It was the rasping cough from the next bed that woke him. Sighing with irritation, Illya Kuryakin sat up and looked across at his partner. Napoleon had spent most of the previous day complaining he wasn't feeling well and, judging from the cough, he hadn't been exaggerating. Climbing out of bed, giving an even bigger sigh, Illya laid his hand on Napoleon's forehead. The man was burning up. Grimacing, at his now sweat covered hand, the Russian sighed for a third time. It looked like he would be fulfilling this mission on his own.
When he returned from taking a shower, he found Solo struggling to get up. Illya ordered him to stay where he was.
"You don't get in tell me what to do," Napoleon croaked, his throat sore and constricted. "I'm senior."
"You're sick."
"I'm fine," Solo argued. "We have that THRUSH warehouse to infiltrate."
The effort of talking caused another wave of coughing; which in turn elicited an eye roll from Illya.
"The idea of infiltration is to be covert," the Russian informed him. "Your cough, and laboured breathing, hardly constitutes."
Conceding the point, Napoleon settled back down against the pillows; declining Illya's offer to call down for breakfast.
"Okay my friend," said Illya, as he put his jacket on and tucked his gun into his holster. "I'm going down to eat, and then I'll head out. Make sure you drink plenty of fluids."
Leaving Napoleon to wallow in his own misery, he went down to the hotel restaurant. While tucking in to a rather sizeable breakfast, Illya contacted Mr Waverly to let him know of developments.
"Very well Mr Kuryakin," the Old man acknowledged. "I have every confidence in your ability to perform this mission solo, so to speak."
It was a simple mission, which could easily be undertaken by one person. All he had to do was retrieve some documents pertaining to THRUSH shipping lines and then destroy the warehouse. They had planned on Napoleon getting the documents while he set the explosives, purely for the sake of speed. From what they'd been told, the operation was a relatively minor one, so shouldn't present any problems. Famous last words, Illya thought to himself as he prepared to leave.
The two storey warehouse was nestled amongst several others on a large industrial development. Illya had already begun working out the best place to put the charges so as not to damage the surrounding buildings. His first task though, was to get inside. A very quick reconnaissance told him that the best bet would be one of the two fire escapes.
Once inside, it was relatively easy for Illya to locate the room housing the files he wanted. There was a single guard patrolling the corridor which led to it, and a sleep dart was all that was needed to eliminate that obstacle. Picking the lock, with practiced ease, Illya dragged the insensible guard into the room with him.
"Atchooo!"
The sneeze was sudden and it caught Illya by surprise. He froze on the spot, listening for any indication that he'd been heard. When no-one appeared, after a minute, he went back to the task at hand. The Russian made short work of finding the files he needed. Annoyingly, they were in actual paper file form. Illya stuffed them into his shirt before pulling six explosive charges from his pocket.
Making his way to the lower floor, the agent efficiently manoeuvred around the building. He placed the charges against interior, load bearing walls in order to cause the warehouse to collapse in on itself. Illya activated the charges, which he had set with a five minute timer. That would be more than enough time for him to get clear. At least, it would have been, had he not been stopped in his tracks by a violent sneezing fit. This, of course, alerted a couple of guards to his presence. True to form, the two men pointed their rifles directly at his face. Glancing back nervously at the explosive he'd just placed, Illya put his hands on his head.
"I would suggest that you don't waste any time," he advised. "You have about four minutes before we all blow up."
"Yeah, right," one of the guards said, with a sneer. "Get moving Blondie."
Silently resolving to suffocate Napoleon with a pillow, Illya resignedly walked ahead of his captors. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this one and hoped his partner would feel a suitable amount of remorse at inadvertently causing his demise. The dilemma was solved for him when an alarm stared blaring. Someone had obviously discovered the sleeping guard upstairs. It distracted Illya's escorts for a split second; which was more than enough time for him to make a move. Grabbing the rifle from one guard, he swung it at the other. He then swung it back at the first. In a matter of three seconds, both guards were unconscious on the floor.
There was no time to worry about any other guards, and although he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving them to their deaths, Illya ran for the door. He managed to get far enough away before the explosives detonated. At exactly the same time, Illya experienced another sneezing fit, which morphed into a hacking cough.
"Chyort!" He muttered to himself, as he went to retrieve his car.
MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU
A couple of hours later, Illya was shivering in his hotel bed and cursing his partner for giving him this cold. His head hurt, his throat was sore and the ability to breathe was becoming a distant memory. Napoleon himself was still in his bed wheezing painfully. A knock at the door caused each man to look at the other.
"I'm not going," the Russian whispered, turning over and curling up.
"I'm just as sick as you," Napoleon retorted, his voice no more than a squeak.
In the end, neither man had to get out of bed. The door was opened to reveal Mark Slate, carrying a large paper bag.
"Figured you wouldn't be able to make it across the room, so I broke in."
The British agent placed the bag on the table and unpacked it. Napoleon and Illya were overjoyed to see several cold remedies emerge and gratefully accepted them as Mark handed them over.
"I've been sent to pick up the files and take then back to headquarters. I'm then coming back here to take you both home. Waverly refuses to pay for a hotel to be used as a sickbay."
He left the ailing agents with a cheery wave and a warning not to overdose on the cold medication. The warning fell on deaf ears as Napoleon and Illya each downed more cough medicine than was probably safe and settled back down to sleep.
The End.