A/N: Again thanks to all for your encouragement!
Warnings: mildly coarse language. Nope this is not the end, not yet...
One month! It seemed more like one year! In that month he had regained feeling in his lower extremities and gotten rid of the damnable catheter. "Well, that's something!" the injured agent muttered to himself. Unfortunately, while feeling had returned to his legs, mobility had not. And now with the frustration of immobility there was also pain, intermittent pain that radiated up and down both legs like fire. While he tried to hide the pain from the doctors and Napoleon, he couldn't keep from breaking out in a sweat or emitting an occasional gasp when it hit. Doctors had prescribed pain medication which he was reluctant to take. He didn't like the way it dulled his mind and made him feel like his thoughts were being filtered through a jumble of cotton.
One of the physical therapists came waltzing into his room unannounced, greeting Illya in an overly cheery shrill voice, "Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin, and how are we this morning?"
The blond agent's eyes narrowed as they fixed on her with a gray steely stare. "I don't know how you are, but I'm just fine," he spoke through tight lips.
"Well let's just see how well our exercises are going, shall we?"
"No! " Picking up several of his journals he flung them in her direction. He was so tired by this woman's patronizing comments. He had endured if for the past month, but no more. "Get out. Get out now!"
"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, how rude!"
A water pitcher traveled the same flight path as the journals, hitting the far wall and splashing its contents about the room. "And stay out!" he yelled to the backside of the retreating therapist.
Xxx xxx xxx xxx
Napoleon entered Mr. Waverly's office. As CEA he had been invited to sit in on a conference discussing Illya's progress and medical condition.
"Ah yes, Mr. Solo, please join us. I believe you know these gentlemen and lady from medical.
Napoleon gave them a brief nod before sitting down.
Dr. Sinclair, the neurologist, reported that after one month feeling had come back to Illya's lower extremities, however mobility had not. The nerves in his lower back were still highly irritated. To make matters worse Illya was plagued with intermittent pain.
"How much of his inability to use his legs is physical, doctors?" Mr. Waverly asked
Napoleon's brow furrowed. Surely the Old Man wasn't suggesting…
"It's hard to say, Mr. Waverly. While we feel that much of his condition is due to his injuries we are also exploring the idea of there being some psychological blocks to his recovery," responded Dr. Shulz, another neurologist. "We would like to have the psychiatric team come in and evaluate Mr. Kuryakin."
"Now just a damn minute!" interjected Napoleon. "How could it be psychological? You know as well as I do that Illya has been working his hardest at his therapy sessions. Hell, his therapists even complain that he is pushing himself too hard. How do you explain that, doctors?"
"Mr. Solo, you will do well to remember your manners and behave as the Section 2, number 1 agent that you are!" reprimanded his boss.
Napoleon had more he wanted to say, but stopped and muttered an apology.
Mr. Waverly turned to the doctors, "Gentlemen and lady, thank you for your report. Regarding having the psychiatric team come into evaluate Mr. Kuryakin, make it so. Good day, gentlemen."
The doctors said their goodbyes. "Ah, Mr. Solo, I need you to stay a moment, please."
"Yes sir." He waited for a further chewing out. He knew the Old Man wasn't happy with his outburst. Instead, his boss softened his expression, compassion colored his voice.
"Napoleon, I know how difficult this has been for Illya and for you as well. It is never easy to see one's partner, one's friend suffer -especially a man as proud and private as Illya is. We need to use all of our available medical resources to give him a chance to fully recover. I don't want to lose one of my best Section 2 agents from the field. However, if his situation doesn't improve soon, within the next month, I will be forced to pull his Section 2 certification. He could still work in the labs. As a matter of fact I think he would make an excellent head for the Research and Development labs or maybe he would be interested in heading Section 3 - security, " he smiled as he squeezed Napoleon's shoulder and added, "However, young man, I have not given up on Illya. Don't you either."
Napoleon was touched by the unusual show of compassion his boss had just displayed. Rare was the time when the Old Man referred to his agents' given names which only demonstrated how much he was affected by Illya's injuries.
"Yes, Sir, and …thank you." He left Mr. Waverly's office and headed to the elevator.
Xxx xxx xxx xxx
The elevator doors whispered opened when the lift arrived at the medical floor. Napoleon stepped out, hesitating before heading towards the wing where Illya's room was located. Loud voices echoed through the corridor. He gave a little smile. There was no doubt who was the owner of one of the voices. His partner had been cooped up in the medical wing for a month and Napoleon knew that Illya was going stir crazy. Hell, he would have been in the same boat if he had been cooped up as long!
As he approached Illya's room a woman came out crying and muttering something about damn Russians and stubborn ingrate. He poked his head in the door and smiled, "I see you are continuing to woo the staff with your usual charm, Partner."
"I'm warning you, Napoleon, don't you start with me, too." The smoldering look from Illya's eyes called a halt to any good natured banter that Napoleon was going to start.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Illya." His expression softened . "What's wrong, Tovarisch? How can I help?"
"I need to get out of here, Napoleon. I want to go home. There is absolutely no reason for me to stay here."
"Illya, you need to stay here, you know that, until your legs are healed."
"Bull shit, Napoleon! I can be a cripple in my own apartment as easily as being one here! At least at home I can be myself. I won't have doctors constantly poking and prodding me as if I were some damn guinea pig."
With that he reached over from his bedside to grab the ever present and hated wheelchair. Using his arms and upper body strength he grabbed the arms of the chair and maneuvered his hips onto the seat. He then pulled his right leg down , next his left leg. Picking up his legs from behind his knees he placed each foot on the footrests. Turning the chair he wheeled himself towards the closet where the clothes that Napoleon had brought him weeks ago were hanging.
"Hey, hang on, Illya, where do you think you're going?," asked Napoleon as he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.
Illya spun his wheelchair around. "Home, Napoleon, with or without your help."
"All right, Tovarisch. Just promise you'll wait here for a few moments while I talk to Mr. Waverly. I have an idea. Do you promise?"
Illya relaxed his shoulders just a bit. "What do you have in mind, my friend?"
"I don't want to say until I talk to Waverly. Can you hang on that long?"
The Russian relented. "Okay, Napoleon…but don't take too long."
An hour later Napoleon came back to Illya's room. "Well, we got the green light, Tovarisch. You can leave under one condition." He saw Illya began to bristle at the thought of conditions. "The powers that be insist that you have someone stay with you, I thought you could stay with me, if you're willing. And since your apartment is just a couple of floors down, you will have ready access to it. Meanwhile, Mr. Waverly has ordered medical to outfit both of our apartments with the necessary equipment to make it easier for you. What d'ya say?"
In half an hour, Illya was dressed. He could do most of it himself, but Napoleon had to help him pull his briefs and pants up over his hips, a skill he had not yet mastered during his stay in medical. Napoleon knew how much it took out of his partner to admit he needed such help.
When finished Illya was exhausted and covered in perspiration. He was surprised how much energy such a small task of getting dressed cost him.
Napoleon smiled and patted his partner's shoulder. "What d'ya say, Tovarisch. Shall we go?"
Illya, his demeanor considerably more amiable, half smiled and with a dramatic gesture he replied, "Home, James, and don't spare the horses!"