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“Then why am I being told that the American has it?”
Illya hears the distant tolling of bells, but he’s no longer sure if they come from outside, or within his own head. His world feels slanted, crooked on its axis. It seems like just an hour ago that he was covered in the mud, trying to protect both his partners.
Since he had stood on the bridge of the aircraft carrier and watched the plume of smoke rise from the Diadema.
Since…
“Again! Whoever holds that disk can control the world. Complete your mission. That is unless you want to end up in Siberia like your father. Or perhaps we could send your mother in your place… I doubt she would last long.”
Illya closes his eyes, tries to calm down. His hand is so tight on the receiver that his knuckles look fit to split open. Instinct sets his finger tapping tike a metronome on his thigh, the beat steady even when he is not.
“He is an embarrassment. You don't want to wear this kind of shame. Is that clear?”
Illya’s not sure what expression is seeping over his face. Feels the ice congeal in his heart. Aching.
“Am I making myself clear? Get it done.”
He’s not sure how he gets to Solo’s door. Remembers a pain in his hands, the sound of splintering wood. He remembers loading and stowing his special in his waistband, by the small of his back. Thinks he recalls the shimmering of breaking glass, white lilies strewn across the carpet, eerie like ghosts.
If only he had known how true the premonition they laid would be.
If only Solo had known. He never would have opened the door. He never would have smiled like that, as if he trusted the Russian. As if he liked him.
He never would have let him in, gesturing to the whisky on the sideboard, turned his back on Illya with such ease to close the window against the hissing breeze.
He never would have smiled, wry and almost embarrassed, and said, “There’s something you should know…”
And, oh.
Oh, bozhe.
Not this. Anything but this.
Anything but this ache that Illya had thought he could never have. A tempo to the drumming Oleg’s words have left in his head. Trying, and failing, to free him from his orders.
Anything but Napoleon Solo saying, “I’m in love with you.”
“I tried to suppress it,” says Solo now, but it’s followed with an incredulous laugh. He offers a crooked smile, resigned, and Illya feels the weight of his special, tucked into his waistband like a brand against his back. “You’re hard to get rid of, Peril, the heart’s no exception.”
And then Illya is moving, unable to stop himself, and he seizes the American by the lapels and captures his mouth in a desperate kiss. Because the man has just admitted to falling in love with him, and it is everything Illya never dared to dream…
…and the opportunity he never thought he would get.
Solo lets out a low hum before his hands come up to cup Illya’s jaw. They are warm, calloused, and somehow already so familiar that Illya’s resolve wavers. The bells toll again, dim and muted, thick with cotton and grief.
He lets one arm fall to Solo’s waist. The other slips behind his back, closes on the grip of his gun.
Then he bites at Solo’s lip, gently, but the raw sound that tears from the other man embeds itself in Illya’s flesh with the grip of a thousand needles, and he trembles. He wants… he doesn’t know what it is he wants. He wants this man. Wants to be free. He wants his mother to die and relieve him of her touch, but he wants to save her too.
He wants this to be over.
Doesn’t want to feel anymore.
He wants to be numb.
Solo doesn’t have time to realize what’s happening before Illya makes his move. The special slips between them, fires once, twice. The sound muted by both silencer and fabric.
He jerks, coughs a sound of pain. Illya’s temple is against his, his heart in pieces as Solo’s brow furrows, innocent and confused.
“Peril?” it comes out small, like a child who doesn’t understand. And then his knees buckle under him, and Illya is easing him to the ground, never letting him go.
Solo shivers, fingers coming away carmine where he has brushed them over the bullet wounds.
“I’m sorry,” says Illya, and he has to fight to keep it from becoming a sob. “I’m so sorry.”
He has never hated his mother more than he does in that moment.
He looks everywhere. Looks for the little blue disk, with the power to destroy the word.
“You won’t find it.”
Illya whips his head around, suddenly nauseous for a reason he cannot yet explain. “What?”
Solo is curled on his side, the blood dark and obscene against the baby blue of his shirt. He’s so pale, and it catches and tears somewhere in Illya’s gut. “The disk.” His voice is weak, but there’s forgiveness in his eyes. Illya wants to scream at him to take it back! That he doesn’t deserve it.
Instead, he kneels by Solo’s side, throwing his gun into a corner. “Where is it, Cowboy?”
“I burned it,” admits the American, before a fit of coughing takes him over and he spits blood onto the varnished hotel floor. “That’s what I was… going to tell you. No one… no should have those codes.”
Illya has a few moments of utter silence before the reality deals him a blow that feels as though it will split him open. He doesn’t hesitate then, rolls Solo onto his back, and snatches the waistcoat from the bed, meaning to press it to the wound.
Solo’s trembling hand stops him. His partner doesn’t need to say it. Perhaps Illya already knew… somewhere, deep down, where the monsters lurk. He’s lost too much blood, his sapphire eyes cloudy with pain. Illya is too good at his job.
“What have I done…” It’s not a question, soft with horror. Illya is not seeking an answer from anyone, except, perhaps, the chasm where his heart used to be.
“What… what you had to do,” murmurs Solo, and his grip tightens on Illya’s wrist. His hair is damp with a cold sweat. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“No.” Illya hardly recognizes his voice, torn to shreds with agony. He thinks he might be choking. “Cowboy-“
“Peril, breathe.” Solo manages to get a hand on Illya’s knee, squeezes. “It’s-“ A harsh bark of a cough rips through him, sending his eyes closed in pain. When it fades, there’s blood darkening the corners of his mouth. “Fuck, that hurts…” he whispers, eyes falling closed.
Illya isn’t even aware of the keening moan that rumbles in the back of his throat. He finally sobs, once, loud and ugly. “I’m sorry.” It’s an admission of weakness, of a broken heart. Of the stain of his partner’s blood on his hands.
Solo lets out a soft hum, eyelashes fluttering, no strength remaining to force them back open. “Peril…?”
“Da?”
“You…” it fades, and Illya leans forward, until he can feel the brush of the American’s failing breath on the shell of his ear. He’s shaking with the effort of holding back the scream, clawing up in his throat like a disease. Solo struggles to swallow, tries again, voice firm and faint.
“You have to go. If they catch you… I don’t want… don’t want to see you…get hurt.”
And that is the final straw. After everything he has done, that is what Solo asks of him. Illya wants to put the fucking gun to his own temple and end it. He wants to rewind the time, to…
“The watch… is on the suitcase,” says Solo, shivering once.
“What?” Illya stops spiraling for a moment in his confusion.
“Your,” Solo coughs, weak, voice failing. He sets his jaw, says, “Your watch. I found it on the… the island. ‘s on the table.”
Which is how Illya’s world finally falls apart.
He’s not sure if Waverly finds him first. Or Gaby. Or if it is some divine figure come to take him away for the horror he has done.
All he knows is Solo’s blood on his hands, and the watch on his wrist.
All he knows is the trust that hadn’t saved anyone.
That never did.