At this time of the day – he looked at his watch and frowned - , of the night, the corridors were deserted. He sighed, knowing that he would have to manage to find him on his own. From instinct, he stopped in front of a door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. Silence? Not really. Someone was there. He knew better than to knock, and pushed the door open, slowly, gradually. He was now in what looked to be a storeroom. Shelves, cardboard boxes. A narrow opening, on the left, gave way to another place. He carefully craned forward and froze in the doorway. A storeroom, again. Sitting on the floor, crouching down, precisely, the man he was looking for. Terrified, his face bathed with sweat, his damp locks sticking to his forehead.
He remembered a so similar scene! In the first years of their partnership, a drug-induced fear. He had felt so powerless.
His impassive, phlegmatic, unflinching, stoic, reticent, reserved young Russian partner, his face bathed with tears, his blue eyes wide open, was hugging a banister, then, snuggling beside a wall, trying to escape a mortal danger. Napoleon Solo had realized that he was the mortal danger.
He had seen him facing death, imperturbably. Facing his own partner, the young man was moaning, sobbing, whining, like a very young child, like a very young animal: abandoned, alone desperately frightened, hopeless. Eventually, he had curled in a shaking, crying ball, taking refuge in his own fear. It was heartbreaking. He had called for help, and made sure that his partner's privacy would be preserved. As much as possible.
And he had come back to his old self. Napoleon Solo had marveled at his disconcerting coolness. He had expected the young man to be embarrassed, uncomfortable. According to his usual behavior, to his standard of living, he had made such an exhibition of himself. The older agent had prepared himself for it. But Illya had been Illya again. They had been closer, anyway, from this moment.
Later, they had often argued about fear. Napoleon Solo and the war in Korea, Illya 's childhood in Russia, during the Second World War. Fear of failure, fear of danger, fear of death, fear of loss.
The young man wrapped his arms around his legs, his face bathed with sweat and tears. He was crying desperately. In an absolute silence, except for his panting breath. He was shivering, panic-stricken, but he didn't moan, he didn't whine. His blue eyes reflected fear, sadness, horror. An abandoned, alone, hopeless, frightened child.
Napoleon Solo cursed and ran to his friend. He knelt next to him, and hesitated one second, before doing what was obviously needed: he hugged his friend, tightly. The young Russian startled, but the older agent didn't give way. Illya was still sobbing, silently. However his arms slipped on his back, and his hands clung to his shoulders in a strong embrace. Napoleon Solo could hardly breathe, but he smiled and started to rock his friend gently. Such fear. Such despair
-Oh, God, you are alive...
Napoleon Solo opened his eyes. He lay down, leaning against his friend. Illya was hugging him tightly. They were not in the storeroom. He tried to look around, but a quivering hand stroke gently his forehead.
-Don't move. They'll find us soon, I promise you. Oh, God, you are alive...
He was. And everything would be okay.
