The 'Stubborn Streak' Affair

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

If Illya had been the type for hysterics, this would have been the time for them. He wasn't the hysterical sort though, so he just set his face in a mask-like visage and kept pressure on one of holes in Napoleon while trying to carefully check for other injuries with his free hand. This mission had gone about as bad as a mission could go. At least five innocents dead. Three agents…. possibly four. No, he wouldn't even allow that thought in.

Ironically, a rookie agent out on his very first mission was the only man not badly injured. Agent Mark Slate was currently calling for aid while Illya ignored his own wounds to tend to Napoleon's injuries as best he could. Normally, Illya wouldn't have been worried. He'd seen Napoleon injured far worse than this and pull through. But this mission had injured far more than Napoleon's body.

One of the innocents had been a young woman barely out of girlhood. When the gunfire broke out, Napoleon had been trying to get her to safety. They had just connected hands. Another few seconds and he would have had her pulled behind a barrier. It was a few seconds more than the T.H.R.U.S.H. gunman had allowed and all that Napoleon had been able to do was to keep holding that hand as the light went out of her eyes.

They faced death on a daily basis, of course. It was certainly not the first time Napoleon had had to witness a senseless, tragic death. But the trouble was this time, there had been no time to deal with the feelings and they had multiplied rapidly. The deaths of the other innocents and the agents – and for what? They had ended up having to destroy the files they'd come for to keep them out of enemy hands. Oh yes, many more T.H.R.U.S.H. agents were dead than the dead of their side, but what sort of consolation was that really? One of the agents lying dead had been only three months from retiring from the field. Just yesterday he'd been joking about using his talents against trout instead of T.H.R.U.S.H. in the future. A good man, gone in the blink of an eye. That was another death Napoleon had taken particularly hard. Another weight added to a leaking boat already low in the water.

Illya knew that at the moment what was most injured on his partner was his will to live. If Napoleon didn't start fighting for his own life, nothing Illya could do would prevent him from just slipping away. But how could he 'kick-start' that? Napoleon's lust for life had always been enough in the past to make him cling on when it would have been easier to let go.

In his arms, he felt Napoleon give a tired sigh and Illya wanted to shake him. But he knew that would not only not help, but would aggravate his partner's injuries. Then Napoleon spoke softly and he leaned a little closer to listen.

"I'm… glad you're here. I didn't want… to die alone."

Something clinched tight inside of Illya at that. The tightness came through in his voice when he spoke as well.

"No, Napoleon. You will not die alone. If you die, I will go with you. I swear it."

They had been closed, but Napoleon's eyes snapped open at that like he'd been jolted awake. He twisted just a bit to get a clearer look at the Russian's face as if that would give him a better idea of Illya's health. He looked pale, but hell - Illya always looked pale.

"Did you get hit that badly?"

"Does it matter? I have given my word. And you are well aware of just how stubborn I can be, so there is no point in arguing the matter further."

The pain and blood loss made it take a little longer for Napoleon to piece that together, but then he scowled.

"Don't talk crazy. Take that back."

"No. I will not. So if you would prefer that I live through this, then perhaps you had best make up your mind to live through this yourself. Either we live through this together or we go together. At this point, it makes very little difference to me which you choose."

Napoleon took a long hard look into those clear blue eyes – hard as artic ice - and saw not the slightest room for argument. Being responsible for himself was one thing, but…?

"Stubborn damn Russian."

Underneath his sensitive fingers, Illya seemed to feel it. He made his face remain stoic, but inside he rejoiced. Napoleon was fighting again. Illya almost went for his gun at a nearby noise, but recognized it as Agent Slate in time. The young agent was covered with blood, very little of which was his own, but keeping his nerve better than some seasoned agents Illya had seen.

"They should be here any minute, Mister Kuryakin. How is Mister Solo?"

The young agent's British accent was thicker than usual, likely due to the stress. Illya tried to give him a reassuring smile.

"He will be fine. How are you holding up, Mister Slate?"

"Jumpy, sir. Are … all missions like this?"

Before Illya could say a word, Napoleon murmured an answer.

"Mark, isn't it? No. Not all. Maybe next time, you'll draw one of the difficult ones."

Illya just smirked at that, then mouthed 'he's joking' to Mark before the agent turned and ran screaming into the night. Then he refocused on keeping as much of Napoleon's blood on the inside as he could.

Mark moved back to where he could keep an eye out for their evac team and gave the partners their space. That was what he wanted one day. A good solid partnership like that. Then the team arrived and all thoughts other than getting what was left of the living to the hospital were left in the rubble.

When Napoleon opened his eyes again over twenty-four hours later, he was more than a little surprised to find that it was Mark and not Illya at his bedside. Slate was considerably cleaner than when Napoleon had seen him last, but had obviously not had much in the way of rest.

"Good to see you awake, sir. You both gave me a turn, you did."

"While we aren't in the field, Napoleon please."

Then Mark's words fully registered through the drugs still coursing around in Napoleon's system. That was when he had a moment of panic and noticed that the bed beside his had obviously had a patient in it recently, but was now empty.

"Both? Where's Illya?"

"Yes sir… uhm, Napoleon. There was a moment while you were in surgery that your heart stopped for a bit. And strangely enough, at just around the same time, Mister Kuryakin had some sort of allergic reaction to one of the medications they used on him and he stopped breathing."

Mark rushed to add on to that when Napoleon appeared ready to come up out of the bed.

"Oh, not to worry – they've got him sorted out now. They just had to take him back into surgery this morning to remove a bullet fragment they missed the first time around. Doctors seem puzzled about that allergic reaction though."

Mark went quiet as the doors opened and the medical staff wheeled in the still sedated Illya to re-settle him into the room's other bed. Napoleon looked over his partner's pale and bandaged form, then laid back onto his own pillow.

Frowning as he thought it through, Napoleon tried to make sense of it. Probably nothing but a big, fat coincidence. Then he took a glance back over to Illya. Then again...?

"Stubborn streak."

Mark blinked at that. Napoleon had gone so quiet that he'd thought the man had dozed back off.

"Pardon?"

"Stubborn streak. That's what happened. Lesson to remember, Mark my boy? Never try to out-stubborn a Russian. Especially that one right over there."