A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Five - Splish Splash
Rated: PG
***
I return to awareness when the television stops. "Mr. Kuryakin?" The nurse is calling from just out of arms reach. "You really should return to your room now. It's late, and you both need your rest."
I check the window. Light still comes through, but the color is wrong. Field lights, I decide. What sky I can see is quite dark, although the cloud cover that blocks the stars does show a certain reflected glow. Likely there is a city nearby.
"I do not wish to leave." My tone makes it I have no intention of leaving - under any circumstances.
She seems a bit nonplused by my answer. Reasonable. Military nurses, even more then their civilian counterparts, are accustomed to compliance. She pauses, about to argue. I give her my frostiest glare.
"Oh...well.." She tries to meet my eyes. "Let me check with your doctor." Another assessing look, and then she is out the door.
"Why did you...?" Napoleon starts.
"To see what will happen." I answer. "I do not believe either T.H.R.U.S.H. - or the K.G.B. - would welcome defiance."
"So you gave them some."
A habit which some argue explains my familiarity with hospitals. No matter. I have always felt information was worth the price. We have no further time for conversation, as the nurse returns with her answer. From her sour expression, that answer does not well suit her - but at least the responsibility is now off her back.
"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Goldak insists you shouldn't be stressed. I'll have the orderlies bring in another bed." She pauses, then adds sternly. "But in return, I want your word that you will get some sleep. Not stay up all night watching old movies."
Napoleon smiles. She does not.
"Agreed?"
I nod. I had not realized a movie had been on.
"Here." She reaches for the handles on my chair, rolling me out of the way of the two orderlies and a nurse who now come in with another hospital bed. "Let me help you, Mr. Kuryakin."
With the sudden movement, my intestines reminded me of my very substantial dinner.
"Bathroom?"
"I'm sorry. Of course.. How about you Mr. Solo?"
His smile takes on a pained edge. "Please."
She gestures at the larger of the green-clad men. "Nurse Fazilat will help you while I get some fresh pajamas."
He looks us over, then rolls another chair up to Napoleon's bed. "You first, Mr. Solo." The man says in decent if heavily accented English. "Give room for others to work."
Reasonable. Solo makes no protest as they go through the transfer ritual. Like me, he has done this before. More often then I would prefer to remember.
As soon as Napoleon is out of the bed, the female nurse strips and replaces the sheets. When that was done she made up the other bed for me. White sheets and extra pillows. Very impressive. We are fortunate that we are in such a fine hospital. There is plenty of room for an extra bed. Of course, in a less fine hospital, we might have had to *share* a bed. I clear my mind. This is neither the time or place for such thoughts.
By the time they are finished Nurse Fazilat returns with Napoleon. The whole transfer ritual is repeated in reverse as he efficiently helps Napoleon back into bed. Then he turns to me.
"Ready, Mr. Kuryakin?"
We go through the same seating process. And the same unseating process in Napoleon's bathroom. This time Nurse Fazilat has the professionalism to turn away unasked, which I appreciate. I am growing stronger by the minute, which explains why I am also feeling... dry. No, dirty. I do not like to feel dirty. Perhaps? I look at the tiled cabinet.
"Shower?" I ask.
His gaze follows mine, then sweeps down my exposed limbs. "No dressings? Very well. If it will help you to sleep better."
He pulls a plastic armchair from a towel closet and places it in the shower, angling the seat so the back was supported by two walls. Then he brings up my wheelchair.
"I can walk." I tell him.
"That would make this easier, but hold on to my arm. If you slip, I am the one who will take the fall."
Three steps and I am seated in comfort.
"Here", he says, handing me a thick terry washcloth and some soap. He starts the water, adjusting the temperature to be warm enough to relax muscles, but not scalding. Then he closes the curtain and sits down to wait.
The shower head is large, and attached to a long cable. The temperature handles are low, and designed to turn easily. A bit of adjustment to get the water hotter, and then the perfect rush of heat over my skin. A bit of investigation with a lever on the side, and I find that the water jet was adjustable. Even - I twist a knob - pulsating. I lean back into the throbbing pressure and sigh. If this is the future, Soviet technology has made some wonderful strides. I wonder briefly if such things are exported to America. Perhaps I could bring one back with me? My bathroom is small, but Napasha's shower is almost as large as this one.
I reach up. My hair is very short now. I consider that. For some reason they must have cut it when I was drugged. No matter. It will grow. For now, it is easy to wash. I spare a thought for my favorite lemon shampoo. Soap will have to do. No chance that Soviet production has advanced that far.
I am grateful for the chair. Somehow today's walk of perhaps fifty yards is enough to start my calves aching as if I had run ten miles. I rub the soapy cloth over then, massaging out the knots. I twist my arms, feeling the burning sensation of shoulder muscles stiff from the absence of exercise. If it has not been an impossible six months, we have still been here longer then I would wish. I stretch my spine, estimating from the ache. A week at least. The rushing sensation is wonderful as the hot water pounds into my shoulders and chest. I aim the pulsing stream lower, then stop. No. Not now. Not here.
The tanks must be huge. There is still hot water when Fazilat calls in "Finished?"
"Yes." I answer. I suppose it would not be possible to say here all night. Besides, I have to return to Napoleon.
Once the water was off, Fazilat hands me a very large, very thick towel. Then another for my hair. The industrialization plan must have succeeded beyond expectations. I push the thought aside. This is *not* the Soviet future. This is a T.H.R.U.S.H. trap. Although - if it was the future - it would be a very nice one.
Nurse Fazilat offers me a soft pair of flannel pajamas to replace the hospital gown. Much better. Warm from the shower, I do not require the robe.
Ignoring both the chair and Fazilat's offered arm, I walk carefully back to my new bed. I will rest arm's length from Napasha. Very good.
Fazilat leaves, and Napoleon's nurse helps me into bed. "Comfortable?" she inquires.
"Yes."
She points to a button on the nightstand. "If you need to get up at night, buzz me. I do not wish you to fall and break any bones on my shift." Then she smiles. " You spies can do that on your own time." At the door, she pauses. "Anything else you would like?"
"Other then vodka and cigarettes?"
She laughs, reaching for the light switch. "This is a hospital. Put the remote away until morning - and get some sleep!"
END CHAPTER FIVE