"Recuperation time for the body and the mind"~ for PicFic Tuesday 5/6

[mlaw]

                                                                      



The Florida sun was shining in through the screened walls of the lanai, a gentle breeze fluttered the fronds of the potted palms tucked in the corners of the screened porch as Illya Kuryakin, laying on a chaise, wrapped himself in a thick blanket.

As warm as it was he was cold at the moment, yet his body was playing games with him; one minute his temperature was too low, the next too high.

He suddenly broke into a sweat; throwing off the blanket and reaching for a glass of iced tea on a small table next to him as he started to cough.

The sliding doors behind him opened with a whoosh sending a blast of cool air, chilled from an air conditioner. Napoleon stepped outside, carrying a tray with sandwiches a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some Krispy Kreme doughnuts...his partner's favorite.

"Lunch time buddy." He presumed food would help his partner's mood.

The mission they'd been on in Cuba had been a complete bust, as the scientist they were supposed to bring out as a defector changed his mind at the last minute.

That nearly cost them their lives as they fled in a boat that ended up sinking on them. They dealt with the blazing sun and a frighteningly large bull shark until an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter located and rescued them; just in time as while hanging onto the hull of the boat, Illya had become terribly ill, not from seasickness but from some sort of chemical he had been accidentally exposed to while in the scientists lab.

Chills, fever, racing heart, a dry cough, hot and cold flashes, that just wouldn't go away.

A doctor from U.N.C.L.E. examined him and determined it was't life threatening and just needed to run its course, like a case of the flu.

Kuryakin's orders were plenty of bed rest and to drink lots fluids. Waverly ordered the partners to stay where they were in Key West, with the Old Man setting them up in a safe house for the Russian's recuperation located on Whitehead Street, not far from the Key West lighthouse, close to the Southern coast of the island.

Nothing was pressing in New York at the moment and he didn't hesitate volunteering Solo to look after his partner, thought he suspected the CEA would have volunteered if given the opportunity.

"If your services are needed Mr. Solo, I will contact you. In the mean time enjoy some rest and relaxation and see to Mr. Kuryakin's comfort until he improves. I've been told it's only a matter of days...a week at the most. Take good care of him, and yourself Napoleon," Waverly made this uncharacteristically familiar comment to his agent, leaving Solo wonder what had prompted that tone from the Old Man.

"I am really not that hungry my friend," Illya spoke quietly regarding the food offered by his partner.

There were sounds of chickens and roosters clucking and cock-a-doodle-dooing in the distance; escapees from the local cock fights that were so popular with many of the locals.

Key West was inundated with the feathered creatures, but little was done about them as they added to the atmosphere and bohemian lifestyle favored by the likes of Ernest Hemingway and so many others. Surprisingly the safehouse was located not far from the authors original house on Whitehead Street.

"Look you need to keep up your strength while you get through this...whatever it is."

Napoleon could see his partner was doing his best under the circumstances to fight off the symptoms, but sometimes they just seemed to get the better of the Russian, despite his proclivity for making a quick recovery...this time he wasn't.

Illya gathered the blanket around himself, suddenly feeling cold again, even though it was at least 85 degrees.

"I wish the hot and cold flashes would stop as well as the incessant crowing of those blasted roosters," he yawned.

Napoleon sat down beside him in a faded wicker chair. "Well if you'd eat the soup we could get rid of them one bird at a time."

"Very funny," the Russian mumbled.

"You're not sleeping well are you?"

"Not really...no." Illya reached out to the tray, taking one of the doughnuts and nibbled on it before putting it on the table, abandoning it for his drink.

"Hey, that's nearly empty,"Napoleon seized it," Let me refill it for you chum."

Solo disappeared into the kitchen, retrieving a pitcher of ice tea from the fridge and filled the glass. He pulled a small packet of white powder from his pocket and emptied it into the drink. Stirring it until it dissipated and adding a slice of lemon; he took it back to his partner and watched with satisfaction as Illya gulped it down.

"Pleasant dreams tovarisch…" he whispered as he watched Illya's eyelids become heavy and finally close.

He knew the man would never submit to taking a sleeping draft, but this time a little covert action was the best thing to carry out that feat of magic with the stubborn Russian.

The man needed to rest and Solo was going to see to it that his friend did just that.

Napoleon leaned back in his chair, pulling a paperback from his coat pocket and thumbed to where he'd left off, reading aloud...

"But man is not made for defeat," he said. "A man can be destroyed but not defeated. " *

Being a man of the sea himself, he could identify with the character of Santiago as someone struggling against defeat. Yet unlike the old man's battle with the shark in particular, reminded Solo of exactly how lucky they'd been. Though they'd been ciricled a few times by one of those apex predadors, a rather large bull shark... it never came near them as they dangled on the hull of their capsized boat.

Santiago reflected as he watched the warbler fly towards shore, where it would inevitably meet the hawk, it was a reminder that the world was filled with predators, and no living thing human or animal could escape the inevitable struggle leading to matter how hard anyone tried, dying was inevitable.

It was Santiago's tenacity, yet his pride that led to his eventual downfall,like the heroes of old, gifted with courage, morality, and a sense of certainty to guide them, they too were all flawed and their pride would lead to their end.

Was that his foible?" Napoleon asked himself? "Was he prideful and Illya too? He hoped to God they never became that way, but where was the line...the difference between pride and survivial instinct? He suddenly realized he didn't want to think any more serious thoughts. This was supposed to be a bit of R & R for him too, wasn't it?

Napoleon glanced over at his sleeping partner, looking almost child-like and innocent as he lay there breathing easily now…

Solo closed his book, leaving it on the table and folding his arms across his chest; he closed his eyes and let sleep take him as well...trying to think of something more pleasant, like a girl in a bikini.

Sometimes avoidance was a good thing...

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* Hemingway- 'The Old Man and the Sea' published 1952