attention back to Illya. He was going to be alright, Napoleon would make sure of it.

–

Illya whimpered and shivered through wave after wave of pain and fear. One moment he was shivering so hard that his muscles ached, and the next he was boiling out of his skin. He floated in and out of dreams and nightmares, brushing with the waking world in fleeting moments at a time.

Sometimes Napoleon was there with him, holding his hand as he sobbed. Sometimes Gaby was there to wipe sweat from his forehead with a cool washcloth. Sometimes he was alone. Sometimes he cried out for his Mama because he felt so awful, and the only thing he could think of that would soothe him was her gentle touch. 

It hurt to breathe. His body ached all over. He cried until his head ached, and then he cried some more.

After days of languishing under the thumb of a horrible fever, Illya surfaced through the ache into a sterile hospital room. Napoleon was beside him, holding his hand. His eyes felt sore and he brought up his free hand to brush at his cheeks, and when he brought his fingertips back they were damp with tears. He was hooked up to an IV. It itched. It was nice, he thought, that he was worried about something as trivial as an itchy IV.

Napoleon smiled at him and squeezed his hand, “Good morning, Peril. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Illya blinked, still fighting to adjust to the bright light of the room. “How long was I out?”

“Four days. Almost five, if you count the drive here.” Napoleon masked his concern well, but Illya knew him well enough to see the stress lines around his mouth, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Who were they?”

“Old friends. They were not happy to see me.”

“I figured. They got you pretty good, I must admit. I haven’t seen bruising like that since Zurich, when that safe blew up and I took a chunk of flying metal to the chest.”

Illya gestured to the IV bag, “And that?”

“Fluids, mostly. Antibiotics. You came in with a pretty nasty infection, I think you gave the nurses quite a scare. They wouldn’t leave you alone for at least two days.”

“Ah.” Illya leaned back against the pillows and squeezed Napoleon’s hand just to feel him squeeze back.

“Tired?”

“Mhm.”

“Get some rest,” Napoleon said. His voice was gentler than Illya had ever heard it. “You’ve got a lot of healing to do.”

He moved to leave, tugging on Illya’s grip. Illya didn’t want to let go. “Come lay with me?”

“In a hospital?” Even without his eyes open, Illya could tell that Napoleon had an eyebrow raised at him. “Peril, I know we haven’t seen each other in a few too many days, but the nurses do come check on you every hour.”

Illya sighed, grimacing through the twinge of pain that shot through his abdomen, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips, “Not like that. Just lay. I am tired of being alone and afraid.” He opened his eyes to fix Napoleon with his best approximation of puppy dog eyes. That always got a laugh out of him.

Napoleon must not have been in a laughing mood, but his face softened. “Okay. I’ll come lay with you.”

Hospital beds were not built for two people, let alone two men as large as he and Napoleon were, but Illya couldn’t bring himself to care. It took a bit of arranging but eventually he settled with his head on Napoleon’s chest, bundled securely in his arms. He could hear the steady beat of Napoleon’s heart beneath his ear. He wanted to stay awake and listen, but he was exhausted and in pain and he hadn’t slept properly in days. They would have a lot to talk about in the morning. UNCLE would send him to a psychiatrist when he returned to New York, and he would have to divulge every little spark of pain, each minute burn of humiliation that happened to him in that loft. He would have to tell Napoleon, he owed him that much. But no one was asking him for that now. Now, he was safe and warm. 

He drifted off to the sound of Napoleon’s heartbeat into a deep, dreamless sleep.