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Illya stares determinedly at the wall ahead of him and blinks hard. He feels no shame about the burning prickle at the corners of his eye; crying is an autonomic function in response to pain stimuli, after all, and a perfectly reasonable one in his present circumstances.
But he’ll be damned if he gives his torturers the satisfaction.
He bites back a groan as the whip cracks, yet again, against his raw and bleeding back. He’s been here before, and given his profession, he’ll likely be here again. He knows to carefully regulate his breathing, to inhale, hold, and release in time with the rise and fall of the whip. He knows not to let himself tense up in anticipation of the next blow. He knows to untether his mind from his body, to float on top of the pain to avoid drowning in it.
None of that really makes it hurt less. Nor does it release the sick, nauseous twist of fear in the pit of his stomach. But it does help him endure, just like he has before.
And so he does endure, staring stubbornly at the wall and focusing on holding back the tears that burn his eyes, clinging to that little grain of pride that keeps him upright in his bonds.
He endures until the door bursts open, and it’s Napoleon, firing his gun before Illya’s tormentors even have time to process that their deaths have arrived. Napoleon hurries to release him from the metal frame holding him spread eagled, exposed and vulnerable. He lets his arms drop limply as they’re released, lets himself drop limply; he knows Napoleon will catch him, support him for the few moments he needs to scrape together a little more strength.
“Come on,” Napoleon prompts, not unkindly, “we’re not home yet.”
Illya nods, pulling himself together with practiced skill. He takes the spare gun Napoleon offers him, and steals the uniform from a dead guard; he hates them, every time he puts a THRUSH jumpsuit on he’s reminded to be grateful that UNCLE has never been interested in forcing its agents into uniforms. The stiff, cheap fabric is like sandpaper against his raw back, but there’s no time to bother looking for his own clothes, especially since he’s fairly certain they were ruined in the course of his capture anyway.
He follows on Napoleon’s heels as he leads the way through the warren of identical corridors and bland rooms, stuffs the documents Napoleon hands him safely inside the jumpsuit, and helps set the explosive charges. He empties the clip of his gun into guards one by one as they race back through the hallways, then steals a new gun from a downed body.
They spill out into a garage just as the charges go off, making the whole building shake around them. Illya slides into the driver’s seat of the nearest car out of habit and guns the engine, while Napoleon shoots down the handful of loyalists more interested in chasing them than attempting to flee the doomed building; it’s just as well, none of the thrushies get out. They barely get out, chunks of concrete debris clipping the rear bumper of their car as they roar into the cool night air just as the whole building collapses behind them.
Then it’s over. The crumbling wreckage fading behind them as they zip down an empty country road. They both catch their breath. Illya fishes out the documents one handed and hands them over for Napoleon to review and secure. Napoleon takes stock of their remaining weapons, then gets bored and fiddles with the radio. Illya stares at the road ahead and drives.
They’re an hour out from the destroyed base, with at least another hour ahead of them before they reach the nearest town big enough for them to hole up in for a night or two without attracting too much attention, when it hits him. The drop. The rush of cortisol and adrenaline draining away, his body eager to replace them with a flood of oxytocin and endorphins, and the burning prickle of tears blurring the road in front of him.
He’s no more ashamed of these tears than the ones brought on by pain, it’s just as natural, just another variety of the same autonomic response. And he’s no more a stranger to them either; in fact, he knows to expect it, this drop just as familiar to him as any other aspect of his professional life. He just usually is able to hold it off until he’s alone, with a locked door between himself and anyone else who might witness it.
“Illya?” Napoleon asks, disrupting his concentration.
Illya swallows, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle but not willing to give in just yet. He can’t answer Napoleon, knows that if he opens his mouth the “I’m fine” he wants to say will just get lodged in his throat and refuse to come out. He blinks hard, staring at the pool of light from their headlights illuminating the road as it disappears beneath and behind them. He blinks again, but the road becomes a fuzzy blur, and the first drop of moisture slips down his face.
Finally, he surrenders with what little grace he can, pulling over to the side of the road and bringing the car to a stop. He moves to get out of the car; a few minutes in the dark, under the shadows of a nearby copse of trees should be enough to ride it out.
But a warm hand on his shoulder stops him, Napoleon’s voice heavy with concern, “what’s the matter?”
Illya tries to shake his head, even though he knows it’s pointless. He can’t get out the words to explain the situation, his throat too clogged up with the sob he’s fighting to hold back.
Of course, Napoleon doesn’t let him. He pulls on Illya’s shoulder, insistently forcing him around to face him. The tears are flowing freely down Illya’s cheeks now, impossible to hide or dismiss. He doesn’t want to look at Napoleon; he isn’t ashamed of this, but he knows most don’t view it in the pragmatic or scientific way that he does. He can’t bear the thought of seeing derision, or worse, pity on Napoleon’s face. Of all people, not Napoleon.
But Napoleon’s hands are gentle when they cup his face, thumbs rubbing lightly over his wet cheeks. Something about it makes him look up to meet Napoleon’s eyes, unable to resist. He doesn’t find derision, or pity, just concern and after a moment Napoleon’s expression softens to something Illya thinks is understanding.
“Oh,” Napoleon says quietly. Then he’s sliding closer on the bench seat and pulling Illya in, one hand curling around the back of Illya’s head and guiding it down to rest against his shoulder. “Just let it out,” he murmurs, lips almost brushing the shell of Illya’s ear.
And like that, Illya’s command over his own body - fragile as it was - shatters, superseded by Napoleon’s order. A sob rips out of him with the force of dynamite tearing a hole in a dam, and the tears immediately follow suit.
Through the torrent, Napoleon just holds him. He keeps his hand on the back of Illya’s head, fingers stroking softly through his tangled hair, while his other hand rubs slow, soothing circles on his back, careful to stay above the parts where it’s raw and sore. For once, he doesn’t say anything, no quips or inane comments, he just sits there providing a steady anchor while Illya rides out the storm.
Eventually it passes, the tempest blowing itself out and Illya moves to sit back, but Napoleon doesn’t release him, arms flexing and exerting just enough strength to keep him where he is. “Just relax,” Napoleon chides, his fingers still moving in Illya’s - now significantly less tangled - hair. “How often does this happen?”
Illya swallows, his throat feeling rough and swollen. “Usually,” he admits softly; he could lie, but he doubts Napoleon would let him. He hesitates, but brief as his glimpse at Napoleon’s expression was, he has to know. “Does it happen to you?”
“Occasionally,” Napoleon confirms evenly, “not often.” At last Napoleon releases him, and Illya sits up, reaching for his handkerchief out of habit, momentarily forgetting that he’s not wearing his own clothes. But Napoleon beats him to it anyway, offering out his own handkerchief for Illya to mop up his wet, snotty face with.
“Why don’t you scoot over,” Napoleon says, once Illya’s finished and handed the handkerchief back. It’s not really a suggestion. “I’ll drive, you rest.”
A part of Illya wants to protest, to insist that he’s fine. But there’s no judgment in Napoleon’s voice, and Illya is exhausted. So he lets Napoleon nudge him over and take the wheel, settling himself into the passenger seat. He lets his head drop down against the back of the seat, watching Napoleon through swollen, half lidded eyes.
The silence hangs between them as Napoleon guides the car down the road, but it’s familiar, easy and comfortable as it often is between them. As though nothing has changed, as though Napoleon really doesn’t think any differently of him after witnessing his breakdown.
“Thank you,” he says quietly after a while.
“Any time,” Napoleon answers lightly. He glances sideways at Illya, his voice going heavier, serious, “I mean it,” he adds, “Next time, if I’m in the area, I want you to come find me.”
Illya blinks at him. He doesn’t do Napoleon the disservice of scoffing; he knows, in this moment, Napoleon is sincere. He almost points out that around the time it hits, Napoleon is usually off romancing some beautiful woman, but something holds his tongue.
Napoleon gives him another, longer look. “Promise me,” he says, but the command is gentled when he reaches over and rests a hand on Illya’s knee. “I don’t like the thought of you going through that alone all the time.”
“Okay,” Illya agrees, almost unable to stop himself. And just maybe, he actually will.