Notes: This is just a present, as apology. I entered NaNoWriMo, so everything is temporarily on hold.

Disclaimer: I do not own Man From U.N.C.L.E., and make no profit from this work.


In The Blink of an Eye

Chapter Three

When Illya next woke – or when he thought he did – Napoleon was there again, in a different suit but the same soft smile. He squeezed Illya's hand with both of his as he leaned forward in his chair, eyes flickering over Illya's lean face as if examining him.

"How do you feel?" he murmured.

"Tired," Illya repeated.

"Yes," Napoleon said, anxiety gnawing at him now. 'Tired' – that was all Illya had said. 'Tired', and 'you alright?' Napoleon was terrified that he couldn't say more. After all, this was the fifth time now that Illya had fleetingly gained consciousness, and he still hadn't varied those three words at all. "Yes, you're tired. But apart from tired?"

Illya seemed to think about that, eyes sliding shut and opening again sleepily, before he lifted his free hand and stared at it, wobbling dangerously and weakly in the air.

"Shaky," he said, and Napoleon sighed, a little smile breaking out. A new word, and in English. This was a good start. He took that trembling hand and squeezed it too. "Feel...weak."

"That'll pass," Napoleon soothed. "That'll pass once you're staying awake for any extended period of time."

"You...?"

"I'm fine," Napoleon murmured. "It's alright. I'm fine, and you will be."

"How...long?"

Napoleon blinked: "What?"

He honestly hadn't expected Illya to notice anything wrong yet. He was so out of it those last few times that he had barely noticed Napoleon was there, let alone that time had passed. And Napoleon wondered whether those few extra lines on his face were noticeable. He wasn't even going grey yet.

"You..." Illya gestured weakly at Napoleon's face with that shaking hand, and Napoleon caught and lowered it, clasping it with its partner. "Lines. Older..."

The anxiety was beginning to creep back. Illya wasn't using complete sentences, or anything close to them. The problem was, with Illya, Napoleon didn't know whether his brain was just too dazed to do it in his third language, or whether it was a genuine problem caused by the brain damage that he had to have sustained.

"You've been in a coma," Napoleon said decisively, squeezing those hands gently. "You were badly hurt. You're going to be fine, but you've been asleep for some time. Be grateful, Illya, you would be in a world of hurt right now if you hadn't been sleeping."

"Okay," Illya murmured, shifting restlessly. "Back aches."

"Come here," Napoleon whispered, and helped his partner to ease over onto his side in the bed. He looked very young and vulnerable like that, his legs curled up towards his chest and his hands lying on the sheets in front of his face, though he kept hold of Napoleon's hand stubbornly. "There you go. Better?"

"Yes," Illya murmured. His eyes were closed, but there was an edge of awareness in the lines of his body now. "Stay here."

"Alright," Napoleon said softly. "I'll have to go when..."

Those blue eyes darted open again and: "Stay."

"Alright, alright, ssh," Napoleon soothed hurriedly when the heart monitor's rhythm was disturbed for a moment. "I'll stay if you want it that badly."

The night nurse, a skilled woman in her fifties called Janet who'd probably been with the organisation longer than even Mr Waverly, appeared in the doorway, alert and frowning.

"He's quite insistent that I stay with him," Napoleon offered by way of explanation, and her face softened.

"Awake, are you dear?" she asked, coming around to glimpse those weary blue eyes and offering her patient a motherly smile. "Do you want Napoleon to stay with you for the night?"

"Da."

Napoleon silently noted the use of Russian to give the doctor in the morning. As they had no idea what damage had been done to Illya's brain, they had no idea what would suffer and what wouldn't. Anything, at this point, was a signal, and so far, Napoleon was theorising that Illya's comprehension and language skills had survived.

"Okay," Janet nodded, and looked to Napoleon. "I can get a bed set up in here, if you don't mind a little disturbance, or it can wait until he's dozed off."

Illya's fingers tightened as much as they really could on Napoleon's, and he shook his head.

"I think now might be best," he said. It was clear that Illya, for whatever reason, feared him leaving, and wanted some kind of evidence that he would stay. "Don't worry about making a bit of noise."

Janet bustled off, and Napoleon turned his attention back to Illya. His partner was looking fairly alert – as much as he could – but undeniably tired, dark rings under his eyes and his skin almost transparent from the lack of any sunlight. But after so long, he was a beautiful sight, the blue of his eyes almost alien after all this time, and Napoleon felt the tears threatening again.


Napoleon slept the night in the medical wing. He woke twice when the steady, low beeping of the heart monitor was disturbed, but it turned out to be nothing, and Illya didn't wake. He was still classed as comatose rather than sleeping, because of his low brain activity, but Napoleon had been assured that the activity was growing.

He left briefly in the morning to return home, shower and change, and come back. He paused in his office to cancel his appointments and tell Sandy to redirect any urgent matters to his communicator. Their enemies, after all, would not be taking the day off just because Napoleon wanted to see to Illya.

He returned to the medical wing to find Illya awake and agitated, the heart monitor complaining and the morning shift nurse demanding that he calm down.

"I will have you sedated, long sleep or not, if you don't – Mr. Solo! Thank goodness – will you do something about him?!"

Illya's eyes were wide and wild, and he seized Napoleon's hand, when it was offered, with a grip that would have been painful if not for the muscle wastage. Napoleon brushed the nurse aside, bending over Illya with ages-old practiced skill to manhandle him back into a prone position and reach for the buttons on the wall.

"If you promise to rest," he said firmly, "then I will prop the bed up and see if we can't manage a conversation. Stop pitching a fit and behave yourself. You are in no condition for this."

"You weren't here," Illya responded, still clinging even as he allowed Napoleon to move him. He said it as if it explained everything, and it probably did. "You promised to stay."

"I was only gone for a little while," Napoleon replied, shooing the nurse away with a wave of his hand and a little smile. "I was here all night, I promise you. And I won't be leaving today unless there's an emergency."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He busied himself with propping up the bed and arranging pillows, and considered his partner's condition. He was distinctly more alert, his mind getting back into the swing of things, and so far, Napoleon couldn't detect any clear damage to his abilities – apart from, obviously, the muscle wastage, and there was nothing to be immediately done about that.

"There you go," he said, sitting back into his chair and reaching for Illya's hand again. "If you manage to stay awake long enough, they might give you some soup or something."

"How long?" Illya interrupted.

"What?" Napoleon asked, surprised by the direct question. Oh yes, Illya's mental faculties were up and running again.

"How long have I been...asleep?"

"Long enough," Napoleon replied cryptically, but when Illya scowled, he relented. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Illya thought about that for a few moments, before replying: "Dr. Atkins. We were sent after him, to retrieve him after his defection. He..." Illya paused, then frowned. "He had...unknown security. There was a...a firefight. I don't...remember anything else."

"Because you were shot," Napoleon replied, very quietly. The memory still gave him nightmares: the smell and sight of Illya's blood, all over his hands and clothes. He had held Illya together – Illya had almost died in Napoleon's arms and that still gave him terrible nightmares that left him shaking in a cold sweat and trying not to cry. So many times, his dreaming mind had finished the job for the gunman.

"I..."

"You were very badly wounded," Napoleon replied, "by Dr. Atkins himself. I had to call for backup – they arrived too late to stop him from shooting you."

"How long?!" Illya demanded.

"Three years," Napoleon murmured. "Illya, it's been three years."