"Always" for PicFic Tuesday Challenge 11/15/16

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The prompt:

“Illya don’t you think about anything besides food?” Napoleon snickered. “ Well, and blowing up things.”

The two agents were walking west along East Houston Street in New York City, heading to the crosswalk, having just come from lunch at Katz’s deli.

Though the day was misty and overcast, they decided to walk some of the two miles back to headquarters before hailing a taxi.

“And I will answer that with a question…do you not think about anything else besides women?”

Solo laughed. “Sorry no comparison.”

“How can you say that my friend? Are they not a passion for something? And blowing things up is my job by the way, not a passion, though you may think it is.”

“All right, I’ll give you that. Next time you’re feeling passionate for a big lunch tovarisch, remember to bring money. You nearly cleaned me out.”

“Did I not apologize…twice. What more can I say? I forgot my wallet. I will pay you back as soon as we return to our office.”

That was the last thing Illya Kuryakin remembered. There was a roar, then pain.

When his eyes fluttered open he was looking upwards, with sort of a tunnel vision view of the buildings that towered above him...their tops blanketed in a dense mist.

He felt hands touch him, voices, a woman shrieking, then nothing.

When he awoke again, he was on a hospital bed, and on one side of it was a doctor with thick eyeglasses and on the other stood a mousey looking blonde haired nurse.

Standing nearby was a policeman, keeping a watchful eye on things.

“Sir, can you hear me?” The physicians said.

“Mmmm, yes. Please do not shout.”

“I’m not shouting sir...nurse order a hearing test for this afternoon. Sir, can you tell me your name?”

“Name?” Illya blinked several times.”I do not know. Do you not know who I am?”

“No sir. You were brought into Lenox Hill Hospital without identification, though you were carrying a firearm. We had to call the police.”

“Gun? I do not remember. What happened to me?”

“You were hit by a city bus while crossing the street near west Houston Street. Does that ring a bell with you?”

“No, sorry.” Illya reached to run his fingers through his hair, but felt a bandage wrapped round his head.”

“What is wrong with me?”

“Head trauma, and clearly memory loss. Amazingly you have no other major injuries, only some contusions and abrasions. You're one lucky man."

Luck, no. I am not the lucky one." He wondered what made him say that? “Was anyone else hurt?”

“I’m sorry to say there was one fatality. He’s been transported to the city morgue.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“Nearly twenty-four hours. Now I think you better rest. Officer Grady here will be staying here while the police are trying to identify you. The grip on the gun you were carrying has the letter K on it? Does that mean anything to you?”

Illya hissed as he tried to shrug. A nurse handed him some pills in a small paper cup and a glass of water.

“What are these?”

“Something for the pain. We’ll be bringing in some jello for you to eat in a little bit.”

“Jello? Green jello?” Kuryakin’s voice went up in pitch

“Yes, but how would you know it would be green?”

“Green to allow you to see if there is any internal bleed…” He was so annoyed about the jello that he dismissed his feeling about not taking the pills, and swallowed them without question.Illya paused, wondering how he knew about the jello, or why he detested it.

The next morning he awoke, feeling if the fog had lifted from his mind. He saw a man lying on the pavement, dark haired and he was unmoving, bloodied.

Illya automatically looked to his bedside for a chair, but there was none.

“Napoleon?” He whispered.

Kuryakin’s heart sank as the memories flooded into his head like a tidal wave. Napoleon was hit by the bus as well. The realization hit him...Solo was gone. He was the fatality.

“Nooo,” Illya moaned, covering his face with his hand to hide the tears. It was as if everything suddenly stood still. There was an emptiness in him, a pain in the pit of his stomach.

“Officer,” he cleared his throat.”I remember who I am. My name is Illya Kuryakin and I am an agent for U.N.C.L.E.”

“Uncle who?”

“Not who, but a what.”

“UNCLE is an acronym for United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. It is multinational organization that protects and defends nations regardless of their size or political persuasion.” It was a well practiced standard answer.

“Don’t cha mean the United Nations?”

“Not quite but close enough,”Illya sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to try to explain further.

“Now would it be possible for me to make a call to my superior, Alexander Waverly? Was a silver pen among my belongings when I was brought in for treatment?”

“A silver pen, yeah it’s right here in the drawer.” Officer Grady retrieved it and handed it over. “But yer not getting back that gun buddy.”

“Did I ask for it?”

“Well, no…”

Illya quickly assembled his communicator, speaking into it while the officer looked on in confusion.

“Open Channel D- Kuryakin.”

“Mr. Kuryakin where the devil have you been, and where is that partner of yours. This better not be another one of his trysts.” Waverly demanded.

That stung. “I..we were in an accident sir, hit by a city bus...there is some bad news though as I fear Mr. Solo has been killed.”

“Oh dear, that is unfortunate,” Waverly paused, his silence telling.”Mr. Solo's end in an accident seems so out of keeping for my number one agent. It just doesn’t seem right. One would have thought it would be a hail of bullets while fighting the good fight.”

Illya wiped his eyes with his fingers. The Old Man was right. This was not the way a man like Napoleon Solo should have left this world.

Illya looked up, seeing a familiar smiling face peeking at him through the doorway.

“Hey there, you were a tough man to find...another reason why you shouldn’t have left your wallet at headquarters. I had to go in search of John Doe’s instead of one stubborn Russian named Kuryakin.”

“Napoleon!” Illya broke into a huge smile.”I thought I had lost you! Beg pardon Mr. Waverly, I will call you back. Mr. Solo has just returned from the dead.”

“Wot? Excellent news, yes please contact me as soon as possible, Waverly out.” The jubilation was evident in his voice."Good to know I haven't lost my best operative."

As Napoleon stepped into the room, it was clear he’d been injured. His right arm was in a sling, and he was walking with a distinct limp and there was a white gauze bandage taped to his forehead.

“Dead? Not as far as I know, though it was a rough night. I was transported to a different hospital and woke up like this,” he waved his hand at his broken arm. “I asked if anyone else was hurt and they told me you were taken here and one fatality was at the city morgue. Once I was cleared for release, I came right over here as I refused to believe you were killed. You were the fifth nameless patient admitted here yesterday. Glad your communicator is working since mine didn’t survive the ummm, accident.”

Illya’s entire body relaxed. “When I woke up, I had no memory; when I was told about the accident, I was also informed there was one fatality. This morning when my memory returned, I saw you were not waiting here at my bedside as you have always been and assumed it was you who had been killed.”

Napoleon pulled up a chair beside his partner’s bed, he could see the Russian’s eyes were red from tears perhaps, but he said nothing. He was touched by this man’s feelings for him. Illya and he had become family... brothers for all intents and purposes.

“Tovarisch, I’m not going anywhere right now but when the day does come, and I hope that’s a long way off...I’ll still be by your side, if only in spirit. That’s a promise.” He offered his hand to Kuryakin, and the two men shook.

“This I pledge as well my friend,” Illya nodded. “Together, as we should be...always.”

For Robert...may you fly high.