Caught in the Spider's Web - Part 3 - Non Challenge Fic

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Just trying to get this in under the wire before Halloween takes over.

Part 1 was here, Part 2 was here

Wincing, as the pain jars through his head and ribs, he sits up quickly. There is a nurse standing over the side of his bed, staring at him open mouthed. “Sir, you need to lie back down,” she says quickly, putting out a hand to restrain him. “You've been in a serious accident – you're hurt and in hospital. Lie back down so we can take care of you.”

“Who brought me in?” he asks, the urgency in his voice enough to give her pause at least. “Was it a blond man with a foreign accent?”

“No, it was the highway patrol,” she says, blinking. “Is he one of your Russian spies?” There is a knowing chuckle in her voice.

He stops. “Russian spies?” He doesn't understand.

“You were talking a lot earlier,” she says, taking advantage of his confusion to try and press him back down into bed. He resists. Politely. “About code machines and spies and birds and all sorts. You must have an amazing imagination, are you a writer?”

“Something of the sort,” he says, rubbing at his head, wondering just what it is he's said? Talking like that isn't normal for him. He must have been completely out of it. And, by the sounds of things, he was brought in with nothing. If he'd had his identification or his gun, she probably wouldn't be so convinced his ravings were fantasy. He already knows from experience that without any proof, convincing someone that he really is an UNCLE agent can be near impossible. In these circumstances, she would probably be more inclined to call him a psychiatrist, and that he really doesn't have time for.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks.

“Napoleon Solo,” he says, and he offers her a smile of bright charm and flirtation that cuts through her momentary scepticism. “Can you tell me yours?”

“Nanette Rogers.” She colours for a brief moment before her professionalism takes over again. “Do you remember what happened, Mr Solo?”

Vaguely. A little. He remembers the ball in broad strokes – swirls of colour and movement, and then there is Angelique stepping out of the crowd, her sharp little smile the same as ever, and Fuller appears a moment later, his beefy arm wrapping possessively around Angelique's waist as she leans up to whisper in his ear. He remembers the distant hurt as she betrays him, even as he knows it's inevitable. It isn't as though he trusts her – he never trusts her – but this time he hadn't been expecting to see her, and he'd barely got a chance to say a word, and the way he feels right now is proof this is no simple game.

After that there is a blur. Pain. Shouting. Someone's shiny shoes resting on his throat. And then nothing until....

He wakes in the pitch black in a cramped space, his arm flung uncomfortably across his head. His mouth is dry and his body aches all over and there is a loud roaring noise coming from all around him. It is a long moment until it gradually rearranges itself into the sound of a car engine. Car. He is in the trunk of a car and wherever they are going he very much doubts it's somewhere he wants to be.

The air tastes warm and stale. The rough carpet is scratchy against his cheek and every little bump sends the pain screaming through his battered body. From somewhere he can hear music. The car radio, he supposes. It sounds like Wagner and that is strangely appropriate.

He moves slowly, cautiously, wary of making too much noise and attracting attention. His hands aren't tied. That's their mistake, but when he peels his hand from his head he realises it's sticky with blood. Maybe they thought he was going to be out for longer. And now he's worried that the dizziness and the spinning might not just be the movement of the car.

Carefully he checks through his pockets first, checking for his communicator or his gun or anything useful but unfortunately those, at least, they had the sense to take off him. Alright, so he can't do this the easy way. Feeling around, he realises that he's facing the trunk door. Another rookie mistake, and he puts his hand on the latch. Now, if only.....he breathes a sigh of relief as he puts his hand on a bunch of tools wrapped in oilskin. It seems his luck hasn't completely run out on him after all.

It's heavy weather working on the latch, but finally he manages to crack it open with a clunk that's far too loud and makes him wince, fearful of discovery. But the car keeps going and he pops the trunk open a little, enough to gaze dizzily out at the road speeding below him and try and calculate whether it would be safer to jump or wait.

He waits, and he is rewarded when they stop at some lights. This is his moment, his only chance. He eases the trunk open fractionally, enough for him to squeeze through and roll out, and he just manages to close it over again and crawl to the hard shoulder before the car speeds off again. He lies there for a long moment, breathing hard, conscious of time passing, of other cars passing, but only able to focus on the way the world is spinning around him, the way someone is slowly pressing a pickaxe against the inside of his skull.

He has to get up. He has to go and find Illya and make sure the mission is completed, and he staggers to his feet, takes a few steps out into the road, and the headlights are blinding, the impact is agony and the darkness a relief.

“Mr Solo?” Nanette says anxiously.

He unscrews his eyes. “I was hit by a car.”

“Yes,” she agrees, sounding relieved. “The patrolman said you were out in road, in the middle of nowhere, no sign of a broken down car or anything like that.”

He chooses to ignore the question in her voice. “I need to get out of here,” he says instead, managing to swing his legs around and out of the bed with an effort. “I assume my clothes are here somewhere?”

That gets a reaction. “Oh, you are going nowhere, mister,” she says sternly. “I'll call the doctor to talk to you, but I can tell you right now, you've got a concussion, two broken ribs, and a lot of bruising you'll be feeling as soon as those painkillers wear off.”

Really, he could have told her that. He knows perfectly well how all that feels, and he knows he can work through it, if he has to. And with Illya seemingly missing, he has to. “Nonetheless, I need to be going,” he tells her. “As little as I want to leave you...”

“Well, is there someone I can call for you at least?” she asks desperately. “You're really not fit to be on your own.”

“It's been said before,” he murmurs, and he pauses because really, he does need to report in. “My Uncle Alexander in New York,” he says. “If you can bring me to a phone, I'll call him.”

In the end, he gives her the number and lets her make the call and takes advantage of the moment to find his clothes and get dressed. By the time Nanette walks back into the room, he's managed the presently difficult challenge of tying his shoelaces, and she is pale and wide-eyed. He would guess Mr Waverly has made her aware of a few truths. At least that means it should be easier for him to leave.

“Your, um....he would like to talk to you,” she says.

He nods. “Thank you,” he says, and he succeeds in walking steadily out into the corridor. “Good evening, sir,” he says, realising that actually, he has no idea what time it is or even, really, what day it is. All he knows is that it's dark.

“Mr Solo,” Mr Waverly says, and there's an unexpected warmth to his voice that makes Napoleon blink. “I must say, I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight. You see, I've had a report from Mr Kuryakin that you were killed in action.”

He....oh. He takes a second, swallowing hard. “Illya said that?” At least that explains why he had woken up alone.

“Yes,” Mr Waverly agrees. “I'm relieved to know he was mistaken. However, I understand you're injured?”

“It's nothing, sir,” he says, his mind racing. “Where's Illya now?”

“Unknown. He brought the microfilm to the drop off point, but he himself hasn't reported in since.”

And that can't mean anything good. They're supposed to be creating as little noise as possible around this affair so that THRUSH won't suspect the import of their real target. He doubts that Mr Waverly had been planning on sending anyone in to look for them, not with the code reel already safe. But Illya is missing....

“I'll send someone to the hospital in the morning to pick you up,” Mr Waverly goes on.

He takes another look at the sky; that should give him a few hours, at least, to find his missing partner and make sure that THRUSH don't know about the decryption reel.

If Illya thinks he's dead, it's all the more important that Napoleon find him as quickly as possible.

Comments

[irisheitie.livejournal.com]

I'm gonna chew off all my fingernails! And I nearly cried at the warmth in Waverly's voice. Can't wait for the rest.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you. Glad you liked the bit with Waverly; I think he does care more than he tends to show. There's probably another two or three parts to this, depending, but it'll probably need to wait till after Halloween season. :)

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

This was sooooo good! Waiting with baited breath for more!

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

I almost missed this. You've got me on tenterhooks made of pure angst, I'm loving it :-)

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Glad you didn't. :) It's kinda fun writing this in short sections, it's easier to keep the suspense going. Thanks for commenting.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you, glad you like it. Next part will be next week - I was just checking out the short affair prompts which work rather nicely.