Disclaimer: I don't own The Man from U.N.C.L.E. I think it's a fantastic movie, and I bet the TV show was really cool! But yeah, I don't own either. ^_~
A/N: Katie is Illya and Gaby's daughter, and she's fourteen here! Decided to try writing teenage!Katie. Also, the POV is 3rd person, but it drifts in this one. Whoops!
Hold My Head Up High
The car was quiet except for the angry hum of the engine as Gaby pushed the vehicle to go faster, ignoring the speed limit as they passed through the city. There was a shared, identical tension between mother and daughter, a fear that neither of them wanted to acknowledge but lingered anyways.
Katie pressed her fingernails into the soft leather of the rental as the car powered around a curve, and her shoulder hit the door. She let her head follow the momentum until her forehead touched the cool glass of the window. Dirty curls got in her face, but she didn't brush them away. She needed a shower.
She didn't care.
Neither of them had really gotten any sleep during the flight to Rio de Janeiro from their current safehouse in Liverpool. The phone call that they both dreaded for years had finally come from this faraway South American city.
There's no easy way to say this…Illya was shot during the mission, and we're at a hospital. I won't lie, it doesn't look good, Gaby… I don't mean to scare you and Kat, but I think you should come as soon as you can.
They had been on the next plane to Rio, Katie curled up against her mom as Gaby combed her fingers through her daughter's hair, whispering a mix of German and Russian to her, calming and constant. The car had been waiting for them at the airport along with a driver, but Gaby knew this city and she had booted the driver. She needed the distraction and comfort of driving, of being in control.
Neither of them had cried yet, but Katie could feel the hot pressure of tears behind her eyes, kept at bay only by a show of willpower.
Gaby reached over and rested her hand briefly on Katie's leg, trying to silently encourage her. Katie's hand, with its chipped nail polish and gnawed cuticles, grabbed hers and held tight.
There were a lot of things they both wanted to say to each other. Gaby wanted to tell her daughter that everything would be fine, that of course Illya would be all right, that he would probably be awake when they got there. He would yell at them for coming and potentially putting themselves in danger, and he would fuss about them worrying over him for nothing since, according to him, it was just a gunshot wound.
Katie wanted to smile like nothing was wrong since obviously her papa was tougher than any bullet. She wanted to joke that her papa was made in Russian, and that Russians were forged from iron and bear bones and the tears of weaker men, not born, so they didn't die. Dying was not the Russian way.
But neither of them could force those empty reassurances.
They stayed silent, holding onto each other, only separating for a moment when they parked in the dimly lit hospital car lot. Gaby jumped out of the car, not bothering to lock it, and Katie dashed around the front before grabbing her hand again.
They hurried to the hospital entrance, bypassing the half-full waiting room with its crying babies and upset adults and the information desk with the tired staff, instead going straight for the elevator. Solo had left a room number as well a phone number to reach him at, but they weren't bothering with calling for him. Katie watched the numbers climb as the elevator rose, that tension in her winding tighter. Beside her, Gaby was a live wire, ready to erupt with a deadly blast if anyone questioned where she and her daughter were going.
They got off on a floor with whitewashed walls and a cold pale tile floor with double doors and staff desk blocking them going any further. Gaby moved forward toward the desk, Katie at her side, both of them exhausted and raw and desperate.
"We're here to see Illya Petrovich," Gaby said, giving the fake last name that Illya was supposed to be using. When the nurse squinted back at her, sympathetic but confused, she realized that she hadn't bothered to use Spanish or Portuguese, though she only knew a smattering of both.
Katie, on the other hand, was fluent in Spanish. "Please, we need to go to Illya Petrovich's room," she said, leaning against the desk, exhaustion and restrained fear in her expression. "Please, he's my papa, we have to see him."
"Gaby?"
Both of them turned at the familiar voice, spoken from the doorway of a waiting room that neither of them had bothered to notice. Solo looked like he had aged a decade. His jacket was nowhere to be found, and his dress shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn't changed it in a day or so. He probably hadn't. His normally coiffed hair was messy, the style destroyed by raking his fingers through it multiple times.
Seeing her uncle ripped that last frayed strand of Katie's will. Maybe it was just finding a familiar face in this city or that now someone was there who could be strong for her mother besides herself. Either way, at the sight of him, the tears that were threatening finally spilled and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to hide them.
A moment later, strong arms wrapped around her, and she was enveloped in the smell of expensive cologne and mints. "Hey there, Katie girl. Shh." She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head, and in turn, she hid her face in his shirt.
Gaby stood to the side, letting Solo comfort her daughter, until she was pulled into the hug as well. She looped one arm around him and the other around Katie, and for a moment, she let her head rest against his shoulder. He was more than a friend to them. Solo was family at this point, more so than anyone else in the world.
As they stepped apart, she squeezed his arm, knowing it would have been hard on him to be alone. At least she and Katie had each other.
Solo reached out and gently brushed away some of Katie's tears with his thumb. "Sorry, I've misplaced my handkerchief."
"It's okay," she said, running the back of her hand over her cheeks, getting rid of the evidence of being weak.
"How is he?" Gaby asked as Katie leaned against her, each with one arm around the other. The teenager needed sleep, but Gaby knew she wouldn't take even a cat nap until she heard something about her father.
"He's stable," Solo said, "It's been touch and go, but they think he'll pull through. He's just…he hasn't woken up since it happened." He looked at Gaby and gave her a weak smile. "But if anyone can boss him into waking up, it would be you, darling."
"Can we go see him?" Katie asked softly, vulnerable.
Solo glanced over at the nurses' station and then nodded. "It's technically not visiting hours but we've pulled a few strings, so they'll turn a blind eye." He looked at Katie for a long moment, as if silently debating something, and then he finally nodded. "Come on."