Chapter 12
Over the next thirty-six hours, Solo went from unconsciousness to semi-consciousness countless times, when he was plagued by total body aches. His only thoughts during the latter were of Illya, whether he was alive, still feeling the effects of the chemical, or dead, having yielded to the chemical's effect. His only awareness of his surroundings was that he was on a bed.
His head finally cleared enough that he recognized the familiar smells of a hospital, could think about more than Illya's status. Where …? In the same second, he knew: the muted groans characteristic of one angry, frustrated Russian came from his left.
He turned toward his left and there Illya was, in four-point leather restraints, head swathed in a skewed turban of white gauze, cheek patched with the same. Before he could speak, Illya slowly calmed down, never once opening his eyes, and then sighed. Not quite peaceful, but relaxed. It was then he realized that Illya was no longer fuzzy around the edges; those were now crisp and distinct. His headache was definitely more annoying than debilitating. The concussion was resolving.
Napoleon called for the nurse. When she entered, a prim, young woman in a starched white uniform and a mainsail nurse's cap, she smiled. "Mr. Solo, you're looking much better. How—"
"Hello. I'm fine. Now let's skip all the formalities and get my friend released from his bonds. I'll see to it that he won't harm anyone or himself."
"And how do you propose to do that, Mr. Solo? You're not exactly in the best shape yourself."
"He trusts me and I'm his boss"—when he lets me—"and will do as I say." Maybe. "Push my bed next to his. I take full responsibility." He knew he would have to be touching Illya, a short of early-warning system, when he, Solo, slept. Interrupted sleep was a small price to pay to spare his friend the torture of more trauma to his wrists and ankles.
The nurse, who'd been informed of the agents' situation and partnership, contemplated the proposal for several minutes. She exhaled resignedly. "Against my better judgment, I'll allow it. I'll have an orderly come in shortly. Until then, your partner stays restrained."
Solo flashed her an appreciative, sparkling smile. "Thanks."
MFU
Even beneath the sedation and analgesia, the self-harm urge remained like a constant, low-grade electrical current that would spike without warning but Kuryakin could feel it slowly weakening its hold on him, the ersatz power diminishing. In his lucid moments, he wondered bleakly if this would take as long to completely disappear as the fear gas did. Fortunately, Napoleon seemed to sense when the impulse raised its noxious head, and would gently squeeze his shoulder or arm, calming the compulsion to a manageable level.
In between these little skirmishes—Illya was confident he was winning the war and was simply fighting a few resolute soldiers—he listened to Napoleon breathing and speaking soft reassurances to him, felt his hand resting on his almost constantly. That even helped when disturbing memories began to seep into awareness.
MFU
Another day passed before Illya, now sixteen hours without sedation, had the strength to open his eyes. Though Napoleon's eyes were closed, Illya could tell he was dozing lightly from the pattern of his respirations. His friend's right hand rested on Illya's right arm. His eyes searched for the arm he remembered seeing bandaged, but it was out of his field of vision. His gaze returned to Napoleon's face, to see the hazel-brown eyes alight with pleasure.
"It sure is good to see your baby blues are no longer channeling Rasputin."
Illya licked his dry lips and cleared his gravelly throat. "I'm adept at hiding such things," he muttered. "Including my intention of seeking revenge against you for leaving me handcuffed."
Napoleon chortled. "You are adept at many things. I'm hoping revenge isn't one of them."
"Napoleon," Illya said, a little more loudly and turning serious, "thank you for keeping me out of … my way."
"I owe you thanks, too. We're both out of harm's way. And the world. For now."
"That is the nature of our lives." Illya placed his left hand over Napoleon's and closed his eyes, tranquil for the first time in many hours.