Archive of Our Own ^beta

         It was late morning when Illya resurfaced, thirsty and aching.

         His tongue felt too thick in his mouth. Light played off the beige walls.They were far removed from the dank, concrete walls of the other place. 

         Where, then? And why? 

         His sluggish mind supplied no answers. The inability to immediately translate stimuli into meaning grated on him, and made his heart rate pick up. Sweat spiked on his brow, and when he tried to raise a hand to brush it away he found that his wrists were bound to the bed. His ankles, too. He tried to lift his upper body to afford himself a better view, but the heavy leather strap across his chest prevented that. His breathing escalated as he began to struggle. The binds had limited slack, though the cuffs were padded. He was not meant to do damage to himself, then. He supposed he should have been grateful they weren’t steel manacles, but this was a different sort of captivity.

         The more he moved his hand, the more he felt the vein in his left hand burning. There was a needle there. He didn’t have to see it to know it. His eyes traced up the IV line, though he couldn’t see where it terminated. That explained why his mind and body were so slow, but he didn’t know what chemical was being fed directly into his veins. The thought made him tug harder, but without any real coordination. 

         “It’s alright,” someone said. The unfamiliar voice coupled with the hand that was placed on his thigh was the final straw.

         “ Nyet! ” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and the fear in his voice jumbled with the effects of whatever drug he was on created a foreign sound, utterly devoid of self or sense. He struggled even harder. 

         “You’re safe, Mr. Kuryakin. Please try to calm yourself.” 

         The pressure of the hand became more assertive, and the voice attached to it had raised in volume, but remained calm and entirely reasonable. For a moment, the man at his side had been someone else. Someone he didn’t think he’d ever escape.

         He’s dead, Illya reminded himself. 

         With his energy flagging, Illya’s breath hitched and he turned his head on his pillow to see the voice’s owner. His eyes were gray, and downturned at the corners. They appeared kind. He had white hair and a white beard. He sported a paunch. His mouth was a thin line, but that fact did nothing to detract from the friendliness of the smile that greeted Illya. 

         “ Gde? ” He rasped. 

         He gave a final, pitiful tug at the restraint on his left wrist as his unhealed wounds dogged him as well. He drew in a juddering breath, and translated himself on his exhalation.

         “Where?” 

         He searched the stranger’s face. The man nodded, and with a pat on Illya’s leg, he leaned back in his chair.

         “You’re safe,” he said with an understanding smile. “You’re-”

         “Where?!” Illya’s entire body tensed and pulled at the leather restraints before panting with the exertion and hating how scared he sounded. “Who are you?!”

         The man’s eyes narrowed, not in anger. Rather, they seemed to focus even more intently on Illya. Another figure stood -How long had he been there? -with his arms crossed. He cut an imposing figure, and he looked down at Illya with disapproval. Illya’s muscles tensed even more, and his eyes flashed a warning despite the fact these people could do anything to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. The thought made him want to both fight and scuttle away, but neither was a viable option. 

         “Everything okay? 

         “Everything’s fine, Paul.” 

         “I’ll be outside,” Paul said before casting another dubious look at Illya and disappearing out the door. Illya glared after him until the doctor spoke.

         “My name is Doctor Vaughn,” he said. He kept his tone slow, and careful as though he worried Illya would misunderstand. “This is a private facility in upstate New York. You suffered a mental breakdown after your rescue, after which Alexander Waverly had you brought here for your own safety.”

         Illya’s head swam. 

         He’d spent over a month denying he’d ever heard the name Alexander Waverly. Now here it was, casually stated. A fact. One of the people responsible for saving him. The person who put him here. 

         “You’re…” Illya trailed off. Vaughn was what? Lying? Playing a horrible joke? Crazy? 

         Illya swallowed and really regarded Vaughn, who looked down at him with what appeared to be earnest sympathy. Perhaps he was waiting for Illya to continue with that tack. Illya laid his head back on the pillow. Waverly wouldn’t betray him like this. No, there had to be a good reason.

         “Why?” he whispered.

         Vaughn nodded and scratched his chin as though he were pondering the parameters of Illya’s question. Illya opened his mouth to ask again -why was any of this happening? -but Vaughn laced his fingers in his lap and began to answer.

         “What you went through on your last mission -your imprisonment, torture, the loss of a younger agent -”

         Morgan, he thought.

         Illya closed his eyes and shook his head. The darkness did nothing to curb the disorientation. Or the guilt. He was surprised by his binds again when he tried to cover his ears. He groaned. He couldn’t prevent Vaughn from saying those things anymore than he could prevent himself from hearing them. 

         “-these things have left you compromised. Hurting.”

         Illya opened his eyes to meet Vaughn’s. There hadn’t been any condemnation or ire in Vaughn’s voice, but Illya flinched just the same. He was a broken thing to be fixed. A lump formed in Illya’s throat and he choked back the words ‘I’m fine.’ The ridiculousness of the thought didn’t escape him, even in his drugged state. A dark chuckle dredged its way out of him. It was a sludgy sound that in no way qualified as laughter. 

         “We want to help you process. To heal. We’ve been trying to stabilize you this past week...”

         Illya opened his mouth to insist he needed no such help, but fell silent when Vaughn’s words sunk in. A week?! That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be, could it? He’d been rescued, and returned to U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters, and then…

         “You were, understandably, having difficulty adjusting after your rescue. A few weeks afterward, you suffered a collapse of sorts. Do you remember?”

         Illya’s body went hot and he was certain he was going to be ill. There were patches of memory, but what led here? Illya swallowed his dread and remained silent.

         “It seems you had an episode, during which you broke a fellow agent's arm, and the nose of another,” Vaughn continued. 

         A tiny noise escaped Illya’s throat. He could remember that old, familiar loss of control; everything going red. But there had been something else, too. There hadn’t been just rage. There had also been fear, and the need to escape. That same hideous desperation was clawing at the edges of his consciousness now. The memory of crunching bone made his stomach roil. It was less the recollection of the sound than it was the memory of the force and unmitigated fear that had propelled his actions; the lack of control.

         “I understand spells like these, these dissociations, are not necessarily a new affliction for you.”

         There was no accusation in Vaughn’s voice, but Illya didn’t respond.Those spells rendered him dangerous. He knew that, but never against his fellow agents.

          Illya wanted to weep. He could have pulled in great, gasping breaths, but he clenched his jaws as though to keep his agony behind them. He dragged air in and out through his nose. He was aware of the pitiable sound it made. Tears stung his eyes. He swallowed hard and finally gasped for breath.

          “I cannot be here,” Illya said as his eyes searched Vaughn’s. He began to pull at the restraints again, though he knew full well they wouldn't give. He couldn’t help it. He dug his feet into the mattress to compensate for his upper body's lack of mobility. He strained against the strap across his chest. 

          “It’s okay, Mr. Kuryakin,” Vaughn said as he stood. He did so with the fluidity of a man many years his junior. He disappeared from the room for a moment, but returned shortly thereafter with Paul in tow. “I appreciate that this is difficult, but I promise we are here to help you. We’re not going to hurt you.”

           Illya caught sight of the syringe Paul had, and redoubled his efforts. He panted and cursed, not caring how crazed he might look; how dazed, and stupid, and ineffectual. Or how afraid. The restraints dug into his skin as he pulled. Vaughn advanced on him reciting calm, practiced assurances, the bulk of which were lost on Illya.

          “NO!”

           “Ssshhh, it's okay, Illya. It’s alright,” Vaughn said as he placed one hand on Illya’s left shoulder, and another on his left forearm. “You need the IV in for now. Paul is just giving you something to help you calm down. It’ll help. It”ll help.”

            Paul loomed somewhere out of Illya’s line of sight, and Illya could hear similar, less sincere assuagements from him. Vaughn patted Illya’s shoulder. It was difficult to say if there was any condescension in the gesture, but the audacity of the gentleness made Illya wild with mistrust and the need to be free. The muscles and blood vessels in Illya’s neck and throat stood out in alarming relief as he continued to lunge, pull, and twist to try to see Paul. 

            “Do not touch me!” he snapped as his attention shifted between the two men. “No! No!”

             It was too late. 

Paul walked back into his field of vision. A cold burn crept through his veins, the source of which was stealing what remained of his senses. He willed himself to keep fighting, but thought did not translate to action. The forcefulness of his resistance ebbed, and the sound of his own erratic breathing filled his ears. 

              This isn't fair, he wanted to say as he felt his muscles go lax. The frown on Vaughn’s face told Illya that he would sympathize. Paul and Vaughn gently moved Illya’s limbs so that they were not bent uncomfortably.

             “Nuh…” Illya mumbled. The shapelessness of the word ignited something in Illya, but it was snuffed out as quickly as it sparked. His world tilted and blurred.

             “Rest,” Vaughn said. “This will pass.”