Concussion - Picfic Tuesday 4/5/16

[gevaudan1986.livejournal.com]

The prompt:

Illya

Whathappened? WhereamI?

Where's Napoleon?

What hit me?

Calm down Illya Nikovetch. Assess the situation currently at hand, rather than inconsequential trivialities. It was good advice when I was given it many years ago, and it remains true now and yet it always seems to take a moment for me to apply it - despite my regular practice in this particular scenario.

So, priorities. I am in the infirmary, of that there is no doubt. It is a familiar mattress with lumps in all the wrong places, but still infinitely better than the floor, or a cot in a THRUSH cell. The air tastes clean and there's a familiar background cacophony of monitoring equipment, air conditioning and UNCLE staff going about their day to day business.

I'm almost certain that I am alone, although opening my eyes for independent verification seems too much effort for too little reward right now. My head is splitting in two and my stomach is roiling as though I have just crossed the English Channel in a bathtub. I tense my muscles, carefully testing my body's responses carefully. If Napoleon is not close by then there is a good chance that he is in trouble and that means that I must get up, any injuries becoming one of those inconsequential trivialities that my comrade once spoke of. I wonder how long I have been unconscious - the amount of danger he is in is doubtless directly proportional to that and I curse the fact that I haven't woken sooner. Still, as Napoleon would doubtless say, 'Luchse pozdno, chem nikogda'.

Actually he wouldn't. His Russian is deplorable for a start.

Still, that little lapse into my native tongue suggests that I have probably been hit harder than I thought. Although it is, and always will be, my first language,  the truth of the matter is that I tend now tend to think first in English and only in Russian when the situation dictates. In many ways it is no surprise; three years in New York, a spell in England and a sojourn in European education at the Sorbonne. Even in the Navy my flair was lauded as a useful skill, one that I was strongly encouraged (by a number of agencies) to hone to the best of my abilities.  I cannot regret it; its saved Napoleon and I on more than one occasion when being discovered as a Russian would not have been in my favour. And yet, at times like this that it's still there, under the surface, like an old friend reminding me where I come from.

Where I come from, but not where I am going. When I was assigned to UNCLE I questioned the wisdom of my seniors' decision. Never outwardly of course, one does not question your superiors in the Russian military without good cause. But privately I wondered how I would ever be able to do an effective job for UNCLE when I would be so isolated from my colleagues. My worries were unfounded and, in the main, I have been welcomed with open arms. Now I find that there are a great many things, and better still, a great many people to tie me to New York: Mr Waverly, Mark, April, George, Napoleon... Especially Napoleon.

Now, Napoleon.... Focus Illya. I struggle to open my eyes, and relax immediately as a familiar voice drifts through the air.

"Hello, Amy. It's Napoleon," I'm not surprised to hear that he sounds exhausted, he must have been here for a while if the nurses are allowing him to use their telephone to organise his social life.

"I'm not going to be able to make dinner tonight I'm afraid, Sweetheart."

A pause.

"I know, me too - but Illya's been hurt and I need to be here."

My heart is inexplicably warmed by his sentiment, although I should resent being mollycoddled by a work colleague. Then again, over time Napoleon has indisputably become more than that.  He is my partner of course, but now, perhaps more importantly, he is also my friend. Mr Waverly would doubtless, if questioned, comment that such relationships - such dependencies - are a risk and it's possible that we owe a debt of thanks to 'Solo's Luck' that our record of successes remain adequate to keep the partnership on firm ground.

I hear soft footsteps re-enter the room,  accompanied by a rattle of items as Napoleon absentmindedly fiddles with anything that lies within his reach. Patience is not his strongest suit and I have undoubtedly kept him waiting long enough already. I try to move my head to face where I think he is, regretting the move immediately as a new wave of agony slams through my head. I fail miserably to suppress the groan that this invokes.

"Illya?"

I try to respond, managing only another feeble groan as I struggle to open my eyes. He's stood where I expected., looking none the worse for wear, for which I am profoundly grateful.

"You took your time, Tovarish," he tells me, his grin relieved, "I almost started to worry."

I nod my thanks, certain that he can read my gratitude as clearly as I can read his relief and he rests his hand momentarily on my shoulder in acknowledgement.

"Sorry," I whisper, hating the feeble sound of my own voice, "Better late than never."

Ours is a difficult job, but together we usually manage to save the world. Eventually.


Napoleon

Ow.

Think, Napoleon.

Headache. Lying down. Limited vision.

Ow.

Ok, eyes shut. That explains the limited vision. Doesn't explain limbs made of lead and a stomach that feels like I've ridden the Coney Island coaster one too many times, but we'll get to that I'm sure.  In the meantime, as Cutter said to me one too many times during Survival School: Priorities, Solo.

Priority Number One: Where am I?

I'm not on the floor, or strung up by my wrists which is always a good sign. Instead, there's a rhythmic, toneless bleeping in my right ear and a tang of disinfectant in the air. The infirmary then.  Not ideal, but then I've woken up in a selection of THRUSH's finest hell-holes in my time with UNCLE so it could be considerably worse.

Priority Number Two: Where's Illya?

He's either in this room, keeping his own stoic vigil or he's in trouble, without a partner there to watch his back.  Eyes still don't want to play ball, so I'm stuck with listening for now...

There's the  soft scratch of a pen on paper and I realise I don't need vision at all. Illya is there, curled uncomfortably into the green visitor chair, ugly black glasses perched on his nose, overlong blond bangs hanging into bright blue eyes as he passes the time with the New York Times crossword. A long pause, followed by rapid scribbling and I can practically see his small, satisfied smirk as he solves a clue that's previously eluded him.

Not injured then - or at least not badly, if the medical staff are letting him bend himself into awkward, pretzel-like contortions in a bid to find comfort in his customary seat. And that's one weight off my tired mind. It's hard to enjoy the perks of being in the infirmary if you have to spend time plotting your escape to go save your partner's sorry ass from whatever trouble he's managed to get himself into. And there are perks - no matter what my stubborn Russian friend has to say on the matter - back rubs with Therese and sponge baths with Nancy for a start...

Priority Number Three: How long have I been here?

Illya sighs gently, and I can hear the undertone of exhaustion in it, although it would be unnoticeable to any other observer. Several hours then certainly, more likely overnight. He's stubborn, won't want to admit to fatigue until he's sure I'm going to be ok and I know, that in that time I've been out he won't have moved far, maybe the occasional stroll down the corridor and back to stretch out tensed muscles. Officially, the staff aren't meant to encourage his unwavering presence, but I think most of them by now have battled and lost against his quick mind and sharp tongue, so his attendance goes unopposed. His diligence, and dogged determination to simply be here,  goes beyond what's expected between partnered agents, and I realise, not for the first time, that I'm grateful to have a friend like him in my corner.

His friendship is something I never expected - especially given the initial acrimony at our first meeting.  He was reserved, aloof and seemed to only speak to offer up criticism of me and my methods. Or, if he found himself unable to criticise those, then he seemed happy to settle for my country and its capitalist culture.

But somewhere along the line, I realised that Illya was always there. A silent, steady presence, ready to risk his own life for mine, or the mission, without question. More importantly, it occurred to me (about the time I threw myself across a warehouse to tackle him out of the way of a bullet with his name on it) that I felt the same way, even if I do with flair and bravado while he prefers stoicism and a sarcastic quip.

I'm sure that plenty of people think they could speculate about what I consider important in life: sharp suits, fast cars and women. But truthfully, although I can't admit aloud to anyone, our partnership, our friendship, is the thing, to me, that has a price above rubies. Although he'd never admit it either, I know that Illya feels the same, because if he didn't, there's a good chance I wouldn't be here now.

He's knife-edge alert though, despite the safe surrounds and who-knows-how-long of inactivity and I feel him respond to the move I make, before I'm even aware I've made it.

Priority Four: How bad is it?

"Napoleon?"

The softly accented voice is close to my head, its tone concerned, rather than mocking or berating. I start to wonder if maybe this was a closer call than I thought, particularly when I feel strong, slender fingers rest on my right hand. He'd never vocalise it, but he's been worried, and I suppose it's about time that I put his mind at rest.

I try to blink, pleased when my eyelids finally respond to the signals my brain has desperately been trying to send.

"Napoleon?"

For all his taciturn front, there's no dissuading Illya Kuryakin from conversation when he puts his mind to it. I really am going to have to answer him if either of us are going to get any rest tonight. Unfortunately, my initial attempt to respond sounds, even to my ears, like someone throttling a seagull.  Apparently it's enough though, and those familiar fingers tighten momentarily.

"It's alright Napoleon," he says softly, as my eyes struggle open to see his rare, unguarded smile, "You are safe, I am safe and the world is safe. For now at least."

My dark eyes meet his blue ones in a moment of unbridled relief. Relief that we've both made it through to fight another day, largely in one piece. Today then, despite the mammoth headache, is a good day, and in our line of work, every good day is one to be celebrated.

Priority Five: Escape

Now all I need to do is persuade him to get me out of here, and we'll be back in business... Again.