Title - The Unforeseen Consequences affair
Chapter 3 - Mr. Kuryakin has always been stubborn

Disclaimer - Sadly I don't own any of the characters, but if I ask real nicely then maybe I'll be allowed to borrow them from MGM.

Rating - PG-13 for this chapter, later ones may be rated higher.
Archive - If you like it, sure.

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Previously on The Man from UNCLE -
A seemingly straightforward 'information retrieval' assignment turned out to be a trap. Napoleon narrowly escaped death when Illya managed to push him out of the way of a booby-trapped filing cabinet. Napoleon escaped with minor bruising, but his main concern was for his partner who had been rendered unconscious by the blast. Escaping from his room in UNCLE's sickbay, he was relieved to find Illya being tended to by a pretty nurse.
To his shock, he found out that Illya had been blinded by the explosion, and the doctors were unable to predict whether his condition would be permanent or not. After a few days without any improvement, Illya insisted that he be allowed to leave, maintaining that he could take care of himself, even if his enemies tried to take advantage of his injured state. The issue was settled when Napoleon said that he would look after Illya. Afterwards, Mr. Waverly called him aside to warn him that UNCLE could not do without both him and Illya for an extended period, but that he was allowing them both some time off.

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"Thank you, Sir." Napoleon was silent for a few seconds before speaking again, "Sir...if Illya *doesn't* regain his sight and has to leave UNCLE...what will happen to him?"

Mr. Waverly regarded Napoleon carefully before replying. "Mr. Kuryakin is one of our own...and we take care of our own."

"Thank you, Sir," said Napoleon again.

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Later that day, Napoleon made his way back to sickbay. As he approached Illya's room, he could hear a raised voice swearing in Russian, and a nurse hurried out, her face flushed. She jumped in surprise as Napoleon called her name.
"Oh, Mr. Solo...I...I didn't see you there."

"Is something wrong, Nurse Finn?" asked Napoleon.

"No...yes," she sighed in exasperation. "It's Mr. Kuryakin. I was trying to help him get dressed so he could leave, but he refused my help, and then he swo...he ordered me out of the room."

"I can't imagine why," said Napoleon, with a flash of his winning smile.

Nurse Finn blushed, "Anyway, he said that he could manage fine by himself."

"Mr. Kuryakin has always been stubborn like that. Don't worry, I'll see that he gets ready."

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Knocking gently at the door, Napoleon pushed it further open. Illya was sitting on the bed and wrestling with a shirt. Hearing the door, he turned towards it. "I told you, Nurse, that I don't *need* your help," he said, a note of annoyance in his voice.

"Doesn't look like it from where *I'm* standing," replied Napoleon, with a smile as he walked into the room. "Here, let me give you a hand there."

Before Illya could protest, Napoleon had deftly untangled the shirt and was helping him pull it on.

"Thank you," said Illya, grudgingly as Napoleon started to button it up. "But I would have managed on my own."

"I'm sure you would have," said Napoleon. "Eventually..."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Illya, abruptly.

"Because if you walk out of here without your shirt on, half the ladies in the department are going to swoon at your feet, and I don't want you tripping over them."

Illya made a dismissive gesture. "I didn't mean *this*," he said, plucking at the shirt. "I meant 'this'..." He gestured around him. "Offering to look after me so I don't have be stuck here indefinitely."

"It's the least I can do," said Napoleon, trying to keep his tone light, but adding mentally, "it's the least I can do considering that if it wasn't for me then you wouldn't *need* someone to look after you."

Illya frowned as he heard the note in his friend's voice. He caught Napoleon's hand. "I do not blame you for this, old friend," he said, indicating his eyes.

"You don't have to," thought Napoleon as Illya continued.

"What happened was something that could not have been predicted. We had both checked for booby traps...perhaps I should have moved faster...or gotten out of the way quicker..."

"Or not gotten in the way at all," thought Napoleon. It didn't matter that Illya didn't hold him responsible for his injury...he would never be able to forgive himself for what had happened. Sure, they had both checked for traps...but Illya had concentrated on the room, and it had been *his* job to check the actual filing cabinet. Somehow he had missed something, but Illya had been the one to pay the price.

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Napoleon guided Illya through the door of his apartment and to a seat on the couch. Illya had initially wanted to stay in his own place, but Napoleon had pointed out that Illya's entire apartment would fit into *his* living room, and they would both be more comfortable in his place. They had briefly stopped at Illya's apartment to collect some clothes for him, and once again Napoleon had been stuck by how austere his friend's living accommodation was. The only concession to luxury was a large set of bookcases, which were filled to overflowing. As Napoleon gazed on the range of subjects, which they held, he felt another pang of guilt at the thought that Illya might never again have the opportunity to enjoy them.

"Do you want something to eat?" asked Napoleon, once Illya was seated. "I can fix something up in the kitchen, or maybe order some take out?"

Illya leaned back tiredly against the cushions. "I haven't had much of an appetite lately," he admitted. "Not that that stopped the nurses from trying to force upon me that appalling mess they call food in sickbay."

Napoleon tried to hide his concern...Illya was usually able to eat no matter what the circumstances. "Well I think I can produce something more appetizing than that."

"That wouldn't be hard," muttered Illya, tiredly.

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Napoleon watched with relief as Illya finished his last sandwich. True, he wasn't eating as voraciously as usual, but at least he *was* eating.

Finally he pushed the plate away and said, "Thank you Napoleon...that was most appetizing." Groping around for the napkin, he wiped his mouth with it.

"You missed a spot," said Napoleon. "Here...let me." He carefully cleaned away some sauce that had spilled onto Illya's chin.

"You are as bad as those nurses," grumbled Illya good-naturedly. "They must have been terribly clumsy, because every time they insisted on feeding me, I always had to have my top changed afterwards."

"The nurses can get a little...over-enthusiastic," agreed Napoleon, with a smile. "Last time I was stuck in sickbay, they seemed to want to give me bed-baths every hour. Nurse Lockhart was the worst...gentle as a battleaxe and a face to match."

"I can't say I noticed that," said Illya. There was a note of sarcasm in his voice, which he regretted even as he heard it.

Napoleon fell silent, embarrassed by his gaffe. Before he could think of a way to ease the tension in the air, Illya spoke again.

"I have made arrangements for some files to be delivered in the morning."

"Files?" There was a note of surprise in Napoleon's voice.

"Yes. Apparently there is quite a backlog of paperwork to be dealt with." Initially, Illya had had absolutely no desire to even enquire as to the state of the paperwork in the department. All he had wanted was to get away from UNCLE headquarters. Knowing that he might no longer be able to serve the agency to which he had devoted so much of his time over the past few years had been a crushing blow, and every sound, every smell in the building just served as a reminder of what he had lost. And at the back of his mind was the fear of what he still *could* lose...the only reason he was in America in the first place was because of his work as an UNCLE agent...if he was no longer with UNCLE...

But then Mr. Waverly had visited him once the doctor had cleared him to leave, and had explained to him that his talents could still be of use to the organization.

"How can I be of use like this," Illya had said in disgust, indicating his bandaged eyes.

"Your brain is still functioning normally, I take it?" Mr. Waverly had said. "Good, because that can still be of use to UNCLE. The people who work at headquarters are just as highly valued as those who are in the field. Your intelligence, your fluency in languages...you have many skills with which you can still contribute."

He had then left Illya to contemplate his words and eventually come to the conclusion that if he *was* to still have a place in the organization, then he should do something about it...hence the paperwork which was causing Napoleon some surprise.

"But you..." Napoleon bit back the words. God knew, he had already been tactless enough with Illya.

"But I can't read the files?" Illya said. "True...and neither can I write the reports...but you can read the files to me, and I shall dictate the reports to you. Of course your writing will have to improve significantly over its usual scrawl."

"My writing is perfectly legible, thank you," said Napoleon, a trace of indignation in his voice until he saw the smile on Illya's lips. "Very funny."

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Napoleon guided Illya into the spare room and eased him down onto the bed.

Illya stifled a moan as his head touched the pillow.

"Illya?" asked Napoleon, concern in his voice.

"It...it's nothing...just a headache," said Illya, tiredly. Dr. Harte had warned him that he would be prone to such pains for several days, and that it could take a while for his energy levels to be at their usual peak.

"I'll get the painkillers you were prescribed," said Napoleon, turning towards the door.

"No," said Illya, quietly but firmly. "I don't need them...I'll be fine...just...just hurts when I'm tired."

Napoleon could see from the lines on Illya's brow and the way his fists were clenched, that his friend was in more pain than he was letting on, but he didn't want to press the issue. "Tell you what," he said, finally. "I'll leave some Aspirin by the bed...just in case you want something."

"...kay," mumbled Illya, his face half hidden in the pillow.

"I'll get you some pajamas as well," said Napoleon. "Be back in a minute."

But by the time he returned with both the Aspirin and the nightclothes, Illya was curled up on the bed and asleep.

Rather than wake his friend, Napoleon carefully removed his shoes and loosened his shirt, before tucking a blanket gently around him. Brushing the blond hair out of Illya's face, he noted with relief that the lines of pain had eased somewhat. "Goodnight my friend," he said softly, his hand brushing over Illya's as he smoothed the blanket. "Pleasant dreams."

Illya mumbled something inaudible and moved restlessly, but he didn't wake as Napoleon closed the door behind him.

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Mindful of Mr. Waverly's warnings about possible attacks, Napoleon made sure that the recently installed security system was fully armed before he too retired for the night. But he didn't find it as easy to fall asleep as Illya did. Staring at the ceiling, he wondered how he would have coped had their positions been reversed.

Finally after what seemed like hours, he fell into an uneasy sleep, only to be woken abruptly by the sound of his security alarm, which was blaring loudly.

"Illya!" he thought as he jumped out of the bed.

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To be continued

Ceindreadh