Title: Through Closed Windows
Author: Monker
Genre: General/tragedy
Rating: T (PG13) for mild violence and injury
Summery: No UNCLE agent is trained to complete a mission at the expense of innocent lives. That said, when he heard the cry for help, it was his duty to look back. So look back is precisely what he did, and he paid dearly for it. Illya centered, with a bit of Napoleon too. Not slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Man from UNCLE, or any of the recognizable characters, places, or situations described in this story. This is entirely a work of fiction created only for the amusement of myself and my fellow UNCLE fans. I do not profit any money for this story, only the occasional review or two.
Author's Note: This is my first try at writing UNCLE fanfiction. It came to me rather randomly and I opted to write it down instead of letting it slip away. I hadn't planned on posting it because I'm in the process of writing a different story right now and I didn't want to get distracted from it. But, I have decided that I rather like this story so far so I wanted to share it. But, since I want to focus on my other story, this one is going to have to come in second priority. I will still try to be pretty faithful to update it, but this is just a warning in case my postings become scarcer towards the end. Nevertheless, I intend to finish this story, so I won't leave you out to dry.
Anyway, now on to the story! Deep breath in…deep breath out…here we go!
What exactly had it been? Hmm…such a vital thing to remember, and now his mind was drawing a complete blank. Come on now…what was it? Then, finally, he remembered. It had been a number…42 to be exact. That's right! Now it was all coming back. He and his partner had successfully made it passed the guards and were in the process of running from the building when suddenly, he made the worst mistake of his life. He looked back.
It was an honest mistake. Anyone else would have made it. The bomb wasn't set to go off for another ten minutes; and…he could have sworn he heard a cry for help. Now of course, no UNCLE agent is trained to complete a mission at the expense of innocent lives. Maybe THRUSH could be so cruel, but the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement couldn't afford to sacrifice the peace of the average man for the sake of a mission. After all, it was that same sense of peace and stability that UNCLE strived and toiled so relentlessly to maintain for the innocent people of the world. That said, when he heard the cry for help, it was his duty to look back. So look back is precisely what he did, and he paid dearly for it.
He had slowed the speed of his race and turned to glance behind him. His eyes only had a matter of seconds to fall upon the main door of the structure. He just had enough time to register the final two digits of the building's address, 42. Then, he remembered the mammoth flash of light, the startling and extreme movement as the building exploded outward and upward…and that was the last thing Illya Kuryakin ever saw.
Thinking on it now, he was terribly remorseful that those trivial things had been the last his eyes ever beheld. Of course, he would prefer that he could go on seeing always. But if he absolutely had to lose his sight, he at least would have liked to have been looking at something he cared about for his last moments of sight. The door to that secret THRUSH laboratory, and the number 42 meant absolutely nothing to the Russian.
Why hadn't he just kept running? He was less likely to have been injured facing the opposite direction of the blast. But even then, if he had lost his sight, at least the last thing he would have seen would have been his partner and friend, Napoleon Solo, running just a few paces in front of him. Granted, he would have been staring at Napoleon's shoes most likely. But still, even those overpriced shoes meant more to Illya than the digits of some THRUSH hideout's address.
Illya sighed, frustrated, not for the first time, with himself. Now, the melancholy hum of his ceiling fan did nothing to lift the spirits of the injured UNCLE agent. He lay on his bed, in the quietness of his humble apartment, and stared deep into the blackness he now indwelt.
It was a different sort of darkness than he had been used to. It wasn't like the kind of darkness one gets just by closing one's eyes, because even then, one's eyes see the back of the lids. And even the darkness achieved by turning off the lights in a room without windows or doors wasn't quite as dark as this darkness. This blackness seemed to be so total. It was so…infinite. Where every other form of darkness is simply the absence of light, this darkness was the very absence of sight itself.
As Illya lay on his bed, he wondered what time it was. He sat up and was soon climbing out of his bed. He grabbed the stick-like cane from its place leaning against his nightstand and waved it in front of himself as he walked cautiously towards his window. Reaching out, the blonde haired man found his window and slipped his fingers through the blinds, feeling the glass on the other side. The window felt warm to the touch. 'It must be early morning,' the Russian thought, knowing that his bedroom window faced east.
The rumbling in his stomach confirmed the time of day. Illya did an about-face and made his way towards his kitchen. After a few moments, he had found all of the needed components for his breakfast and was soon making himself a simple meal of bread and milk. As he munched on his breakfast, Illya's mind turned back towards his boredom.
It had been two weeks since the explosion. Illya had spent the first week recuperating in the medical facilities of UNCLE. However, agitation over his newly found vulnerability and repressed emotions over his condition made him a very unpleasant patient. When the doctor suggested bed rest at home for Illya's remaining recuperation time, both the agent and his attending nurses all seemed relieved with the arrangement. So, for the past week, Illya had been sitting in his apartment, waiting for his wounds to heal.
His eyes had been damaged by some debris and the flesh around his eyes and down his right cheek had been badly burned. A wide sterile bandage had been wrapped around his eyes to hold the medicated gauze in place. Next week, Illya would revisit the doctors at medical, and his bandages would be removed. At that point, it would be determined whether or not his sight had been restored, and—more importantly to Illya—whether or not it still reached the standard of quality held by UNCLE so that he could get back to work.
But that wasn't for another week yet. Illya didn't know if he could stand one more week of doing nothing. Already, he had grown sick of hearing his own music records. No matter how smooth the jazz, it still gets old the hundredth time one hears it. For lack of anything better to do, he took to cleaning his sidearm on an average of three times a day. Ordinarily, whenever he needed time to rest after an injury, poisoning, or other near-death experience, he spent the time reading. He was fond of scientific and mathematical journals, occasionally turning to one of the classics when he craved good fiction. He also found particular satisfaction in poetry, especially works from poets who shared his native tongue of Russian. Obviously being unable to read, Illya took to other non-visual activities to amuse himself; like opening the window and listening to the birds, or his neighbors on the patio below. But those things were quick in losing their entertainment value. After two weeks of doing nothing, Illya Kuryakin was just about going insane.
Finally deciding that he couldn't take it anymore, Illya headed towards the bathroom, swinging his cane to and fro before him. It was only early morning. If he were quick in getting cleaned and dressed, he still had time to get to work.
To be continued...
There's chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it. This is my first attempt at writing for UNCLE, so feedback would be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be posted soon.
-Monker
