Waking Up – Illya

Waking Up – Illya

By Gevaudan

I wonder where I am.


The infirmary. With the unpleasant side effects of a major concussion. Ouch. I wonder what hit me? Something very solid…solid like a sledgehammer is solid. On the mission we were on it wouldn't have surprised me in the slightest. In fact that's probably what it was.

As Napoleon would say, 'It's a tough job being a spion, but somebody's got to do it.' Of course Napoleon wouldn't have said, 'spion,'.  I must have been hit harder than I originally thought if I am lapsing into Russian in the middle of sentences. In a way it is…reassuring. I spend all day every day speaking English so much so that I worry I'm going to forget the language that I spent my…admittedly somewhat chaotic…childhood speaking. I sometimes go to the Russian café just to order a drink and reassure myself that I still have command of my native language.

Sometimes I wonder if I fit too well into this society. If I am becoming too… Americanised. I have nothing against Americans. My best friend is one. But I like being Russian. I like Russia. It's a shame I do not like those that are in charge there. Maybe one day they'll be deposed and I will be able to go back. One day. Though, the more I think about this the more I wonder, if tomorrow the chance came for me to go back, would I go? I'm starting to wonder. There are a great many things to tie me to New York; UNCLE, Mr Waverly, Mark, April, Napoleon…. Especially Napoleon.

Napoleon. He started out as my partner and slowly but very surely became my friend. And now…now I wonder what I'd do without him. No doubt if it hadn't been for him I'd currently be lying in a barn. With a headache. Maybe this sort of dependence is a risk. UNCLE thinks it is, but for the moment our results and successes are enough to keep the partnership solidly on firm soil. And speaking of my partner...

I wonder where he is. I try to turn my head to see if he is in his customary chair by the bed. I regret the idea. It just slams a new wave of pain through my head.

I try to suppress a groan.

It fails.



I try to respond.


'So, you're back in the land of the living, tovarish.'

I would say that is obvious and try to tell him as much. All that comes of is a random assortment of groans.

'What was that, pal?'

I try to coherently from a simpler question.


'What hit you? You'll never believe it.'

I have a feeling that I probably will.

'It was a sledgehammer.'

Typical. Being a spy: It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it.

And I'll be doing it again. Just as soon as I get some paracetamol.

Yes I know it's drabble but send me feedback anyway. I cant improved it if I don't get any feed back. Thanks as always to Thea my beta reader and stalwart comrade in a war against the non-UNCLE fans of a small high school somewhere in the vicinity of Yorkshire. England.

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