Chapter Text
First thing Illya noticed was the headache. Only after that he noticed his eyes were still closed and he started to crack them open. They seemed reluctant to do so and for a moment he gave up and allowed them to stay shut. He listened to the surroundings; it was quiet but somewhere farther he could hear talking and footsteps. He suspected a wall separated him from the noises. Illya pursed his lips, moved his tongue in his dry mouth. Slowly he opened his eyes again.
White ceiling. It took a while for his eyes to focus on it and after that he tilted his head slightly to see what else was there. His body felt heavy when he tried to move it. He was in a hospital room. The door was slightly ajar and muffled most of the noises from the corridor. Illya frowned and he stared at his body under the blanket. Momentarily the thought that he may have been paralyzed worried him. But then his fingers started to take orders from him, clench a little, then the toes. He let his head relax against the pillow and he sighed with relief.
Now that his body had started to feel again there was a dull ache in his left hip. The leg moved so he suspected nothing had been broken. Illya wondered why he was in the hospital, he couldn't remember anything that had happened that would cause him to end up in one. He had left to go to a shop; he was supposed to buy eggs and bread. That was the last memory. Maybe it had been raining, he wasn’t sure.
The door opened and and a nurse stepped in. “You are awake,” she said. “That is good news. I will get the doctor.”
Illya hummed after her. He didn’t feel sick. Only his hip hurt and his head, and he felt a little unsteady and disoriented but other than that he couldn't say why he was there. An older man in a white coat came in. “Why am I here?” he asked, barely getting the words out of his mouth. He cleared his throat to get his voice to work, repeated the sentence because he was sure he had said it in Russian and continued: “What happened?”
“You got hit by a car,” the doctor said. “Nasty blow on your head, bruise on your thigh. Let’s see,” he muttered. A couple of nurses adjusted the bed and tilted Illya almost to a sitting position. Hot pain rushed through his hip and Illya suppress a groan. The nurses left and the doctor examined his eyes with a pen light. Illya had to blink his eyes to get the dark spot to disappear from his vision afterwards.
“Nothing's broken,” the doctor informed. “You were very lucky.”
“When did this happen?” Illya asked and wondered how long he had been there.
“About four hours ago,” the doctor said and looked at the clipboard on the end of his bed. “That is when you were brought in. You have been unconscious the whole time. Do you remember the accident?”
“No,” Illya had to confess.
“And your name?” the doctor made sure.
“Illya Kuryakin,” he said.
The first nurse returned to the room and brought a brunette with her. Illya turned to look at the woman; she had fashionable bangs, brown eyes, pink cheeks, and wore a colourful, short dress.
“Your fiancée has waited for you to wake,” the nurse said.
“I was so worried,” the brunette said, with a accent in her voice. A quick smile flashed on her lips. She walked to the bed, leaned closer. Her hand took a gentle hold on Illya’s shoulder when she came next to him, her lips pressed a kiss on his cheek.
Illya looked at her when she pulled back. Very pretty, petite and cute. Gold ring on her warm hand that stayed on his shoulder. His fiancée.
“Will he be okay?” she asked the doctor.
“Yes, yes,” the doctor assured her paternally. “He is young and fit. That kind of bruise will heal in no time.”
Illya realized he was still staring at the woman next to him and turned his head away.
“Will he heal for Christmas?” the woman continued.
Her thumb stroked Illya’s shoulder gently even while she looked the doctor. Little strokes, a whisper more than real touch, soft and caring. Illya looked at her hand, the gold band on her finger, black stains on her fingertips, like she had been doing something dirty.
“Of course,” the doctor promised.
“We have plans,” she explained. “Right, Illya?”
Illya frowned. “I… I don’t remember.”
She chuckled slightly. “Is that your attempt to wiggle your way out of if?” she inquired but looked amused.
Illya gazed at her face again. He tried to recognize something, some detail. Her brown eyes, the little smile on the corner of her lips, the arc of her neck, her German accent, something. But where there should've been a fiancée in his memories was only empty space. “I don’t remember you,” he blurted out more bluntly than he meant.
The brunette turned to look at him and smiled a little. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m Gaby. You know me. We are engaged.”
“You don’t remember your fiancée?” the doctor asked and looked serious.
“No,” Illya admitted.
“Are you going to claim that it’s 1960 next?” them woman who called herself Gaby asked and her other brow rose.
“I do know it is 1961,” Illya said, a little annoyed.
Gaby frowned and looked worried. “Are you serious?”
Illya looked at her and then the doctor, who gestured to the nurse while he wrote notes on his papers. “Could you get Sanders?” he muttered to the nurse.
“It is 1961,” Illya repeated. “Yes?”
“1963,” the doctor muttered and continued writing into his papers.
“You really don’t remember,” Gaby sighed and stared at him, her eyes wide.
Illya huffed frustrated. “Is this a joke?” he insisted, annoyed. Gaby’s hand slipped away off his shoulder when she backed away from him and left the room. Illya looked after her, the sound of her heels clacking against the corridor carried away farther, finally disappearing. He didn't blame her for leaving. The situation was weird. Illya couldn’t remember her and if she really was his fiancée it must have been hard when somebody you were getting married to suddenly couldn't remember you. To his surprise the sound of her heels reappeared, came closer and she stepped back inside of the room and handed a folded newspaper to him.
“Look at yourself,” she said.
Illya took the newspaper and looked the date on top of the title. December 1st 1963 , The Times was telling to him. Illya had a habit of believing what Times told him and now it was telling that he had forgot two years and a whole fiancée from his life.
“I asked a specialist here,” the doctor said. “He probably will recommend more examinations. Let’s find out is everything like it should be. You seem to have quite extensive amnesia.”
“Is it permanent?” Gaby demanded and crossed her arms and looked at the doctor like she was accusing him.
Illya looked at her again; it was hard not to stare at somebody who he had asked to marry him but also only met the first time. He was happy she was asking questions that felt like important ones to ask. He didn’t feel quite himself and it was relieving that somebody was there asking those. She seemed efficient. Illya liked her and didn’t wonder why he was with her. But while looking at her he couldn’t help but to think why was she with him? She looked very nice, how did he ever manage to get a fiancée that nice? Her lips were pressed into a tight line now but only moments ago she had pressed those against his skin. Illya wondered how many times she had kissed him. It felt a sad thing to forget.
“No, of course not,” the doctor said again, slightly condescending like he was trying to make her believe that she didn’t need to worry her pretty little head about this. Illya expected that he used that tone often when he talked to women who still looked like girls. But Gaby seemed more like somebody who wanted real answers instead of coddling.
The door opened again and Illya frowned at the visitor. “Cowboy?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m wondering that too,” Napoleon sighed and walked to the bed. “I was having a very pleasant evening. Did you really try to stop a car with yourself? That was stupid now was it?”
Illya’s brows knitted even more when he stared at Cowboy. “How you are even in the city? You left when we finished that office building in Southbank.”
Napoleon tilted his head. “That was almost two years ago,” he said.
“Illya doesn’t really remember the last few years,” Gaby said. “Right now at least.”
Napoleon turned to face Gaby and looked her interested, smiled. “Napoleon Solo,” he introduced himself and offered his hand.
“This is Gaby,” Illya said when Cowboy clearly hadn't met her. Saying her name was almost difficult when it felt like he said it the first time. “She is my… fiancée.”
Napoleon glanced at him surprised. “Fiancée? Well, you have been keeping her all to yourself,” he said and let Gaby’s hand go.
“I have heard about you,” Gaby said and smiled a little. “Cowboy this, Cowboy that. It’s Illya’s favourite subject.”
“What?” Illya huffed and his jaw tightened when Napoleon grinned at him. “That is a… that is not true,” he insisted.
“I’m going to ask all outsiders to leave,” the doctor said. “You can go sit in the waiting room. The nurses will keep you up to date.”
Gaby hummed, displeased, and for a moment Illya was sure she would insist on staying. But she did follow Cowboy out of the room. She quickly glanced over her shoulder before disappearing, looked right into Illya, made a tiny little twitch with her lips, as if to say everything would be fine.