"There is something I can give you, Mr. Kuryakin! Something worth to die for, something simple, so simple; though out of reach for you... Something Uncle denies you..."
No.
"You're a traitor, Kuryakin, a repugnant traitor. This man trusted you. He asked for your help, and you shot him in cold blood. You're a traitor and a murderer."
No.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Achab!"
No.
"Something you've lost a long time ago."
No.
I can't move.
"Mr. Kuryakin? Illya?"
"A family, I could give you a family, an ordinary life, safety. You could marry, have children."
No.
Illya Kuryakin stiffened. All those voices were trying to throw him into a panic. At least, he knew for sure that he was a prisoner. His enemies wanted obviously to drive him mad.
No.
"Green! Her hair turned green!" He remembered this story, Mark's voice about someone's green hair. A girl. April. He remembered Napoleon's voice, Napoleon's hands. But it was a delusion.
Why can't I move?
Strong hands had grabbed his shoulders, and he hoped that they would pull him up, force him to snap out of this nightmare. They were holding him tight, providing him neither with help nor with relief.
A new voice – familiar? - was urging him relentlessly.
"Come on. Wake up, now!"
Was it reality? Was it a new delusion? Was it a scrap of memory from the past? A stocky silhouette stood in front of him, piercing and cold eyes looking him up and down with both suspicion and scorn. A stocky silhouette stood next to him, piercing eyes staring at him, urging him to react, to speak, to trust.
It hurt. The powerful hands were gripping him tighter and tighter.
"Come on, boy! Now!"
The voice was ruthless, the tone harsh. The man was accustomed to be obeyed.
"Sorry. I am sorry..."
The voice was soothing, gentle and grim. It sounded disheartened. The hands had released their grip.
No. Don't do that.
It was a gamble, a tricky one, but he had to take it.
He wasn't Achab any more.
Jules Cutter felt disheartened, and guilty. He had been about to shake the Russian like a rag doll. A rag doll? Yes, a limp, lifeless body who suddenly stiffened, stirred, tossing and turning, struggling desperately. Cutter rushed at the bed, restraining the blond man.
"Easy, easy! You're back. Take it easy!"
The body fell down, limp again. Cutter choke as his eyes met two blue – a liquid blue – ones, terrified, lost, peering around without focusing on anything.
"Kuryakin? Illya? Look at me!"
The face turned to him hesitantly. At least, he was hearing, at least, he was understanding. Pale parched lips half opened.
"Shhh... I am going to call the Doctor, and see at getting some ice."
No.
"No."
Was this a "No."? Jules Cutter bent over the night table and pressed the button.
"Do you recognize me? Illya? Hey, keep your eyes open! I won't let you..."
The room was soon full of people. The older man squeezed Illya Kuryakin's hand.
"I am going to announce that to Alexander Waverly, young man."
The parched lips quivered.
"Mr. Cutter, please!"
"Yes, Doctor. Wait, I think he wants to..."
The Doctor sighed.
"Mr. Cutter, we have to..."
The frowning Cutter didn't impress him.
"Mr. Kuryakin needs..."
Jules Cutter shrugged his shoulders, bending over the Russian.
"Illya? "
Cutter. Jules Cutter. So he was free. He was at home. They would take care of him. The parched lips whispered a word. A name. Jules Cutter nodded reassuringly.
"Mr. Cutter! Get out immediately!"
Relationship between an Uncle agent and his superior was simple, eventually, based on mutual respect, mutual trust, mutual regard, and... obedience. Alexander Waverly dealt with all the external factors, gave assignments, consulted, listened, decided.
The Old Man was Napoleon Solo's superior, and he was far more than that. It wasn't fondness, it wasn't affection, of course. Shameful, unwarranted feelings.
He had left Alexander Waverly with scarcely concealed anger, heading to their office in order to calm down. The Old Man had been intractable, inscrutable, cutting him short, not even harshly. Napoleon Solo had tried...
"You can't do that, sir. It would be gambling..."
Bushy eyebrows had hidden the blue eyes for a few seconds.
"I am not a gambler, Mr. Solo. It isn't a gamble, nor a calculated risk. You'll stand in for... Illya."
He hadn't added "Period.". Useless. No argument.
"You'll stand in for ... Illya." Waverly was sneaky, awfully sneaky. Napoleon Solo had to take over from the CEA, because he was qualified. Because he owed his friend that. Because giving up would be – Solo banged his fist on the desk – a desertion.
"... stand in for... Illya."
The fisherman leaned over the planking of the Janice III, thoughtfully. The lake, the sky the forest were beautiful, playing with the whole range of colors, from the darkest blue, green, violet, to the lightest ones. It was a peaceful place.
Yes, Mousehole was a safe harbor. Napoleon was right. Illya was alive, he'd survive. Napoleon's words had been optimistic, desperately optimistic. Mikey bit his lips. He didn't like it, though he could hardly say what he didn't like. The feeling was unpleasant.
Illya would need time, support, calm, but he'd be fine. The dark haired man's tone of conviction had been eagerly insistent.
"He needs you, Mikey. You're... you're his family."
Of course, he was. He remembered the young blond, pale man walking down the path, slowly, his jaws clenched, waiting – he had realized it later – for bullets to kill him.