Tears

"Ah well, excellent try, chaps. We'll reconvene tomorrow and have another go."

Waverley's voice, as it came through the phone, was as cheerfully polite as usual, but I tapped my finger against my leg and tried to breathe deeply. I needed to get out of there, as quickly as I could.

"Can't win 'em all," said Solo. "You two want a drink?"

"Sure," I heard Gaby say, as if she was a long way off, "but nothing too strong. Illya, do you want one, or do you want some tea instead?" She knows I don't like to drink.

"No," I said, willing my voice to be level. "I need some air."

With that, I walked out of Solo's room and down the stairs of the hotel, not caring that I nearly ran over a porter with a cart as I pushed my way toward the door and finally found myself outside, where the warm sun was beginning to set over Istanbul.

We failed. I failed. I was supposed to create a diversion so Solo could steal a set of plans, but it didn't work. They suspected. It was sheer luck that got us out of there without more injuries than Cowboy's superficial shoulder wound where a bullet grazed him.

I stood in front of the old hotel and tried not to think about what I could have done differently, but every time I shut out the sight of Gaby running for her life, my mind was crowded with images.

A small, locked room with one window. A bed with a thin gray blanket. A boy sitting on the edge of the bed, tensely listening, tapping his finger on his leg every time he hears the sound of a step, knowing that when the number reaches twenty-one, the door will open, and Alexei will enter.

"You stupid boy," he will snarl. "When will you learn? Mistakes earn punishment. Perfection is the only standard." And then the blows will start, one after the other, until the boy loses count in the middle of his tears.

You stupid boy, I said to myself. But now there is no one to punish me but myself.

"Illya," I heard a voice, and Gaby took her place on my left. Solo followed and stood on my right.

"What's the problem?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

"No problem, Peril," said the Cowboy, sipping his champagne. "We decided we needed some air too." They won't leave me alone, these two, not even when I deserve it. The three of us stood silently, watching until the sun disappeared and darkness filled the sky around us. Only then did the girl take my hand.

The boy in my memory is alone. No one touches him when he fails, except to hit him. And no one is kind to him when he cries. But the man on my right smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "Night, Kuryakin." And the girl held my hand all the way back to our room.

I don't think they saw the tears in my eyes.


A/N: This is based on Armie Hammer's own backstory for Illya. He said the Soviet government took him to train him when he was still a child because of his physical potential and that he was treated like an orphan and beaten and abused.