![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jantojones.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuCChapter 4
Illya Kuryakin was well practiced at enduring torture, but that never made it any easier. He’d been taken down from his hanging position and was now on his knees; his ankles still chained and his wrists shackled to the floor in front of him. Illya was aware that Fairweather was questioning him about U.N.C.L.E. but his attention was aimed squarely at Alexey. The younger man seemed to be a state of distress. Illya tried to convey through thought alone that everything was going to work out fine. If only he could get himself to believe it first.
The Russian shuddered involuntarily as his jacket and shirt were cut from him. Fairweather ran his fingers over his captives back; tracing the old scars and new bruises.
“You’ve been whipped many times before,” he observed. “Which, given how irritating you can be, is hardly surprising.”
The THRUSH man snapped his fingers at the guard, who handed him a vicious looking cat o’ nine tails. Illya’s thoughts immediately leapt to the last time he’d been punished this way. Mother Fear had used a strop rather than a cat, but the scenario was still too familiar for the agent’s liking. *
Alexey was horrified. At the safe house, he’d been told a little of what Illya did by way of an explanation for the house and the guards. He could never have guessed at what his brother may have endured in his line of work. Seeing the scars only served to fuel the guilt Alexey was feeling at having brought this torment on Illya. He’d been blinded by a hate which had consumed his ability to rationalise. The young Russian winced as the first strike landed on Illya’s back. The grunt of pain his brother emitted stabbed at his heart.
As more blows struck his already damaged flesh, the older Kuryakin took note of the pain in the younger’s expression. He could clearly read the confused turmoil and dearly hoped that Alexey stayed still and quiet. The last thing the situation needed was a guilt-ridden man seeking redemption.
“Now that we’ve got you warmed up Mr Kuryakin,” said Fairweather, cheerfully. “Allow me to tell you what I want to know.”
“Let me stop you there,” Illya hissed, trying to ignore the fire in his back. “I will die before I tell you anything.”
“We shall see.”
Illya braced himself for the next onslaught, knowing it would be worse this time. He couldn’t prevent himself from crying out as the cat bit again and again. Alexey knew he couldn’t allow it to continue. From the tone of his voice, he was left in no doubt that Illya would succumb to death before revealing any of the secrets he was privy to. Alexey’s main problem was that he was outnumbered. If he charged at the guard, Fairweather would stop him and vice versa. He needed to be sneaky.
Standing up slowly, Alexey adopted an air of amused interest; attempting to make the THRUSH man think he was enjoying the spectacle. It took all of his willpower to move slowly towards the guard rather than hurry at him. Despite his thoughts being scrambled by the endorphins flooding his system, Illya saw what his brother was about to do and, almost unnoticeably, shook his head. Alexey however, ignored the silent plea. Seizing his chance, he grabbed the rifle from the guard and trained it on Fairweather.
“Stop!”
“My, my,” Fairweather practically sneered. “So the wronged brother has suddenly developed a sense of familial loyalty. You don’t have the courage.”
The blood froze in Alexey’s veins as he realised the truth of the words. He hadn’t really thought past grabbing the gun. Back home, he was an archivist and had very little need to have a weapon. He had been instructed how to use many guns when he’d served in the army, but he hadn’t seen active service so his limited skills waned. It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t fire at Fairweather because the man was far too close to Illya. He turned the gun on the guard.
“Let Illya go, or I’ll kill your man.”
“Go ahead,” Fairweather said with a wave of his hand. “There are plenty more where he came from.”
Alexey couldn’t believe the coldness in the man’s voice, or the fact the guard didn’t react. He turned the gun back at Fairweather, which gave the guard the opportunity to pounce. He snatched the rifle back, swung it up and smashed Alexey in the face. The young Russian dropped to the floor clutching his broken nose. As the guard readied himself to fire at Alexey, Fairweather stopped him. He grabbed the younger man by the hair and pulled him up onto his knees.
“I have a proposition for you Mr Kuryakin,” he said to Illya, with a dangerous smile on his lips. “You tell me the information I need and I won’t kill your brother.”
Before Illya could say anything, all hell broke loose. The room was filled with U.N.C.L.E. agents, who easily overpowered Fairweather and the guard. They were followed by Napoleon Solo, who was failing to hide his disgust at the state of Illya’s torso.
“You’re late again Solo,” the Russian admonished, without any real conviction.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry my little injury held me up,” countered Napoleon, with just as little malice. “We’ll soon have you out of here Tovarisch.”
He ordered for someone to release Illya from the chains. Ordinarily, he’d have done it himself, but with his arm in a sling he was next to useless in that regard. Once free, Illya crawled over to Alexey, who was still kneeling and holding his nose. He looked his older brother directly in the eye.
“Prosti menya.” (Forgive me.)
The stresses of the last few weeks suddenly caught up with Alexey. He felt unconsciousness calling to him and was powerless to resist. Illya caught him as he fell, totally disregarding his own injuries.
MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMF
It was a further two days before Alexey came back to wakefulness. He panicked briefly at the unfamiliar surroundings until his gaze settled on the sight of his brother. Illya was perching on the front edge of a plastic chair, obviously trying to protect his tortured back, and was playing chess with the man called Napoleon.
“Illusha?” He whispered.
The two men smiled.
“Welcome back,” Napoleon greeted him, “You’re a lot less trouble for medical than your brother.”
“Where are we?”
“This,” Illya began, gesturing to the room and the building in general. “Is the medical section of the New York headquarters for the United Network Command for law and Enforcement.”
“U.N.C.L.E.” Napoleon supplied, helpfully. “We work here.”
“What is U.N.C.L.E?”
Between them, Illya and Napoleon explained the nature of their organisation, without giving anything sensitive away.
“Can you forgive me for what I brought on you?” Alexey asked. “I was so very wrong about you.”
“There is nothing to forgive Alyosha.” Illya assured him. “We both have some issues to work out in respect of our parents, but I understand your motives entirely.”
“Thank you,” Alexey replied, smiling at Illya’s use of the diminutive form of his name. “I can’t wait to tell my baby son how his Uncle Illya is making the world safe for him.”
The grin which appeared on Illya’s face could have lit up a stadium. A week ago he’d been the last member of his family and now he had a brother, a sister-in-law and a nephew.
“What’s his name?” Napoleon asked, overjoyed at seeing Illya so happy.
“Pyotr Alexeyevich Ivanov. I was brought up as an Ivanov so that is the name I will continue to go by. However, in my heart, I will also be a Kuryakin brother.”
The conversation seemed to drain Alexey of his reserves, causing him to drift back to sleep.
“Come on Uncle Illya,” Napoleon coaxed. “You haven’t eaten for almost four hours, you must be ravenous.”
The Russian ignored the comment and followed his partner to the commissary. The grin remained on his face for the rest of the day.
The end.
Illya Kuryakin was well practiced at enduring torture, but that never made it any easier. He’d been taken down from his hanging position and was now on his knees; his ankles still chained and his wrists shackled to the floor in front of him. Illya was aware that Fairweather was questioning him about U.N.C.L.E. but his attention was aimed squarely at Alexey. The younger man seemed to be a state of distress. Illya tried to convey through thought alone that everything was going to work out fine. If only he could get himself to believe it first.
The Russian shuddered involuntarily as his jacket and shirt were cut from him. Fairweather ran his fingers over his captives back; tracing the old scars and new bruises.
“You’ve been whipped many times before,” he observed. “Which, given how irritating you can be, is hardly surprising.”
The THRUSH man snapped his fingers at the guard, who handed him a vicious looking cat o’ nine tails. Illya’s thoughts immediately leapt to the last time he’d been punished this way. Mother Fear had used a strop rather than a cat, but the scenario was still too familiar for the agent’s liking. *
Alexey was horrified. At the safe house, he’d been told a little of what Illya did by way of an explanation for the house and the guards. He could never have guessed at what his brother may have endured in his line of work. Seeing the scars only served to fuel the guilt Alexey was feeling at having brought this torment on Illya. He’d been blinded by a hate which had consumed his ability to rationalise. The young Russian winced as the first strike landed on Illya’s back. The grunt of pain his brother emitted stabbed at his heart.
As more blows struck his already damaged flesh, the older Kuryakin took note of the pain in the younger’s expression. He could clearly read the confused turmoil and dearly hoped that Alexey stayed still and quiet. The last thing the situation needed was a guilt-ridden man seeking redemption.
“Now that we’ve got you warmed up Mr Kuryakin,” said Fairweather, cheerfully. “Allow me to tell you what I want to know.”
“Let me stop you there,” Illya hissed, trying to ignore the fire in his back. “I will die before I tell you anything.”
“We shall see.”
Illya braced himself for the next onslaught, knowing it would be worse this time. He couldn’t prevent himself from crying out as the cat bit again and again. Alexey knew he couldn’t allow it to continue. From the tone of his voice, he was left in no doubt that Illya would succumb to death before revealing any of the secrets he was privy to. Alexey’s main problem was that he was outnumbered. If he charged at the guard, Fairweather would stop him and vice versa. He needed to be sneaky.
Standing up slowly, Alexey adopted an air of amused interest; attempting to make the THRUSH man think he was enjoying the spectacle. It took all of his willpower to move slowly towards the guard rather than hurry at him. Despite his thoughts being scrambled by the endorphins flooding his system, Illya saw what his brother was about to do and, almost unnoticeably, shook his head. Alexey however, ignored the silent plea. Seizing his chance, he grabbed the rifle from the guard and trained it on Fairweather.
“Stop!”
“My, my,” Fairweather practically sneered. “So the wronged brother has suddenly developed a sense of familial loyalty. You don’t have the courage.”
The blood froze in Alexey’s veins as he realised the truth of the words. He hadn’t really thought past grabbing the gun. Back home, he was an archivist and had very little need to have a weapon. He had been instructed how to use many guns when he’d served in the army, but he hadn’t seen active service so his limited skills waned. It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t fire at Fairweather because the man was far too close to Illya. He turned the gun on the guard.
“Let Illya go, or I’ll kill your man.”
“Go ahead,” Fairweather said with a wave of his hand. “There are plenty more where he came from.”
Alexey couldn’t believe the coldness in the man’s voice, or the fact the guard didn’t react. He turned the gun back at Fairweather, which gave the guard the opportunity to pounce. He snatched the rifle back, swung it up and smashed Alexey in the face. The young Russian dropped to the floor clutching his broken nose. As the guard readied himself to fire at Alexey, Fairweather stopped him. He grabbed the younger man by the hair and pulled him up onto his knees.
“I have a proposition for you Mr Kuryakin,” he said to Illya, with a dangerous smile on his lips. “You tell me the information I need and I won’t kill your brother.”
Before Illya could say anything, all hell broke loose. The room was filled with U.N.C.L.E. agents, who easily overpowered Fairweather and the guard. They were followed by Napoleon Solo, who was failing to hide his disgust at the state of Illya’s torso.
“You’re late again Solo,” the Russian admonished, without any real conviction.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry my little injury held me up,” countered Napoleon, with just as little malice. “We’ll soon have you out of here Tovarisch.”
He ordered for someone to release Illya from the chains. Ordinarily, he’d have done it himself, but with his arm in a sling he was next to useless in that regard. Once free, Illya crawled over to Alexey, who was still kneeling and holding his nose. He looked his older brother directly in the eye.
“Prosti menya.” (Forgive me.)
The stresses of the last few weeks suddenly caught up with Alexey. He felt unconsciousness calling to him and was powerless to resist. Illya caught him as he fell, totally disregarding his own injuries.
MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMF
It was a further two days before Alexey came back to wakefulness. He panicked briefly at the unfamiliar surroundings until his gaze settled on the sight of his brother. Illya was perching on the front edge of a plastic chair, obviously trying to protect his tortured back, and was playing chess with the man called Napoleon.
“Illusha?” He whispered.
The two men smiled.
“Welcome back,” Napoleon greeted him, “You’re a lot less trouble for medical than your brother.”
“Where are we?”
“This,” Illya began, gesturing to the room and the building in general. “Is the medical section of the New York headquarters for the United Network Command for law and Enforcement.”
“U.N.C.L.E.” Napoleon supplied, helpfully. “We work here.”
“What is U.N.C.L.E?”
Between them, Illya and Napoleon explained the nature of their organisation, without giving anything sensitive away.
“Can you forgive me for what I brought on you?” Alexey asked. “I was so very wrong about you.”
“There is nothing to forgive Alyosha.” Illya assured him. “We both have some issues to work out in respect of our parents, but I understand your motives entirely.”
“Thank you,” Alexey replied, smiling at Illya’s use of the diminutive form of his name. “I can’t wait to tell my baby son how his Uncle Illya is making the world safe for him.”
The grin which appeared on Illya’s face could have lit up a stadium. A week ago he’d been the last member of his family and now he had a brother, a sister-in-law and a nephew.
“What’s his name?” Napoleon asked, overjoyed at seeing Illya so happy.
“Pyotr Alexeyevich Ivanov. I was brought up as an Ivanov so that is the name I will continue to go by. However, in my heart, I will also be a Kuryakin brother.”
The conversation seemed to drain Alexey of his reserves, causing him to drift back to sleep.
“Come on Uncle Illya,” Napoleon coaxed. “You haven’t eaten for almost four hours, you must be ravenous.”
The Russian ignored the comment and followed his partner to the commissary. The grin remained on his face for the rest of the day.
The end.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}