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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Beauty Meets the Beast

Marriage had never been a thing she dreamed of. Raised by the Red Room, learning to torture, seduce and kill, it was something she had known she would never have. Unless it be at the whims of her handlers . . . which led her to this moment.

Marina Ivanovna Petrovka stared up at her handler, Isaak Sidorov, startled by the declaration he had just made. “I beg your pardon?” she inquired, her ears ringing with the announcement.

“I did not stutter, Comrade Petrovka. You are to be married to Comrade Kuryakin this afternoon.” His lip curled as he all but snarled, “It seems as though we've found a use for that inconvenient compassion of yours.”

“I don't understand,” she replied, feeling dazed. “I'm only sixteen years old.”

“And your husband is twenty-three. What does that matter?” Pinning her with a fierce look, Sidorov demanded brusquely, “You have your orders. Do you refuse to comply?”

The tone snapped her out of her shock. She had seen what the Party did to those who did not comply. “Yes, I will comply. What is the objective of my mission, Comrade?”

“Kuryakin suffers from psychotic episodes. Your job is to be a support to him, and an anchor. You will, of course, behave in a manner befitting a proper wife, as well as undertake such missions as you are assigned as well.”

Psychotic episodes? She had been trained to kill men with such problems, not help them. Kuryakin must be a very valuable agent to allow such accommodations. Nibbling on her lower lip, she nodded firmly. “I understand. When shall I report for the ceremony?”

“Five o'clock promptly. Do not be late.”

As she left the office, she had to make a concerted effort not to snark in reply, “Am I ever?”

The day passed slowly. The closest thing to a father she had was once again back in cryo, and two of her “sisters” were on mission. Which lead her to the door of Viktoriya Viktorovna Dubrovskaya. Vika was her eldest sister and definitely the most rational. If there was any comfort to be found in the circumstances, Vika would be able to find it for her.

As she drew closer to Vika’s tiny room within the dormitories, she could feel her feet picking up speed and the tears burning hot against the backs of her eyes. By the time she reached her sister’s door, she couldn’t breathe through her sobs nor see through her tears. The tall blond, once she opened the door, sighed heavily at the sight of her sister crumbling before her. “Oh Marishka . . .” she soothed, gathering the younger girl close and smoothing her hand over her back. “So they told you.”

“You knew?” Marina hiccupped, even as she realized the ridiculousness of her question.

“Not for sure. I knew they were debating between you and Valya for a marriage to one of their agents. I never heard who they had chosen.” Cupping her cheek in her palms, she sighed, “Considering the look on your face, clearly they’ve decided. When do you marry?”

“This afternoon!” the assassin wailed, sounding all of six years old instead of sixteen. “I don’t . . . he has psychotic episodes . . . I’m supposed to be a support and an anchor for him. Oh Vika . . . what kind of man am I marrying?”

Marina could feel Viktoriya’s jaw tightening at the question, as she asked herself that same question in her head. “Ssh . . . it’s going to be okay, Marishka. We’ll figure it out.”

“What do I know about being a good wife?”

“Quite a lot. You’re always taking care of the younger girls, and you have a way with a stove that makes you the envy of every cook here. You’re going to be fine.”

Sniffling hard, Marina rubbed at her face before straightening. “You’re right.” She drew back a step and sighed, “I should pack. I doubt I’ll be spending another night in the dormitory.”

“No, probably not. Have they told you where you will be living?”

“Probably at his quarters. They did not say.”

Vika squeezed her sister once more before ushering the younger girl into her room. “Come in . . . let me get some shoes. Then I'll help you pack and we’ll go pick out something for a trousseau. Every bride should have one, even if it’s not the wedding you would have wanted for yourself. Okay?”

Marina sniffled, sounding relieved if unsure. “You don't mind?”

“Not in the least. You're my sister and it's your wedding day. We should do something special to commemorate it,” Vika insisted, with a soft smile. Marina was the youngest of the four girls, and was the one least likely to take comfort from any of them.

“Thank you, Vika.”

“You would do it for me . . . it's the least I can do.”

Marina grinned, promising, “Should you ever marry, Vika, I'll throw you the biggest, most extravagant wedding in the history of anyone.”

“Unnecessary, but thank you. I'll be happy just to be getting married. Freedom . . .” Mouth contouring as she took in Marina’s features, she sighed, “. . . maybe.”

The two sisters sighed in agreement, before Vika stood, stamping her feet into her boots. “When are you supposed to report?”

“Five o'clock.”

“Then we best put a rush on things. We’ll be running out of time pretty soon,” Vika insisted, grabbing the younger sister by the hand and dragging her away.

By five o'clock, Marina’s bags had been packed and deposited in Vika’s room for safe keeping until more permanent plans were made. Vika had taken her to the dressmakers, paying for a length of snow-white ribbon for Marina’s hair and a gossamer slip to act as her trousseau. Indulging in a spare moment, the older sister quickly ran a brush through the younger girl's curls, before tying the ribbon into a beautiful, intricate bow. “It's not a proper wedding dress, but it'll serve in a pinch.”

Marina’s lip trembled in the mirror as she whimpered, “Oh Vika . . . I don't know if I can do this.”

“Of course you can. You are Marina Petrovka . . . your voice calms angels and your passion lays men bare. You can do this,” Vika insisted, tucking a small flower into the loop of the bow. “Come on, Marishka; if we delay any longer, you'll be late.”

“What would Architect say to see me now?” she murmured, allowing Vika to pull her to her feet and rush her towards the officiant’s office.

Vika couldn't help the shudder of fear that came from the nickname only Marina used for the assassin known as the Winter Soldier. To most of the girls at the Academy, the Soldier was the specter of nightmares. To Marina, he was her friend and the closes thing she'd had to a father in many years. Nor was it a secret that the Soldier was equally as fond of his charge as she was of him.

“Frankly, if Kuryakin is smart, he will treat you well. Otherwise the Asset may rip his arms off . . . literally.”

Marina giggled in agreement, chuckling, “Small comfort, all things considered.”

“But comfort nonetheless. Chin up . . . we’re here.”

Isaak Sidorov glared to see the girls come in together, his tone sharp as he barked, “Comrade Dubrovskaya, what is the meaning of this?”

“Comrade Petrovka asked me to stand as witness for her, Comrade Sidorov,” Vika announced smoothly, a charming smile on her pretty Amazon face.

The handler rolled his eyes, leaning over to grab Marina by the arm and haul her forward. The diminutive assassin stumbled alongside him, as he all but dragged her to where her groom, Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin, was arguing with his own handler, a man the two sisters knew only by the name Oleg. Oleg had a reputation for ruthlessness and cruelty; both felt the tremor of nerves chase down their spinal columns, and neither moved to draw his attention.

Sidorov had no such compunction, announcing briskly, “The bride has arrived. Let's get this done Oleg.”

Oleg snapped at his asset, “Your feelings do not matter to the Party, only your compliance. Or do you wish to end up in gulag like your father?”

Marina’s eyes widened, even as she tripped when Sidorov dragged her to stand in front of him. Thus giving her the first clear look she’d had of her husband-to-be. She'd known he was not much older than she, however there was still a rush of relief to see a young, handsome man before her.

Marina blinked as she looked up and up, her neck aching a little as she sought his face. The man was a full forty-one centimeters taller than her own one fifty-five. In addition to his height, Kuryakin was solidly built, shoulders wide and strong, with broad, lethal hands to match. His features would have been pleasant enough, except for his fierce glower. He possessed strictly combed blond hair, not one strand allowed out of place. Icy blue eyes burned as they glared down at her much tinier frame.

And then she saw the way he trembled and twitched, jaw tightening as he fought to control his rage. She bit down hard on the inside of her lip, murmuring, “Hello, Comrade Kuryakin.”

His eyes narrowed at her greeting, eyes flicking to the hard hold Sidorov had around her arm. Turning those burning eyes on her handler, he ordered brusquely, “Remove your hand from my wife, Comrade.”

She felt her surprise manifest as a physical thing, a sharp blink as she gawped at him. Sidorov's hand tightened for a moment, prompting a wince. Straightening, he loomed for a moment before insisting once again, “Unhand her . . . now.”

Marina stumbled as he released her, once again surprised when Kuryakin reached to steady her on her feet. “Thank you,” she murmured, straightening her spine confidently. Stepping back, she took comfort in her sister's presence at her back.

A dull, dry tone came from their left. “If you are ready . . . may I suggest we begin?”

Marina looked up at her proposed fiance and asked, “I'm ready if you are?”

His eyes were at least kind, even if his features did not shift from their fierce demeanor. Taking her elbow in a gentle grip, he led her forward until both stood before the commandant. “We are ready, Commandant Ivanischev.”

Their superior, a man of distinguished height and stern bearing, nodded briskly. Folding his hands before him, he began to intone the requisite marriage rites. Marina didn't remember much, just a toneless, “I do,” then her own reply of the same.

Neither had had enough time to to search for a suitable ring, though Marina sliced a thin lock from her hair and plaited it about his finger to serve for the moment. Her own finger remained bare, though he was clearly unhappy about the lack of foresight.

The Commandant’s tone was dry as he declared, “You may kiss your bride, Kuryakin.”

The 16 year old had been kissed before. Her primary job for her handlers was seducing older men out of their secrets, and occasionally, separating them from their lives. None of them had been enjoyable and it had taken every moment of her training to stay within the character she was assigned.

Whatever she had been expecting from Kuryakin, it was not the sweet almost gentle embrace she received. Bending almost in half, her new husband pressed a pair of warm, chapped lips to her own. There was no spark there, nothing exhilarating; there was kindness and honesty within the touch. It was such a difference to her usual embraces that she felt her heart swell.

Maybe she would never love him romantically, but - with any luck - this marriage would not be the cruelty she had feared it to be.

She stared up at him with wide eyes as he pulled away. And from a long ways away, Marina heard the Commandant announce, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mrs. Kuryakina, may I introduce you to your husband?”

Taken be a strange whim, Marina dipped in a deep curtsey, murmuring, “My husband.”

Bowing to her, Kuryakin replied in kind, “My wife.”

**************

Marina had a plan.

She was a wife now and she had orders to be a proper wife to her husband. Proper wives laid back and thought of Mother Russia while performing their wifely duties. Illya Kuryakin was young, handsome and no doubt virile. She would let him take what was owed him.

With any luck, it would be less awful than her missions and over just as quickly.

She followed him up the steps of his small quarters on base, eyes scanning everything as she took in her new living space. It was a small but quaint home, though utterly lacking in any kind of feminine touch. There was no garden in the front yard, nor flowers in the small window-box.

The railing of the small porch could do with a new coat of paint. However, for the most part, the home was maintained well and comfortably cozy. It would be a good place to live . . . if not quite the home of her dreams.

Kuryakin - “You are my wife; you may call me Illya.” - led her into the room, her two small suitcases in his hands as he led her to the bedroom at the back of the house. “After you,” he insisted, waving her into the room as though her luggage was weightless.

The teenager nodded, moving past him into the room, fingers already coming up to the buttons of her uniform shirt. Calling on her training, she loosened her body seductively and turned to face him. He stood in the door frame, hands in his pockets as he pointedly didn't look at her. “This is your home now. Make yourself comfortable. Good night.”

The farewell surprised her, though no less than his turning back to the door. “Wait!” she cried, visibly alarmed. “I'm your wife . . . aren't you going to take what belongs to you?”

“You are not a thing to possess. And no, I am not; I wish to be alone for now. Sleep well, Liliput.”

Marina blinked, visibly startled; though the word was also Russian, her new husband had used the Ukrainian inflection. She had thought her Ukrainian heritage pretty thoroughly forgotten. Then the meaning of the word registered and she protested vehemently, “I am NOT a midget!”

He smiled at her, teasing, “You are to me,” before the door closed behind him and she was alone.

Frowning, she sighed and shoved her hands back through her hair. With any luck, Sidorov wouldn't find out about this. Shedding her uniform, she changed into drab gray flannel pajamas and settled in to snoop.

The room itself was austere and almost totally bare of any personal items. A single side table held a beautiful chess set, the pieces stationed around the board as though a game had been paused mid-battle. Cast in pewter, each one was intricately wrought. Her fingers twitched, itching to lift a piece and manipulate it in her hands.

Clenching her fingers closed, she continued her exploration. Across from the bed, there was a heavily laden bookcase. Every square inch was crammed with books, somehow orderly despite its haphazard organization. Fingertips trailed curiously along the spines, as she perused the titles.

Everything from fiction to science texts filled the shelves, each new title sparking Marina's interest. A couple times, she itched to pull a book from its place, but the knowledge that these were not her things held her back.

Of course she had an extensive education; one couldn't do the job she did without being able to interact with those of the educated set. However, reading for pleasure had never been encouraged . . . if she would have had the time for it in the first place. To know her new husband not only found the time, but clearly enjoyed the time spent lightened something in her heart.

Still, as much as she wanted to, she left the books where they were. She didn't have permission to touch them, and she had other things to look at. Such as the large hole in the wall, hiding almost completely behind the bookshelf. She prodded at the edges, mentally comparing it to the size of her husband's hand.

Kuryakin suffers from psychotic episodes.

Sidorov’s voice reverberated through her brain and Marina flinched back, fingers closing convulsively on empty air. Somehow, since meeting her husband, she had forgotten the reason they had been married. Turning away from the wall, she took in the room once again through new eyes.

Pieces on the chessboard had been painstakingly mended. There were dents in the walls, half hidden behind portraits, papers or frames. Broken glass glittered in a corner, small fragments that had escaped the vacuum’s pull. Several of the books had been taped back together along the spines, the adhesive glistening every few inches.

Her hands came over her mouth, pressing hard to hold in her sob. She had faced down the Winter Soldier as a child and had very rarely shown true fear. But in this moment . . . she was terrified.

**************

By the time Kuryakin had returned to their now-shared room, it was hours later. Marina lay on her side, still wide awake. She had spent the time listening to the dull thuds and sharp crashes indicative of things falling and breaking in the living room.

The rectangle of light from the door fell across the bed, prompting a soft intake of breath from its occupant. It was maybe ten minutes later before the covers behind her shifted and a warm weight laid down behind her.

They were both silent for a long time. At last, his gruff voice filled the space. “I know you are not asleep. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she promised softly. Another pause, then her voice filled the small space once again, “Will you teach me? To play chess?”

“Do you wish to learn?” he asked in reply, sounding sincerely curious.

She considered the question seriously. Then she spoke, “I would like to, yes.”

He grunted softly, then responded, “I will teach you. Rest now . . . morning comes early.”

“Yes sir.”

He snorted softly, “My name is Illya, Marina.”

Blushing sheepishly, she repeated quietly, “Yes Illya.”

Stiffening as he rolled to throw an arm across her waist, she laid perfectly still. After a moment, he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to the exposed curve of her neck. “Relax . . . I will not harm you. Rest now . . . I will make you breakfast in the morning.”

Despite everything she had ever known, for once in her life, Marina felt safe. She closed her eyes, pulled her pillow close and - within the embrace of his arms - she fell asleep.

The night . . . she did not dream.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Beast’s Rage

Most days, Illya Kuryakin did not mind being married to his wife. The girl was obviously very young, but she was compassionate, gentle and possessed of a keen mind. Though not a classical beauty, she was still pleasantly pretty, with a cheerful and charming personality to match.

Then there were days like today. On days like today, it was all he could do not to curse her name to hell.

Illya hated this office . . . his handler . . . the whole damn job on days like today. Oleg was a bully and had a habit of using his power to grind down all of his assets, Illya in particular. He always had, ever since the first time he’d crawled into bed with Illya’s mother. Currently, he was harping on each minor error Illya had made on his most recent mission. Though technically a success, Oleg was being even more of an asshole than usual. Leaving Illya gritting his teeth and trying to keep a hold on his temper.

“Do you want to join your father in Siberia, Kuryakin? He's in the Gulag, an embarrassment to the State! Just like your whore mother, making herself available to all of your father’s friends, now that he's out of the picture.”

Illya could feel the hot flush of blood rising, like a physical thing twining its tentacles through his body. He felt little for his father’s disgrace, one way or another, but his relationship with his mother was bitter and thorned. Oleg’s smirk was pointed, the man clearly able to see how the reminder grated on him. Of course, then he pushed it further. “Not to mention your little wife . . . after all, everyone knows what they use Red Room girls for.” Oleg’s smirk twisted into a cruel grin. “How many other men have there been, Kuryakin? Do you even know? No matter . . . at least she makes it as good for you as she does for the rest of her clients, right? She is letting you get your dick wet, yes?”

Hindsight would help Illya to see he was being baited . . . that Oleg was trying to push him into an episode. At that exact moment, however, all Illya could comprehend was the all-consuming fire of his rage. The full extent of the damage he left in his wake, he didn't care to know. All he understood was his fury.

When he came back to himself, he was lying in a hospital bed at the base hospital. He had been stripped of his clothes and wore a paper gown, partially hidden by the covers pulled to his waist. His wrists and ankles were restrained to the bed, prompting him to pull against them, even as he knew he wasn't going anywhere. This wasn't the first time his episodes had landed him here, and probably wouldn't be the last. Groaning, he laid back and tried to make himself comfortable until the KGB's physicians decided he was steady enough to leave.

He jolted slightly as a voice boomed through the open door of his room. “You worthless slut! You had orders! And, instead, of improvement . . . we're back to where we started.”

“I am trying, Comrade, honest,” came the plaintive begging of his young wife.

“Clearly not hard enough,” the man sneered.

“Comrade, you've had me on assignment every week since the wedding. I haven't even been home to . . .”

The sharp slap of skin against skin earned a soft cry from the young woman, cutting off her protest. “Your excuses are unacceptable. You are a whore, Comrade Kuryakina . . . do your job!”

Illya could feel his anger building again, as Marina agreed meekly, “Yes Comrade.”

“Get out of my sight. Go home and prepare for your husband's return.”

He felt his heart sink as he stared up at the ceiling, struggling to process this new information he'd overheard. Her job was to fuck him . . . of course it was. Her interest in learning to play chess with him . . . her excitement at being allowed to read his books whenever she wanted to . . . her singing, her giggles . . . the glee she showed when he enjoyed her cooking. He should have listened to his gut. He'd suspected from the beginning that her enthusiasm wasn't genuine and he'd been right. No wonder she was so good at her job; she was proving to be very convincing.

A few hours, and a psych evaluation, later he stood in the doorway to their quarters. The warm rich smell of homemade stroganoff - one of his favorite meals - filled the little house. He could just see the flip of her skirt as she moved through the kitchen, having attired herself in a pleasing window dressing to hide the truth of her duplicity. She was even humming, something sweet and pretty as she prepared to seduce him . . . to finally do her job.

The thought sent a surge of anger rushing through him and he felt his jaw tighten, slamming the door closed harder than strictly necessary. The humming stopped so abruptly it might as well have been snapped off with a switch. There was a moment before she appeared in the frame, a warm and welcoming smile on her lips as she clasped her hands before her. “Hello Illya. Are you feeling better?”

His lips curled and he roared, “Shut up, you duplicitous whore!”

He felt a sense of sick satisfaction well in his gut as she visibly blanched, one hand coming up to fuss with the collar of her shirt. Her tone was confused as she protested, “Illya . . .”

“So was that all I ever was to you? A mission? Placate the beast and calm him like a dog in heat? Spread your legs and let him rut away at you?”

Her eyes were huge and watery, making her look very young as her fingers fidgeted with the pleats of her skirt and the Peter Pan collar of her blouse. She nodded once as she whispered, “Those were my orders, yes.”

He flinched to hear her confess so easily. “Did I mean anything to you at all?” he asked, sincerely anguished.

He'd enjoyed teaching her chess. Enjoyed the pleasure she received from the books she borrowed from his collection. The meals she made. The little songs she'd sing in the kitchen. He had enjoyed HER.

The betrayal of it galled.

She bowed her head, voice a devastated whisper as she replied, “I'm sorry.”

And just like that, the switch on his temper was thrown and he was raging for the second time that day. It wasn't until she screamed as he threw her into the wall that he came back to himself. His chest heaved like a bellows even as his vision cleared. Marina lay curled against the wall, a pool of skirts and curls around her as she cowered. She was sobbing, tears wrecking her careful makeup job . . . highlighting the dark bruise across one cheek from where Sidorov had slapped her and the mottled discoloration circling her left eye.

Horror slashed through him as he took in what he'd done while lost to his rage. One of his wife's shoulders humped strangely, indicating dislocation, and Illya moved forward instantly to help, shame and guilt twisting into a hot knife within his gut. He froze as she scrambled backwards, still sobbing and free hand clawing at the flooring as she tried to escape his reach. “Please, Illya," she begged through her sobs, "I am sorry. I'm only 16 years old . . . this isn't what I wanted. I was just trying to get to know you, before I followed my orders. I didn't mean to hurt you . . . I thought you knew . . . I'm sorry.”

Unwilling to frighten her further, his feet were all but glued as he watched his wife whimper at his feet. His wife . . . for crying out, his wife was sixteen years old!? She was practically a baby, forced to marry a man afflicted with psychosis. Fuck, but her handlers were sadistic assholes.

Backing away from his fearful, cringing wife, Illya turned his attention to the room in search of something to help her. Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of her influence in his life. The window boxes had flowers in them now, their heads just visible over the windowsill. There were pictures on the walls that were more than stark, emotionless depictions of places Illya had been sent on assignment; everything from flowers to landscapes to night-lit skylines. Finally, his eyes landed on the phone and a lightbulb clicked on in his thoughts. There was only one person he could think of to call though he’d only met her the once. Marina’s sister, the girl who had stood at Marina's side during their wedding. If he was unable to help her, perhaps her sister could.

He located Marina's address book in one of the desk drawers and flipped through, relieved to see her name written at the very front of the book. The voice that answered was both curious and suspicious as the girl inquired, “Hello?”

“This is Viktoryia Dubrovskaya, right? Marina’s sister?” he asked, wanting to make sure he had the right person before revealing anything.

“Yes, this is Vika. Can I help you?" she asked, now more curious than anything else. After a moment, her tone hardened as she demanded, "Is Marina okay? Who is this? How do you know my sister?"

He pointedly didn't answer the last question. Instead, he insisted, “Marina needs your help; she's at home and she's hurt.”

“What!?” the girl cried, alarmed. “What happened?”

“Please . . . just come. Quickly.” Hanging up the phone before any further questions were fired his way, Illya moved back to Marina's side. He stopped just outside of arm's reach and crouched, one hand settling just shy of hers on the floor as he softened his voice to a gentle murmur, “Your sister will be here soon.”

Marina flinched, cowering back into the wall. “I'm sorry . . .” she begged again, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Biting down on his lower lip, every part of him yearned to hold her and comfort her . . . a yearning he no longer had any right to. “I know," he promised, head bowing as he continued in a wretched whisper, "I am too.”

Fingers twitching with the need to soothe, he stood and strode away, leaving her still crying on the floor behind him. He stormed through the base like a vengeful god, while shame and remorse clogged his throat and made each breath a struggle. It seemed like providence when he looked up to see that his feet had taken him to the base gym without any input from him. Violence and rage had consumed his life since he was a child, leaving him with no understanding of any other kind of penance than pain and physical injury. As a result, Illya blew into the gym, his anger a breathing thing and clearly evident to anyone looking at him. He stalked towards the sparring mats and the gathered crowd around it, watching the current occupants practically flee as he approached. Stripping his shirt and throwing it to the side, he toed off his shoes and climbed onto the mat. “Who will challenge me?” he bellowed, burning eyes sweeping through the crowd in search of a sparring partner.

There was a moment's silence, before a feminine voice called from the back of the crowd, “I will!”

A tall, willowy brunette slipped from the crowd, her eyes bright with the challenge as she moved to take the open space across from him. She gave him a small smirk, her tone sultry as she introduced herself, “I'm Valya.”

“I do not care,” he told her bluntly, hands coming up as she took position across from him.

Her mouth twisted as she took him in. Bare moments later, she announced, “You married my sister.”

At the reminder of Marina, Illya flinched widely, the memory of her crumpled and crying flashing across his vision like a motion picture reel. As a result of his startlement, the agent nearly missed the roundhouse she aimed at his head. Grabbing the ankle at the last moment, he hissed, “Why aren't you with her? Your sister is hurt.”

She shrugged lazily, her eyes focused on his as she let him hold her in place. “Whatever happened, she probably deserved it,” Valya grunted in reply, twisting her ankle free and taking stance again. “She took something that belonged to me, and I will never forgive her for it.” Lunging, she threw a complicated combination of blows that drove him off balance and found him on his back on the mat, with Valya over him. Her hands pinned him to the mat as she hissed, “You should have been mine!”

“With sisters like you, who needs enemies?” he growled furiously, before getting his knee into her gut and throwing her off of him.

She rolled to her feet quickly, grinning evilly, “Indeed.”

“You bitch,” he spat.

“I've been called worse,” she shrugged. Loosening her body seductively, she purred, “I'd be a much better wife to you. Marina hates it, the work, but I don't. I've learned so many things. . . you'd never leave our bed dissatisfied.”

“I have no interest in whores,” Illya snarled, lip curling as he felt his rage build in his chest.

“What do you think you married?”

“A young woman with no other choices,” he replied, lashing out and landing a brutal left cross to her face. She cried out and flung around, one hand coming up to cradle the side of her face.

No longer interested in anything she had to say, the agent let his training take over. As his body moved separately from his brain, he ruminated on the situation at home, prompted by Valya's words. Some part of him had known Marina hated the job she was forced to do; the hours long showers - even after the water had surely gone cold - and the avoidance of anything to do with her missions were clear enough indications of that. He felt pain well up in his gut again as he forced himself to face the truth he'd let himself forget. The true Marina was the sweet girl she's been while they were alone in their home, together. Everything within the sanctuary of their quarters had been an honest representation of who his wife truly was.

Bone deep guilt knifed through him, sucking air from his lungs as he put Valya on her back for the last time. Even bloodied and bruised, the girl was contorting her body into seductive lines. “Use me . . . Marina doesn't even have to know,” she gasped, fighting through her pain.

“I'd know,” he replied, suddenly very tired. “I am more than content with the woman I have. And as I said . . . I have no interest in whores.”

Turning his back on the other assassin, Illya gathered his shirt and shoes from where he'd dropped them and left the gym, having found none of the solace he'd been seeking. The spy moved slowly through the base, hands in his pockets as he kicked loose rocks alongside the road. The front façade of their home seemed cold and accusing as he paused outside the front gate. The windows were dark, prompting a frown as he glanced down at his father's watch. Shocked by the readout on the face, he stared; it had been several hours since he left Marina waiting for her sisters.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then removed his shoes once more. If he could protect Marina from fear, he would. It was the least he could do, after the way he lost his temper earlier that afternoon. At the reminder of her fear, he felt ice settle like a rock in his gut.

Illya knew he was a brute, had always known. The KGB had made him that way, nurturing his anger and molding him into one of their most brutual and efficient weapons. Today's disastrous altercation had only served to further prove that belief. Shaking his head sadly, he let himself into the house. Silence reigned as he dropped his shoes into the hall closet then hung up his coat as well, leaving no indication of how the rest of the night might go. Pushing up the sleeves of his turtleneck, he moved through the house in search of his wife.

He found her in the bedroom, the girl looking like a broken doll where she slept upright against the headboard of the bed. Someone had strapped her arm to her chest, to both stabilize it and reduce the pain it was sure to have caused her. Tear tracks on her face glimmered even in the dim light from the hallway, making him frown with concern. Before seeing her, Illya did not think he could have felt worse for what he’d done to her . . . clearly he had been wrong. He had done this to her. He had hurt her this way . . . frightened her . . . damaged the wonderful glow she'd carried around in her eyes and her heart.

How in the world was he ever going to make this up to her?

His mind wandered back to her sister in the gym, an uncaring bitch if ever he’d met one. It had him wondering what her other sisters were like and what they would do to him when they found out he was responsible for their sister’s current condition. His impression of Vika had been that she was very fond of his wife, willing to be at her side if she needed friendship. However, he didn't know any of her other sisters, or how many sisters she even had. With two sisters known to him, and each on the opposite sides of the spectrum, he found himself nervous and unsure about ever meeting them.

Coming into the room, and making a conscious effort not to disturb her rest, Illya crept to stand beside the bed. A tender touch brushed a wayward curl from her eyes, before he focused his attention on guiding the covers up and over her body without waking her. Reaching for the pillows she'd pushed away in her sleep, he piled them against her to brace her injured shoulder more comfortably. Satisfied that he'd done everything he could, he stepped away from the bed. Moving to change in their ensuite bathroom, he pulled a spare blanket from the shelf in their closet then retrieved an unused pillow from the bed. The couch was hard and uncomfortable, but infinitely better than he deserved.

Blue eyes were concerned as he turned back from the doorway, watching her sleep. Bowing his head, he whispered into the silence, “Rest well, Marina. I'll make this up to you . . . somehow.”

***************

Illya had been beating the hell out of the punching bag for hours. It had been three weeks since the incident and the agent was doing everything he could to make the recovery easier for his injured bride. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to alleviate stress or strain on her healing body.

Long and sleepless nights were spent on the living room couch, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating what he could do to earn her forgiveness. He fixed her breakfast every morning before he left for work, leaving it for her to find on the bedside table when she woke. He always made sure there were books for her to read within reach as well as records playing in the background for her to listen to.

Not that she ever seemed to touch the books or hear the music. She spent most of her time asleep as she healed, quiet and withdrawn the few times Illya would find her awake, eyes distant as she stared out the window. Considering the bright, bubbly girl she had been before, her timidity now broke Illya's heart.

Mostly he stayed away, so as not to frighten her. The spy spent nearly all his time in the base gym, beating on the bags and the junior agents coming in to train. As penance, he lost as many as he won, relishing the dull thud of fist against flesh. His wife had had no chance against him; leaving him seeking the only restitution he had available to him until she was willing to forgive him.

For the moment, he was focused on his repetitive assault against the bag before him. Lost in his self-recrimination as he was, shock rang through him when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him against the opposite wall. The impact jarred him out of his thoughts, his body feeling the impact from his toes to the crown of his head. His eyes slammed closed as he groaned, meaning that he didn't see the two hands reaching out to grab him by the collar and shove him up against the wall once more. His head slammed backwards hard; when he finally opened his eyes he stared. He was clearly hallucinating, his attacker’s features those of the assassin known only as the Winter Soldier. "This isn't happening," he stammered, eyes wide as he continued to stare, convinced that those features would resolve into those of his true attacker any minute now.

Ocean blue eyes boiled, their anger scalding him, as the Asset pinned him against the wall and left him no leverage to wiggle free. Over one of his shoulders, a young girl stood, her long black hair caught up in a high ponytail. She watched the two men with a gleeful grin, mischievousness glimmering in those dark eyes. Illya felt sure he had never meet the girl before, though she clearly knew him as she began to speak. “Illya Kuryakin, I'd like to introduce you to the Soldier . . ." Her grin sharped with hatred as she snarled, ". . . the closest thing your wife has to a father.”

Terror flared through Illya, relief chasing quickly on its heels. From the look on the Asset's face, the man held a deep and abiding love for Illya's wife, and he was going to rip Illya's body limb from limb for what he'd done. Which would be no less than he deserved; even Illya would agree that such a death would be very kind. Still, he stared at the man, unable to reconcile the stories of the Winter Soldier with the vengeful father figure before him. “He's her father!?” he finally managed to ask.

“What did you do to my Scholar!?” the Soldier roared, slamming him into the wall once again.

Illya grunted, teeth gritting as his head crashed back hard again. Opening his eyes, he saw the gym empty of anyone but the three of them; apparently, they'd cleared the gym of witnesses to their little "conversation". Unable to answer the man, he allowed his eyes to flick towards the girl. Clearly this was another sister, if her hatred for him was any indication. More importantly, this was a sister on the Vika side of the spectrum. Licking his lips, he asked her, “You're her sister?”

“Veronika Belinskaya, at your service,” the girl replied with a mocking little bow. “She wouldn't tell us what happened . . . wouldn't tattle on you, but we knew.” Sneering, she hissed, “What did she ever do to you, asshole?”

Illya slumped in the Soldier's grip, his eyes squeezing closed as he insisted, “Nothing . . . she didn't do anything. Your recriminations cannot be any more awful than my own. I . . . I don't know if I can explain.”

Her face twisted with rage as she snapped, “Explain what? Why you threw my sister into a wall like a rag doll, you brutish bastard?”

The Soldier's voice was a brittle rumble as he intoned, “Veronika, let the man speak.” Turning back to Illya, the assassin shook him once as he ordered, “Explain . . . now.”

Swallowing hard, Illya sighed, “I suffer from psychotic episodes. I made unfair assumptions based on things said by our handlers.” Frowning fiercely, he growled, “I like her . . . enjoy her company . . . the idea of being betrayed by her triggered a episode. I . . . it is no excuse, but it is the only one I have.”

“Handlers? Which handlers?” the Soldier demanded, jaw clenching furiously. “What did they say about my Marishka?”

Veronika’s tone was a snarl as she hissed, “One of them was Sidorov, huh? The slimy eel . . . he is hardest on her of all of us. She's not ruthless enough for his tastes.”

“I have warned Isaak of his callousness before; I shall enjoy reinforcing the lesson,” the assassin agreed soberly. Turning back to Illya, he slammed him into the wall again as he demanded, “Who is the other?”

“Oleg . . . my handler. He started it; I had a major episode that morning. I woke in the medical center, and Sidorov was laying into her. Apparently my episode meant she wasn't doing the job she was assigned when we were married.”

“How was your episode HER fault?” Veronika asked, her hands clenching into fists beside her.

“I don't know. She hasn't been forcing things . . . hasn't tried to seduce me. After . . . she told me it was so she could get to know me, but her handler's words had implied it was all a ploy. I believe her, I swear it . . . I . . . if I had only listened to her . . . ” Hands coming up to grip the man's wrists, he begged, “I have been trying to make it up to her, but I don't think it's working. You say you're her father . . . please . . .”

“I cannot absolve you, Kuryakin. Only Marina can do that,” was the steady reply, before his mouth twisted evilly. “Nor did I ever say I came with absolution. I had every intention of killing you for what you did to my Scholar, but . . . ”

The agent should have been expecting what came next, however the heavy blow driven into Illya’s stomach from the Soldier’s left hand - the famed metal one - still drove him to his knees, the air forced from his lungs in a sharp wheeze. Illya could not breathe, his arms coming up to wrap around his tender stomach as he struggled to take in air. As for the Soldier, the man watched him solemnly before announcing, “You harm my Marishka again . . . I will not be so kind. As it is, I am going to enjoy this very much.”

“It is no less than I deserve,” Illya wheezed out as he looked up to the Soldier and then across to Veronika. “I do regret what happened."

"Not yet, you don't," the Asset sneered, advancing on the agent menacingly.

The beating that followed felt like a painful eternity . . . and Illya welcomed every moment of it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Beauty and the Beast

Marina had been on assignment for the last three days. Once her shoulder had healed, her handler had nearly jumped at the chance to get her gone.

Illya flipped the page in his book, smiling as he recalled the way Sidorov had hobbled to and fro after a brief . . . talk with the Soldier. Illya's own talk - painful as it had been - had been much kinder than Sidorov’s own. He snickered, well remembering the look on his face when Illya had appeared to reprimand him for harming his wife.

He was jerked from his thoughts by the sudden bang of the door. His training kicked in automatically as he found himself heading for the door, his book forgotten on the floor. Just as he reached the front of the house, Marina breezed through, a mini hurricane sweeping past him and disappearing into their bedroom with a barely muffled sob.

He froze. Marina's dislike of her assignments - even during his stupid phase - had always been clear. However, she had never reacted to one in such a manner before. Letting his eyes drift closed, he replayed the last seconds in his memory and snarled as the livid red of a bruise across her jaw resolved itself in his mind.

Rounding on his heel, he stormed to the bedroom, his monster roaring in the back of his head. Just before going through, however, he stopped. Marina was still moving on tiptoe around him. The last thing he ever wanted to do was scare her again.

Bending over, he braced his hands on his knees and focused on calming down. His monster would not serve Marina now.

When he was sure his dark half was securely locked back within the recesses of his mind, Illya opened the bedroom door. He could hear the shower running, steam already billowing out through the open door as he crossed to the threshold. Marina’s shadowy figure was hunched behind the curtain, her arms moving in a way that Illya was sure meant she was scrubbing furiously at her skin with a washcloth.

Inching quietly into the room, he eased the curtains open to find her scrubbing her skin raw. Her arms bore fresh scratches, cuts and abrasions that hadn’t been there when she’d left. All of them seeping fresh blood. Without a second thought he stepped in behind his wife, large arms encircling her smaller frame as he gently grasped her wrists to stop her brutal scrubbing.

Marina stiffened in his arms, her sobs quieting to sniffles. He felt his heart lodge in his throat as she whispered, “What are you doing? I know how you feel about whores; Valya told me what you said.”

Illya felt his face contort into an awful frown at that. “I'll bet she did. Did she tell you the rest?”

A meek shake of her head was her only answer, eyes directed down at her feet. Stripping the cloth from her hand, he soothed softly, “My mother . . . after my father's incarceration, she prostituted herself to all of his former friends. I don't care for it . . . but you are not a whore.”

“That's not what you said that day.”

Bending, he pressed a soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “I was wrong. I . . . you know of my condition. I let my monster do the thinking instead of my head. But I know, Marina; I know how much you dislike the work. Can you forgive me for the awful things I said and did that day?”

He watched her blink up at him in response to his question. Her thoughts were clear in her eyes Could she forgive him for what had happened all those weeks ago? Was she ready to forgive? He had no doubt her sister had informed her of Illya’s encounter with the Soldier. Considering what little he knew of Veronika, he’d bet the girl would have been almost giddy whilst providing all the details.

He looked down to see the cloth still clutched in a tight grip, before reaching to carefully extract it. He forced his hands to gentleness as he brushed the cloth along the abused flesh, anger swelling in his throat at the bruising he found dotted over her skin. Even he was shocked by his gentleness; only five weeks before, these hands had struck out at her in anger and now they cradled her as tenderly as an egg.

Holding her against him this way, for the first time, he became cognizant of the difference in their size; he knew she was tiny, but she’d never seemed so small before. She bowed her head under his gaze, and he followed suit, pausing at the sight of his hands. They were shaking slightly; he’d never seen his hands shake like THIS before. It wasn’t the kind of shaking caused by rage but by fear. Her hand lifted slowly, trapping his hand and the cloth it held, against her stomach. Together, they watched the appendage spasm against her skin, before she replied, “Yes, Illya, I forgive you.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath in anticipation of her answer. The gust of air he released at her words ruffled her hair and caused gooseflesh against the bare flesh of her shoulders. Turning slowly in his arms, she lifted her hands to play with the buttons on his shirt. “Why are you still wearing your clothes?”

“It seemed prudent to leave them on. I did not want to startle you or . . . make you think I was trying to take advantage of your vulnerability right now,” he replied while looking down at her face, a scowl forming on his features when his eyes locked on the red streak which marred her jaw.

“Illya, you're my husband,” she reminded him with a small frown, “You'd be well within your rights to ‘take advantage’. I know I haven't exactly been the model wife.”

HIs jaw tightened at the statement as he shook his head once, tone firm as he argued, “I would not want a model wife. A model wife by your handler’s standard would be your sister Valya . . . someone cold and unfeeling, who can still do the job. I much prefer you and your curiosity about my books, and your singing in our kitchen.”

She smiled sheepishly, confessing, “I like to sing.”

“Yes, I know. You also like to cook while you’re singing,” he teased, chuckling softly as he winked at her. After a moment, he sobered, and took her face between his palms, looking directly into her eyes so she could see his sincerity. “I would not change what was pushed upon us Liliput.”

“Not a single thing?” she asked, shame for the job she did swelling in her throat. Her tone was bitter as she asked, “Not even a faithful wife?”

“You are faithful . . .” Illya paused and lifted his free hand to tap lightly over her heart “Here, where it matters. The only thing I would change is that I was not so damaged.”

“Damaged?” Marina echoed, a furrow on her brow as she watched him calmly. “I don’t know understand. Damaged how?”

He smiled at her, abruptly seeing the proof of her innocence as well as her inherent gentleness once more. His thumb stroked over her cheek as “You deserve better than a fractured man, Marina. You are light and loving, while I am dark and deadly. Not exactly a perfect match, though I am selfish enough not to let go of the one good thing presented to me.”

“Clearly, you're delusional, husband, if you think I’m in anyway a good thing.”

He held up the cloth with a fond smile. “Were you not good, wife, you would not be sobbing in the shower after each mission, while trying to scrub away the upper layers of your skin.” His features smoothed and he insisted firmly, “You are not like your sister . . . she loves the work you both do. But you do not. You do what must be done and then come home to try and forget. Furthermore, you care about people; about me and your sisters. Valya only cares about herself.”

“She wasn’t always that way,” Marina protested softly, before a frown creased her lips. “But that's twice you've said Valya’s name. What do you know?”

“After that day I . . .” Here he faltered, shame flashing across his face and in those eyes. “After I hurt you, she approached me in the gym. We sparred, and she proceeded to inform me of how angry she was because you had ‘stolen me’ from her. She all but begged me to use her in your stead.” Illya frowned at the memory, his head shaking as he grunted “I do not know your other sisters all that well, but I know they care for you. Veronika would not have set the Soldier on me if that were not the case. Valya thinks only of herself and what she wants.”

“We grew up together . . . Valya and me. They took us away at the same time.” Marina paused, her heart breaking as she considered everything. “I had hoped she was at least still my friend. Clearly I was mistaken.” Looking up at him, she asked sincerely, “Why did you tell her no? She is good at the job. She would have been good to you.”

“Her heart would not have been in it. Besides my heart has been enthralled by a far more delicate and much gentler soul, my Liliput.” He stroked a thumb lightly over the reddened skin of her jaw. “I am content with what I have and far happier with my life than I have been since I was a child.”

For a long time, she stared up at him, hot chocolate eyes searching for something in blue that only she seemed to know. After a moment, she settled, body loosening into something that resembled peace and calm. Her fingers lifted to rest against his chest, playing lazily with the buttons of his shirt, as she asked, “If I offer you now what I offered you the night we married . . . would the answer be different now, than it was then?”

He watched her, as she began to slip the buttons free, his thumbs drawing useless designs against her skin. Nodding, he agreed gently, “If the offer comes from your heart rather than from a desire to do your duty . . . I think so.” Bending, he pressed a sweet kiss to her mouth, a tiny thrill rushing through him as she reciprocated. He pulled back an inch, resting his forehead against her own, as he murmured, “You are a force of nature, Marina, and you have inserted yourself quite firmly within my heart. I will do everything I can to protect you; whether that is from my own monster or anyone else who desired to harm you.”

“That's because you are a good man, Illya Kuryakin . . . even if you are a brute.”

He chuckled as he conceded, “I am what the KGB made me.”

“Aren't we all?” she asked rhetorically, only moments before pushing herself up onto her tiptoes and pulling him down into another kiss. “Can we forget what they made us . . . just for tonight?”

“We can try, Liliput. What do you have in mind?” Illya rumbled as he nosed fondly against the skin of her temple, leading into a kiss to her forehead. “There is something going on in that head of yours, wife. You have a mischievous glint in your eyes.”

“My sister Vika would say that's never a good thing,” she giggled cheerfully.

“That would likely depend on what you are plotting,” Illya shot back without a beat. “And considering you’ve completely undone the buttons of my shirt, I believe I can guess what you’re thinking.”

Her eyes were wide and serious as she asked, “Would it be so terrible?”

“Not if you are sure it’s truly what you want.”

“It is.” She paused, her lip captured between her teeth, before she whispered, “This is the life we have, Illya. Does it not benefit us both to make the best of it?”

“You are a good wife Marina, don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“Illya?” she whispered, one hand coming up to curl behind his neck.

“Yes Marina?”

“Kiss your wife. Please?”

“As you wish,” Illya carefully hooked two fingers beneath Marina’s chin, his head dipping down to meet hers as he claimed her lips in a tender kiss.

It quickly became apparent, Illya had never done this before. His skin trembled under her touch, fingers uncertain as he sought to treat her gently and carefully. He shuddered as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders, before turning her attention to the fasteners at his waist. Watching his face, the way his eyes squeezed closed, she soothed, “I won't hurt you, Illya.”

“I know, it’s just . . . I’ve never,” he trailed off cheeks turning a little red as he mumbled “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won't. I have faith in you, husband. It'll be okay. This will be good for both of us, I promise.”

Illya bent down to scoop Marina’s slight frame into his arms, his mouth settling back over hers as he carried her back into the bedroom and towards their bed. Marina hooked her ankles around his hips, fingers threading through blond hair. He laid her out carefully, laying over her and clearly conscious of his weight. Leaning up to kiss him, she murmured, “Let go. It's okay. Just stop thinking and let it happen . . . I can handle it.”

Those blue eyes burned into her for a moment, gauging her sincerity, before he leaned to kiss her once more. From there . . . things got a little hazy.

************

Marina woke that next morning to the soft tickle of hair between her breasts, deep breaths tickling over her skin. A hand starfished over one breast, fingers manipulating the nipple gently, before a steady brush of air made its way across the tip.

The assassin gasped, back arching a little as she threaded her fingers through unruly blond hair. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing what I've learned, Liliput,” Illya chuckled, eyes sparkling with wicked teasing. “Don't you like it?”

“Not the point,” she grumbled, using her grip on his hair to haul him up to her mouth. A practiced twitch of her hips and she giggled as his eyes went wide in startled pleasure, long and deep within her once more. “Don't play with fire, unless you're ready to get burned.”

“Does it always feel like this?” he asked, fingers shifting to cup her thigh and driving deeper into her.

“I don't know,” was the only answer she could supply. After a moment, she smiled sadly as she lifted her arms to wrap around his neck. “Ask me again in a year or two.”

Understanding clearly what she didn't say, Illya said nothing. He simply bent to kiss her, their hips moving together in the now familiar rhythm as they worked their way to bliss once again.

After, while Illya lay dozing in her embrace once more, Marina took the time to examine her husband. The teenager thanked her lucky stars that, if she had to have been married at the behest of her handlers, at least she was married to this man. Vulnerable and achingly gentle, he had taken special care to see to her pleasure before his own. She couldn't remember anyone ever being so tender with her.

It wasn't long before Marina heard the sound of a knock from the downstairs door. There were only two people who ever bothered to visit their little house, and she knew that first knock would shortly be followed by more persistent knocking if she didn’t get up and get moving. A second, more impatient knocking, beat against the door, causing Illya to muttered sleepily. Fortunately, he did not wake. Knowing how little time she had before that changed, Marina prodded gently at his shoulder, releasing a relieved sigh as he rolled away to cuddle with the pillow she offered in place of herself.

Moving quickly from the bed she attired herself quickly in yesterday's dress then she bolted down the stairwell. A third knock sounded, meaning that Nika was only moments from leaning on the doorbell as was her usual habit. Finally at the front door, she ripped it open and grabbed her sister’s wrist with a cry. “No! Illya's still asleep!”

From behind their sister, Vika cocked an eyebrow in question as she drawled lazily, “I didn’t think Kuryakin was the type to sleep in. Is he sick?”

Nika snickered, teasing her sister, “Considering how well fucked our sister looks, Vika, I'm going to say he's slept in for another reason entirely.”

The blonde Amazon smiled gently as she teased, “The two of you made up then, hmm?”

Marina could feel her cheeks heating as she hissed. “Shut up.”

The black-haired assassin frowned, as she asked seriously, “Is this a good thing? I mean . . . Kuryakin is kind of a brute.”

“While that is true,” Marina allowed with a roll of her eyes, “there is more to him than that.” Glancing around to see how might have taken notice of their arrival, she motioned for her sisters to come in. “I'm fine, by the way.”

Vika reached out, thumb smoothing over her sister's jaw. “I'm going to assume this is from the mark and NOT Kuryakin.”

“Would I have been so eager to jump into bed, if it wasn't?” she snarked, even as she hugged Vika tightly. “It wasn't Illya; he was almost . . . sweet last night when I got home.”

“Speaking of your husband, I have some Intel you might be interested in,” the blonde announced, holding up the manila folder she carried in her other hand.

“What kind of Intel?” the brunette inquired, guiding her sisters into the house and closing the door. Whatever Vika had found, it would not serve her husband well to have the entire neighborhood hear of it. This was the KGB; there were spies everywhere and any one of them would be thrilled to have dirt on her or Illya.

Nika snorted as she snarked, “For starters, your mother-in-law is kind of awful.”

“Why do you say that? I know she's a prostitute, but technically so are we.”

Vika glared at the younger sister, scolding, “Nika . . . keep your mouth shut.” Turning to Marina, the blonde announced, “Yes, she's a prostitute. But the reason she's awful has to do with Kuryakin; she gave up her son to the KGB to gain herself immunity from her husband's crimes.”

“What?” Marina gasped in shock, “Does Illya know?”

Nika snorted. “Oleg is his handler. If he didn't before, he most certainly does now.”

“Good point,” she sighed, threading her hand back through her hair. “My poor husband.”

“That's not all I've learned.”

Marina narrowed her eyes, “What are you talking about?”

Vika blushed as she shrugged. “We knew, Marishka, about who had hurt you. Nika told the Soldier . . . and I researched. I was worried about you!”

“I know, and I thank you. You both are the best friends a girl could ask for.” Sighing, Marina folded her hands in her lap and asked, “All right. What else did you find out?”

“Kuryakin’s psychosis? Officially, the blame lies with a ‘disturbed childhood’ and a diagnosis of ‘Oedipus Complex’.” All three girls made a face at the statement; there wasn’t a soul within the KGB who didn’t know of Illya’s distaste for his mother. After a moment, Vika shook herself free of her thoughts and continued, “However, that's not true.”

“While that is not surprising, what is to blame for his diagnosis then?”

The blonde took a deep breath, fiddling with the edge of the folder, before looking into her sister’s eyes. “Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin . . . is a serum recipient, same as us.”

Marina's hands flew to cover her mouth, understanding what her sister was trying to say without further explanation. “Oh no . . . it did to him what it did to Galina!”

“Mm-hmm. And unlike Galina, whose episodes were inconvenient and destructive, Kuryakin's episodes . . .”

Marina groaned, hurt and sadness for her husband's sake filling her soul, “. . . are useful. So they're permanent? There's nothing I can do to help alleviate them?”

“Alleviate, no. Manage?” Here Vika smiled fondly, reaching to lay her hand over Marina’s and squeeze warmly. “You're a resourceful girl, Marina; you'll think of something.”

Marina nodded in agreement. There was little else she could do.

From that point, things improved between the newlyweds. To the point where it had been a blissful few months. Despite the forced nature of their marriage, Illya and Marina had found themselves enjoying something of a honeymoon period together. Though neither would claim to be in love with the other, they had grown to be quite fond of each other. If they were nothing else to each other, they could at least claim to be best friends.

Marina had just arrived at the International Cup Regatta in Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Illya had been assigned to eliminate one of the competitors, a former Nazi scientist hiding in America, and Marina hadn't seen him for nearly a month. Not that her time alone had been uneventful; she had discovered some wonderful news of her own during his absence. News she could hardly wait to share with her husband.

They'd been married since February, and engaging in regular relations from May through September, when Illya had left for his mission. Ergo, it should not have been a surprise to discover she was pregnant, but somehow she’d still been shock at the news. Her sisters had been wonderful, helping her to find a discrete, non-KGB affiliated, clinic and coming with her to the appointment. To say that they were thrilled for her, was putting it mildly.

Truthfully, she was concerned about what their handlers would have to say about the situation. A pregnant whore was about as useful as a dead one, meaning that her assignments for the KGB would now have to be severely curtailed. On the other hand, both Illya and Marina were excellent agents. Furthermore, they were married at the behest of their handlers, who should have expected a pregnancy at some point, especially considering the directive they’d given Marina regarding her “duty” as Illya’s wife. With any luck, they would face no recriminations for the situation in which they now found themselves. Of course, luck was so rarely on their side.

In direct counterpoint to her fear, the teenager was also elated by the news. A child of her own . . . a tiny wonder to lavish her whole world upon. She could only hope that Illya would share her excitement for their little miracle. She wasn’t sure she could bear it, if he didn’t want the child . . . their child.

Suddenly, a voice behind her stirred her from her musings. “Can I help you, Miss?”

Marina whirled, her fingers spreading across the growing curve of her belly, as she looked up at the man. “Oh! I'm sorry! I was daydreaming,” she confessed, gifting him with a brilliant smile.

The guard, a comely man easily in his fifties, chuckled as he took her in. “My wife used to daydream all the time, when she was in her time. Is there someone I can help you find? The race is about to start, you know.”

“I know. I'm here to surprise my husband . . . he doesn't know about our good news yet. And I could hardly wait another day to tell him.”

The man grinned as he inquired, “Who is your husband, honey?”

Wracking her brain for Illya’s current alias, Marina blinked for a moment before giggling foolishly. “I'm sorry; my head is just all over the place right now. My husband is Elia Robinson? He's one of the racers. I was just hoping to hide somewhere I could watch, but still be able to find him easily once the race is done.”

The guard offered her his elbow as he agreed conspiratorially, “I have the perfect spot. Come with me, Mrs Robinson. Let's get you somewhere you can watch the race.”

“Thank you so much!” she gushed, playing up the helpless female act as much as she could before looping her hand into his elbow.

Before long, she stood in a secluded spot by the water, away from the main crowd. She could see the boats bobbing gently in the water and scanned their drivers to determine which of them were her husband. A flash of something black and grey in the corner of her eye brought her head around.

There, in the middle boat, was Illya, wearing the ridiculous pageboy cap she'd bought him as part of his birthday present. He loved the stupid thing and wore it all the time; secretly, she kind of loved him for it. (The sweater she'd knitted him no doubt sat in his suitcase, ready to wear in private, as it was not in the closet when she’d packed her own bag for this trip.)

The roar of the engines starting had Marina’s hands flying to cover her ears, startled by the intensity of the sound within the secluded waterway. She giggled at the rush, eyes widening as she watched the lights flicker, before flashing green and the boats roared away. She bounced in place, cheering as she watched the boats fly across the water, sending up spray and mist in their wake.

She was completely engaged in the race, more than she thought she would. Even still, the race was a thrill she hadn’t experienced in awhile, her voice going raw and she shouted and cheered for her husband. A rush of pride rushed through her as Illya's competitive nature pushed his boat over the finish line mere seconds behind first place. Marina jumped up and down, cheering with the rest of the crowd as she celebrated.

She almost got lost in the excitement of the second place finish but remembered the purpose of Illya’s cover just in time to prepare herself for what happened next. It was barely a minute after crossing the finish line that Illya’s boat and another collided, throwing both drivers into the water as the other boats rushed past them. On some distant plane, the teenager knew her husband would come out fine, but she still couldn’t help the worry when neither man resurfaced. She utilized that fear to keep her reactions appropriate for the circumstances, crying out and running towards the dock closest to the crash.

As more time passed without seeing her husband, Marina could feel her resolve wavering. As a result, she took to justifying the reasons he had been out of sight for so long. Illya had to make sure the scientist drowned and stage the scene to look like a legitimate accident. Which frankly didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. As the crowd jostled her, trying to get a better view of the scene, she looked up in relief as a hand came around her elbow to steady her on her feet. The sight of the kindly guard from earlier, putting a buffer between her and the rest of the crowd, nearly made her burst into tears. He smiled at her, bracing her against the masses as he soothed, “Easy honey. Your husband isn't going to be happy if you take an unscheduled swim in the drink.”

“Thank you,” Marina breathed, before turning her attention back to the water.

It seemed like an eternity, before a familiar blond head broke the surface. Starting forward - hoping he would recognize her voice, even if she was using the wrong name - Marina screamed, “Elia!!!”

Illya’s head shot around, blue eyes visible even from the shore as he sought out the familiar voice. Latching onto her face, Illya forced himself to bob up in the water, one hand coming over his head . . . with that stupid hat clutched firmly between his fingers. “I am okay!” he called, causing a rush of relief to hit Marina like a sledgehammer.

Suddenly her knees were as fluid as the water in the bay, and she was sinking to the ground in a near faint. “Marina!” was the concerned cry, the guard’s own, “Mrs. Robinson!” layering over the top.

The teenager couldn't tell you much about the next few minutes; only that one moment she was surrounded by everyone but the person she wanted and the next, the crowd was gone and Illya was there. He looked like a drowned rat, every inch of him dripping water. The hat was once again atop his head, looking no worse - and no better - for its ordeal. There was real worry in his eyes, and fear on his face as he reached out to caress her face and chafe her hands. “Liliput, are you okay? How . . . what are you doing here?”

Marina said nothing, only wrapped her hands in his soaking wet sweater and hauled his mouth to hers. Illya chuckled against her lips, threading pruney fingers through her curls as he crooned, “It's okay. I am okay.”

Conscious of the guard moving away, Marina scolded ferociously, “You can't do that to us. Okay? I . . . we need you!”

Her husband froze, body going completely still as he stared at her. After a long moment, Illya blinked, his eyes going wide as a preliminary guess began to filter through his mind. “We?!”

Taking his hand and folding it over her belly, she reached to cup his cheek with the other. Relieved to be alone, just the two of them, she laughed softly, “Illya . . . I’m pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Marina giggled fondly as Illya leaned up against her side and spoke to her distended belly, his fingers starfished across the curve as their baby responded to his voice. “Zverok, you blond brute, you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“I want him to know my voice,” the 24 year old protested with a pout.

“You're his father . . . he’ll know your voice, Illya,” she chuckled, threading fond fingers through ruffled blond hair. “And why he? Can it not be a girl?”

“Would you want a daughter to go through everything you’ve been subjected to, Liliput?” he asked rhetorically, before scowling ferociously. “I don’t relish the thought of any child we have being subjected to the torments we have both faced,” Illya grumbled before nuzzling against her stomach in search of distraction and comfort. Obliging his father, the baby kicked Illya in the face earning a pleased chuckle.

Marina went silent, fingers stroking absently through his hair as she considered that. “So what if . . . what if we left? Disappeared and took our child with us?”

“And the Soldier? Your sisters? Could you leave them so easily?”

“To save a child, my child whom I loved? Absolutely. Without a second thought.”

“It would not be easy if we did. They would hunt us, hunt our child.” Rolling onto his back beside her Illya scowled at the ceiling. “It is not a pleasant thought, to know our agency would take our child to be another tool in their arsenal though.”

Marina frowned, before sitting up to face him. “Illya . . . I have a confession to make.”

“Is this confession going to end with me wanting to kill somebody?”

She giggled. “Possibly.” Sobering, she took his hand, “I know about your mother . . . that she gave you up in exchange for clemency from your father's sins.”

Illya’s lips curled in a silent snarl before he muttered “My new keepers came for me at my home while she was gone. She didn’t even tell me herself . . . try and prepare me . . . or even say goodbye. I would never do what that suka did. I would never let anyone take our child from us; they mean too much.”

“I know you won't,” Marina soothed, bending to kiss him gently, before straightening once more. “But . . . I also know why you have your episodes . . . the serum and the adverse reaction it caused when combined with your DNA.”

“Unfortunately that cannot be undone,” Illya’s train of thought halted as he sat up hastily, blue eyes wide and falling to Marina’s five months rounded belly. “The serum . . . do you think it passes on genetically? We’ve both been exposed, the child could come out adversely affected.”

“I don't know. But that's all the more reason to leave . . . to take him and run. They'll make our child into a weapon . . . twist them and change them. Illya . . . let's go. Let’s disappear; with everything they've taught us, they'd never find us.”

“They are sending us on assignment together soon, we could use that to our advantage maybe? Fake an accident resulting in our deaths," he mused in hushed tones for Marina’s ears alone.

The reactions to Marina's pregnancy had been mixed. Nika and Vika had been thrilled for their sister, the three girls confiscating Illya's living room frequently as they planned for a child none of them had dreamed they'd have. Valya had never shown up and the 24 year old could see the pain in Marina's face every time she opened the door and her childhood friend was not there. If Illya had not already loathed the woman, he would now.

As for the Soldier, Illya would never forget the way the legendary assassin and sniper had smiled at his protege when Marina told him her news, her glee effervescent as she gushed to the man she counted as father. The love and adoration in his eyes for this girl had left Illya awed and intimidated. The Soldier would do anything for his Scholar; even kill. It was a fact Illya kept in the back of his mind often, wary of the day he should once again come face to furious face with the man who loved his own Liliput as a daughter.

It was their handlers, however, they had learned to be wary of. Oleg had suggested to Illya the folly of growing attached to his tiny wife; for the sake of his career Oleg had encouraged Illya to set both wife and child aside. The agent could remember the taste of the rage as it filled him, his very nature teetering on the precipice of an episode. As it was, Oleg found himself pinned against a wall, with Illya's voice cold and deadly as he reminded his handler of what kind of man he was . . . and what kind of man he was not.

As for Sidorov, he had been furious with Marina; initially claiming the pregnancy to be a ruse and then arranging to remove her from her normal missions. Not that either Illya nor Marina were going to complain about that. It wasn't her fault men could not be seduced by a pregnant woman.

Then it had been suggested that she would be a distraction on other missions. Apparently nothing screamed 'look at me!’ quite like a pregnant woman in trouble. Those had not been terrible, but Illya had worried every moment she was gone.

After what felt like forever, they had finally been assigned their first mission together. Though unwanted by their handlers, her pregnancy was the icing on the cake to seal their covers. It wouldn't be for another few months - Marina would be seven months by that time - which would allow for time to finalize their plans to escape.

He grimaced, confessing, “I feel bad you have to leave behind those you consider family.”

“Once we were safe and away; maybe we could let them know we were okay,” Marina ventured, hopefully. “The Architect would be glad I was free . . . it’s all he has ever wanted for me.”

Illya nodded, his gaze turning distant, “Then we need to start making plans.”

Marina's eyes were wide and very young as she laid her hand on his forearm. He was struck by the thought that she suddenly looked much younger than her 16 years. “Are we really going to do this, Zverok?”

“For our child? Yes, Liliput, we are.”

All but throwing herself into his arms, the teenager buried her face in his throat and sobbed, “Thank you!”

Illya's lips pressed a warm, fervent kiss to her forehead as one hand smoothed over her wayward curls. “I will keep you both safe, Marishka. I swear it. And in order to do that, we need to get away from here; from the KGB, from Oleg and Sidorov, from the Party . . . away from Russia entirely.”

“And where will we go?”

“America. They say it’s the land of dreams, yes?”

“Other people's dreams, Illya. They'll throw us in a prison the first chance they get; what kind of life is that for a child?”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, giving her a soft smile as blue eyes locked with hot chocolate brown.

She didn't even hesitate. “Always.”

“I'll keep you safe. I swear it.”

************

Two months passed quickly, as the couple prepared to flee their homeland. The relationship was easier, both happy and content with the companionship theorotherprovided. It would never be an epic love story between them, but it was at least an honest one.

Marina hummed to herself as she pulled a brush through her hair. “Lavender blue, dilly dilly,” she sang softly, causing a small smile from her husband as he watched her from the bed.

“You're in a good mood,” he chuckled, leaning on one elbow as he watched her.

“Mhmm,” she hummed with a sigh, twisting to smile at him over her shoulder.

“Care to share?” he teased, earning a giggle and a playful, “Nuh-uh.”

Throwing back the covers, Illya stood, amused by the demure blush on his wife’s face at the sight of his nakedness. She never failed to blush and he never failed to adore her for it. “I will have you know, wife, that I have been expertly trained in the art of interrogation.”

“As I have been trained in the resistance of the same,” she taunted in reply with a sly grin on her lips.

He grinned, bending to place a kiss to her shoulder, the action teasing and more nibble than kiss. Marina sighed, her head falling to the side as his hand came up to gently stroke and pinch the peak of a nipple. “I can make you talk, Liliput,” he coaxed playfully, causing a moan as he manipulated the sensitive skin.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair as her eyes slipped closed. “That feels wonderful,” she whimpered, hand coming up to clutch his wrist.

His free hand came up to knead at her opposite shoulder, murmuring, “Scared?”

“A little,” she agreed, eyes drifting closed again as he thrummed his fingers across her breasts and caused a sharp spike of pleasure. “What if something happens? What if they find us? What if there's something wrong with our baby? What if . . .”

“Ssh . . . just relax. Let me take care of you, Liliput,” he soothed, turning the chair around and kneeling before her.

“But Illya, we have so much that still needs to be . . .” Marina’s words died as Illya’s lips fastened against the side of her neck. His calloused fingers trailed along her arms, sliding ever lower as a soft keen slipped free of her throat.

A single finger slipped between her folds, earning a shaky moan as her body bucked up into it. Illya smiled at her, tracing lazy figure eights through the growing slick. “There is nothing more important than this moment together,” he soothed, sparkling blue eyes watching her loosen beneath his touch. "Not at this moment."

Marina whimpered, her body arching as he tapped the pad of his finger against the hood of her clit. “Zverok . . .” she begged, eyes fluttering and her fingers clenching around the handle of her hairbrush. “. . . please, I'm so close.”

“Let it all go, Liliput; let all the tension out so you can rest with a clear conscience,” Illya rumbled against her throat. His thumb ghosted over her clit as two fingers slid between her folds, seeking the hidden bundle of nerves within that would send her over the precipice.

Marina screamed, her body jolting against his hand. “No! Too much . . . please . . . not enough! I can't . . . Illya, please!”

“You can, Marina. You are far too stressed about everything, it’s not good for you or the baby. Let it out, Liliput, come for me.” Illya murmured against her ear, his fingers never ceasing their teasing motions.

The woman's body trembled, her hips moving in aborted bucks against his hand. One hand reached out to grasp his hair, fingers claws as she struggled to contain her orgasm. She threw her head back with a keening moan, every inch of her shuddering as she approached her release. “Illya . . . please,” she begged, caught up against the last precipice and unable to topple over.

His lips brushed against her ear, breath tickling as he made a giant leap of faith and whispered “I love you, Marina.”

Marina’s whole body locked up, before she crashed over the edge of her release and fell shrieking into bliss. She shuddered, sagging back into her chair, eyes half-mast as she soaked in the sensations coursing through her frame. Illya smiled, pushing himself up and pulling her brush from her hands. Coming around her, he pulled the brush through her curls gently, long slow strokes designed to prolong her pleasure. “Feel better?”

Luxuriating in the feel of his hands through her hair, Marina hummed affirmatively, “Mhmm.”

Both were silent for some time, before Marina inquired timidly, “Did you mean that?”

“Have I ever said anything in your presence I didn’t mean, Liliput?” Illya chuckled as he tugged lightly on one curl before resuming the soothing strokes.

She frowned for a moment, before reminding him meekly, “Only once.”

“And I was not exactly right of mind then, was I?” He reminded gently.

“No,” she agreed, eyes luminous as she met his eyes in the mirror. “Tell me truly; how do you love me? As wife, as companion, as friend? Be honest.” Looking scared, she all but begged him to clarify what he had confessed.

“I love you as wife, companion, lover and friend, Marina. You have become a light to guide my soul. We may have been forced together in the beginning, but it is because of you that I am still here.”

“I love you too Illya, as my husband, my dear friend, a companion and lover. I fear my love is not so strong as yours, or as permanent. I feel as though there is someone missing from my side . . . someone to whom belongs the greatest part of my heart.” Looking up at him, she asked, “Do you think it could be our child?”

“It could be, or it could be someone who is far worse off than even I was. We’ll not know until they are found Liliput, but some people are destined to love more than one person. I see that in your heart already.”

Marina grinned gently, “As I see it in yours, husband.” Her eyes followed his hands as he smoothed through her hair with the brush. “You find this calming . . . don't you?”

“Surprisingly, yes. It is very calming.” he acknowledged with a chuckle.

“Good to know,” she giggled, teasing him. “Next time you are mid-episode, I will simply hand you a brush and tell you to get to work.” Purring, she sighed, “It feels wonderful, the touch of your hands in my hair.”

“Make sure you remind me how that works out for you.” Illya replied with a shake of his head. “Would you like your hair up or down?”

“How do you like it?”

“Down,” he set the brush back on the vanity. His hands settling gently on her bare shoulders and stroking. “Do you feel better?”

She beamed at him, her hair falling in chaotic curls about her face and over the curves of her breast. “Yes, thank you.” Suddenly sober, she inquired earnestly, “But must you go? You heard the doctor . . . the baby could come anytime now. We're nearly ready to leave; surely we don't need this one last item?”

He smiled at her gently. “Yes we do. And you know this. It will be quick . . . a day or two at most.”

Nodding resolutely, she agreed, “I shall be resolute. We will be free soon enough, right?”

“That is right. We’ll be out of here before the little one comes, you have my word.” He promised, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You make sure to rest, don’t hesitate to call your sisters.”

“I won't. You worry too much. We will be fine . . . and eagerly awaiting your return to us.”

Illya bent over her shoulder, pressing a warm kiss to her lips. “As I will be eagerly awaiting my return to your loving arms.”

Marina's eyes swept over his body, pausing on his erection, the muscle dark red and hard, clearly aroused and yearning for her. She came fluidly to her feet, before turning into his arms, “Husband . . . I will not have you neglect yourself for my sake. Surely there is something I can do to ease you?”

“I have no need of ease, only your love.”

Clasping his hands in her own, she pulled him back to the bed. “My love you have. Now come . . . make use of my body as well. Take us both to the heavens, so we can forget all of this for a time, no matter how small.”

Illya's ice eyes were hot with arousal and lust as he bore her back to the bed, laving kisses and caresses to the swell of her belly. “My little love, you ease me by breathing. But if you insist . . .”

Marina's moan reverberated through the room as he suddenly filled her body with his cock. “Oh my heavens,” she gasped, her head falling back as her thighs fell wider. “You feel so much bigger.”

Illya grunted, withdrawing slowly before driving into her again. “We have not made love this way since your fifth month. . . but I would see your face when you come - again . . . and again . . . and again . . .”

Each word was punctuated by a hard thrust and for the rest of that night, only the sound of Marina's screams, gasps and moans would be heard throughout the house. And the following morning, when he left, it was to a smiling, joyful wife . . . the both of them counting these last days until they could finally be free.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Beauty's Loss

Later that day, Marina was seated on the couch, reading a book Illya had given her, her fingers smoothing gently over the swell of her belly. She was trying to rest but a sense of dread had crept into her not long after Illya's departure and she could not shake it, no matter hwa hard she tried. After a bit, there was a knock at the door, causing a welcome distraction for her.

Setting the book aside, Marina levered herself up from the couch, one hand bracing her back as she stood. “Coming!” she called, moving carefully around the furniture towards the door of their little house.

Foregoing the peephole - being short was awful - Marina unlocked the door and pulled it open. She froze at the sight of her visitor, eyes wide and heart yearning hopefully. “Valya! It's you!” she breathed, almost unable to believe her own eyes.

The brunette held up a thermos and a basket sheepishly. “So . . . peace?”

A slow smile curved Marina’s lips as she stepped back out of the threshold and waved Valya inside. “Come in, please.”

“I've been kind of an awful friend, Marishka,” the older woman confessed, looking shame faced. “I was just so jealous. I wanted Illya for myself, and I forgot that we are all at the mercy of the KGB.”

Marina's head shook as she insisted, “It's okay. It doesn't matter. I'm just so glad you're here! Please sit . . . is there anything I can get you? Something to eat? A drink? Anything?”

Valya shook her head, shaking the thermos. “Sit down, Marina. I come bearing gifts. Take a load off.”

Nibbling on her lower lip, the younger sister protested, “Are you sure? There's some stroganoff in the refrigerator.”

“Marina, for the love of mankind, just sit down and let someone else take care of you, okay? For crying out loud; it's okay to let someone else do the heavy lifting, you know.”

Scalded by the flash of temper, Marina said nothing, dropping onto the couch with a sigh. “It’s good to see you, Valya.”

There was a slyness to her sister's smirk as she replied, “You too Marishka. You look good; clearly marriage to the brute suits you.”

“He's not a brute, Val,” Marina scolded with a frown, to which Valya shot back in reply, “Which explains why you call him Zver.”

“It's a nickname, Valya. Its validity is not the point.”

Valya chuckled as she offered Marina a plate and a glass. “Brought your favorite . . . and a chocolate shake. Nika mentioned you'd been craving chocolate lately.”

Genuine pleasure filled her as she agreed, “Thank you.”

“Eh . . . what else are sisters for?” was the dismissive response.

A couple hours later, Valya took her leave, leaving Marina tired but in good spirits. After checking the locks, the teenager went to go lay down, drifting to sleep almost instantly.

*************

Illya had been chewing on a bad feeling all day. He didn't know what had caused it or where it stemmed from, but he knew . . . something was wrong. Not usually religious, he found himself praying for the safety of his wife and their child.

He arrived at the front desk of his hotel to check for any messages late that evening and immediately paled when the clerk handed him a message. “I tried to deliver it to you earlier sir, but there was no answer in your room.”

Taking the missive with trembling fingers, he hesitated to open it. With good reason; inside was the news he had feared.

Kuryakin, your wife is in hospital. Complete your mission; her ‘sisters’ are with her. Oleg.

Looking up at the clerk, he forced himself to whisper, “I will be checking out this evening. Please have my bill ready immediately.”

The clerk looked alarmed, asking, “Is everything all right, Signor Romani?”

“No. My pregnant wife has been admitted to hospital. I must go home to her. Immediately.”

“Of course. I will arrange for transport to the aeroportuale and have your bill prepared now. I hope she and your child are okay, Signor.”

“Grazie mille, signora,” he replied, storming away and feeling the monster in his mind roaring out for his partner. As he strode away, he growled furiously, “Oleg, you bastard, how long did you wait to tell me!?”

The flight home was excruciating, as he worried constantly about Marina and their unborn child. His hands clutched around the folder holding their new lives, everything they would need to escape. Burying his face against the manila, he begged whatever god looked after assassins to spare his wife and child . . . to keep them both safe.

When he arrived at the hospital, however many hours later, it was to the sight of Vika shoving Valya against the wall. Her face was twisted with rage as she all but bellowed, “What did you DO!?”

“Nothing!” the brunette shouted in reply.

“You haven't seen her in six months. Suddenly, you show up and three hours later she's in the hospital!” Nika accused, dark eyes flashing with lightning.

The blond Amazon’s tone was a growl as she hissed, “So I reiterate . . . what did you do!?”

Illya's voice was vibrating with rage as he demanded, “What is happening here?”

The three girls jumped, visibly startled at the sound of his voice. Vika whirled, eyes wide as she blurted, “Illya! You're here!”

“Yes. I came as soon as I heard. What has happened? Where is Marina?!” he demanded, hands trembling erratically at his sides.

Vika and Nika exchanged worried looks before Vika stepped forward cautiously. “Illya, you need to calm down. Marina needs you to be calm.”

Unwilling to be placated, he roared, “WHERE IS MY WIFE!?”

Nika blurted, “She collapsed today, after Valya came to see her!” prompting a hissed, “NIKA!” from the more level headed blonde sister. The black haired woman shrugged dismissively, “What!? She DID!”

Vika huffed out a sigh before turning back. “We don't know what happened or why. But Marina did collapse . . . she's still unconscious.” Nibbling on her lower lip in clear uncertainty, she continued, “She went into early labor.”

Illya paled and staggered, catching himself against the wall. After everything they'd done to protect their child . . . they were only a week from freedom! Rushing forward, he grabbed Vika’s arms tightly and demanded, “The baby!? What about the baby!?”

Vika’s face crumpled as she shook her head. “Oh Illya . . . I'm so sorry.”

“No . . .” he breathed in horror. “That's not true . . . you're lying!”

“The baby didn't make it, Illya.” Rubbing a hand over her eyes, she whispered wretchedly, “Marina doesn't know.”

He could hear his monster roaring his rage, feel the surge of fury that always indicated an episode. His hands shook and everything tunneled to a narrow point. Exploding forward, he drove Valya hard into the wall, “You bitch! If you had anything to do with this . . . I'll kill you! Do you hear me!? I'll kill you!”

He struggled against the hands that pulled him back, wanting to see the fear in the woman’s eyes up close. But the left hand was metal and implacable, the Asset’s voice gruff as he insisted, “This does not help Marina. My Scholar will shortly be awakening . . . it will not be long before she is asking for you.” there was a pause and Illya could see the pain buried deeply in his eyes. “And the child.”

Illya crumpled, hands coming up to cover his face. “How could this happen? I do not understand.” Head tilting back, he begged, “Was the child a daughter or a son?”

“I do not know. They did not say.”

Illya's jaw went tight as he growled, “Then I shall find out for myself.”

****************

Several hours later, Illya sat at Marina’s bedside. Between his hands he rolled a film canister, on which were the only photos he and Marina would ever have of their firstborn son.

He was plotting out what to do with those pictures, when he heard a quiet moan from the bed. Shoving the canister into his pocket, he stood and leaned over the occupant there. “Liliput?” he asked softly, hoping not to disturb her if she slept still.

Marina's head tossed against the pillow, her body clearly unwilling to wake completely. Reaching out for her hand, he soothed, “It's me, Marishka . . . it’s Illya.”

“Illya?” came the quiet question, tone soft and sleepy as she drifted to alertness.

“Yes . . . it’s me,” he agreed, leaning down to kiss the back of her hand. “How do you feel, Marina?”

For a long moment she was still and silent, before she snapped to a sitting position. Her eyes were wide and horrified as she stared at the flat curve of her belly. “No . . . . nononono!!! Illya, my baby!! Where is my baby?”

It quickly became apparent that Marina was not willing to wait for an answer. She fumbled with the blankets, trying to throw them back, as tears rolled unchecked down her face. Not wanting her to harm herself, Illya stood and pinned her still. “Marishka . . . stop . . .”

The woman struggled for a moment, before sagging back with a sob. Her hands were claws around his wrists as she begged, “Where is my baby?”

Illya pulled the canister from his pocket and pressed it into her palm, curling her fingers around it firmly. “Here,” was his only reply, feeling his throat start to swell closed with tears once again.

Marina frowned, shaking her head. “Where is my child, Zverok? Where is my baby? I want to see them. Please, let me see my baby.”

Hands coming up to cup her cheeks, Illya forced her eyes to meet his own. “We had a son, Marina.” Here he paused, swallowing hard against his own tears. “He did not make it.”

The pain in her denial consumed him as she screamed, “NOOOOO!”

Her tiny hands punched at him, beating his back as he gathered her to him, the sound of her cries ringing in his ears. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and stabilized her weak and tired body, smoothing his fingers through her hair. Pressing a shaky kiss to her curls, he whispered, “I'm so sorry Marishka . . . I should have been here with you.”

“Oh Illya,” she sobbed, fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Where is my son? I want my son.”

Clutching her fiercely, he agreed sadly, “I know, Liliput, I know. I do too.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Beauty Grieves

Illya Kuryakin sat on the porch steps, listening to Vika’s voice inside the little house. Another new day, but the same old story; trying to coax Marina back out from the twisted miasma of her grief. So far, it hadn't been working.

It had been three weeks since the death of their son. The first few days out of the hospital, Illya had been at a total loss. He too grieved for their child, but his experiences with his parents had trained him to keep such pain quiet and unspoken.

However, Marina had lost so much in her young life . . . had placed so many hopes into their child . . . she was all but destroyed by the loss. For days, all she'd done was cry. She'd cuddled a stuffed bear they'd purchased for their child, and refused to move from the rocking chair.

Desperate, Illya had called her sisters. Of the two who had shown up, Vika seemed to be the only one who could reach the distraught mother. She'd succeeded in getting Marina clean and dressed every day, before cooking food for the couple.

Now she was bidding Marina her typical goodbye, before coming out to join Illya on the porch. Sighing heavily, she insisted, “It hurts to see her this way.”

Illya nodded miserably, fingers fiddling with the film canister from the hospital. There was a part of him that was terrified of seeing the pictures of his son, while the rest to see the child for himself. “I agree. But I don't know what to do to ease her pain.”

“It was cruel of them to dispose of the child without letting her see him,” Nika hissed, black eyes boiling with hate.

“It was at Sidorov's and Oleg's suggestion. They hate her; did we expect anything less?” Vika sighed, one hand coming to rest on Illya's shoulder.

Illya’s fingers spun the canister in his fingers, the glint of his father’s watch hypnotizing as it flashed in the meager sunlight. Struck by a sudden thought, he frowned, fingers slowing as he considered the canister closer. “She begged me to let her see her son,” he announced softly. Looking up at Vika, he asked, “Would she improve? If she could see him? If she could hold him close? Bury him properly?”

“I . . . I guess so, but Illya, the baby is gone. Don’t you remember what the doctor said?”

“Yes, but they took pictures . . . for the death certificate,” he explained cautiously. “Fingerprints, a footprint, took a small curl of his hair.”

“Pictures? How does that help you bury him?” Nika demanded, trying to protect her sister while at the same time desperate to help her.

“Combine these things; make copies of the prints, the pictures, place them in a casket and give her a concrete place to grieve for our child. Instead of this incomplete mourning - the diaspora she feels now.”

Vika frowned, considering the idea, before sighing as the sound of Marina’s sobs began again. “Anything has to be better than this. I say we try. If nothing else, it’s worth a shot.”

“So how does a casket let her hold him close? And don’t you need a name for a burial plot?”

“We had a name for him; Nikolai Illyich Kuryakin. If the child had been a girl, it would have been Ivanka Illyinichna Kuryakina, for her father.”

“As I said, it’s worth a try, Illya. I can’t bear to see her this way much longer. She’s breaking my heart,” Vika sighed, her fingers coming up to curl around the chain of her necklace.

“Again . . . how does a casket full of pictures and other baby things help Marina hold her child?” Nika demanded sullenly.

“It won’t, but a locket with his picture and a miniature copy of his footprint and the lock of his hair would. Something she could carry with her to ease the pain of separation. She would always have him with her then.”

“A locket? They’d never let her keep it . . .” Nika reminded them skeptically, cocking an eyebrow. “And besides, where would you even find something like that?”

Illya frowned as he grunted, “I have the perfect locket in mind.”

“So why don’t you look happy about it?” Vika questioned curiously. “You look like you just took a shot of bad vodka.”

“It means having to see my mother.”

Both women grimaced; in combination with his wife, these two women knew the truth behind the tumultuous relationship he had with the woman. “Are you sure? You can’t just get one for her?”

“No . . . Oleg would never dare to call attention to this particular locket.”

“Why not?”

“Because Oleg gave it to my mother, as a patron gift. And if there’s one thing Oleg would never want anyone to know, it’s that he’s slumming it with my disgraced father’s disgraced wife,” he snarled, pushing himself to his feet. “Can you stay with her? I don’t want Marina to be alone.”

“Of course . . . always,” Vika promised with an understanding smile.

“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. We’ll be fine . . . and truthfully, she probably won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Flinching, he agreed, “I know. Is it terrible to wish we’d never gotten pregnant, if for no other reason than I want my cheerful, happy wife back?”

“No. It doesn’t mean that you’re not grieving yourself.”

He took a deep breath through his nose, before nodding once in agreement before striding away.

***************

Illya arrived at the rundown tenement where his mother lived and peddled her trade, a twist of disgust contorting the skin around the bridge of his nose. One hand lifted to knock briskly against the paneled door, before finding its home in his pocket once more. It was clear that she had not expected to see him, her eyes widening in surprise, her hands coming up to pull her dressing gown closer around her body. “Illyushka . . .”

“Don’t call me that. I know what you did and I’m not here to forgive you for it,” he barked, blue eyes flashing lightning as he glared at her. “I need the locket Oleg gave you.”

Comprehension flashed through her eyes, smothered quickly under indifference as she snapped, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Because I distinctly remember the gloating look on Oleg’s face when he proceeded to tell me all about your assignations together.” Putting on a mildly interested mein he asked, “Do your other clients know that their high-priced whore is slumming it with a civil servant?”

“Don’t threaten me, Illya,” she hissed, features twisted angrily.

“Then give me the locket. My wife needs it more than you do.”

Galina Kuryakina flinched, clearly startled by the statement. “Wife?! You have a wife!?”

“Her name is Marina, and she is none of your business.”

“Surely I have the right to know my daughter-in-law,” she argued.

“No, you do not. Not after selling your only son to the KGB to protect yourself from your husband’s sins.” Cocking his head, he asked, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Oleg made sure I knew how the KGB came to be in possession of me.”

The woman pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit up, watching Illya roll his eyes at her, before drawling lazily, “And why, pray tell, does your wife need MY locket?”

“Our child . . . our son . . . he was stillborn. She is grieving and I am hoping that carrying his picture in a locket would comfort her in her grief. She’s KGB and that’s the only locket Oleg wouldn’t dare argue with her wearing.”

The woman sunk to the floor, horrified. “Your son? I have a grandchild?”

“You have nothing; there is no world in which I will forgive you for the pain and torture your decision to sell me to my handlers put me through. I had a son, and now he is gone from us.” Looming over her, he thrust out his hand and demanded, “The locket, Galina . . . now.”

********************

Vika looked up when the front door of Marina and Illya’s home swung open. Smiling at the smugly grinning form of her sister’s husband, she asked, “How’d it go? You look like it went well.”

“I have it.” Smirking, he snickered, “Oleg isn’t happy about being blackmailed into this, but he won’t say anything about the necklace. Which means Sidorov can’t say anything about the necklace, as Oleg outranks him.”

Nika’s tone was equal parts shocked and proud as she echoed, “Blackmailed? You blackmailed your handler!?”

Glancing over, Illya chuckled to see the black-haired assassin perched on the counter and munching on an apple. “I’m probably going to regret it eventually, but for the moment, I just want Marina to smile again,” he agreed, shedding his coat and hanging it up on the hook in the closet. Next came his hat, fingers smoothing over the brim, then hanging it up reverently. “Marina still in our room?”

“Yes . . . and she didn’t eat anything this morning either. I tried, but I don't think she even knew I was there,” Vika agreed, standing from her seat and moving to get her coat from the closet. “I hope this works, Illya.”

“Me too, Viktoriya . . . me too.” He reached to take her elbow and squeezed fondly. “Thank you for staying with her.”

“She's our sister, Illya. Of course we were going to stay with her.”

“And yet, I do not see one of your sisters here,” he reminded her gently, to which Nika replied, caustically, “Are we still counting Valya?”

“Marishka does,” Vika reminded the younger, more impulsive sister. Pressing warm a kiss to Illya’s cheek, she insisted, “We'll go. Good luck.”

“Thank you. Both of you.”

The two sisters said nothing in reply, only smiled and waved, before disappearing through the door. Stripping his jacket from his shoulders, Illya reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace. His thumb smoothed over the intricate whorls and designs on the locket, prompting a heavy sigh. “God, I hope this works.”

Coming into the bedroom, he frowned at the sight of their bed. The covers had been pulled up over her head, and all that was visible of his wife was a mop of dark and unruly curls. Just a little lower than the edge of the blankets, he could see a small tremor of movement around where Marina’s shoulder should be. However, despite the clear indication of tears, there was no sound.

He threw the discarded jacket into the seat of a chair, before climbing up onto the bed beside his wife. Closer now, he could see Marina’s face; the tears rolling silently down her cheeks and the hand she had shoved over her mouth to further muffle her quiet sobs. Biting down on his own sob, he reached out and pulled her tightly into his arms. “Oh Liliput . . . I’m so sorry.”

“I want my son, Zver . . . I want my baby,” she whimpered, devastated once again by the loss of their child.

Pressing a warm kiss to her temple, Illya felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes once more. “I know, Marishka. I would do anything to have him here with us.”

Marina’s hand was small and familiar as she wrapped her fingers around the jut of his wrist. For a long time, the two laid there, united in their grief and attempting to take comfort in their spouse.

“I have something for you,” he said, holding out the locket. “It cannot replace him but perhaps it will sooth your broken heart and allow it the chance to begin healing.”

Marina reached out with gentle fingers to take the locket. “They’ll never let me keep it, Illya . . . but it’s beautiful.” Looking up at him with desolate eyes, she asked, “Can I see the picture?”

“It is yours. I have made certain that they will never take it, so you may look at it whenever you wish.”

Her eyes were wide and puzzled as she looked up at him, before turning back to the locket. “How does it open?”

One hand lifted to depress the tiny crown at the top of the pewter heart, allowing the two sides to pop open and reveal the miniature portrait of their stillborn son. The baby had been beautifully formed - rosebud lips, gossamer eyelids, neverending eyelashes and a tuft of dark colored curls on top of his head. “He was so beautiful,” Marina sighed, feeling tears well once again in her eyes.

“He was . . .” her husband agreed, arm tightening around his wife’s waist. “Nikolai would have been a good name for him.” He reached out and cupped her hand holding the locket. “And now you can keep him with you always.”

“Oh, Illya!” She closed the locket and gripped it tightly, leaning into his embrace, “Thank you! It is perfect!”

Bending, he pressed his lips against her cheek. “You're welcome. I am glad you like it, and I hope it brings you comfort.”

“I love it.” Beaming up at him timidly, she promised, “And it does; having our son close means the world to me.”

Illya’s arms tightened around her, cradling her head against him. “You will have a child someday Marishka. I know you will . . .”

For a long time, Marina was silent, content in the embrace of his arms and the stalwart comfort of his touch. It seemed like an eternity before at last she spoke, “I love you, Illya.”

“I love you too, Marina . . . always.”