Breakfast in Bed (part one)
Illya Kuryakin seething in bed was not the pretty sight some secretaries might have imagined. Had any of the medical staff been able to get near enough to take his blood pressure, an alarm would've tripped at the detonation desk. Kuryakin had cultivated this terrible im-patient reputation deliberately, to get his own way when fate had waylaid him in UNCLE's medical section. He was tagged "Kranky-akin" by the less charitable members of the staff.
However, since his last enforced visit to the health department, there had been a change of administration. Dr. Amelia Prescott had been appointed as chief of medicine. Dr Prescott had an impressive CV, but she had not yet dealt with Medical's Bad Boy. And the rumors she'd heard had not dissuaded her from enacting tougher standards on her section.
The doctor strode calmly down the hall past the unfortunate nurse who was shaken and still stooped into a defensive position outside the Russian's door. The breakfast tray was sliding slowly down the wall, glutinous oatmeal acting as an unappetizing adhesive. "Palliser—take a break. Get off the floor and compose yourself," she ordered sternly. Then with a strong straight arm, she pushed in the door to Kuryakin's lair. He was so involved with his own shouting he had not noticed her entrance. She was beside him swiftly, leaned across his bed and laced a resounding slap across his face.
Illya was dazed and dumbfounded. He thrust his hand under the pillow grabbing for his Special, frustrated to remember where he was.
"Agent Kuryakin," she greeted in a low, dangerous voice. "We've not met, but your reputation precedes you. I am Chief of Medicine Dr. Amelia Prescott. These tantrums of yours are unacceptable. You are undermining the effectiveness of this facility, MY facility."
Kuryakin turned his face from her and muttered into his pillow in Croate.
She raised her eyebrows. "I'm going to presume that was nothing flattering. I'm a doctor—I understand what trauma does to body and mind. I know you're feeling crummy and trapped and angry and vulnerable. But my staff is committed to your recovery. We are not the enemy. Neither are you the only patient who needs attention. You have colleagues here—who are sick or wounded and need peace and prayers to recover. How dare you disrupt our work."
He stubbornly kept his face against the pillow, and away from her. Her words were insistent and penetrating.
"How would you react to someone who tagged along on your mission—whining and uncooperative and second-guessing your every move?" Prescott posed the question reasonably. "I don't believe you would tolerate it. And I do not care if you are one of The Wonder Twins; if I have to shoot you full of jolly juice til the cows come home, you will not continue to harass my staff or the people in my care." Prescott jabbed a hypodermic into the agent's IV. "Count backwards from 10. Enjoy your nap. We'll chat tomorrow."
The next morning Illya stretched and yawned and felt remarkably calm and rested. He did not know why, but he had decided simply to appreciate the state, not analyze it. And while he was not Little Vanya Sunshine, he was quiet and cooperative for the remainder of his captivity.
For breakfast there was tea with jam. And a contraband white wax bag with elegant calligraphy declaring it a product of Marcelle's Patisserie down the block. Home of the heavenly glazed croissants.
Breakfast in Bed (part 2)
Napoleon was feeling warm and satisfied, reluctant to open his eyes and leap into another unpredictable day. He drew deep waking breaths and engaged the neighboring pillow. Empty.
Damn.
The wafting aroma of bacon and maple was the definitive sign he had lingered too long. Solo sighed. The most unlikely ladies attempted to impress and imprison him with a display of domestic prowess. Somehow he never could get them to comprehend that what he would most appreciate after an evening's frolic was to be handed a mug of bracing coffee and his hat.
Stella fluttered in, bearing the requisite rose-on-a-tray morning meal. At least this one appeared edible, save for a carbon streak smudged across the toast. He smiled up at his hostess and gratefully gulped the caffeine. His lips buzzed with the heat.
"Good morning, Darling Napoleon…" she sang softly, trying to snuggle him and being obstructed by the tipsy tray and the flowing sleeves of her negligee dipping into the syrup. Obviously, this was an unusual gesture for her. That made him feel worse.
"An angel of the morning," he lifted his hand to her, and felt disheartened by how easily the less –than-sincere greeting left his mouth. Even half-asleep, he was dissembling. Someday he would have time to consider this left turn in his character. Just not today.
" And a lady of the evening," Stella giggled, blushing.
Solo neither blushed, nor giggled. She blushed, he thought silently. Women still blush. It felt like an indictment. He wondered, not for the first time, if the previous night's pleasure was worth the price of his morning conscience-and-coffee. It was something he would need to consider. Just not today.
" You're magic, Napoleon Solo."
With minimal romantic reassurance, Solo pulled himself together and stepped closer and closer to her front door. The embrace—it would be the final one, he knew—was a low- dipping, toe-curling affair. It was not as if he took ladies for granted, he rationalized. He had never sustained a relationship long enough to take any lady for granted. He brushed the pesky thought away, for today, anyway.
Outside Stella's door was a world waiting to be saved again. But Napoleon's mind wandered to Them, the committed couples he'd heard about. What was so satisfying about a quick routine lip-peck and a "see ya tonight" ? And a "love ya" tossed out the door, following one's mate into the world? Why did a man come back? Why did a woman stay?
Considerations for another time.
finis