Cowboys Invented Barbed Wire
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, then I don't own it.
A/N: For 2021 Whumptober #1 Barbed Wire
Illya pumps his long legs harder. He'd lost his hat a few blocks back but he pays it no mind as he focuses solely on his fleeing quarry. He had lost his gun in the initial fight when he pounced on the assassin as he'd been sighting in on his intended target. He ran on, unarmed. His country created him to be a human weapon.
He contorts his body to duck into a hole in the fence. The chase was growing tiresome; it needed to end. He leaps at his prey for the second time that night. They both go down, hard. The other man tries to escape the Russian's clutches but is impeded by the iron grip and the strings of metal they were both becoming more entangled with.
His enemy pulls out a handgun. Illya's motion is limited as well, trapped within the confines of the wire. It is wrapped around his upper torso and arms. Another man would be helpless, trapped, and under the gun. Instead, he pulls the danger closer. Wrapping his metal-barbed covered arms taunt around the other man's neck, using his red, dripping fingers to pull the wire tighter until the thrashing stops as life fled the body.
Illya flops back to the ground, energy spent after his long pursuit and fight. He pushes the dead body away as he attempts to stand. The pain of the barbed wire that he had ignored for the sake of the mission chose then to flare to life. Every nerve ending screaming together in protest. Blood from dozens of cuts drips into the dirt around him.
He tries to use his laser, but the wire is too close to his body. He suffers a few burns along with a multitude of cuts as he tries in vain to free himself. A wire springs up unpredictably, carving a furrow into his cheek, just under his eye. He struggles a moment longer, trying in vain to free himself. The barbs bite into his skin deeper as he becomes increasingly more entangled. To continue would cause more harm than good.
The trapped Russian tenses within his bindings as he hears footsteps approach. His partner stops before him, out of breath, but clutching his gun in one hand and Illya's fallen hat in the other.
The American studies the situation with a calculating look, "It seems Americans have something over Russians, after all."
"Russians are far superior to capitalist pigs," Illya shoots back, falling into the familiar rhythm of their banter. His body goes slack in his partner's presence, the wires loosening their tight hold ever so slightly.
"Cowboys invented barbed wire," Solo says with a shit-eating grin and proceeds to use his wire cutters to free his bloody partner. He moves painstakingly slow with the precision of a surgeon until the last wire is snipped.
"I am fine," Illya protests, ignoring the offered hand as he pushes himself to stand.
"What should we do with our friend here?" Solo asks, nudging the corpse with his foot.
"Leave him." Illya tries to brush some of the blood off his hands and arms but the pain of them rubbing against his dark pants quickly stops that action. Solo holds out his sweater without a word, still looking down at their target. The blond man reluctantly accepts the garment, cursing himself for not wearing his well-loved turtle neck. It would have offered more protection from the metal barbs and the dark color would have hidden the blood far better. He looks down at the damage, shocked at the large amount of red. He pulls the sweater over his head quickly, ignoring the Cowboy's concerned glance out of the corner of his eye. He hides the worst of the blood by thrusting his hands into his pockets with a wince. It would leave him at a disadvantage but it would be slight if a fight broke out. They needed stealth more than brute strength to make it back to the safe house. Bloody hands raised too many questions.
"We should go," The Russian needed to get somewhere private to deal with his pain.
"Perhaps I should make sure you won't leave a blood trail leading to our location first."
"They are not deep, just many." Solo stands, studying him for a moment before waving to the larger man to lead the way.
Illya clenches his teeth to avoid any sounds of pain escaping as he starts to lead the way to their safe house. He tries to hide his winces as he moves, but he can feel the eyes of his companion carefully watching him as he follows behind.
Once they secure the safe house, Illya heads straight for the bathroom. He shuts and locks the door as he strips himself of the shirt and borrowed sweater. The thick material of his pants had protected him from the bite of metal but his uncovered arms and vulnerable chest and back had felt its sting. His face and neck had thankfully avoided most of the damage. He swears softly under his breath as he places his stinging hands under the spray of water. As the blood begins to wash away, he takes in the extensive damage they had taken.
With a pained sigh, he wasn't sure where to start with addressing his many wounds. He fumbles with the bathroom cupboard to pull out UNCLE's well-stocked first aid kit. His cramping hands refuse to hold the bag and it drops to the floor with a soft thud. He stares at it in despair. His abused hands refusing to listen to his command.
He ignores the knocking at the door. The door opens with a snick and Solo walks in, pocketing his lock-picking tools. The American surveys the situation in a single glance. In one smooth motion, he takes the reluctant elbow, careful of the many weeping wounds, and swings the large Russian over to sit on the toilet as he uses his foot to hook the medical kit closer. He digs around for a moment before he produces a bottle. Solo is very liberal with the hydrogen peroxide he pours over the cuts.
"It would be easier to just fill the tub with the stuff," The American says with a lewd grin and a wink, "And just toss in your naked, red ass."
Illya grumbles half-heartedly, secretly glad for the distraction from the pulsing pain.
"This may sting," Solo dowses a cotton ball in antiseptic before quickly applying it to the many seeping cuts littering his partner's body. Illya tensed under his touch but remains still throughout the painful process.
The American, again, digs through the first aid kit until he finds what he's looking for. Twisting open the tube, he applies antiseptic cream onto each wound. Winding the gauze around the worst of the wounds until the Russian soon resembles a mummy.
"Can't have the Red Peril being taken out by barbed wire."
"It would be infection from cowboys' stupid invention, not wire itself."