Illya had always thought of himself as a fairly simple, uncomplicated person. He never spoke for effect or pretended to be something he wasn't, outside of the requirements of his job, that is. That he chose to keep himself to himself, not flaunt his emotions, and rarely, if ever, went on dates, well, that was just common sense for a spy, wasn't it?
He shifted slightly, pleased as he managed not to utter the hiss of pain that threatened to spill out of his mouth.
Napoleon, on the other hand, seemed far more complex to him. An odd mix of playboy and gallant with that necessary streak of coldness mixed in. Illya had heard one the female UNCLE agents, in a particularly poetic mood, describe Napoleon as like a diamond; so many different facets, and each one adding to the beauty and strength of the whole.
He glanced down at the stretch of blood beneath him. It looked black in the dim light, thick and still spreading, creeping over the rough flagstones.
Yes, Napoleon confused him. How could they be such truly different people and yet work alongside each other, work so closely together, with such seamless continuity? They could read each other when it mattered, that was the point, and yet Illya realised there was something of a mystery about him, something of a mystery about how he made him feel.
He wondered if it had been truly necessary for THRUSH to drug him and stab him in the side. Of course, he reflected, they probably hadn't intended stabbing him, that just sort of happened after he called the guard all those filthy Russian names. Still, what did they expect after pumping him full of their latest attempt at a truth serum, it's not like he was able to control his mouth at that point.
He hated being dependent on Napoleon like this. Having to wait to be rescued, being unable to assist himself. It was demeaning. It was also getting annoyingly frequent. Somehow whenever he fell into THRUSH's care they just couldn't resist banging him up a bit. Napoleon they seemed to treat like a god.
The cell seemed to be getting colder, and he could begin to feel racing, dancing shivers skipping over his skin. He took a deep breath, ashamed at the almost inaudible whimper he made. If Napoleon and the cavalry didn't arrive soon, he might not be awake to greet them, not to mention complain about them taking so long.
He wondered if it were arrogance on his part that presumed Napoleon was looking for him, or some sort of blind faith that told him he'd make it out of here with only another deep scar to add to his collection. It was folly to think yourself indestructible, just as it was to think death was around every corner. He'd known too many others perish unexpectedly, and had survived too many things that might have killed him to believe in anything other than how sometimes things just happen. It was all a part of racing close to the wind. But Napoleon would come, he knew this, he always had before.
The drug they'd given him was beginning to get on his nerves. It reminded him in some ways of the various concoctions that had been doing the rounds at Cambridge when he'd been there. Not exactly unpleasant but enough for him to lose control somewhat, for his normally ordered mind to run off on tangents and his imagination to flare up in wholly unexpected ways.
Napoleon had asked him once if he ever thought of quitting. It had been after the Mother Fear debacle, while his back was being stitched up, and the doctor was promising he'd have another set of deep permanent scars. He'd frowned at the question and answered shortly, "no." He'd seen the confusion on Napoleon's face at this, he just couldn't understand that for some quitting was never even an option, even though Illya doubted Napoleon would ever quit himself. Perhaps when Napoleon found him, he'd try to explain it.
He could hear voices down the hall. Low whispered voices that never the less echoed loudly off the bare stonework. He tried to make out the words but the buzz in his head was getting too much.
Bright light spilled in as the door was flung open, and he screwed shut his eyes automatically.
"This can't be the main guest suite."
He glanced up at Napoleon's voice and heard the door slam shut again.
"Illya? How bad?"
He smiled up at his friend, taking in the manacles that bound his wrists. "You did take your time in getting here, Napoleon."
Napoleon knelt, lifting his shirt and prying it away from the wound.
"Of course if you could have gotten here without getting captured, I wouldn't have minded waiting a little longer." He hissed as he felt Napoleon prod at the wound.
"Sorry, the bad guys had other ideas."
He giggled suddenly, then apologised. "Sorry, the drug they gave me still seems to be affecting me." He could hear the slur in his voice. "So dare I ask if there is any cavalry on the way?"
"Illya," Napoleon tutted as he pulled a button from his jacket that doubled as a small explosive. "Haven't you realised yet? I am the cavalry."
Napoleon stood and walked over to the door, affixing the button to the lock he stepped back as it sizzled for a moment then blew open. Dashing back to Illya, he hefted him to his feet, wrapping an arm firmly around his waist. "So," he asked, "What have you been doing while I've been running about trying to rescue you?"
"Just thinking," Illya smiled. "And waiting for you."
***