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Gaby's hands are cool and soft, stroking his forehead and sifting lightly through his hair. It helps a little, but the pain is coming so hard and so fast that he can only lie in her lap and try not to wish he would die.
Solo is saying something over his head very quietly, and Illya can't make out the words; Solo is a clear speaker, and this means that his hearing has gone to match his blurry sight and nausea will be next. He needs to warn Gaby, but can't seem to move himself at all.
The retching is agonizing and sudden, and breakfast tastes terrible on the return, coffee searing up his nose in an acidic rush. Strong hands have helped to turn him on his side and a cool cloth is wiping his mouth. A waft of Solo's cologne sends more anguish and another heaving gush, and Gaby's voice scolds.
His body is completely limp. All that seems real is the pain, the sickening, throbbing, tearing pain. He'd rather be shot again. If he could speak, he'd be begging to be shot again.
He's being moved, roughly, and it’s all he can do not to moan out loud. Solo and Gaby are already worried, he can sense it. He won’t make it worse for them. His feet bang against something, and pain ricochets up his skin to his scalp. He does groan at that, and Gaby’s voice coos softly, a dove’s cry, different from her usual crisp disdain and smart sass.
When Solo picks him up, grunting with effort, Gaby’s hands stay with him, caressing his face sweetly. Solo heaves him over to the bed and drops him more than sets him down, but he forgives the jolt, since the level surface and lack of movement are such a relief. Gaby’s thigh is under his head, he thinks, and rough fingertips are stroking restlessly against his face. He’s cold, but can’t shiver, and flushes hot with chills. The strong hands that wrap a light cover around him are miraculous. The cold cloth over his eyes even more so, removing light and hurt.
Solo’s arguing quietly with Gaby about something, and her responses are heated. Illya knows it has to do with him, and he’s afraid that he’s jeopardizing the mission and they are angry.
“Ask him!” Gaby snaps, and he feels her recoil in guilt when he winces at the sharp sound.
Solo’s smooth tones replace hers. “Peril, do you have any medicine for this with you?”
“No,” Illya manages, gritting his teeth against the echoes of agony speaking causes. “Nothing helps. This happens before.”
The weight resting against his cheek is too big to be Gaby’s tiny paw. “Peril, have you ever tried lysergic acid? Or psilocybin?”
“No,” he replies. Something teases at his mind. “Yes.” The breath he sucks in hurts more than the memory. “KGB gives LSD in interrogation training.”
“They are experimenting with hallucinogenics to combat cluster headaches and migraines at Harvard,” Solo explains. “Do you want to try, Peril? I have some.”
He loathed the LSD training. Control is the most important thing he has been taught, indoctrinated with. Having his mind out of his own control happens often enough without seeing little purple Khruschevs dancing on wolves, but this pain is making him understand why people put guns to their own heads. It’s never been this bad before. A tear runs out from under his closed lids and catches in the washcloth.
“I will try. Yes. Please.”
“Solo!” Gaby hisses, and a short, furious fight in whispers takes place over his head, ending with the door closing quietly and Gaby’s fingers returning to tracing his face and chest in swirling, achingly gentle patterns. He’s wanted to feel her touch in just this way for so long, and he can’t even spare a moment of battling the pain to enjoy it. Her lips touch his head as lightly as a kitten’s whiskers, and he feels a splash of warm wet on his face.
“Gaby…” he begins, and her fingers lie across his lips. He wants to reassure her, but can’t assemble the words in a language she can understand. He kisses the trembling fingers gently, and she chokes back a gasp and snatches back her hand, returning to her methodical caresses. It helps, her restlessly moving fingers. He doesn’t think anyone has ever done this before, stroked his head when he’s in pain, not since he was a child.
The door opens and closes delicately, and Gaby sucks in an angry breath. “I have psilocybin tea,” Solo says. “Peril, do you still want to do this?”
Illya nods. It’s either this or ask Solo to pass him his gun. He hasn’t tried this stuff of Solo’s, but the LSD at least didn’t make him angry, just terribly sad. He’s Russian, after all. Sorrow is the national pastime.
Solo drips bitter fluid between his lips, and Gaby rubs the spot under his jaw to help him swallow. It’s awful, but less awful than the taste of stale vomit or someone else’s blood. Cold tea trickles in next, and it’s the most delicious thing, fresh, and so clean. He wants to gulp at it, and Solo cautions him. “Gently, Peril. You can have all you want, just slowly.”
The American’s strong arm comes around his back and lifts him slightly so he can drink. He retches once, hard, as the cold liquid cramps his abused stomach, and Solo pulls the cup back. “You can have more in a minute, if you want it. I’m going to change the washcloth- keep your eyes closed.”
He can feel Gaby’s hand cover his eyes as the now-warm terrycloth peels away. The light, even filtered under her palm, makes him wince. The switches click, and the room is in near-darkness, as Solo pulls the curtains closed. The cloth comes back, cool and refreshing over his sore eyes, and he’s shifted again, flat on his back with a feather pillow holding his head immobile. Solo’s hands take over from Gaby’s and continue the massage, firmer and more authoritative. Other hands are removing his shoes, loosening his belt, and unbuttoning his shirt. The coverlet is tucked back over him, and Gaby’s weight settles against his hip. She takes one of his hands and rubs it, breathing warmth against his skin, kneading his fingers and palm.
He’s feeling drowsy and protected, with the edges of his mind starting to fuzz. This is different from the LSD; less clear, more present, and his partners are anchoring him. They are holding him closer than he’s been with anyone, including his infrequent lovers. They expect nothing at this moment, and he relaxes into it, free from duty and danger. The pain notches down and he sighs. Solo’s hands still, and his voice says anxiously, “All right, Peril?”
Illya hears his own deep voice as a separate entity when he replies, “Okay, Cowboy. Better.”
Solo returns to soothing his head, and Gaby switches sides and hands. In spite of the pain, this is the most content he ever can remember being, and he wants to tell them so, but gets sidetracked by the realization that his knuckles are resting on the side of Gaby’s breast as she works down his forearm. A wise agent never reveals an advantage, and he’s the KGB’s best.
The pain is lessening in astonishingly quick degrees. He’s never had a headache subside like this before. His body is floating, and his mind is so clear. He loves these two people with an intensity he can’t allow himself when he’s himself. Something is awry with that thought, and he tries to chase it, but it’s swallowed by the feeling of relief as the pain ebbs to a manageable ache. Someone snores thunderously and he snaps awake, jolted by the noise. Solo’s deep chuckle and Gaby’s giggle confuse him. Was Solo falling asleep?
Gaby’s fingers are threading through his hair, and he’s confused. Where is Solo, and how did they switch places? The toilet flushes, answering his question. He’s thirsty again, and with a “There, there, Peril,” the cold tea reappears at his parched lips. He gulps and this time his stomach craves the landing instead of rebelling. Tea is dribbling down both sides of his neck and it feels wonderful, as well as the cold cloth sopping it up.
“He’s surprisingly pleasant like this,” the American remarks, “I hope when he recovers, he remembers a few of these charming ways.” Illya scowls. Solo is making fun of him, and he hates being the butt of jokes. “Oh, look, there’s the Peril we know and heartily fear.”
Gaby shushes him with an indignant hiss, and Illya enjoys the thought of her as a little Siberian cat. He turns on his side and buries his face in her thigh, breathing the light scent of her skin, wrapping his arm over her legs and curling close. She responds by scraping her short nails over his skull in long, caressing sweeps, and Illya is very much afraid he may weep. Being touched like this; it’s everything and he craves it like he imagines Solo must crave his freedom.
The light blanket is pulled back over his shoulders and the pillow is tucked nicely under his head. A solid weight settles at his back; he recognizes it as Solo, and ignores the warning voice trying to sound. This is too strange, too good, and he’s not willing to return to pain and cold just yet. He understands now why so many of his comrades turn to drugs to make the harsh life of the Soviet Union bearable. He understands equally well that he will never need that, especially not here, not with this peculiar family that has been issued to him.
Illya is floating on a cushion of medicine and odd joy, framed between friends; he takes a moment to savor that unfamiliar concept, friends. People he trusts, and likes, and seem to like him. It’s heady, like a draught of sweet wine, and he holds it as tightly as Gaby’s slim body as she drapes over him, breathing softly. If this is a dream, he hopes it’s a little real, and hopes it will last a little while.