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“Again?” Solo asks. The defeat in his voice makes the three of them freeze, Illya especially, who recognizes that tone: it’s the same defeat that had been in Solo’s voice when he was talking to his old handler back in that men’s room in West Berlin, before he realized Illya was there. “You people have stamina, I’ll give you that.”
Then Illya actually sees the scene before him, and a familiar rage begins to rise in his throat. Solo on a bed, nude except for a blindfold, tied spread-eagle to the bedposts. Bruises on Solo’s hips, his inner thighs, his face, his throat. Stains on the bed sheets. Red eclipses Illya’s vision.
A shaking hand touches his. Gaby. He looks away from Solo. She’s more furious than he’s ever seen her. “Go,” she whispers. “Find whoever did this, and destroy them. We’ll make sure he’s safe.”
He goes, thankful to have an outlet for his rage.
“Gaby?” Solo gasps after she tells Illya to go. “Is that…”
“It’s us, liebling,” she says, and he lets out a sound of relief, almost a sob. She carefully approaches the bed, keeping her footfalls loud so Solo can track her movements. The closer she gets, the more he trembles, although it’s obvious he’s trying to quell it.
“Oh thank god,” he whispers, so quietly she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to hear it. Gaby wants to throw up, wants to run, wants to lose control like Illya – but Solo needs her. She has to keep her shit together for him, at least until he’s safe. Then she can drink herself into oblivion.
She glances over her shoulder at Waverly, wishing they hadn’t brought him on this rescue mission. He had insisted, though. He’s frozen, pale, fury and heartbreak warring on his face. When their eyes meet, he jolts and swings his pack off his back. He’s the one with spare clothing for Solo. They figured they might need it, but not for a situation like this.
Once she reaches the edge of the bed, she swallows and asks, “Do you want me to deal with the blindfold or the ropes first?” Up close, she can see that the cloth blindfold is wet, like it’s collected tears or worse.
“Ropes,” he says, before she’s even able to finish the question. She pulls a knife from her belt, and the sharp sound of it unsheathing makes Solo gasp. She slices through the ropes as quickly as she can, thankful that Illya had her sharpen this blade a few days ago.
The moment he’s free, Solo pushes himself into a sitting position, even when the movement elicits a pained grimace, and pulls his legs up against his chest, covering himself. He’s trembling so badly it looks like he’s about to shake apart. A few moments later, he lifts his hands to untie the blindfold. When it falls away, Gaby sees how red and puffy Solo’s eyelids are.
“Solo…” she says, feeling completely helpless.
“Don’t,” he rasps out.
Waverly approaches, footsteps slow and loud. Solo looks up and watches him approach with wary eyes. When Waverly holds out the stack of clothing – sweatpants and a t-shirt and underwear, simple and comfortable clothes they chose in case Solo was injured – Solo takes them with a small nod.
He dresses slowly and jerkily, grimacing the entire time, and when he finally stands, he hunches over, holding one arm over his lower belly, hand clenched into a fist. He takes a slow, shuffling step away from the bed, and then another.
“Let’s find Peril and get out of here,” Solo grits out, voice rough like his throat is sore. Like… Gaby shudders.
“Let’s,” she agrees, and leads the way out.
Illya is standing by the door to the house, blood hastily wiped from his hands and face. Gaby nods at him, like she’s proud. She doesn’t like his propensity for violence, but in this case, he thinks she’s fine with it. More than fine. Solo is dressed but barefoot, moving as slowly and stiffly as an old man.
“I’ll pull the car around,” Gaby says, before heading out, shoulders square and stiff.
It would be one thing to have rescued Solo and learn later that he had been assaulted. That would be one kind of pain. This is something else, something so much worse, because Solo didn’t get to reveal it when he was comfortable enough to. They all saw. There’s no going back from that. Illya has to resist the urge to pull Solo into his arms, to give his friend some kind of comfort.
Soon Gaby is back with the car, and Illya gestures for Solo to take the front seat. The back is small, and it will be cramped with Waverly and Illya, but it would be more cramped were Solo back there. Right now, Illya is pretty damn sure Solo needs the space more.
“Do you need medical attention?” Waverly asks from the back of the car, and the three of them hold their breath waiting for Solo to answer. Finally, he gives a small, tight nod. Illya grabs the door handle so hard it creaks.
Thankfully, Waverly has a physician in town on UNCLE’s payroll, so they drive to her house, Waverly’s voice as he gives Gaby directions the only thing to break the silence. In between directions, Waverly explains that there will be no medical records, and assures them that this doctor, Leah Kaplan, isn’t the judgmental type. He doesn’t have to say it, but they all know what he means: this doctor isn’t like most of society, who believe men can’t be raped.
Illya has been in the espionage game long enough to know better. It’s a tool of degradation, of power, and it’s even more effective against men because of society’s beliefs. He hates that they have to avoid a real hospital because Solo could be reported for sodomy. He hates that Waverly has to assure them of this doctor’s open-mindedness. Truthfully, there’s nothing Illya doesn’t hate about this situation. Red creeps into the corners of his vision, and he just tries to breathe through it.
Dr. Kaplan ushers the four of them into her house, not even complaining at the late hour, though she does give Waverly a look. Then she sees Solo, and her lips thin.
“Mr. Solo here is in need of treatment,” Waverly says, like it isn’t obvious.
“I have a spare room we can use,” Kaplan says, but Solo freezes, eyes going wide and white, color draining out of his face. He reaches out blindly and finds Gaby’s wrist. He doesn’t touch her often, and it’s a shock that he initiated the contact.
Solo swallows compulsively a few times, like he’s trying to keep himself from being sick, before he speaks. “I’d like someone to stay with me,” he says tightly, firmly, and suddenly Gaby understands. He doesn’t want to be alone with a stranger in that stranger’s bedroom. And while Gaby certainly isn’t the most intimidating of the team, she does have a gun. She won’t need to use it, not if Waverly is right about this doctor, but if it makes Solo feel safe…
“Of course,” Kaplan says easily. “It’s down the hall, last door on the right. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Once Gaby and Solo are in the spare room, Solo eases himself down onto the bed, not looking at her. “Sorry for dragging you in,” he begins.
“Don’t,” Gaby says, stopping him. She stands in front of him and holds out her hands, which he takes after a moment of hesitation. “I get it. Illya would lose it, and Waverly’s our boss.”
“Thank you,” Solo says quietly, and then the door opens as Kaplan steps in with her doctor’s bag. She sits in a rolling chair that she brings close to the bed, and Gaby reluctantly lets go of one of Solo’s hands so she can step to the side.
After several moments of silence, Kaplan gently says, “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.” Solo looks away, pressing his lips together tight. “I can’t treat you if I don’t know what to treat.”
“Can’t you tell?” Solo snaps. “I – I was – and I’m bleeding from…” He waves his free hand over his crotch, while the other squeezes Gaby’s hand so tight it hurts. It’s almost physically painful, listening to the silver-tongued Solo stumble over his words, trying to explain his violation to this stranger.
Kaplan seems to understand enough of what Solo means, though, and her face goes soft. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll need you to take your pants and underwear off and lie back so I can examine you.”
Solo swallows heavily, face going white again as his breathing picks up. Gaby squeezes his hand tight, and that’s enough to break him out of his panic. It still takes several minutes, but eventually Solo does as she says, movements jerky as he undresses. When he lies down, Gaby sits on the bed as well, right by his head. She keeps her eyes on Solo’s shoulder as the doctor begins to work, asking Solo’s permission before she acts, letting him set the pace of the exam.
He needs stitches, and when Kaplan starts on them, Solo clenches his eyes shut and turns his head to press it against Gaby’s thigh. A tear leaks out of Solo’s eye, and it breaks Gaby’s heart. She cautiously reaches out to brush it away, then the next tear that follows, and his wet lashes flutter open to look up at her. He nods before closing his eyes again, and she takes that as the permission it is to stroke his hair, to wipe his tears, to provide any comfort she can.
Every pained noise that emerges from behind Solo’s clenched teeth stokes the fiery rage growing in Gaby’s gut, and even knowing that Illya likely tore Solo’s attackers limb from limb doesn’t help. Part of that rage is directed at herself, for letting Solo get captured, for not finding him sooner.
After what feels like an eternity, Kaplan leans back in her chair and says, “All done.” Solo immediately sits up to put his clothes to right, then wipes his face dry. As he does, Kaplan pulls out a prescription pad and writes two prescriptions. When she hands them to Solo, she says, “Antibiotics and pain medication. Get them filled in the morning.”
Solo nods and tucks the papers into the pocket of his sweatpants. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“And I’d recommend some tea with honey for your throat,” Kaplan adds with a small smile. “Goodnight, Mr. Solo.”
When they arrive at the safehouse, Solo is obviously fading, even though he’s doing his best to stay awake. Illya stays close as they head inside, and when Solo heads straight to the bathroom, Illya follows unthinkingly. He stops midway through the doorway as he realizes how inappropriate this would be on a normal night, never mind tonight. He turns to go.
“Wait,” Solo says, making Illya turn to face Solo again, even though he isn’t looking at Illya. “Stay. Please, just… stay.”
“Okay,” Illya says easily. He closes the door behind him and crosses the small room to sit down on the closed toilet seat lid. He stares at the wall as Solo undresses, twitching at every suppressed sound of pain he hears. The faucet begins running, thunderingly-loud in the silent bathroom. He breathes deeply, counts backward from one hundred, does every mental trick he’s ever been taught, because he needs above all else to stay calm. It’s the least Solo deserves.
There’s the slop of water and another small, pained sound as Solo settles into the tub, and a few moments later the faucet turns off. The ensuing ringing silence is broken when Solo shifts and asks, quietly, “Will you… Could you wash my hair?”
Illya’s head whips around, staring at Solo, but Solo is staring ahead. The question hangs between them. They’ve never done anything like this before, but then again, they’ve never been in this situation before. And Illya can’t refuse Solo this comfort, not now – and, he’s realizing, not ever.
“I can do that,” Illya says, standing to cross the small room. He snags Solo’s shampoo and conditioner from his toiletry bag as he passes the counter. He sets them down next to him as he kneels, then rolls his sleeves up, thankful he washed the blood of Solo’s attackers from his skin back at the doctor’s house.
“Close your eyes,” Illya says as he cups his hands and fills them with water to wet Solo’s hair.
Solo lets out a small, cracked laugh. “All things considered, I’d rather keep them open.” Illya remembers the blindfold.
He wets Solo’s hair and then begins working shampoo through it, only speaking to ask Solo to tip his head back so the suds don’t get in his eyes. Working the sweat and pomade out of Solo’s hair is more soothing than Illya had expected, and he feels his breathing even out for the first time since they found Solo.
“I’d been meaning to ask,” Solo says, and it would sound casual except for the way his voice is trembling. “My… captors. Did you…”
“I took care of them. They will not hurt you again,” Illya promises, rinsing the shampoo from Solo’s hair.
Solo blows out a long breath and squeezes his eyes shut. His jaw trembles before it clenches, and Illya pulls Solo close against his chest, one arm around Solo’s shoulders and the other on the side of his head, uncaring that Solo immediately soaks his shirt. Solo doesn’t even freeze, just relaxes into the embrace.
“We have you now, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, and Solo’s hand comes up to grip Illya’s arm, keeping him exactly where he is, as if Illya would even think of moving away right now, especially when Solo begins trembling. Illya just holds his friend close, breathes in the scent of his shampoo, and does his best to be the rock Solo can cling to as he shakes apart.
When Alexander returns to the safehouse, Kuryakin and Teller are in the sitting room, silent. He confirms Solo is in his room, then heads to the kitchenette to fill a glass of water. There’s a bottle of scotch in the cabinet that Solo had procured at some point, and Alexander looks at it for a long time. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now.
He takes the glass of water and paper bag of prescriptions and knocks on Solo’s door. A few moments later, Solo opens the door, eyes wary. The bruises on his face are even more stark in this light, and Alexander’s stomach twists.
“I found a chemist that was still open while you were bathing,” he says quietly, holding up the prescription bag and the glass of water. “May I come in?”
For a moment, Alexander can see the dread on Solo’s face before he hides it away. He takes the bag and glass and steps back to let Alexander in.
As Solo takes the pills, Alexander leans back against the wall, near the door. It puts plenty of space between them. It’s obvious from the way Solo’s hands shake as he opens the bottle of opioids that he’s in so much pain he’s actually looking forward to pain medication for once.
Once Solo has emptied the glass of water, he looks briefly at Alexander before bracing himself, like he thinks he knows what Alexander is about to say. He can’t stand Solo and Kuryakin’s former handlers, and this just makes him dislike Adrian Sanders even more.
“You know I was in the Royal Navy during the war,” Alexander begins, and Solo nods, face suddenly unsure. Of course, he knows a good deal more than that; Alexander is the one who saw him on the security cameras breaking into UNCLE’s Records department days after it was created in order to read the files on his new teammates and handler.
The memory makes Alexander chuckle. “I suspect you know quite a good deal about my service. But it’s what isn’t in my file that is relevant tonight. During my last SBS operation, I was taken prisoner. I spent several months as a prisoner of war in occupied Greece, and during that time…” He takes his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose. “It never gets easy to say, I’m afraid. There was a soldier who… took a liking to me, and he assaulted me like you were today.”
Solo’s eyes go wide and his face pales.
The memories threaten Alexander for a moment, and his jaw clenches. Then he shakes his head. “You needn’t worry what I may do with this knowledge,” he says. “I will not punish you for surviving what you did today. And, if you ever need anything, be it a helping hand or an ear to listen, my door is always open to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Solo says, voice raw. It sounds painful, and Alexander hopes those opioids begin to help soon. “How did you… keep going after?”
Alexander sighs. “Opium and alcohol. Which I do not in any way recommend. Having people who cared for me helped a great deal, when I wasn’t shutting them out.” He gives the closed door a significant glance.
Solo just nods at that.
“You deserved to know that you aren’t alone in this, my dear boy,” Alexander says. He reaches out, then pauses; when Solo nods again, Alexander squeezes his shoulder before letting his hand fall away.
At long last, the night is over, and all Napoleon has left to do is climb in bed. And he can’t do it. He stands a few feet away, staring at it like it might bite him if he gets too close. Bile rises in his throat.
A knock on the door saves him, and he opens it to see Illya and Gaby. “Waverly said you might want to see us,” Gaby says. She isn’t wrong, even though Napoleon hadn’t asked Waverly to say anything. He lets them in.
He knows what he wants, but not how to ask for it.
All the way back in Istanbul, Illya and Napoleon had shared a room, which meant Illya got a front-row seat to the worst of Napoleon’s post-electric chair nightmares and flashbacks. After a particularly bad nightmare had left Napoleon near tears, Illya had crawled into bed with him. They didn’t do more than sleep next to each other, but it had helped, and they ended up sharing a bed for the rest of the mission – and, occasionally, on ensuing ones, whenever Illya sensed that Napoleon needed it. Napoleon had never needed to ask for it. Today has probably permanently ended that; there’s no way Illya will ever just climb into bed with Napoleon without asking now.
He can’t look at either of them when he begins, “I’ve asked a lot of you two tonight, I know, but…” His courage has been running on fumes for hours, and it gives out now; he can’t finish the question.
The two of them exchange a look, and Illya steps close. Napoleon is sure any other time he’d be furious at how carefully they’re treating him, but faced with the prospect of trying to sleep alone, he’s craving more of the gentle care they’ve both shown since they rescued him.
“Do you want us to stay, Cowboy?” Illya asks. Thank god for Illya’s uncanny perceptiveness. Napoleon just nods.
“There’s only one bed,” Gaby says unsurely as she approaches Napoleon. “Can you…”
“Yes,” Napoleon says. It’s not like his attackers had lain down with him after. “Not that we’ll all fit.”
Illya shrugs. “Armchairs in the sitting room are comfortable enough. I will bring one in. Better option than sleeping on floor. If that’s alright?”
Napoleon nods, shoulders slumping in relief that they’ve figured it out. Illya heads out, and Gaby gestures Napoleon toward the bed. Now, it doesn’t seem so intimidating. He gets in on the far side from the door, so he’ll have both Illya and Gaby between him and the rest of the world, and since he sleeps on his side, that means he won’t have to sleep with his back to either of them. He curls up under the blankets and watches Gaby follow him. She’d never been part of this routine, but she slots in easily.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a cuddler,” Gaby says, lying on her back. “I don’t tend to move much in bed once I’m out.”
Napoleon breathes carefully, pushing back sudden, grateful tears, and just nods.
Illya returns a few moments later, having liberated an armchair and the blanket from his own bed. He sets it down, angled so he can watch the door and the bed, and settles into it.
Despite wanting this, Napoleon had thought it might make it more difficult to fall asleep, but it’s the opposite. Between the pain medication and the exhausting nature of the day, Napoleon is weary beyond words, and soon his eyelids are too heavy to keep open. He falls asleep knowing his teammates are guarding him. And when the inevitable nightmares come, they console him, holding him when he asks for it, reminding him again and again that it’s over, that he’s safe, and that he isn’t alone – and if his team has their way, he will never be alone again.