Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Category: gen

Rating: PG

Word Count: 387

 

She sat so still, for such a long time, that absence of sound alerted Illya Kuryakin. He went to investigate, looking discreetly through the door slightly ajar, into her bedroom, and found her sitting in front of the vanity, staring at the mirror.

Staring but not seeming to see herself. She had a hairbrush in her hand, but she did not raise it. Illya could clearly see the bruises on her pale cheek, more obvious now that the make-up was washed away. The sleeves of her robe failed to cover the marks on her wrists, painful jewelry. Her hair might have been slightly mussed, but it was her mind that was in complete disarray. She was caught up in the memory of some dark moment.

His movement in the doorway was caught by the mirror, focusing her startled eyes onto the silvered glass. Breath caught in her throat before she recognized the man from U.N.C.L.E. She turned her face away, but the unbiased mirror betrayed her tears to Illya.

He walked with cats’ feet, without a rustle of cloth or rasp of breath. Taking the brush from her limp hand, he drew the stiff bristles through the mass of her hair, removing twigs and leaves and gently working out the tangles. Slowly, unhurriedly he worked, as if there were no other more important task to consider.

She permitted it, even began to relax a trifle under his rhythmic ministrations. Since the attempted abduction which had led to her being placed in protective custody, she’d felt simultaneously stifled and vulnerable, and frightened of every movement and sound. It was only the close presence of this quiet, dangerous man that brought her any measure of peace. His stolid silence seemed to fill the spaces until there was no more room for fear.

She closed her eyes, and therefore did not see the softening expression in his eyes as he brushed and brushed. Her hair lost its dullness and shone in his hands like a cascade of silk.

When she opened her eyes, not knowing if it were an hour or a heartbeat later, Illya was gone, back to brooding in the shadows, remote and guarded. She rose and laid herself down on her bed, hugging the hairbrush against her breast as she permitted sleep to take her at last.