section7mfu | "Holy What?" ~ for the What's my line? Challenge (Reply)

What’s my line prompt “Holy___Batman!”

It wasn’ the first time, nor would it be the last that Illya Kuryakin found himself laid up in the Medical wing at the New York city headquarters of U.N.C.L.E.

Though he received outstanding care; he was always impatient to get out of there. This was regardless of the fact that his frequent visits had earned a room reserved for him, and him alone.

Not that they had a lot of bed space. There was a small ward that could accommodate approximately eight patients, and another five private rooms.

With a small operating theatre, labs and pharmacy it was really a small scale hospital. Gunshot wounds, broken bones, lacerations contusions, you name it they could handle it.

Only the more severe injuries inflicted upon Section II field agents would require their being sent directly to nearby Mount Sinai hospital, when their condition warranted more sophisticated medical treatment.

It was rare the Medical wing at headquarters was ever full, and if memory served correctly there were only two instances in which that happened; one was during a flu epidemic in the city, the other was after headquarters had suffered an attempted invasion by T.H.R.U.S.H *

Today however, Illya Kuryakin found himself all alone in his little room in Medical, except for the nursing staff.

He’d suffered bruises, lacerations, a sprained ankle and wrist along with a mild concussion not while on a mission, but at home; he’d fallen down the flight of stairs leading from his apartment.

One of the other non-U.N.C.L.E. apartment dweller’s children had left his roller skates on the stairs.

Kuryakin was in a rush, and didn’t see them. He went flying ...ass over tea kettle. That was the phrase Napoleon used to describe what happened to the Russian as he was right behind the man when he toppled. The saying was one he’d learned from his Canadian grandmother and for some reason it seemed apropos to describe Kuryakin going head over heels down the flight of stairs. Though Illya was always pretty wiry and and known for being light on his feet; it didn't help him this time.

To add insult upon injury, when he landed in the foyer of the apartment building, he crashed right into a small wooden crate that had just been delivered to apartment 1A.

It contained a large ceramic pasta bowl that just arrived from Italy; well it had been in one piece when it was delivered.

Illya was lucky he wasn’t cut to shreds by the splintered wood, nails and ceramic shards that went flying as he crashed into the box.

Solo called for immediate help and an U.N.C.L.E. ambulance arrived in record time. He later found out the driver and tech had made bets as to which one of them had been injured and to the extent of the injuries.

Napoleon, in a strange way, felt insulted that both men had bet on his partner…

Illya now sat quietly for once in his hospital bed, bandaged, bruised and being held for observation, given he had yet another concussion.

Since he was the only patient in Medical at the moment, the nurses decided to roll a small television into his room to keep him amused. From past experience none of them wanted to go into his room unless they had to, for fear of having something tossed at them. An amused Russian didn’t throw temper tantrums or bed bans for that matter at the nurses when he couldn’t get his way. He was usually demanding to be let out of his hospital bed.

The television seemed to be soothing the savage Bolshevik, as it was keeping Illya’s mind off his situation.

“One of these days,”Doctor Walsifer confided in Napoleon,”your partner might not wake up from another one of these head injuries.”

“Doc, you’re not going to take him out of the field? I need him. And I’m not being selfish or callous; Illya knows the risks and has told me time and again they’re worth it. So his retirement is his decision, if that’s what he wants?”

“I understand,” the doctor said.

“Well there’s also other ramifications involved,” Napoleon said.” If he’s pulled from Section II, that violates the contract between U.N.C.L.E. and the Kremlin. If he’s recalled back to Moscow, short of a declaration of war; Illya’s as good as a dead man. He’s not very well liked by the KGB and they’ve already tried to eliminate him a few times. They consider him a traitor to the motherland.”

“Napoleon, I’m well aware of Illya’s situation. Don’t worry, I’m not recommending his dismissal from field work, unless that’s his wish.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath on that Doc.”

“No kidding.”

As Solo walked into his partner’s room, yet his greeting to him was basically ignored.

The man was engrossed in watching the television. He supposed it was a novelty since the Russian didn’t own one, nor had he ever expressed any interest in having one. Illya said he got his news from the papers, and on the radio and that suited him well enough. Anything dire, he heard about through the organization.

“Illya?”

“Oh? Hello Napoleon. I did not see you come in.”

Solo gave his partner the once over, noting his bruised cheek, a black eye and a rather large lump on his head. Any other contusions and abrasions were covered by the sleeves of his blue terrycloth robe and the hospital blanket.

“You’re being awfully quiet about having to stay overnight Illya.”

“Huh? Oh, well I suppose it is warranted,” Kuryakin answered, almost distracted.

Napoleon shooked his head with a smile as that didn't sound like his partner at all.

“So what are you watching?”

“I just finished watching the nightly news and a new program that follows the adventures of a caped crusader who in real life is a millionaire philanthropist. His butler is quite an interesting character, even though he is serving a member of the bourgeoisie. The millionaire’s ward, who is also the crusader’s sidekick, has a very amusing catch phrase apropos to the situation they are in, which is usually kitschy and unrealistic.”

“Sounds peachy,” Napoleon sensed Illya was too interested in the show. It didn’t bother him as he was used to his Russian friend being distracted by new things.

A few weeks later the partners were reunited in the field with Illya none the worse for wear. His cuts and bruises were now hardly noticeable; there were no concerns over his head injury and Dr. Walsifer released Kuryakin back to duty the next day, with a caveat to just take it easy.

Napoleon and Illya were pinned down under fire, and had ducked as a volley of bullets strafed above their heads.

“Holy machine gun fire, Batman,” the Russian blurted out.

Napoleon slowly turned his head. “Holy What? What did you just say?”

“Holy machine gun fire, Batman. I heard something to that effect on that television show I was watching in Medical. It was called ‘Batman,’ and I thought it seemed like an appropriate colloquialism to use at the moment.”

“Illya, I think you need some parental guidance when it comes to viewing television. Now can you please concentrate on our current situation?”

‘Well you are the one always complaining about my lack of understanding with these American idioms and such, I was only trying…”

A bullet ricocheted above his head, sending a hail of masonry chips flying at the Russian's head and ticking him off.

Illya suddenly rose, getting off a volley of shots, taking out the man who had them pinned down.”

“Holy smokes...Batman, that was some great shooting,” Napoleon muttered as he stood; dusting off the shoulders of his suit jacket.

“See it can come in handy can it not?” Illya hid his smile.

“I stand corrected Tovarisch. So you’re a fan of Batman now?”

“No not really. I still prefer the comic books about Spiderman. Less kitschy and I like his costume better.” **

“So you’ve said,” Napoleon chuckled.**