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section7mfu2015-09-29 09:56 pm
A Long Night - Picfic Challenge 29/09/2015
Even from across the room Napoleon could tell from the expression on Dr Hayden's face that the news wasn't good. His heart sank; he'd been told that the antibiotics should be working by now, if they were going to work at all. He started to walk across the room, ready to ask what the next step was - to demand that they invent some new treatment if necessary – but Sheila, one of the nurses, stepped in front of him. “Really, Mr Solo, I thought we agreed you were going to take a break?”
He spared her a charming smile. “I did. I grabbed a shower and some coffee and changed my shirt.”
“You need sleep,” she scolded fondly. “Your cousin isn't going to get better from you running yourself into the ground.”
“No, but he's not going to get worse either,” he returned. “Excuse me.”
It was such a stupid thing. No great THRUSH plot, no new drug or doomsday device. Their last assignment-but-one, Illya had been kidnapped by an old, paranoid recluse who was convinced Soviet spies were stealing his mail. Napoleon had taken care of the THRUSH satrap before going to rescue his very cross partner from the cellar he'd been tied up in. He'd had a couple of rat bites, but it had seemed like nothing – he'd been more concerned about the meals he'd missed, and Napoleon had made some bad joke about him being dinner. And then they'd been sent straight out to Cleveland, and the whole thing had been more or less forgotten.
Only it turned out rats were dangerous. They carried diseases, and that was something that he knew perfectly well and yet had somehow never stopped to consider. It was ridiculous, after all, to think that a rodent might succeed where THRUSH had so often failed.
Illya had got sick fast. One day he'd been complaining about a headache and some muscle pain, and the next he'd been admitted to medical with a dangerously high fever, jaundice and rapidly-failing kidneys, and they'd spent far too long looking for nefarious causes rather than mundane ones. Napoleon had wasted precious time, looking for ways a non-existent poison could have been administered. When they'd figured it out, Illya had been transferred to the hospital, and at least he was in the right place now, getting what was supposed to be the right treatment, but still he wondered if the delay might have cost them dearly.
He reached the doctor. “Is there any change?” he asked, with what he already knew was wasted hope.
Hayden shook his head grimly. “I'm afraid not, Mr Solo. The fever hasn't broken, and he isn't responding to antibiotics yet.”
“I thought you said they should be working by now,” he said. “If they're not going to work - “
“ - they might still take a little longer,” Hayden said, patting his arm comfortingly. “We need to give them a little more time. Some people respond differently, especially if they...” He hesitated.
“What?” he asked sharply.
“We don't have a complete medical history for Mr Kuryakin,” Hayden said delicately. “But am I right in thinking he wasn't born in this country?”
Napoleon would have thought that was obvious from the fact that in all his delirious ramblings, Illya hadn't said a single word in English. Most of it was either Ukrainian or Russian, with the occasional German word thrown in. And not only did that mean that Napoleon couldn't understand most of what he was saying, Illya didn't seem able to understand him either. Oh, he reacted to Napoleon's voice, where he seemed to not even register others, but even when he was apparently conscious he just gazed blankly at Napoleon as though he were speaking a foreign language. Which, he supposed, he was.
“No, he wasn't,” he said in answer to the doctor's question. “He's from the European branch of the family.”
“Of course,” Hayden nodded. “Hmmm. Well, malnutrition in early childhood can have a lasting effect on the body's ability to fight off diseases. I don't know if you know if - “
“ - yes,” he said, cutting off the question before it was ever formed. “Does it make a difference?” If so, then it should have been included in the fake medical file that UNCLE put together for
Hayden shifted uncomfortably. “Possibly,” he said evasively. “As I said, it can leave a person weaker. Slower to recover.” He hesitated again. “Mr Solo, I'm sorry to have to say this, but if there's any family left over in Europe who would want to see him, you should call them now. Just in case.”
Just in case. He felt his blood turn to ice. “There's no one,” he said. “It's just the two of us.”
“I see.” Hayden gazed at him sympathetically. “You should go and sit with him.”
“Of course,” he said, because he should and he wanted to. He turned back and looked at Hayden. “Illya is not weak. He'll surprise you yet.”
*
It was cold in the hospital room. Earlier, they'd tried to lower Illya's fever by putting him in an ice bath, which he'd seemed to interpret as some form of torture. He'd been pleading in frantic Ukrainian, and Napoleon hadn't understood much beyond 'no' and 'please', and when he'd tried to be reassuring, Illya had turned to look at him, but his eyes had been blank and uncomprehending.
He took a seat by the bedside. Illya was shivering slightly, his skin yellow and waxy. “You know that's not your colour,” he said.
Illya barely twitched in acknowledgement, mumbling something incoherent, and Napoleon didn't need to understand the words to hear the fear and distress.
“I'm here,” he said quietly, reaching out and touching Illya's hand gently.
No reaction. No understanding. It was frustrating, feeling as though Illya could hear him but couldn't understand. He couldn't help but think that if he could just reach him, if he could just get through, then everything would be better. With the languages Illya was using, he had been tempted to try talking to him in German, but he knew that if Illya had got lost in his head, back to a time in his life when those had been the only three languages he knew, then German would probably be a mistake
“This isn't the way things are going to end,” he said fiercely. Not with Illya not understanding him. Not at all, if he could help it. If only there was something he could do.
He took out his communicator and called back to headquarters. “I need to talk to someone in Slavic translations,” he said.
“Napoleon?” Linda sounded startled. “I thought...I didn't think you were on duty.”
“I'm not,” he said simply.
“Oh! Oh, of course,” she said. “I think Olga Chelomey is on duty tonight. One moment, please.”
He grimaced. It would be Olga. She didn't like him because she found him too frivolous, and she didn't like Illya because she had defected from the Soviet Union as a teenager and found the fact that Illya hadn't unconscionable. More than that, when Illya had first started working in New York she had been convinced that he was still KGB, apparently even suggesting that he might have been sent to kill her. It probably hadn't helped that Illya had pointed out that if the KGB had sent him on an assassination mission, they'd probably have given him a more valuable target. From personal experience, Napoleon knew there was something a little insulting about being told you weren't important enough to kill.
He smiled at the memory. His partner's dark sense of humour was as amusing as it was exasperating, and somehow always seemed to emerge at the worst possible times.
“Mr Solo. What do you need?” Her tone was brusque but not as unwelcoming as usual. She must have heard that Illya was in the hospital.
“I need some phrases translated into Ukrainian,” he said carefully. “Simple phrases, that I can learn and repeat.”
“Is this official?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted. “Call it a personal favour.”
“I really don't have time for this,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Some of us are on duty, you know.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “Please.”
“Okay,” she said, with a put upon sigh. “What do you need translated?”
Quickly he listed a handful of sentences. Everything he wanted to say.
For a long moment she didn't say anything at all, and when she did her voice was noticeably softer. “Of course, Mr Solo. I'll tell you what to say and you just repeat after me. Okay?”
“I appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “And I'd be grateful if we could keep this just between us. “
“Alright,” she promised and she paused again. “I hope Mr Kuryakin gets better soon.”
“Yes. Me too.”
*
He sat by Illya's bed, his hand resting on his partner's, and carefully repeated the words that Olga had taught him.
“Ya tut.” “I'm here.”
“Vy v bezpetsi.” “You're safe.”
“Ty ne samotniy.” “You're not alone.”
“Meni potribno schob zhhtyty.” “I need you to live.”
He repeated them over and over, barely remembering what the words meant, their sense blending together into a desperate promise or plea, and Illya shifted restlessly, turning towards Napoleon and seeming to hang on every word, gradually seeming to relax, to trust in Napoleon, to believe that he was being taken care of.
And, slowly, miracle of miracles, the off-colour faded from Illya's face, and his breathing smoothed from the harsh, shallow gasps into something gentler, healthier.
Doctors and nurses bustled around him with renewed energy. His hope was their hope now, and Hayden indicated to him to carry on talking.
He did. All through the night, the same endless words, and it was a little after dawn that Illya turned his head to look at him.
“Your accent is appalling,” Illya told him muzzily, eyes so much clearer than they had been in forever.
He smiled slightly. “Well, I'm sorry about that,” he said obligingly. He doubted that Illya would remember this later. And if, by some chance, he did, they would never discuss it anyway.
They never needed to talk about what they did for each other.
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The "your accent is appalling' was perfect, and so Illya.
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