section7mfu | If it Isn't One Thing - 'Short Affair' Challenge

Prompts – Noise/Terracotta
Word Count (approx.) – 840

Rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to ease his sickening headache, Illya Kuryakin cursed in Russian, English, French and Spanish. His suffering was down to the interrogation he’d just endured at the hands of another aspiring THRUSH torturer. Illya had been ‘questioned’ many times during his career; so much so that he’d actually started rating each one. He had given the latest one a score of 4 out of 10. The man was brutal, and had no finesse. Anyone could hurt someone, but it took skill to know how and where to direct the pain. Whoever had captured them this time was obviously new to the torture game.

“You okay, Tovarisch?” Napoleon Solo asked from the next cell. “And don’t tell me you’re fine.”

Although the two men couldn’t see each other, they were still able to communicate.

“I am not fine,” Illya conceded. “Whatever they put in those truth serums always makes me want to . . .”

Napoleon grimaced as he heard the sound of vomiting from his partner. The noises were not pleasant, and it was clear to Solo that Illya was in a much worse state than he was letting on. The senior agent had also been interrogated, but it seemed as though the Russian had borne the brunt yet again. In his own cell, Illya had curled into ball on the cold terracotta tiles. The exertion of vomiting had caused the pain in his head to intensify and he willed unconsciousness to take him; but it wouldn’t come.

“Napoleon?” Illya called out weakly.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“If you get the chance of escape, go without me.”

That was when Napoleon knew there was something very wrong. He was about to tell Illya where to stick his suggestion when he heard voices. More importantly, they were voices he recognised.

“These look like cells,” he heard Mark Slate saying. “So logic dictates. . .”

“That they are in here,” April Dancer finished.

“Mark, April,” Napoleon yelled to them. “We’re in different cells.”

“Okay guv; soon have you out of here.”

Within a matter of seconds, Mark had gotten Napoleon’s cell open. He winced at the ugly bruises forming on the usually handsome face.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

“Never mind me,” Solo waved him away. “Illya is seriously unwell.”

They found the Russian being cradled by April as she stroked his hair. She didn’t seem to care about the fact he was covered in his own vomit.

“I know THRUSH serums always make him sick, but it isn’t normally this bad,” she commented.

Illya groaned as another wave of nausea hit him. Taking deep breaths, he managed to keep everything in this time.

“If any of you have a sleep dart handy,” he moaned. “I would very much appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry, Illya Darling,” April soothed. “We’re going to get you home.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Napoleon, Mark and April paced outside medical, awaiting news on Illya’s condition. During the journey home, he had vomited twice more. April had tried to get him to take some water, but he simply brought it straight back up.

“It’s food poisoning,” the doctor announced, as he came out into the corridor, and was greeted by a chorus of, “what?”

“How can that be?” Napoleon asked him. “He’s eaten the same as me, and I’m ok.”

“So I understand,” the medic replied. “However, there are several differences between you and Mr Kuryakin. He tells me you both had a chicken salad.”

“That’s right,” Napoleon confirmed. “I know undercooked chicken can be bad for you, but I feel fine.”

“Mr Kuryakin experienced prolongued periods of malnutrition in childhood,” the doctor continued. “This has resulted in a slightly compromised immune system. Obviously, it isn’t too bad, or he would never pass a field agent medical. It does mean that he is more susceptible to infections and viruses. As you know, he’s quite prone to getting colds.”

The three agents nodded, recalling the many times Illya had suffered from a cold.

“We also know that THRUSH truth serums tend to disagree with him, and usually make him unwell. Add to this the physical duress he has endured, and you have one very ill and very tetchy Russian. In his weakened state, the virus had the opportunity to thrive. Had he picked it up on a normal day, he would probably have had no more than a stomach-ache. You can go in if you like, but he is fairly drowsy.”

April and Mark stayed long enough to wish Illya well, and then left the partners alone.

“Just when I think I have left my childhood in the past, where it should be, it finds new and more interesting ways to remind me.”

“You’re going to be ok, you know,” Solo reminded him.

“I know, I know. Please do me a favour my friend and keep me away from anything containing chicken.”

“I hardly think so, Tovarisch,” Napoleon scoffed. “If there’s one thing I've learned, it’s ‘never come between Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin and food’.”

The End