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ten and a half hospitals

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Kuryakin came to a startling wake. He took a sharp deep breath and tried to take everything in. Behind his head was a soft pillow, a stark difference to the solid ground he’d known before this darkness. Around him, he could smell the strong, dominating smell of antiseptic and the monitors near him were beeping loudly.

“Kuryakin?” A man’s voice called out, rich and distinctly American. Kuryakin knew better than to respond and kept his eyes closed, the man could have been a THRUSH agent, or worse. He heard loud, hard footsteps walk down the room and a squeak signified the opening of a door. ‘How many steps was it?’ he wondered silently to himself, he was trying to remember the number of footsteps he’d heard as the man walked through. 

“....No no no, it was just his breathing, it spiked,” he could hear as the American voice spoke again, presumably to someone outside the room, “No I’m pretty sure he didn’t open his eyes, if he did I would have known… Yes yes, I was sitting right next to him Mr Waverly-”

As soon as Illya heard his boss’s name, he took another sharp breath in, now he was assured that he was either in a THRUSH trap to gain their trust, or in yet another UNCLE medical facility, and by the open use of Waverly’s name, he was sure it was the latter. The second breath registered quite obviously on the monitor screen and it began beeping loudly. 

He heard a quick turn of feet, then the door was closed and the room fell silent, once again. In his moment of solidarity, he opened his eyes, a hospital room. He’d seen the insides of one too many times, to know how it felt. The whiff of antiseptic now almost felt like a smell of his early childhood, and the external disembodied voices from the outside the room almost felt normal. 

As he heard voices approaching, he quickly closed his eyes and steadied his breathing once again. He hoped by being unresponsive, the identity of the American man, who had a voice as mellifluous as a bass, would be revealed. The door opened again, with the same creak as always and in came two voices. The same, hard soled American, and the soft footsteps of a voice who Illya recognised as Mr Waverly. So they were indeed in an UNCLE medical facility. 

“Sir, his breathing pattern seems to be fluctuating greatly, is he waking up or…” the american asked, his voice hung on an unsteady note. 

“It’s quite alright Mr Solo,” Illya heard Waverly’s voice, without a hint of expression,”The doctors have said that it’s either him waking up, or him having an allergic reaction to the medication.” 

“So … is he?” Solo asked, Illya sensed silence, as if the two men were trying to communicate without Illya hearing, and then the door opened. He gulped, he’d done it again, let anyone who was trying to help leave. It was so easy to leave rather than work with someone as difficult as him, most people never even tried to even come close to the icy Russian, and the ones who did, gave up trying to break away the wall of ice around him.

The door closed after a minute of hesitation, and Illya could once again hear breathing in the room. The same clunking steps walking to a chair, and dragging it closer to him. The rustle of a newspaper opening and folding. Illya’s heart raced, the agent had stayed. He didn’t know if it was by order or by choice, but he had stayed, without a fuss. He knew that most agents would never stay by a sleeping man’s side unless they wanted something from him, this one, he wasn’t too sure about. 

He decided to take a gamble and slowly lifted his eyelids, his eyes now blinking of the dryness, and fixed his gaze on the other agent. The man had dark brown hair, and a lock fell across his forehead. His eyes carried the same richness as his voice and were a chocolate brown, and in hand was a pencil, tapping his mouth. He was staring intently at the paper, scribbling things down at intervals. Illya raised himself on his elbows and felt a searing pain in his left abdomen, he opened his mouth, and tried to speak.

Bad idea.

The monitors around him started going wild and the only thing he managed was an intelligible croak, then he started coughing. The man dropped the paper on the ground and abruptly stood up, reaching for his glass of water. He walked towards Illya and gave a radiant smile, one that wasn’t translated to his eyes. Illya noticed that and then sunk back into the bed. 

“I’m sorry Mr Kuryakin,” Illya slightly winced as he heard the absolute butchering of his name, “We tried to get there as soon as possible, but we couldn’t stop the gunshot wound.” He said, in a sorry voice. Ah, so that’s what the pain was, a gunshot wound. 

“I hope you can understand…” Solo said, he noticed Illya’s expression of uncertainty, mis-translating that as a sign of mistrust and then gave him a polite smile, “Uh yes, a gunshot wound, rather close range, by a 16 caliber gun.”

The Russian did nothing but stayed quiet and just looked at Solo with wide eyes from the mattress. He was breathing deeply again and saw Solo’s discomfort deep inside his eyes. Illya couldn’t blame him, forced to stay here, keeping vigil over a man that he didn’t even know, keeping vigil of a man who couldn’t even keep him company. Illya couldn’t blame him, not at all, but he did. How could someone be so cruel, so fake to someone lying so pathetically in front of them? He closed his eyes, welling up with tears, and hoped that this man would go away, and that Illya wouldn’t have to see his face again. 

 

The next time he opened them, the man was lying asleep on the sofa, his legs sticking out. 

 

He’d stayed

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.

 

((0))

 

“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. 

Nobody.

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.



((0))

 

"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.

 

((0))



"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.

 

((0))

 

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.