Work Header

ten and a half hospitals

Chapter Text


Illya felt sick as he hung his head listlessly onto his chest. He had been leaving a restaurant, late at night when he’d been knocked on the head. “Stupid, stupid Illya” he sighed to himself, he couldn’t have been this careless. Now, nobody would come get him, no partner to track his location, and by the time Headquarters had heard of his capture, he knew it would be too late. 

It was all this stupid, coming to America on an Affair from the London office, heck he hadn’t even been in America since that gunshot incident when he had to complete a simple courier mission, almost three months ago. It wasn’t even that ‘simple’, THRUSH had open fired on the group of civilians, including himself. He was lucky to survive. Three holidaymakers weren’t. 

His eyes were unfocusing and Illya guessed he was severely dehydrated, even thinking about the dinner yesterday night made him nauseous. As he breathed in the stale air in his tiny cell, the window in the top corner of his cell opened up to a world that was bleak and cloudy, grey and forlorn, like his fate.

Then he heard the abrupt sound of a hail of gunshots and his head snapped up with energy that he didn’t even know he had. He heard a loud rich voice shouting indiscernible voices  outside, banging on the door. He tried to get up, to see what was going on, but his hands were bound tightly behind his back, and his legs rope-tied to the chair legs. He did the only thing he could do and sat there, waiting, hoping that his saviour was coming 

The door opened with a loud bang and Illya fell to the floor, absorbing all the impact. The last conscious thought he had was of a man in an exorbitant suit, running inside and shaking his shoulders.




“I told him to move away!” the suited man muttered as he tried to rouse Illya lying on the dusty floor, his face ashen grey and strangely peaceful. The man’s face was set in a hard deadpan, as he assessed the agent on the floor; but his eyes and hands were both violently searching for any sign of life. As the suited man traced along the side of his chin, looking for a pulse, Illya flung his eyes open and the blue eyes looked at him with such intensity. Those iridescent blue eyes that he had last seen in a hospital back in Ohio. 

He'd been on an assignment which had lasted the whole week, as a newly upgraded section two agent, he'd been on a relatively simple courier. He'd looked forward to getting a few days of leave before returning to headquarters in New York.

Then Waverly called.

Told him there was an agent in a hospital nearby, Waverly incidentally happened to be in the same city, but Waverly wanted- needed some security before venturing out into a public space. That's all he was, a bodyguard for his superior. 

He was tired, sleepy, and didn't want to deal with anything and so he sat on one of the waiting chairs outside the room. As he was dozing off, he'd felt a tap on his shoulder. A nurse shooed him as she gestured to a whole family to sit in the chairs around him. He then had ambled the corridors, hoping he would meet anyone to talk to. 


The hospital was in pindrop silence apart from the rhythmic beeps the monitors gave out, proof that there was a pulse, a life. There was the occasional bustling nurse, or perhaps a doctor walking around, clipboard in hand. Most of the time, there was just his breathing and the sound of his painfully hard-soled shoes. Though they looked immaculate, they hurt like hell, and he just wanted to sit down and rest his feet. 

He'd walked his way into intensive care where Waverly stood, outside one the rooms.

There was only one order, and he had to follow it perfectly, "Stay."

and that's exactly what he did.

He blinked, and came back to reality and looked down at the unconscious agent in his hands. He slapped Illya once again, trying to open those blue eyes of his. He wasn't even disappointed when they didn't. He hoped they would.



"Thank god we got you out of there" Illya came to the British accented voice of Mark Slate rather than a American he'd heard in the hospital the last time... and the voice he thought he'd imagined in the cell. Illya opened his eyes to a slightly blurry white room, "ah yeah, about that, the doctors said the meds would make you feel a little muzzy."

Illya kept blinking as his eyes darted around the room, the same white room he'd gotten used to seeing over the months. Mark stood up next to him and then laid a soft hand on his own. "I thought I'd lost you for a moment there." He whispered, Illya leaned back, knowing he was safe again. But something inside him still wished for a pop of colour to burst into the white room, those rich brown eyes to reappear and that loud voice to fill the room with its rich baritone.

Mark looked down at the injured man on his left hand side, his eyelids slowly dragging themselves down and their sea of blue softly closing shut. Illya looked like a child when he was sleeping, his hair messy and floppy and a small smile playing on his red lips. 

He rubbed it once again and then got up, he'd better be getting back to April, they had an affair to complete.



"Hey Illya...T-thats your name right?" Illya heard, from somewhere in the river of inky blackness. A small, awkward voice, not the one he usually heard basking in confidence.

"I know you won't be hearing this, but I-uh," there it was, there the voice was again. Richer than hot chocolate, sweeter than honey, "I really hope you get better."  There was a small thud next to him, Illya presumed a box of chocolates had been put there. "I hope you like these.." there was a little chuckle, "I'm speaking to a sleeping man, I must be going crazy…" the voice paused, and Illya could almost see the gleam of the brown eyes…. "anywhooo, goodnight!" 


The door clicked shut.


Illya opened his eyes. 


there was only the white room. Nothing else.


He sunk back into the river.




The next morning, he woke up to the sweet smell of chocolates and hand sanitizer. No American boy though.

He turned over, didn't even bother reaching for a chocolate, the only thing he could think of when he saw the box, was just the deep brown of the eyes he thought he'd seen yesterday night.