"Napoleon Solo's Luck"~ for the Short Affair Challenge

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Challenge: The Short Affair

Prompt 1: Glory

Color: Crimson

Title: Napoleon Solo’s Luck

Author: mrua7

Word count: approx. 600

It was not his way, though sometimes Napoleon Solo thought he was perceived as being a glory hound.

He was the best of the best in the world of UNCLE, there was no disputing that, and with his Russian partner at his side; he was nearly indestructible.  He knew he wasn’t, but there were times he felt as though both he and Illya were.

Call it what you may, Napoleon Solo was a lucky son of a gun...but today was one of the days.

Today he felt as though his luck had abandoned him as he was stuck in an abandoned building, wounded not once but twice. Kuryakin was off on another assignment, and wasn’t there to watch his back.

Napoleon's white silk shirt was now blossoming with crimson blood stains and he moaned not at the ruining of yet another piece of clothing, but at the pain he was experiencing.   The wounds weren’t serious, one having hit his right bicep, the other his side. At least none of his vital organs were involved, but it was simply now the loss of blood that was his undoing. He was beginning to feel light-headed and knew he would pass out soon.

Bleeding to death in a decrepit tenement was not the way he thought he’d leave this life.

His hand dropped, no longer able to hold his gun and it fell to the floor with a thud. Napoleon listened carefully, expecting the enemy agents who had cornered him to come for their final assault.

There was gunfire, and he lifted his drooping head; surprised he wasn’t the one being shot at now.

Minutes later everything grew silent until he heard footsteps climbing the long flight of stairs, growing louder and louder.  Whoever it was wanted him to know they were coming.

“Napoleon where are you? You all right guv?” Mark Slate called out.

Solo breathed a sigh of relief. “Here, been shot. Losing a lot of blood,” the American responded.

The last thing he remembered was being lifted and carried downstairs. The next time he opened his eyes he found himself laid out in a hospital bed; his hazel eyes taking a moment to focus as he scanned the room, looking for his partner.

Illya, seated in a chair beside the bed, leaned forward.

“You had me worried my friend. They said you lost a lot of blood, but as usual, you were lucky, even without me being there.”

“Mmmm, yeah...lucky,” Solo whispered convincing himself of that fact before closing his eyes again. Was it really his luck or the luck of others around him coming to his rescue? Maybe both?

That was his last thought as he dozed off again.

“Sleep well,” Illya whispered before turning to leave. He’d spent the night there at Solo's bedside and needed to get some sleep himself.  Mark had come in a few times, bringing tea with him and sandwiches.

“Thank you for saving him,” he shook Slate’s hand as the Brit came in to relieve him.

“Hey we’re all part of his luck you know,” Mark nodded.  We’re like a family and we take care of each other, right mate?”

“Yes I think we are,” Illya nodded. He’d thought of Napoleon as his brother, but perhaps Slate was right; they were all members of the U.N.C.L.E. family.

That was a good and reassuring thought...

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