Flopping down on his battered old sofa, Illya Kuryakin allowed his equally battered body to relax into the cushions. A two week assignment, followed by three days in medical, had left him feeling like one giant bruise. Just once, he thought to himself, I'm going to return home from an assignment without so much as a scratch. The word 'home' echoed around his mind, and it shocked him slightly to realise he was thinking it in English.
Sitting up, Illya took stock of the living room of his modest little apartment. There was just enough space in the room for a small table with two chairs, a sofa, an armchair, a bookshelf and his record player. He didn't yet have a television, but fully intended on getting one. He smiled to himself, wondering what his friends back in the Soviet Union would think of his 'wildly decadent' ways. Illya loved his homeland, and dearly wished to see Kiev again; yet at the same time, he wanted to stay in America.
He was relatively safe in his apartment. He was warm, and he was comfortable, but above all, he was alone. Everywhere Illya had lived before had been shared, and in Russia, he was also often monitored. If his government were to recall him, which could realistically happen at any time, he would probably try to resist. Illya was a proud Soviet citizen, but he'd grown used to his 'western indulgences'.
He stood up, and attempted to stretch the aches from his bruised body. Maybe Napoleon was correct in his assertion that he should stop goading his captors. To the Russian's way of thinking, it was his duty to protect the CEA, in whatever way possible. If that meant grabbing the attention of the aggressors, and taking a beating, then so be it. Illya made his way to his tiny bathroom, which could only be reached by going through the bedroom, and ran himself a bath. As the tub filled with hot water, another luxury he had become all too fond of, Illya stripped and examined the multi-coloured marks adorning his torso.
As he assessed the damage, his eyes were drawn to the pale yellow tattoo, which sat just above his left hip. Illya had had the hammer and sickle symbol applied just before leaving his homeland. He'd wanted a permanent representation of his nationality, so that he wouldn't forget who he was. Not that he ever could. There were plenty of Americans who were more than happy to keep telling him. Illya had foregone the red background, wanting the tattoo to be there, but not too obtrusive. The ink had been a much brighter yellow when it had originally been done, but time had faded it; just as time had faded his communist beliefs. For the most part, he still held those beliefs, but had decided that a little capitalism was no bad thing either. The thought struck him that, if he were to return, he could easily be seen as a subversive. His new ideas, and way of thinking, would be seen as dangerous.
He wasn't going to worry about that now. For this moment in time, Illya was going to enjoy a steaming hot bath, and think about what home meant. To him it meant peace and solitude, and a place he could enjoy music and literature without worrying that he was breaking the rules. However, it also meant the place he came from, and as he slid into the water he made a mental note to get the colour in his tattoo touched up.
They say home is where the heart is. Illya Kuryakin's heart was in two pieces, but it wasn't broken and it wasn't torn. He was one of the lucky ones who could call more than one place home.