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section7mfuTitle: The Deadly Admirer Affair, Act VI: Don't Give Up
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2100
Author: Rose of Pollux
Notes: Mandy’s comment about the field agents’ personnel files having false information in the event of THRUSH stealing them is my way of explaining the absolutely unbelievable heights on THRUSH’s info cards on Napoleon and Illya in “The THRUSH Roulette Affair.” And the case about the THRUSH submersible that Napoleon reminisces about is from a fic I haven’t yet written…
If you prefer reading there, cross-posted to ff.net and AO3.
“I still don’t know why Mr. Waverly thinks I’d be of any use down here in the lab,” Mandy sighed a few hours later, as she watched the samples of blood going through the analyzer. She and George were getting some dirty looks from the other technicians, particularly for having stopped whatever had been being run before; they had set that analysis-in-progress aside and had run the blood samples that had been left beside the machine. “All I’ve done so far is watch you do everything.”
“Well, it’s fairly simple to run an analysis—mostly automatic,” George said. “You can learn it easily. Maybe that’s why Mr. Waverly wanted you here. I’m sure he has a good reason for it, anyway, like he had a good reason for wanting me to pretend to be a double agent… He knows what he’s doing.”
“But I’m a translator,” Mandy protested. “Why would I need to learn how to use lab equipment?”
“Potential transfer?”
“Ugh, no; I’m done with wanting to be transferred,” Mandy said. “After what happened last time?”
“Well, maybe…” George trailed off as the machine signaled the end of its cycle. “Hey, it’s done!”
He quickly printed out the results and glanced over them, and frowned.
“What is it?” Mandy asked. “What’s wrong with Illya?”
“…According to this, nothing,” George said, baffled.
“…What!?” Mandy exclaimed. “Did you see the way Illya looked back there? That isn’t ‘nothing’, George!”
“Well, I know that, and you know that, but the analysis machine doesn’t!” George said. “Look, see for yourself!”
He handed the printout to Mandy, and it was soon her turn to frown.
“This is wrong,” she stated, plainly.
“Well, obviously--”
“No,” Mandy said. “It’s the wrong blood! Look at the type—type B.”
“…That’s correct, isn’t it?” George asked. “I could have sworn that Illya’s file says he has type B blood?”
“That file also says that he’s five-foot-ten-and-a-half,” Mandy said, flatly. “The only way he’d ever be that tall is if he was wearing my heels. His real blood type is type O.”
“…Why would Illya’s file have false information?” George asked, confused now.
“In the event that our personnel files would be stolen by THRUSH,” Mandy replied. “All of the field agents have false information in their files—Napoleon’s says he’s got type A blood and is six-foot-two with hazel eyes.” She gave George a look. “He’s type O, too, and, as we all know, he is nowhere near six feet. And his eyes are brown.”
“Oh,” George said. “Well, that explains the mix-up; Medical must have sent the type B blood thinking Illya’s blood type was B from the file.”
“No, that’s not it,” Mandy said. “The personnel department has the fake information, but for obvious reasons, Medical has the real information. I know all this, George; I’m the one who translates the field agents’ health reports to Portuguese for the other Medical branches whenever they go to Rio or Lisbon.”
“…Well, now we know why Mr. Waverly wanted you down here,” George commented. “Because I certainly wouldn’t have figured this out. Okay, so, this isn’t Illya’s blood. …But that leaves us with an important, unanswered question.”
“…Where is Illya’s blood?” Mandy finished.
“Right,” George said, and he wandered over to the group of Section VIII technicians, some of whom were chatting while the others were busy with their own experiments. “Hey, Everyone?”
A few people looked his way, but most of them didn’t give him a glance.
“Hey!” Mandy barked, and that soon got everyone’s attention. She gave George the nod to go ahead.
“Um, thanks. Uh, does anyone know where those blood samples came from? The ones we just analyzed?” he asked.
Most of the technicians hadn’t been paying attention, but one of them—Travers--spoke up.
“They were sent here from Medical, I assume,” Travers said. “Ask Mills; he would know the circumstances.”
Mills, who had been busy with some work of his own, looked up at the mention of his name.
“The blood samples? The messenger brought those down from Medical; I signed for them and put them over by the machine since they were for analysis.”
“…The messenger?” Mandy repeated. She turned to George. “The same messenger who had been accusing Illya of being a traitor last night? George, I think there’s some sort of cover-up going on here. Someone, for some reason, doesn’t want us analyzing Illya’s blood. And I think that someone might be the messenger. Thanks, Mills!” She paused as she turned to him, now noticing the bandages on Mills’s arm, visible just under the sleeve of his lab coat. “What happened to you?”
“Just a cut. Nothing to worry about,” Mills said, with a wave of his hand.
“Oh, okay,” she said, and she turned back to George again. “We need to go get to Medical and have them give us some blood samples directly. And then we need to have Mark and April question the messenger.”
“Have us question him?” April asked, entering the lab with Mark. “Why?”
One explanation later, both Mark and April were looking grim.
“Well, that explains why we didn’t get any information on any outside threat being responsible for this,” Mark said, darkly.
“…You think it could be more than just a misunderstanding?” George asked. “You really think it’s an inside job?”
“I hope it isn’t more than just a misunderstanding,” April said. “But we need to make sure before we start lobbing accusations everywhere. First, we need to go to Medical and make sure that you get the right blood to analyze. Secondly, we need to inspect the bullet that was removed from Illya. Mills!”
“…Ma’am?” he asked.
“Can you get the bullet from the evidence locker and see if it’s from an U.N.C.L.E.-issued weapon?”
“I can try, Ma’am,” Mills said, and he darted out of the lab.
“And we’d best head to Medical,” Mark said. “George, you and Mandy wait here; April and I will go.”
“And we’d better tell Napoleon,” she said. “…If it is an inside job, then he should know that he shouldn’t let Illya out of his sight again.” Her gut twisted slightly. “Assuming Illya pulls through.”
“He’s got to pull through,” Mark said. “If we lose him, we lose Napoleon, too. No two ways about it.”
April nodded, and the two of them headed to Medical in silence. They paused outside the intensive care ward to see Baba Yaga pacing the waiting area; Napoleon wasn’t there, and it was as they looked through the glass that they saw Napoleon sitting down beside Illya’s bed, gently taking his hand. Illya had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, which was connected to a large cylinder of pure oxygen, but, other than that and the instruments to measure his vitals, he didn’t seem to be connected to anything else.
“They stabilized Illya,” April said, relieved.
“I don’t think Medical will let us in there to talk to Napoleon, though,” Mark said. “Especially since we’re not as close to Illya as he is.”
“Oh, I can’t bear to ask him to leave to talk to us when he’s only just been given permission to be with him,” April said. “He needs to be with Illya, but he also needs to know about our suspicions.”
“Well, for the moment, they are only suspicions; perhaps it wouldn’t be prudent to worry him about something that may not be true—at least, I hope it isn’t true,” Mark said. “I say we inform him once we have concrete proof.”
April nodded.
“And if it is an inside job, Illya should be safe as long as he isn’t alone,” she said. “And we know that Napoleon won’t be leaving Illya’s side anytime soon.”
Mark nodded, as well, and then indicated the doctor, who was leaving the ward, and they went to speak to him. The doctor was certain he had sent the right blood samples down with the messenger the first time, but did have another vial of Illya’s blood to send down with them directly.
As they left, Mark and April looked back through the glass once more, watching as Napoleon talked softly to his partner.
****************************************
It was an odd place between consciousness and unconsciousness that Illya had found himself. This wasn’t a new experience for him, by any means, but it was never pleasant, either. And this time felt like the worst; whatever this poison was, it was painful and doing its job. Worst of all, the Medical staff hadn’t seemed to be able to figure out what was really going on; Illya had vaguely been aware of the doctor telling Napoleon that Illya’s chances of lasting the night were about fifty-fifty, but that if he could last the night, his condition would likely improve.
And so Napoleon had sat down and held his hand, and started talking to him—just talking and talking and talking.
“You’re going to last the night, aren’t you?” he heard Napoleon say. “You’ve got to. Illya…” He heard him pause as his voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I don’t know why I did… I’m sorry, Illya. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that this happened to you… and that people still think you’re somehow to blame for our last mission.” Napoleon paused again. “The doctor said that it could be that your worsening condition was because of the despair you were feeling from all of those rumors—he said it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d seen an agent’s condition worsen from stress. But I think I know you better than that, Illya. You’ve always been stronger than that.”
Illya wished he could wake up and tell Napoleon that he was, indeed, stronger than that—and warn him about whoever it was who had done this to him.
“You remember that time we both forced into that broken-down THRUSH submersible and dropped into the water?” Napoleon continued. “And we were just stuck in that pod, sinking, unable to get it to work and running out of air… We both thought it was over that time before our reconnaissance team spotted us and bailed us out of that one… Getting out of that one was a fluke.”
How could Illya have forgotten? They had hardly dared to believe it when the U.N.C.L.E. submarine started towing them back towards the surface. But for a frightening amount of time, it really had looked like the end.
“…I guess, even though we thought we were doomed, there was some comfort in the fact that we were together,” Napoleon went on. His grip on Illya’s hand tightened. “So, you can’t let it end here, Tovarisch. You hear me? Not like this. If we’re checking out, we’re checking out together.”
Illya realized what his partner was trying to do—strengthen Illya’s resolve to fight and last through the night.
Napoleon was quiet for a while, but the slight tremble of his hand told Illya that his partner was trying to keep his emotions in check; evidently, Illya’s physical condition was as bad as he felt.
…A far cry from his poisoner’s promise that Napoleon would gladly stand back and watch him die after finding about Illya’s alleged treachery. Illya almost wished that his attacker was here to see how Napoleon was really reacting to the results of their handiwork—almost. He didn’t want that attacker anywhere near him or Napoleon; nor was there any way to predict how the attacker would react.
Napoleon still held onto his hand now, but now his other hand was gently brushing a cold cloth over Illya’s forehead. In his current state, Illya could barely feel it, but what he could feel was pleasant indeed.
“You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?” Napoleon said, as he continued to wipe Illya’s forehead. “You and Baba Yaga. Maybe it’s selfish of me to say, but I like things the way they are. I need you, Illya. And so does Baba Yaga. We need you to pull through.”
The best thing… Illya silently repeated. He knew it wasn’t just Napoleon using hyperbole this time; his partner truly meant it.
Illya found himself wishing that he could wake up—that he could say or do something to reassure Napoleon that he would be alright. But the most he could do was only twitch his fingers feebly, and only once.
Napoleon still felt it, though, and his grip on Illya’s hand tightened as a spark of hope ignited in him.
“That’s the way, Tovarisch,” he encouraged. “Don’t give up. You keep fighting—keep living.”
Illya would certainly try. He had been planning to keep fighting regardless. Now he just had even more motivation.
And so, he continued to lie there, every cell in his body fighting a war against the poison in his system. And he continued to listen to Napoleon as his partner talked on and on, taking comfort and drawing strength from his partner.
It wasn’t over yet.
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2100
Author: Rose of Pollux
Notes: Mandy’s comment about the field agents’ personnel files having false information in the event of THRUSH stealing them is my way of explaining the absolutely unbelievable heights on THRUSH’s info cards on Napoleon and Illya in “The THRUSH Roulette Affair.” And the case about the THRUSH submersible that Napoleon reminisces about is from a fic I haven’t yet written…
If you prefer reading there, cross-posted to ff.net and AO3.
“I still don’t know why Mr. Waverly thinks I’d be of any use down here in the lab,” Mandy sighed a few hours later, as she watched the samples of blood going through the analyzer. She and George were getting some dirty looks from the other technicians, particularly for having stopped whatever had been being run before; they had set that analysis-in-progress aside and had run the blood samples that had been left beside the machine. “All I’ve done so far is watch you do everything.”
“Well, it’s fairly simple to run an analysis—mostly automatic,” George said. “You can learn it easily. Maybe that’s why Mr. Waverly wanted you here. I’m sure he has a good reason for it, anyway, like he had a good reason for wanting me to pretend to be a double agent… He knows what he’s doing.”
“But I’m a translator,” Mandy protested. “Why would I need to learn how to use lab equipment?”
“Potential transfer?”
“Ugh, no; I’m done with wanting to be transferred,” Mandy said. “After what happened last time?”
“Well, maybe…” George trailed off as the machine signaled the end of its cycle. “Hey, it’s done!”
He quickly printed out the results and glanced over them, and frowned.
“What is it?” Mandy asked. “What’s wrong with Illya?”
“…According to this, nothing,” George said, baffled.
“…What!?” Mandy exclaimed. “Did you see the way Illya looked back there? That isn’t ‘nothing’, George!”
“Well, I know that, and you know that, but the analysis machine doesn’t!” George said. “Look, see for yourself!”
He handed the printout to Mandy, and it was soon her turn to frown.
“This is wrong,” she stated, plainly.
“Well, obviously--”
“No,” Mandy said. “It’s the wrong blood! Look at the type—type B.”
“…That’s correct, isn’t it?” George asked. “I could have sworn that Illya’s file says he has type B blood?”
“That file also says that he’s five-foot-ten-and-a-half,” Mandy said, flatly. “The only way he’d ever be that tall is if he was wearing my heels. His real blood type is type O.”
“…Why would Illya’s file have false information?” George asked, confused now.
“In the event that our personnel files would be stolen by THRUSH,” Mandy replied. “All of the field agents have false information in their files—Napoleon’s says he’s got type A blood and is six-foot-two with hazel eyes.” She gave George a look. “He’s type O, too, and, as we all know, he is nowhere near six feet. And his eyes are brown.”
“Oh,” George said. “Well, that explains the mix-up; Medical must have sent the type B blood thinking Illya’s blood type was B from the file.”
“No, that’s not it,” Mandy said. “The personnel department has the fake information, but for obvious reasons, Medical has the real information. I know all this, George; I’m the one who translates the field agents’ health reports to Portuguese for the other Medical branches whenever they go to Rio or Lisbon.”
“…Well, now we know why Mr. Waverly wanted you down here,” George commented. “Because I certainly wouldn’t have figured this out. Okay, so, this isn’t Illya’s blood. …But that leaves us with an important, unanswered question.”
“…Where is Illya’s blood?” Mandy finished.
“Right,” George said, and he wandered over to the group of Section VIII technicians, some of whom were chatting while the others were busy with their own experiments. “Hey, Everyone?”
A few people looked his way, but most of them didn’t give him a glance.
“Hey!” Mandy barked, and that soon got everyone’s attention. She gave George the nod to go ahead.
“Um, thanks. Uh, does anyone know where those blood samples came from? The ones we just analyzed?” he asked.
Most of the technicians hadn’t been paying attention, but one of them—Travers--spoke up.
“They were sent here from Medical, I assume,” Travers said. “Ask Mills; he would know the circumstances.”
Mills, who had been busy with some work of his own, looked up at the mention of his name.
“The blood samples? The messenger brought those down from Medical; I signed for them and put them over by the machine since they were for analysis.”
“…The messenger?” Mandy repeated. She turned to George. “The same messenger who had been accusing Illya of being a traitor last night? George, I think there’s some sort of cover-up going on here. Someone, for some reason, doesn’t want us analyzing Illya’s blood. And I think that someone might be the messenger. Thanks, Mills!” She paused as she turned to him, now noticing the bandages on Mills’s arm, visible just under the sleeve of his lab coat. “What happened to you?”
“Just a cut. Nothing to worry about,” Mills said, with a wave of his hand.
“Oh, okay,” she said, and she turned back to George again. “We need to go get to Medical and have them give us some blood samples directly. And then we need to have Mark and April question the messenger.”
“Have us question him?” April asked, entering the lab with Mark. “Why?”
One explanation later, both Mark and April were looking grim.
“Well, that explains why we didn’t get any information on any outside threat being responsible for this,” Mark said, darkly.
“…You think it could be more than just a misunderstanding?” George asked. “You really think it’s an inside job?”
“I hope it isn’t more than just a misunderstanding,” April said. “But we need to make sure before we start lobbing accusations everywhere. First, we need to go to Medical and make sure that you get the right blood to analyze. Secondly, we need to inspect the bullet that was removed from Illya. Mills!”
“…Ma’am?” he asked.
“Can you get the bullet from the evidence locker and see if it’s from an U.N.C.L.E.-issued weapon?”
“I can try, Ma’am,” Mills said, and he darted out of the lab.
“And we’d best head to Medical,” Mark said. “George, you and Mandy wait here; April and I will go.”
“And we’d better tell Napoleon,” she said. “…If it is an inside job, then he should know that he shouldn’t let Illya out of his sight again.” Her gut twisted slightly. “Assuming Illya pulls through.”
“He’s got to pull through,” Mark said. “If we lose him, we lose Napoleon, too. No two ways about it.”
April nodded, and the two of them headed to Medical in silence. They paused outside the intensive care ward to see Baba Yaga pacing the waiting area; Napoleon wasn’t there, and it was as they looked through the glass that they saw Napoleon sitting down beside Illya’s bed, gently taking his hand. Illya had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, which was connected to a large cylinder of pure oxygen, but, other than that and the instruments to measure his vitals, he didn’t seem to be connected to anything else.
“They stabilized Illya,” April said, relieved.
“I don’t think Medical will let us in there to talk to Napoleon, though,” Mark said. “Especially since we’re not as close to Illya as he is.”
“Oh, I can’t bear to ask him to leave to talk to us when he’s only just been given permission to be with him,” April said. “He needs to be with Illya, but he also needs to know about our suspicions.”
“Well, for the moment, they are only suspicions; perhaps it wouldn’t be prudent to worry him about something that may not be true—at least, I hope it isn’t true,” Mark said. “I say we inform him once we have concrete proof.”
April nodded.
“And if it is an inside job, Illya should be safe as long as he isn’t alone,” she said. “And we know that Napoleon won’t be leaving Illya’s side anytime soon.”
Mark nodded, as well, and then indicated the doctor, who was leaving the ward, and they went to speak to him. The doctor was certain he had sent the right blood samples down with the messenger the first time, but did have another vial of Illya’s blood to send down with them directly.
As they left, Mark and April looked back through the glass once more, watching as Napoleon talked softly to his partner.
It was an odd place between consciousness and unconsciousness that Illya had found himself. This wasn’t a new experience for him, by any means, but it was never pleasant, either. And this time felt like the worst; whatever this poison was, it was painful and doing its job. Worst of all, the Medical staff hadn’t seemed to be able to figure out what was really going on; Illya had vaguely been aware of the doctor telling Napoleon that Illya’s chances of lasting the night were about fifty-fifty, but that if he could last the night, his condition would likely improve.
And so Napoleon had sat down and held his hand, and started talking to him—just talking and talking and talking.
“You’re going to last the night, aren’t you?” he heard Napoleon say. “You’ve got to. Illya…” He heard him pause as his voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I don’t know why I did… I’m sorry, Illya. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that this happened to you… and that people still think you’re somehow to blame for our last mission.” Napoleon paused again. “The doctor said that it could be that your worsening condition was because of the despair you were feeling from all of those rumors—he said it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d seen an agent’s condition worsen from stress. But I think I know you better than that, Illya. You’ve always been stronger than that.”
Illya wished he could wake up and tell Napoleon that he was, indeed, stronger than that—and warn him about whoever it was who had done this to him.
“You remember that time we both forced into that broken-down THRUSH submersible and dropped into the water?” Napoleon continued. “And we were just stuck in that pod, sinking, unable to get it to work and running out of air… We both thought it was over that time before our reconnaissance team spotted us and bailed us out of that one… Getting out of that one was a fluke.”
How could Illya have forgotten? They had hardly dared to believe it when the U.N.C.L.E. submarine started towing them back towards the surface. But for a frightening amount of time, it really had looked like the end.
“…I guess, even though we thought we were doomed, there was some comfort in the fact that we were together,” Napoleon went on. His grip on Illya’s hand tightened. “So, you can’t let it end here, Tovarisch. You hear me? Not like this. If we’re checking out, we’re checking out together.”
Illya realized what his partner was trying to do—strengthen Illya’s resolve to fight and last through the night.
Napoleon was quiet for a while, but the slight tremble of his hand told Illya that his partner was trying to keep his emotions in check; evidently, Illya’s physical condition was as bad as he felt.
…A far cry from his poisoner’s promise that Napoleon would gladly stand back and watch him die after finding about Illya’s alleged treachery. Illya almost wished that his attacker was here to see how Napoleon was really reacting to the results of their handiwork—almost. He didn’t want that attacker anywhere near him or Napoleon; nor was there any way to predict how the attacker would react.
Napoleon still held onto his hand now, but now his other hand was gently brushing a cold cloth over Illya’s forehead. In his current state, Illya could barely feel it, but what he could feel was pleasant indeed.
“You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?” Napoleon said, as he continued to wipe Illya’s forehead. “You and Baba Yaga. Maybe it’s selfish of me to say, but I like things the way they are. I need you, Illya. And so does Baba Yaga. We need you to pull through.”
The best thing… Illya silently repeated. He knew it wasn’t just Napoleon using hyperbole this time; his partner truly meant it.
Illya found himself wishing that he could wake up—that he could say or do something to reassure Napoleon that he would be alright. But the most he could do was only twitch his fingers feebly, and only once.
Napoleon still felt it, though, and his grip on Illya’s hand tightened as a spark of hope ignited in him.
“That’s the way, Tovarisch,” he encouraged. “Don’t give up. You keep fighting—keep living.”
Illya would certainly try. He had been planning to keep fighting regardless. Now he just had even more motivation.
And so, he continued to lie there, every cell in his body fighting a war against the poison in his system. And he continued to listen to Napoleon as his partner talked on and on, taking comfort and drawing strength from his partner.
It wasn’t over yet.
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Date: 2017-03-03 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-06 09:13 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it!
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Date: 2017-03-04 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-06 09:13 pm (UTC)