New Story For The Fourth of July
Jul. 4th, 2015 02:59 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuThank you, beta mine!
Resonance
Napoleon has unique plan to rescue his lost partner...
“Come on, tovarich! You’ve been asleep far too long.”
It was true. Six days in a coma from a head injury had left Illya Kuryakin flat on his back in Medical. The doctors were concerned that with each passing day, the chances of him making any kind of recovery were deteriorating.
At least there were no bullet holes or knife wounds this time; no bleeding or broken bones.
The mission turned out to be a success; highly prized documents were recovered but he’d been knocked out by a rather large THRUSH ape. Solo, while engaged with another THRUSH thug, only caught a glimpse of the attack on his cohort which had been a light tap on the noggin. He was surprised to see the blond go down at all. It was the fall that did him in, Napoleon assumed; the Ukrainians head smacked the back of a metal chair and then the even harder wooden floor. Two goose-egg sized lumps and unconsciousness were his reward.
Now, a disheveled and sleep-deprived Napoleon Solo hovered over his friend and partner; relinquishing every spare moment of his time to be at the Soviet’s bedside. Skipped meals and foregone sleep except for light naps in the uncomfortable bedside recliner, he was looking the worse for wear and the doctors were close to kicking him out so he would at least get a few hours of decent rest at home. They feared Napoleon would become ill himself if he didn’t start taking better care.
Kuryakin had an intravenous line in each arm, cardiac monitor leads taped to his chest, oxygen prongs up his nose, and a catheter hose drained into bag on the side of the bed. His pallor was unmistakable. The steady ‘beep, beep, beep’ of the heart monitor with its green, wavy line was the only sound in the room and Napoleon was immensely grateful for that sound. It was proof of life, but what kind of a life if his friend didn’t wake up?
Solo overheard the nurses talking once about how the number of lines and tubes a patient had running in and out of his body correlated with his chance of survival. Simply put, the more tubes, the grimmer the odds against a positive outcome.
“Illya, please wake up my friend,” Solo rasped his litany once again; his voice box abused from overuse. “What ‘say we blow this Popsicle stand and go out for a steak dinner? My treat.”
There was no answer nor even the flutter of an eyelid, only the slow but regular rise and fall of Illya’s chest.
Exasperated, Napoleon sank back down into the lumpy chair and contemplated what he should do next. He’d tried every weapon in his verbal arsenal to waken his partner. He’d whispered, shouted, pleaded and cajoled in six different languages, all to no avail.
Kuryakin remained steadfastly unmoving and silent.
“Stubborn as a mule,” he muttered as Dr. John Herber entered the room.
“Don’t give up with the verbal prompts, Mr. Solo, he may be listening and is simply unable to respond at the present time.”
Napoleon nodded politely. He was glad John was Illya’s primary doctor. The man was U.N.C.L.E.’s finest physician in Solo’s book, pulling the two partners back from the brink on numerous occasions.
“He’s getting weaker, isn’t he?”
The doctor solemnly nodded.
“Isn’t there anything you can do to wake him up?” Solo asked. “Something you haven’t tried yet? I don’t know...chemical stimulants? Electric shock treatments?”
Deep down, Solo was almost mortified at the idea of using either of these methods he was suggesting. He was simply grasping at straws. If truth be told, they smacked of THRUSH torture tactics, but he was desperate.
The silver haired physician slowly shook his head.
“Napoleon,” John lightly grasped the CEA’s shoulder. “How would you feel if I were to suggest how you should plan one of your missions? The use of stimulants is contraindicated in head injury cases and electroshock therapy is only used as a last resort for patients with mental problems when all other methods of treatment have failed.”
Solo shrugged, looking more dejected than ever. “I don’t know what I was thinking, John. Desperate times, desperate measures. Surely you have one last trick up your sleeve?”
Dr. Heber studied Napoleon for a moment. Better to tell him the bad news sooner than later.
“We’re keeping his fluids and electrolytes carefully balanced but he needs more than that, I‘m afraid. I’ve scheduled a nasogastric feeding tube to be to be placed tomorrow morning if he hasn’t regained consciousness before then. We can get some calories into him at least, and prevent any more weight loss.”
Jesus, Solo thought, another damn tube. He knew it was for Illya’s own good, but the idea of more invasive procedures being performed on his friend made his stomach lurch. The next bit of news shook him to his core.
“Napoleon, you know I’ve always given you straight forward prognosis; no sugar-coated answers.”
It was true that Dr. Herber didn’t coddle Section Twos. The doctor was considered a friend to both agents and someone they could trust to always speak the truth, no matter how painful that truth might be.
Solo nodded, his brow furrowed with concern.
“I’ve seen patients fully recover from severe brain injuries, and although the brain scans show no such evidence of that kind of trauma in Illya’s case, the longer he remains in a coma state, the greater the odds he’ll never come out of it.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “We simple need to wait and see. He may wake up in ten minutes, or...ten years. Then again…”
“Yes, I get what you’re saying, Doc.” He may be like this for the rest of his life.
The physician went on. “Most of the enforcement agents here at New York headquarters have suffered head injuries at one time or another. In Mr. Kuryakin’s case, this may be the one in the dozens he’s received over the years which ends his career.”
They both stared at the still form in the bed. Illya appeared to be peacefully sleeping.
“Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Napoleon. Try and get some rest, please.”
“Thanks John, I will.”
On his way out the door, the physician passed a pretty, red-headed nurse carrying a dinner tray into the room. She placed the meal on Illya’s bedside table and pulled the table close to the CEA.
“What’s all this, Val? I’m not really hungry,” he said with a sad smile. God, he was exhausted.
“Food. Sustenance. Fuel for the body. You know, the stuff you’re supposed to put in your mouth, chew, and swallow? The nursing staff and I are worried about Illya but we’re also concerned about you. You haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive.”
Nurse Valerie Martin removed the plate cover and the aroma of succulent beef caught his attention. On the tray there was a sandwich of hot roast beef piled high on a bun topped with sesame seeds. Cole slaw, a stack of Pringle’s potato chips, and a strawberry-topping gelatin salad rounded out the meal. A can of Pepsi-Cola with a glass of chipped ice sat beside a small container labeled ‘horseradish sauce.’
“Mmm. Smells wonderful. This can’t possibly be from the canteen. It looks too delicious.”
Valerie grinned, her green eyes sparkled. “It’s not from the canteen. The rest of the nurses and I brought this in for a party we’re having this evening.” She washed her hands at the sink.
“A party?” He sampled a strawberry and poured the soda.
“Yes, Napoleon. Well, not exactly a party.” She walked over to Kuryakin, lifted an eyelid and checked his pupillary reaction with a flashlight.
“It’s our Fourth of July potluck supper. We don’t mind working holidays but we miss the special food, so everyone brings in one of their holiday favorites.”
She repeated the procedure with the other eye, then took her time listening to his heart and lungs with her stethoscope.
“Everyone agreed to share the feast with you,” she continued. “We know you’ve been skipping meals and don’t give me that ‘who me?’ look. No one’s seen you in the canteen even once this past week.”
Solo forced a smile, watching her check for reflexes by stroking the bottom of Illya’s bare feet with a tongue depressor. Napoleon simply wasn’t in the mood for a celebration, not with his partner lying there.
“Well, thank you and thank everyone else for me, will you? This is quite a treat.”
It was well past suppertime, maybe he’d try a few bites.
“So, you’ve been spying on me, eh? You could be arrested for that you know,” Napoleon paused before popping one of those new-fangled chips into his mouth and added, “You need a license for that.”
He took a bite of the sandwich, deeming it the best he’d ever had.
“Arrested? I don’t think so.” The nurse was chuckling now, giving him a sideways glance, hands on her hips. After checking the flow rate of each IV bottle with her watch and the sites where the needles had been inserted into Illya’s arms, she studied the EKG monitor.
“Oh yes. Practicing espionage without a license is federal offense. But don’t worry, my dear. I won’t alert the authorities if you promise to stop keeping tabs on me. Deal?”
Before he knew what she was up to, she had placed her hands under Illya’s hips and deftly repositioned him on his side, slipped a pillow between his knees, and carefully adjusted the pillow under his head. Then she applied a palm full of Jergens lotion to the patient’s back. I love the aroma of this stuff. It always reminds me of cherries.
“All right, I promise Napoleon, but only if you promise to go on a date with me this evening.”
Solo hesitated in answering. He had taken Valerie to dinner and the opera last month and they’d both had a most enjoyable evening. But today, he was off his game. Worry over his best friend was sapping all of his energy.
“Not tonight, Val. I’m not up for it.” His gaze went from her to the inert figure in the bed.
“Please Napoleon? We won’t have to go far and we won’t have to stay very long.” She was at his side after washing her hands again.
Napoleon frowned at her, puzzled by what she was asking. “What are you suggesting?”
“We’ll go up to the roof.” She leaned in and swiped a chip off his plate.
He blinked and shook his head. “The Roof?”
“Fireworks, it’s the Fourth of July! There’s a display tonight at Central Park starting a half an hour after dusk. We’ll have a great time, I watched them last year from up there. As long as the ward remains quiet and there’s no helicopter traffic, we’ll have a perfect view. Around nine? The sun sets at eight-thirty.”
It took the enforcement agent a few moments to come to a decision. He wanted, no... he needed to remain at Illya’s side. He knew how disorienting it could be to wake up after a long period of time, unsure of your surroundings, of how much time had elapsed, not knowing if you were safe or in enemy hands. If Illya regained consciousness without him being near, he’d start ripping out tubes and wires, possibly attacking a staff member. It had happened before and a ‘first day on the job’ orderly suffered a broken nose. Illya didn’t mean to harm the unfortunate man, it was just a reflexive reaction ingrained in him from his survival school training as a means of defense.
Still, it would be nice to step out of this room for a while and breathe a little fresh air with this lovely nurse. He’d have to instruct whoever stayed with his partner to keep a safe distance until the patient was alert and oriented.
Valerie left him to mull it over while Solo slathered the horseradish sauce onto his sandwich and took another bite.
Alexander Waverly was ready to make his way home after a tiring day. It seemed that THRUSH was taking a long holiday weekend to celebrate the USA’s independence along with the rest of the nation.
U.N.C.L.E.’s head of Section I was able to catch up on his paperwork. It was his least-favorite task and if he didn’t keep up with it in a timely manner, the reams of paper would pile up to the ceiling very quickly. He would be joining his wife for a late supper tonight, but he wanted to check in on his number two enforcement agent before heading home.
Medical was unusually quiet tonight. The infirmary seemed completely deserted. In fact, Waverly did not see any personnel as he made his way to the injured agent’s room.
Kuryakin was not in his bed. All of the medical equipment had been switched off.
Waverly stepped back into the hallway to check the room number again. Room Seven.
“What in the world is going on here?” He mumbled to himself as he walked towards the nurse’s station.
He’d kept himself informed of the condition of every injured agent in his command and while he didn’t play favorites, the USSR’s contribution to the U.N.C.L.E. was one of his top operatives. Angry at even the thought of losing another agent at the hands of THRUSH, he quickened his step. “I should have been notified immediately if Kuryakin had taken a bad turn.”
Dr. Herber appeared out of nowhere, startling the gentleman.
“Mr. Kuryakin, has he…?”
Observing the grim expression Waverly’s face, doctor offered, “Oh, no sir. He’s up on the roof.”
“What the devil is Mr. Kuryakin doing up there, young man?”
Noting Waverly’s perplexed expression, he answered, “You’ll see, sir,” and steered the U.N.C.L.E. chief towards the lift.
Just as the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, the smiling doctor added, “Napoleon wanted to try a slightly different type of auditory stimuli.”
Medical, practically deserted. Comatose patients missing. Just what is going on here? These thoughts raced through the U.N.C.L.E. chief’s head as he rode to the top of the building.
Thirty minutes earlier…
“I don’t know why I’ve allowed you to talk me into this, Solo.”
Nurse Martin as well as two other nurses gathered around Illya’s gurney to stand watch over their charge. The still unconscious enforcement agent lay unaware he was the center of this group’s attention on the roof of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, near the helipad.
”I’m just glad that you did. Even the doctor agreed this is worth a try,” Napoleon replied as he leaned over and gently shook his partner’s shoulder.
“Wake up Illya- that’s an order!”
The fireworks display began with loud whistles as the rockets left the earth to explode overhead with percussive BOOM’s, splashing the previously dark sky with bright ribbons of color.
Napoleon felt the resonance from the explosions in his heart, a pleasant sensation long remembered from when he was a young boy, sitting on his grandfather’s knee, as they watched his hometown fireworks show.
Sounds of The New York Philharmonic Orchestra playing ‘The 1812 Overture’ at Lincoln Center could be heard coming from a nearby portable radio. The music was accented with thunderous booms from bass drums that matched the bright overhead thunderous explosions of red, white, and blue.
Reflections of those colors could be seen bouncing back at them from the windows of nearby United Nations and Chrysler buildings.
The air smelled of burnt matches, an acrid, sulfurous odor, and Solo had the taste of rotten eggs on his tongue from the burnt gunpowder.
“Come on, Illya!” Solo had to raise his voice to be heard over the explosions. “Give me a sign you’re still in there, tovarisch. Time to rise and shine. I’ll even do all our paperwork for the next month.”
At first he was boneless, floating, enveloped in soft velvet blackness… seven-year-old Illya found himself gently wrapped in the safety of his Papa’s strong arms as they watched the sky fill with colorful streaks of light. The sound of the fireworks rang in his ears and he could feel the resonance from the exploding rockets deep within his chest.
At long last, blond eyelashes fluttered and blue eyes opened to regard his partner. “I’m going to hold you to that,” Kuryakin replied during a lull in the fireworks.
“Thank God you’re awake, Illya!”
“Who’s Illya?”
“Wait... you don’t think you’re Mozart or something?”
“Mozart? Nyet, I’m... John Philip Sousa.” A smile curled Illya’s lips and Napoleon’s as well.
Kuryakin scanned the situation: the blanket covering his body, the I.V. tubing taped to his arms, and the recognizable faces of the small crowd of four surrounding him. He reached up and touched the bandage encircling his head.
“Never been in this particular room in Medical. That’s quite a skylight,” Illya smiled and nodded a greeting to the nurses, “Ladies.”
To his partner he kept his voice low enough so as to not be overheard by the women. “Why are we on the roof, Napoleon, besides the obvious fireworks display?”
The reflection of the overhead fountains of light danced in his eyes as he watched.
Waverly observed Napoleon Solo with three nurses as he stepped out onto the roof. All four were standing in a row, watching the fireworks in the northern sky. He heard ooooos and ahhhhhhs emanating from the group as he walked in their direction.
“What exactly is going on here nurses? Mr. Solo?”
Napoleon greeted Mr. Waverly with “Come and have a look for yourself, sir,” and stepped aside to reveal Illya, legs dangling off the side of a gurney, grinning up at the sky.
“Sir,” Kuryakin offered, as he tried to rearrange his gown and light blanket in an effort to maintain at least a modicum of modesty. It was a difficult task, with the IVs still in place and though the oxygen cannula had been removed, he was still wired to a portable monitor. Not to mention the damnable catheter.
A cacophony of explosions and light filled their senses as the Grand Finale began.
The display ended with claps and cheers from this group as well a few more from other U.N.C.L.E. staff members who had come to enjoy the show.
“I’m glad to see you’ve returned to the land of the living, Mr. Kuryakin, about time too. Assignments have been backing up.”
“Sorry sir, I shall endeavor to avoid blows to my head in the future.”
“See that you do.”
“We need to get you back to your bed Mr. Kuryakin.” Nurse Martin instructed him to lie back down and signaled the other nurses to help push the cart.
“I don’t believe there’s a reason for me to remain in Medical any longer now that I’m awake.” Illya obliged the nurse by swinging his legs up onto the cart and the side rail was snapped back up into position. “Can’t you see your way clear to discharge me this evening?”
Five voices rang out in unison.
“NO!”
Illya crossed his arms with a “Harumph!” as they moved him towards the elevator, but his mood quickly changed with the promise of some delicious picnic goodies if he behaved himself.
“You’ll have to try my famous lime Jell-O pear salad with cream cheese and marshmallows. We all know that green Jell-O is a favorite of yours, Illya!” Nurse Mindy’s tease was followed by three nurse’s giggling at his legendary eye-roll and Illya asking, “Does anyone else smell cherries?” as the elevator door closed.
Solo and Waverly remained on the roof as it was a tight squeeze to fit everyone into the lift.
“I’m responsible for bringing Illya up here, sir. You know of his fondness for blowing up things and I thought the sounds of ‘bombs bursting in air’ might be the right stimulus to bring him back.
“Rather clever of you I must say, Mr. Solo, knowing his propensity for explosions of any kind.”
“All in all, today’s turned out to be a fine day for celebrating, hasn’t it, sir?”
“It has indeed, Mr. Solo. It has indeed."
Resonance
Napoleon has unique plan to rescue his lost partner...
“Come on, tovarich! You’ve been asleep far too long.”
It was true. Six days in a coma from a head injury had left Illya Kuryakin flat on his back in Medical. The doctors were concerned that with each passing day, the chances of him making any kind of recovery were deteriorating.
At least there were no bullet holes or knife wounds this time; no bleeding or broken bones.
The mission turned out to be a success; highly prized documents were recovered but he’d been knocked out by a rather large THRUSH ape. Solo, while engaged with another THRUSH thug, only caught a glimpse of the attack on his cohort which had been a light tap on the noggin. He was surprised to see the blond go down at all. It was the fall that did him in, Napoleon assumed; the Ukrainians head smacked the back of a metal chair and then the even harder wooden floor. Two goose-egg sized lumps and unconsciousness were his reward.
Now, a disheveled and sleep-deprived Napoleon Solo hovered over his friend and partner; relinquishing every spare moment of his time to be at the Soviet’s bedside. Skipped meals and foregone sleep except for light naps in the uncomfortable bedside recliner, he was looking the worse for wear and the doctors were close to kicking him out so he would at least get a few hours of decent rest at home. They feared Napoleon would become ill himself if he didn’t start taking better care.
Kuryakin had an intravenous line in each arm, cardiac monitor leads taped to his chest, oxygen prongs up his nose, and a catheter hose drained into bag on the side of the bed. His pallor was unmistakable. The steady ‘beep, beep, beep’ of the heart monitor with its green, wavy line was the only sound in the room and Napoleon was immensely grateful for that sound. It was proof of life, but what kind of a life if his friend didn’t wake up?
Solo overheard the nurses talking once about how the number of lines and tubes a patient had running in and out of his body correlated with his chance of survival. Simply put, the more tubes, the grimmer the odds against a positive outcome.
“Illya, please wake up my friend,” Solo rasped his litany once again; his voice box abused from overuse. “What ‘say we blow this Popsicle stand and go out for a steak dinner? My treat.”
There was no answer nor even the flutter of an eyelid, only the slow but regular rise and fall of Illya’s chest.
Exasperated, Napoleon sank back down into the lumpy chair and contemplated what he should do next. He’d tried every weapon in his verbal arsenal to waken his partner. He’d whispered, shouted, pleaded and cajoled in six different languages, all to no avail.
Kuryakin remained steadfastly unmoving and silent.
“Stubborn as a mule,” he muttered as Dr. John Herber entered the room.
“Don’t give up with the verbal prompts, Mr. Solo, he may be listening and is simply unable to respond at the present time.”
Napoleon nodded politely. He was glad John was Illya’s primary doctor. The man was U.N.C.L.E.’s finest physician in Solo’s book, pulling the two partners back from the brink on numerous occasions.
“He’s getting weaker, isn’t he?”
The doctor solemnly nodded.
“Isn’t there anything you can do to wake him up?” Solo asked. “Something you haven’t tried yet? I don’t know...chemical stimulants? Electric shock treatments?”
Deep down, Solo was almost mortified at the idea of using either of these methods he was suggesting. He was simply grasping at straws. If truth be told, they smacked of THRUSH torture tactics, but he was desperate.
The silver haired physician slowly shook his head.
“Napoleon,” John lightly grasped the CEA’s shoulder. “How would you feel if I were to suggest how you should plan one of your missions? The use of stimulants is contraindicated in head injury cases and electroshock therapy is only used as a last resort for patients with mental problems when all other methods of treatment have failed.”
Solo shrugged, looking more dejected than ever. “I don’t know what I was thinking, John. Desperate times, desperate measures. Surely you have one last trick up your sleeve?”
Dr. Heber studied Napoleon for a moment. Better to tell him the bad news sooner than later.
“We’re keeping his fluids and electrolytes carefully balanced but he needs more than that, I‘m afraid. I’ve scheduled a nasogastric feeding tube to be to be placed tomorrow morning if he hasn’t regained consciousness before then. We can get some calories into him at least, and prevent any more weight loss.”
Jesus, Solo thought, another damn tube. He knew it was for Illya’s own good, but the idea of more invasive procedures being performed on his friend made his stomach lurch. The next bit of news shook him to his core.
“Napoleon, you know I’ve always given you straight forward prognosis; no sugar-coated answers.”
It was true that Dr. Herber didn’t coddle Section Twos. The doctor was considered a friend to both agents and someone they could trust to always speak the truth, no matter how painful that truth might be.
Solo nodded, his brow furrowed with concern.
“I’ve seen patients fully recover from severe brain injuries, and although the brain scans show no such evidence of that kind of trauma in Illya’s case, the longer he remains in a coma state, the greater the odds he’ll never come out of it.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “We simple need to wait and see. He may wake up in ten minutes, or...ten years. Then again…”
“Yes, I get what you’re saying, Doc.” He may be like this for the rest of his life.
The physician went on. “Most of the enforcement agents here at New York headquarters have suffered head injuries at one time or another. In Mr. Kuryakin’s case, this may be the one in the dozens he’s received over the years which ends his career.”
They both stared at the still form in the bed. Illya appeared to be peacefully sleeping.
“Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Napoleon. Try and get some rest, please.”
“Thanks John, I will.”
On his way out the door, the physician passed a pretty, red-headed nurse carrying a dinner tray into the room. She placed the meal on Illya’s bedside table and pulled the table close to the CEA.
“What’s all this, Val? I’m not really hungry,” he said with a sad smile. God, he was exhausted.
“Food. Sustenance. Fuel for the body. You know, the stuff you’re supposed to put in your mouth, chew, and swallow? The nursing staff and I are worried about Illya but we’re also concerned about you. You haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive.”
Nurse Valerie Martin removed the plate cover and the aroma of succulent beef caught his attention. On the tray there was a sandwich of hot roast beef piled high on a bun topped with sesame seeds. Cole slaw, a stack of Pringle’s potato chips, and a strawberry-topping gelatin salad rounded out the meal. A can of Pepsi-Cola with a glass of chipped ice sat beside a small container labeled ‘horseradish sauce.’
“Mmm. Smells wonderful. This can’t possibly be from the canteen. It looks too delicious.”
Valerie grinned, her green eyes sparkled. “It’s not from the canteen. The rest of the nurses and I brought this in for a party we’re having this evening.” She washed her hands at the sink.
“A party?” He sampled a strawberry and poured the soda.
“Yes, Napoleon. Well, not exactly a party.” She walked over to Kuryakin, lifted an eyelid and checked his pupillary reaction with a flashlight.
“It’s our Fourth of July potluck supper. We don’t mind working holidays but we miss the special food, so everyone brings in one of their holiday favorites.”
She repeated the procedure with the other eye, then took her time listening to his heart and lungs with her stethoscope.
“Everyone agreed to share the feast with you,” she continued. “We know you’ve been skipping meals and don’t give me that ‘who me?’ look. No one’s seen you in the canteen even once this past week.”
Solo forced a smile, watching her check for reflexes by stroking the bottom of Illya’s bare feet with a tongue depressor. Napoleon simply wasn’t in the mood for a celebration, not with his partner lying there.
“Well, thank you and thank everyone else for me, will you? This is quite a treat.”
It was well past suppertime, maybe he’d try a few bites.
“So, you’ve been spying on me, eh? You could be arrested for that you know,” Napoleon paused before popping one of those new-fangled chips into his mouth and added, “You need a license for that.”
He took a bite of the sandwich, deeming it the best he’d ever had.
“Arrested? I don’t think so.” The nurse was chuckling now, giving him a sideways glance, hands on her hips. After checking the flow rate of each IV bottle with her watch and the sites where the needles had been inserted into Illya’s arms, she studied the EKG monitor.
“Oh yes. Practicing espionage without a license is federal offense. But don’t worry, my dear. I won’t alert the authorities if you promise to stop keeping tabs on me. Deal?”
Before he knew what she was up to, she had placed her hands under Illya’s hips and deftly repositioned him on his side, slipped a pillow between his knees, and carefully adjusted the pillow under his head. Then she applied a palm full of Jergens lotion to the patient’s back. I love the aroma of this stuff. It always reminds me of cherries.
“All right, I promise Napoleon, but only if you promise to go on a date with me this evening.”
Solo hesitated in answering. He had taken Valerie to dinner and the opera last month and they’d both had a most enjoyable evening. But today, he was off his game. Worry over his best friend was sapping all of his energy.
“Not tonight, Val. I’m not up for it.” His gaze went from her to the inert figure in the bed.
“Please Napoleon? We won’t have to go far and we won’t have to stay very long.” She was at his side after washing her hands again.
Napoleon frowned at her, puzzled by what she was asking. “What are you suggesting?”
“We’ll go up to the roof.” She leaned in and swiped a chip off his plate.
He blinked and shook his head. “The Roof?”
“Fireworks, it’s the Fourth of July! There’s a display tonight at Central Park starting a half an hour after dusk. We’ll have a great time, I watched them last year from up there. As long as the ward remains quiet and there’s no helicopter traffic, we’ll have a perfect view. Around nine? The sun sets at eight-thirty.”
It took the enforcement agent a few moments to come to a decision. He wanted, no... he needed to remain at Illya’s side. He knew how disorienting it could be to wake up after a long period of time, unsure of your surroundings, of how much time had elapsed, not knowing if you were safe or in enemy hands. If Illya regained consciousness without him being near, he’d start ripping out tubes and wires, possibly attacking a staff member. It had happened before and a ‘first day on the job’ orderly suffered a broken nose. Illya didn’t mean to harm the unfortunate man, it was just a reflexive reaction ingrained in him from his survival school training as a means of defense.
Still, it would be nice to step out of this room for a while and breathe a little fresh air with this lovely nurse. He’d have to instruct whoever stayed with his partner to keep a safe distance until the patient was alert and oriented.
Valerie left him to mull it over while Solo slathered the horseradish sauce onto his sandwich and took another bite.
Alexander Waverly was ready to make his way home after a tiring day. It seemed that THRUSH was taking a long holiday weekend to celebrate the USA’s independence along with the rest of the nation.
U.N.C.L.E.’s head of Section I was able to catch up on his paperwork. It was his least-favorite task and if he didn’t keep up with it in a timely manner, the reams of paper would pile up to the ceiling very quickly. He would be joining his wife for a late supper tonight, but he wanted to check in on his number two enforcement agent before heading home.
Medical was unusually quiet tonight. The infirmary seemed completely deserted. In fact, Waverly did not see any personnel as he made his way to the injured agent’s room.
Kuryakin was not in his bed. All of the medical equipment had been switched off.
Waverly stepped back into the hallway to check the room number again. Room Seven.
“What in the world is going on here?” He mumbled to himself as he walked towards the nurse’s station.
He’d kept himself informed of the condition of every injured agent in his command and while he didn’t play favorites, the USSR’s contribution to the U.N.C.L.E. was one of his top operatives. Angry at even the thought of losing another agent at the hands of THRUSH, he quickened his step. “I should have been notified immediately if Kuryakin had taken a bad turn.”
Dr. Herber appeared out of nowhere, startling the gentleman.
“Mr. Kuryakin, has he…?”
Observing the grim expression Waverly’s face, doctor offered, “Oh, no sir. He’s up on the roof.”
“What the devil is Mr. Kuryakin doing up there, young man?”
Noting Waverly’s perplexed expression, he answered, “You’ll see, sir,” and steered the U.N.C.L.E. chief towards the lift.
Just as the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, the smiling doctor added, “Napoleon wanted to try a slightly different type of auditory stimuli.”
Medical, practically deserted. Comatose patients missing. Just what is going on here? These thoughts raced through the U.N.C.L.E. chief’s head as he rode to the top of the building.
Thirty minutes earlier…
“I don’t know why I’ve allowed you to talk me into this, Solo.”
Nurse Martin as well as two other nurses gathered around Illya’s gurney to stand watch over their charge. The still unconscious enforcement agent lay unaware he was the center of this group’s attention on the roof of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, near the helipad.
”I’m just glad that you did. Even the doctor agreed this is worth a try,” Napoleon replied as he leaned over and gently shook his partner’s shoulder.
“Wake up Illya- that’s an order!”
The fireworks display began with loud whistles as the rockets left the earth to explode overhead with percussive BOOM’s, splashing the previously dark sky with bright ribbons of color.
Napoleon felt the resonance from the explosions in his heart, a pleasant sensation long remembered from when he was a young boy, sitting on his grandfather’s knee, as they watched his hometown fireworks show.
Sounds of The New York Philharmonic Orchestra playing ‘The 1812 Overture’ at Lincoln Center could be heard coming from a nearby portable radio. The music was accented with thunderous booms from bass drums that matched the bright overhead thunderous explosions of red, white, and blue.
Reflections of those colors could be seen bouncing back at them from the windows of nearby United Nations and Chrysler buildings.
The air smelled of burnt matches, an acrid, sulfurous odor, and Solo had the taste of rotten eggs on his tongue from the burnt gunpowder.
“Come on, Illya!” Solo had to raise his voice to be heard over the explosions. “Give me a sign you’re still in there, tovarisch. Time to rise and shine. I’ll even do all our paperwork for the next month.”
At first he was boneless, floating, enveloped in soft velvet blackness… seven-year-old Illya found himself gently wrapped in the safety of his Papa’s strong arms as they watched the sky fill with colorful streaks of light. The sound of the fireworks rang in his ears and he could feel the resonance from the exploding rockets deep within his chest.
At long last, blond eyelashes fluttered and blue eyes opened to regard his partner. “I’m going to hold you to that,” Kuryakin replied during a lull in the fireworks.
“Thank God you’re awake, Illya!”
“Who’s Illya?”
“Wait... you don’t think you’re Mozart or something?”
“Mozart? Nyet, I’m... John Philip Sousa.” A smile curled Illya’s lips and Napoleon’s as well.
Kuryakin scanned the situation: the blanket covering his body, the I.V. tubing taped to his arms, and the recognizable faces of the small crowd of four surrounding him. He reached up and touched the bandage encircling his head.
“Never been in this particular room in Medical. That’s quite a skylight,” Illya smiled and nodded a greeting to the nurses, “Ladies.”
To his partner he kept his voice low enough so as to not be overheard by the women. “Why are we on the roof, Napoleon, besides the obvious fireworks display?”
The reflection of the overhead fountains of light danced in his eyes as he watched.
Waverly observed Napoleon Solo with three nurses as he stepped out onto the roof. All four were standing in a row, watching the fireworks in the northern sky. He heard ooooos and ahhhhhhs emanating from the group as he walked in their direction.
“What exactly is going on here nurses? Mr. Solo?”
Napoleon greeted Mr. Waverly with “Come and have a look for yourself, sir,” and stepped aside to reveal Illya, legs dangling off the side of a gurney, grinning up at the sky.
“Sir,” Kuryakin offered, as he tried to rearrange his gown and light blanket in an effort to maintain at least a modicum of modesty. It was a difficult task, with the IVs still in place and though the oxygen cannula had been removed, he was still wired to a portable monitor. Not to mention the damnable catheter.
A cacophony of explosions and light filled their senses as the Grand Finale began.
The display ended with claps and cheers from this group as well a few more from other U.N.C.L.E. staff members who had come to enjoy the show.
“I’m glad to see you’ve returned to the land of the living, Mr. Kuryakin, about time too. Assignments have been backing up.”
“Sorry sir, I shall endeavor to avoid blows to my head in the future.”
“See that you do.”
“We need to get you back to your bed Mr. Kuryakin.” Nurse Martin instructed him to lie back down and signaled the other nurses to help push the cart.
“I don’t believe there’s a reason for me to remain in Medical any longer now that I’m awake.” Illya obliged the nurse by swinging his legs up onto the cart and the side rail was snapped back up into position. “Can’t you see your way clear to discharge me this evening?”
Five voices rang out in unison.
“NO!”
Illya crossed his arms with a “Harumph!” as they moved him towards the elevator, but his mood quickly changed with the promise of some delicious picnic goodies if he behaved himself.
“You’ll have to try my famous lime Jell-O pear salad with cream cheese and marshmallows. We all know that green Jell-O is a favorite of yours, Illya!” Nurse Mindy’s tease was followed by three nurse’s giggling at his legendary eye-roll and Illya asking, “Does anyone else smell cherries?” as the elevator door closed.
Solo and Waverly remained on the roof as it was a tight squeeze to fit everyone into the lift.
“I’m responsible for bringing Illya up here, sir. You know of his fondness for blowing up things and I thought the sounds of ‘bombs bursting in air’ might be the right stimulus to bring him back.
“Rather clever of you I must say, Mr. Solo, knowing his propensity for explosions of any kind.”
“All in all, today’s turned out to be a fine day for celebrating, hasn’t it, sir?”
“It has indeed, Mr. Solo. It has indeed."
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Date: 2015-07-04 10:47 am (UTC)When I worked at the hospital on the Fourth, all of the nurses brought in a favorite food for dinner and if I was working a tower floor, I could watch the cities fireworks from an eastern facing window. These elements easily transferred into my story, along with the resonance of course. ;D