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In the end, it takes Illya almost five hours to find Rudi.
Five hours, in which his mind supplies him with an endless array of horrors, all of which could be happening to his foolish cowboy. Illya isn’t sure when he had begun to think of the American as his and it scares him. More than he cares to admit. It is treason to his country, no matter how small. Treason like that of his father’s, something Illya has spent his life trying to live down.
And yet, Illya cannot change the way he feels, about Solo or Gaby. Despite the aching wound the little German has torn, showing her true colors. He feels like a fool, wonders when Solo will do the same. Debates leaving them all and going home, damn the consequences.
But that flashing light on his radar will not let him. He has come too far now. Cowboy needs him. And that hardens Illya’s wavering resolve.
Then his world shatters, a fog of distress teasing over him, because Illya is not sure what to with this; the electrical burns on Solo’s pale skin. The way his breath sounds ragged, hoarse, as though it pains him to draw air into his lungs. The way he’s shivering, as though chilled to the bone.
The silver carpenter’s nails driven so carefully into the American’s right hand, blood still seeping sluggishly from around the steel.
He’s not sure what to do with the tear that trails down Solo’s cheek.
Rudi doesn’t notice Illya, he merely continues his monologue, words a horrific picture of the atrocities he has committed. And he’s proud of them. It makes Illya’s blood boil. This man has tortured his countrymen, is torturing his partner. And not for information, no.
For the sake of it.
Illya only realizes that he has frozen when Rudi dares to drive another nail home. It doesn’t make such a loud sound in the stillness, the dull thwack, but the sound Solo makes is some kind of choked sob, and then Illya is moving.
He doesn’t bother with finesse, and Rudi’s eyes widen in a split second of fear before his head snaps sideways from the force of the blow. The man falls, and he suddenly looks so much frailer… smaller.
Solo rasps a breath that grates in his throat, before he dares to crack his blue eyes open. Shock, then relief, and then something deeper. It makes Illya’s gut clench, makes him think about the almost kiss in the hallway of the hotel.
It makes him want something he can never have. Can never ask for.
“I never thought I’d say this,” quips Solo, but when Illya takes his pulse, he leans his bruised cheek against the Russian’s large hand. “But I’m actually quite pleased to see you.”
“You doing okay, Cowboy?” It comes out soft, worried.
Solo laughs, but it is thick with tears. He’s not looking at his hand, Illya realizes. The Russian doesn’t blame him. Even he is feeling horror at how placidly the silver steel sits among Solo’s torn flesh.
“Better now you’re here.” Solo arches his back, winces. “Getting me out of this goddamn chair would be a nice start.”
Illya doesn’t bother to take time to reply. Instead he gets to work unbuckling leather straps, pulling wires, and shooting Rudi dark glances to make sure that the monster is still unconscious.
Then Solo is free. Except, he isn’t, really- he’s still pinned to the chair by nails like a butterfly in a display case. His curls are lank with sweat, exhaustion etched into ever pane of his face as he says,
“There’s a pair of pliers on the table.”
Illya stares at him, because what is that supposed to mean? Did Rudi-
“You’re gonna have to pull the nails out,” adds Solo in the face of Illya’s confusion. He looks sick at the thought, but manages to muster a smile, the dried blood on his upper lip dark and tacky. “On second thoughts… maybe you should have left the straps on.”
The pliers are cool under Illya’s fingers, smooth, alien. He has to hold in a shudder, ignoring the shadow feeling of Rudi’s hands where his are now.
Solo does an admirable job at staying still, even if the choked sounds of pain that escape him make Illya feel as though he is somehow the one responsible for all this.
But then they are out. Solo is free, and Illya helps him up onto his feet, saying nothing as the American clings to him, one hand bloodied, the other smooth and clean; both are tangled in the front of Illya’s jacket, knuckles white, and his head of sweaty curls is tucked in under the Russian’s chin.
Illya wants to run. He wants to run so far away that no one will ever find him. He wants to stay. He wants…
He wants…
“Breathe,” he advises, tightening his arms where they are looped protectively around Solo. “Is okay. It is over.”
Solo coughs a laugh, but at least he is not shaking quite so badly anymore.
Later, after they have interrogated Rudi, after the fire, when they officially meet Waverly for the first time, Solo turns a look on Illya, blue eyes serious as a tomb.
“I knew you’d come for me, Peril,” he says, in a voice only Illya can hear. “I knew.”
And Illya swallows past the thick knot in his throat, past the fear and regret, and says, forcefully,
“Good.”