"How long have you been here?"
"I want to see him, sir."
Alexander Waverly considered his agent, the drawn features, the shadows under the bloodshot eyes, the ruffled hair. He was exhausted, but the Old Man noticed the creased brow, the clenched jaws, the deep dimples framing the pursed lips. He tapped Napoleon Solo on his shoulder and left the room.
"You should get some rest, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin... He's fine." The Doctor averted his eyes, and cleared his throat. "He's asleep. It won't be any use your being there and..." As he met a cold, icy gaze, he froze. "Of course, if you prefer, you can..." He was pointing at the door.
The bedroom was deserted, all the staff was gone. Illya Kuryakin lay down on the bed, soundly asleep, apparently.
He was alive. At least, he thought he was. At least, he was able to think. Was he? Yes, probably, he was. First things first, he knew who he was, his name, his job. He remembered faces, names, voices, each of them reviving other memories.
So, he was alive. Eventually he had been trapped. The explosion had erupted, the whole world had collapsed around him, splinters of wood, of metal, shattered glass, flames, smoke. An endless fall. He had known he was about to die, but he hadn't lived through his lifetime again. One more legend.
He forced himself to concentrate. Thinking, eventually, wasn't easy. All he remembered was a feeling of emptiness, of failure, a feeling of incompletion. "He'll be mad at me." A stupid, useless thought, but it was the only one which had occurred to him. He was about to die, and he had thought that Napoleon would be mad at him. No so mad as he had been at himself, though. Then, he had crashed to something hard, dark cold. It had literally swallowed him, taking his breath away. He had felt lost, hopeless, and... dead.
Finally, he was alive. They had captured him, locked him somewhere, drugged, bound. He was alive, alone, powerless. Alone? Powerless? He smiled. At least, he thought he was smiling. "Napoleon's luck and my stubbornness...". Illya Kuryakin thought before he sank into the nothingness.
"Doctor, Doctor! He smiled. For one second, he was smiling!"
The Doctor went on checking the devices, pushing a button, adjusting the IV, changing doses. Napoleon Solo repeated harshly, more than he intended to.
"He smiled, Doctor. Do you understand? He smiled! He's coming back!"
The man's face was hopelessly sympathetic as he looked at the agent.
"It's a nervous wince, Mr Solo. A contraction. I am sorry, but it doesn't mean anything. I told.."
Napoleon Solo narrowed his eyes, taking two steps forward, cornering the Doctor next to the bed.
"But it could be a sign. You... you have no clue. He smiled. I know him. It wasn't a contraction, a wince, a tensing, whatever you want. He smiled. He's coming back."
The Doctor didn't look like to be impressed. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed mercilessly.
"We've avoided the worst, as I told you. As he's alive, I guess we can say that. But I reckon you remember... Now, if you please, Mr Solo?"
"We've avoided the worst" Yes, Napoleon Solo remembered. They were in Waverly's office. The Doctor had looked at the Old Man, then at him.
"He's in a very critical state."
Of course, he was. Napoleon Solo had seen him, as he was taken to the Medical. He knew the litany.
"This is difficult for me to say, but you have to know... You'd better prepare yourself."
One more time. Napoleon Solo had hold himself ready for anything. And it was a lie, he realized it at the moment. A part of him had believed, as usual, presumptuously, in his own luck, in Illya's stubbornness. The Doctor had gone on.
"We've avoided the worst."
Relief had flooded his mind but the smile had frozen on his lips when he had noticed the man's grim face. They had avoided the worst, as usual, and as usual, his partner would survive. So, what?
"You'd better prepare yourself."
What? What was he saying? The Doctor had desperately peeped at the Old Man. Alexander Waverly had ignored him.
"Mr Solo, as I told Mr Waverly, Mr Kuryakin will survive. It's kind of a miracle, but he will."
Napoleon Solo had hissed impatiently.
"So what?"
'He..." The man had peeped again at Alexander Waverly, vainly. "He... I am sorry. He won't be ... the same. The man he used to be."
The dark haired man had been taken aback.
"Wh...What?"
"The blast, the fall caused critical damages, some of them probably irreparable. He might be unable to walk, to... to use his hands. And..."
Napoleon Solo had hit his fist on the desk.
"And what? What else?"
"He has suffered oxygen deprivation, Mr Solo. His brain..."
The Doctor had looked miserable. Napoleon Solo had just asked, amazingly calm.
"You say... he'll survive?"
Alexander Waverly had bent forward, putting a fatherly hand on his agent's arm.
"He decided to breathe, Mr Solo. To breathe on his own. He could have given up, but he decided to survive."
The Doctor had discreetly shaken his head.
"We've avoided the worst..."
The Doctor had left the room. Napoleon Solo sat next to the bed, concentrated on his friend's face. He looked like to be asleep. According the Doctor, he was.
Keeping vigil over a wounded partner, over a dying one, they had done it. The dark haired man hesitated. Then he extended a shy hand, combing the locks on Illya's forehead.
"We've each other, Illya. Listen, and remember. Don't you dare leave me. We'll fix it. You'll be fine." He added softly. "We are family, Illya."
Family. Family? Familiar images occurred to him.
"I know a place, Illya. Do you hear me? I know a place. All you have to do is to come back."
Nothingness.
A blur of noise, a blur of light.
He lived through a strange movie, in slow motion. Things whirling around him, himself twirling round. Soft, smooth things. No more splinters, no more shattered glass.
Illya Kuryakin felt terrified.
He had learned as a kid how to deal with a lot of awful fears. As a young man, in the USSR, as an UNCLE agent, he had improved. Fear was salutary, as long as it didn't prevent you from acting. Fear kept you in reality, it gave you power. Fear of failing, fear of losing someone. Fear of...
Illya Kuryakin was terrified.
He felt safe, absolutely safe, and he was terrified.
He wasn't in a dark and damp Thrush cell. He was in a place in which nothing bad could happen, in which no one could harm him
He was terrified and that was a terror he couldn't fight against.
Once he had been like that, in the Uncle jail, deprived of words, ideas, feelings, hope. He had withdrawn into himself, shutting everything, shutting everyone, shutting himself out his own body, until he had been turned into a barely living, empty shell.
He had defeated terror. He had defeated the enemy.
He was terrified because there was no enemy. He felt safe, desperately safe. He didn't have to loose the restraints, for there were no restraints. He hadn't been drugged. They had just managed to spare him pain. They... His friends. Napoleon. Napoleon wasn't mad at him. He wouldn't have to come to rescue him, because he had, already. Napoleon... Napoleon was there.
Illya Kuryakin felt safe, loved, and he was terrified.
Illya's skin was strangely cool and dry. He wasn't feverish, he wasn't sweaty, just pale, paler than usual. Napoleon Solo let his fingers run along the cheek, slowly, watching closely the familiar face, looking for another smile. He grabbed gently his friend's chin, and bent over him, whispering.
"I am here, Illya. I am here, and you know I am. All you have to do is to come back. Now. The hell with that Doctor! You'll do well, I swear. I'll call Mikey, Illya. Mikey. And I'll take you to Mousehole."