Hello all! Wow, I feel like I haven't written anything not school-related in forever! I found this prompt a while back on the LJ and just now got around to doing anything about it. I know the whole "don't-die-on-me-dammit!" CPR scene is super cliche but it was fun to write =p Hope you all like it! :D
A/N: I own nothing =/
There's a tremendous crack, like the sound of a gun backfiring, and then every light in the room goes dark. For a moment, there's no movement, no sound, no light; it's all just dark and quiet. There's a heavy scent of ozone and burning cotton and a combination of things that just smell...hot. Singed clothing, burning hair, scorched skin. Rudi frowns and stands up from his desk.
He takes a step away, walking carefully and cautiously across the darkened room. His shoes brushes the tangled mass of cords and wires on the floor and he follows it to the opposite wall, careful not to step directly on the snaking expanse of cable. The power outage is localized, the breaker had tripped from inside the room. He sighs in annoyance and places a slightly fumbling hand against the wall to anchor himself. The Chair was a brilliant machine, it really was, but it consumed so much energy during each session that it could really only be used sparingly and for special occasions. He smiles grimly to himself; today had been a special occasion though so he doesn't regret using it.
He finds the breaker and flips it, the power flickering back on with a few crackles and a dull hum. The wires connected to The Chair are still alive and buzzing with electricity but the short had caused the connection to fizzle out again so the currents had nowhere to go other than to course and vibrate through the wire strands. He'd have to reconnect it again before they could continue, a bothersome task but one that must be tended to if The Chair was going to be of any use.
He spares a glance at his subject and frowns. The light bulb hanging above the American agent is still swaying slightly from when he'd swung it earlier, casting odd, long shadow across the room. The agent is slumped in The Chair, hanging against the straps restraining him like they're the only things keeping him from toppling out onto the floor. In all likelihood, they probably are. He's limp and boneless in the seat, eyes closed and head tipped forward against the leather strap across his forehead. There's a steady, glistening stream of blood spilling from one nostril and leaving dark, widening spots of blood on his dark vest. The doctor frowns again and takes a hesitant step forward.
"Mr. Solo?" he asks as he approaches The Chair, his eyes locked on the limp agent still strapped into it. He doesn't receive an answer or any indication that the agent heard him. He takes another step forward.
"Mr Solo," he says again, a bit more loudly this time, his voice bouncing off the shadowed walls around them. He's met with a similar reaction to the one before and comes to a disappointing conclusion.
Looking back down at the jumble of cables and wires hooked into the wall and determining that The Chair is not live at the moment, he reaches out and taps a cautious hand against the arm of The Chair, testing for a current. When he's not immediately electrocuted, he takes another step forward and hunches at the waist to peer at the American agent's face.
The streak of blood dripping from his nose is the only element of color against the agent's face, his skin an unhealthy pallor that appears almost waxy beneath the single bulb above his head. There's a few, very thin wisps of smoke curling across the fabric of his vest from where the leather straps are pressed flush to his body. Unlike the often humorous portrayal depicted in cartoons and comics, a surge of electricity through the human body does not produce smoke from the ears and the black light stamp of a skeleton inside the body. No, the effects are much more subtle, more understated. Electricity causes such beautiful damage to the body; it's truly an exquisite and lost art.
Only this time it appears his art has reached its peak too quickly. He reaches out and presses his fingers to the side of the agent's throat, holding them there silently for several seconds. After seven full seconds go by without a pulse, he sighs heavily in disappointment and lets his hand fall away.
"Damn," he mutters to himself, frowning at the dead agent in The Chair. "And I had such wonderful things planned for you, Mr. Solo. It's disappointing, really; such a waste." He sighs and shrugs nonchalantly. "Oh well, I suppose they just don't make them the way the used to anymore," he says, gazing nostalgically back at his book. At least he would have if someone else hadn't slipped in while his back was turned and was in front of his desk.
The man is tall and looming and he recognizes him instantly as Gaby's "fiance". It takes a second or two longer for his brain to make the connection that he's also KGB.
The Russian's eyes dart between the doctor and the other agent still strapped into The Chair and there's a noise that sounds remarkably like a growl that rumbles out of him. One hand twitches into a tightly balled fist as his side and he takes a menacing step forward.
Rudi tries to take a step back in retreat but his foot catches on a bundle of wires and he momentarily loses his balance. It's more than enough time for the Russian agent to close the space between them and grab the doctor by his lapels. His fingers dig into fabric and flesh alike and the former Nazi is jerked off the floor with terrifyingly little effort.
"N-No! Wait!" he stammers, his hands wrapped around the Russian agent's wrists uselessly. It doesn't do him any good. There is no humanity in the agent's icy blue eyes; all he sees is cold, murderous fury.
In a sudden burst of strength he's airborne, flying across the room and crashing into his desk. The wood splinters and cracks and he lands in a painful heap on the ground. The agent is above him a second later, towering over him like a ravenous grizzly bear. The doctor's glasses are bent and askew on his nose but even through the blurry lenses he can see the closed fist plummeting down toward him. It hits him in the temple and he goes limp instantly.
Illya glares down at the unconscious doctor wordlessly, fists clenched tightly at his sides and breathing heavily. The thought of killing him briefly flickers through his mind but he dismisses it just as quickly; he's not here to make such decisions. Besides, he may have information that will come in handy later.
Satisfied that he won't be getting up any time soon, Illya turns his attention away from the former Nazi and back to his partner strapped into something that looks remarkably like an electric chair. He crosses the room quickly and comes to a stop in front of the chair, crouching down and setting to work on the buckles on the straps.
"Come on, Cowboy," he says as the first set of straps is released. "Time to go."
He doesn't get any response from the man above him but he doesn't think much of it. He's more focused on freeing him and getting them both out of here than he is a snarky remark from the American agent. The next strap comes loose like the first and he moves up to the ones fastened across Napoleon's chest. He stops when he notices the bloodstains on his vest.
His hand freezes above the largest stain and he looks up, a heavy, sinking feeling tugging at the base of his stomach. The other agent's eyes are closed and he's slumped bonelessly in the chair. If he didn't know any better he'd almost swear the other man was-
A flutter of panic mixed with denial spikes through him and he abandons the straps at the American agent's chest and removes the one across his forehead. Without the assistance of the strap holding it upright, Napoleon's head lolls forward listlessly, his chin bouncing off his chest. Illya reaches out and places his hands on either side of the other man's face, lifting his head up easily. He actively ignores the fact that there is no resistance to the movement.
"Cowboy," he says loudly, patting the American's face hard enough to hurt. There's no reaction from Napoleon and Illya curses quietly. He tips Napoleon's head into his left hand and prods the pulse point beneath his jaw with his right. Feeling nothing, he growls, moves his fingers a little, and presses down a bit harder. He leans in close, his ear directly in front of the other agent's nose and mouth, and listens closely. Nothing. Napoleon is not breathing and Illya can't find a pulse. He curses again.
He doesn't bother unbuckling the last few straps connecting Napoleon to the chair, he just rips them off with his bare hands. He catches his lifeless partner as he slumps forward, pulling him out of the chair and dragging him across the room. Once they're completely clear of the cords and cables, he lays him down flat on the concrete floor and crouches down beside him.
Save for the bloodstains on his vest, Napoleon is still impeccably dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and silk tie. Both of which Illya immediately destroys. He pulls a knife from his boot and slices through the tie, tossing it to the side carelessly. He doesn't cut the shirt but he does rip the collar open, two buttons popping into the air and then scattering across the floor.
He pulls the collar away from Napoleon's throat and presses his fingers to his carotid again, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his pulse would be easier to detect now that he's flat on the floor. His hopes are dashed pretty instantly when his search once again yields nothing. He growls in frustration and moves to position his hands over Napoleon's heart.
The first few compressions are jerky and awkward and he has to reposition his body in order to gain more leverage. It takes a second but once he finds the correct position, he re-laces his fingers and begins pushing down again.
"You are not dying here," he grumbles to the lifeless man beneath him. "You are supposed to be CIA's best. So prove it."
He falls into a steady rhythm, doing his best to mimic the rate of his compressions with that of a healthy, functional heart. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand and to not think about the way his lifeless partner is rocking bonelessly beneath his hands.
Several silent seconds pass by with no results and Illya is beginning to get agitated. He casts a murderous glance over his shoulder back to the crumpled doctor on the floor and debates once again whether or not he should go back and finish the job. Napoleon still isn't breathing and the fact that the former Nazi is directly responsible for that is enough to make Illya want to tear him into tiny pieces. Combined with the fact that Gaby had betrayed them and was then subsequently whisked away by the Vinciguerras, it added a certain level of desperation and urgency to an already tense situation.
It's this level of desperation that causes Illya to do something he had tried to do the first time he met Napoleon: he breaks one of his ribs. He feels the bone pop and give way slightly beneath his hand as he pushes down again and he mutters a silent apology in his head. He'll offer a verbal apology once Napoleon starts breathing again. 'If' his brain chides grimly and he forcefully pushes it out of his mind. Illya Kuryakin is not one to give up easily and he's sure as hell not about to start now.
"упрямый ублюдок," he grumbles in frustration, abandoning the chest compressions and tilting Napoleon's head back. He hunches down and forces two full breaths into the American agent's unresponsive lungs. When he pulls back, he can taste Solo's blood on his lips and for some reason that just makes the situation worse. "дышать черт вас."
He sits back, repositions his hands, and starts compressions again. He feels another rib crack beneath his hands a few seconds later but he keeps going. Napoleon risked his life for him in the bay and he's determined to repay the favor.
There's a very slight twitch beneath him and he pauses momentarily, blue eyes darting to the American's face. Napoleon's face contorts in a grimace and suddenly he's coughing violently, a deep, painful sound that comes from the very bottom of his lungs. He sucks in a deep, halting breath and releases it as another hoarse cough a second or so later.
Illya reacts quickly, reaching out and rolling the American agent onto his side as another harsh round of coughing rattles through him. "It's okay," he says quietly but he's not exactly sure who he's reassuring at the moment. "You're alright. Just breathe."
Napoleon coughs and chokes for several more long seconds until he's finally able to draw a proper breath. One hand is clutching his chest as he struggles to breath normally and the other is clenched in the fabric of Illya's pants.
When he's finally able to breathe again, Napoleon slumps back onto the ground and blinks up at his partner. "Peril?" he asks, his voice raw and ragged around the edges.
The Russian agent just nods in affirmation. Napoleon's hand is still gripping his pants leg like a lifeline and he looks shaky and pale but he's breathing and for now that's all that matters. "You doing okay, Cowboy?"
Napoleon manages a weak, uncoordinated nod and coughs again. "I never thought I'd say this…" he says, pausing to catch his breath. "But I'm actually quite pleased to see you."
Illya smirks a bit and reaches down to help him sit up. "The feeling is mutual."
It takes a second but eventually Napoleon is able to sit up on his own (he politely ignores the way Illya's hand hovers behind one shoulder to make sure he's not about to fall over). He tries to take a deeper breath now that he's upright but a spasm of pain halts it about halfway in and he hisses sharply. His ribs are on fire, white-hot jolts of pain shooting through his chest each time he breathes. He gasps quietly and lays one hand flat against his ribs and yep, definitely broken. Or cracked at the very least.
He shoots a quizzical look at Illya and the Russian agent just shrugs. "Sorry," he says although he doesn't sound too apologetic. "Was necessary."
Napoleon just nods and grits his teeth. "Fair enough," he mumbles with another wince, his gaze drifting over to the crumpled Nazi doctor across the room. "What do you want to do with him?"
Illya follows his gaze and there's something dark and terrifying about the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I have a few ideas."
Thanks for reading guys! More to come soon! :D