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 Four

Tests, tests, a thousand tests and now the doctor had the most he could hope for at the moment.

"I can make arrangements for his care in a rehabilitation facility," he told Napoleon bluntly, and was unsurprised by the stern refusal. "Very well, but I hope you understand that he's going to need continuous care for some time."

"What's wrong with him?" Napoleon asked flatly. And there had to be something wrong with Illya – nobody was that lucky, not even Solo himself.

Dr. Michaels flipped open the brown folder and sighed heavily: "Comas leave their own marks physically. The muscle wastage has happened – would have anyway, despite our best efforts. We never appreciate how much we use our muscles in the easiest things, and Mr. Kuryakin hasn't done any of those things for a very long time."

"He will regain his strength, though."

"Probably not a hundred percent – he's simply too old now to regain the peak he had at twenty-seven graduating from Survival School," Dr. Michaels shrugged. "But in time he should regain the ability to lead an active and mobile life, though I seriously warn against chasing any T.H.R.U.S.H. criminals."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Napoleon's face. After the last time Illya had done that, he would most certainly not be chasing anybody. Not so much as a shoplifting teenager. Ever again.

"He'll be wheelchair bound for some time, and booked in for physiotherapy with Dr. Kreuss – but we'll sort that out when he's discharged," Dr. Michaels waved it aside absently. "We're starting him on a liquid diet, and hopefully he'll be on soft foods by the time he can go home. He'll need to live with someone, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin's, ah, solo habits – well, they're simply not going to cut it."

"I'll see to it."

"See that you do," the doctor said sternly. "Then there's the mental aspects to deal with. I anticipate some levels of depression and anxiety. Particularly the depression – I've had many a Section Two comatose in this medical facility, Mr. Solo, and absolutely none of them have reacted kindly to the loss of time and the long recuperation period."

They both knew that Illya would be absolutely no exception to this rule. If anything, he would react worse than his predecessors. Illya simply didn't like having his control removed from him – but then, Napoleon suspected, neither would he if he'd slipped free of the Soviet military.

"As for brain damage," Dr. Michaels shrugged. "We can't tell really yet. I can tell you that his speech functions and memory both seem to be intact. We've had Miss Stepanova up from Communications to speak with him the odd time, and she says his Russian and Polish are both as complete as they were before the, ah, accident."

"Good," Napoleon said, feeling that he should comment somehow. He could sense it coming though, and sure enough:

"But," the doctor flicked through his notes, frowning a little, "the nurses are already telling me that he seems a little more disorientated than he should be. He's insistent on knowing how that final mission went and whether you're alright, despite the fact that he's already seen you. And Janet – well, we haven't seen it again, so it may well have been simply a dream of his – but Janet said that when she went to check on him last night, he was talking."

"To himself?" Napoleon blinked, astonished.

"Possibly," the doctor shrugged. "We're not sure; he trailed off when she entered the room. He was looking towards the window, but it could have been a dream. Does he sleeptalk?"

Napoleon thought about it. Certainly not on missions – they had both been well trained not to make a noise in their sleep in unsecure locations – but while Illya did make the odd noise in his sleep in a secure place, he'd never heard him coherently speaking before.

"I'm not sure," Napoleon admitted. "Couldn't the...the wound have changed things?"

"It could have changed anything," the doctor shrugged. "It may well have triggered a tendency to speak in his sleep. I expect we'll find out in due course. I should warn you that a lot of patients with brain injuries change the little things as well – food preferences, minor mannerisms – and I would recommend that you don't call these changes to his attention. It can be very unnerving for the patient."

Napoleon nodded and rose to go as Dr. Michaels snapped the file shut.

"Mr. Solo."

He paused, hand on the door, and Dr. Michaels shifted uncomfortably.

"Is there...I mean...does Mr. Kuryakin have any family that we should inform about his...recovery?"

Napoleon frowned. Three faces flashed to the forefront of Napoleon's mind, and his jaw clenched slightly.

"No," he said flatly. "There's nobody left."


Illya had persuaded a nurse to prop up the bed, and was dozing a little when Napoleon came to his hospital room. Those blue eyes, when they turned on Solo, were brighter and a lot more aware and awake than they had been before.

"I want to go outside."

It was a fast command, in an accent slightly thicker than Napoleon remembered, but it was a demand that he would have expected from Illya at some point, and he smiled.

"Outside?" he repeated. "Why? It's just cloudy and grey outside."

It wasn't even particularly warm. It was early April, the bite of the New York winter still with them, tugging and teasing and not quite ready to let the warmth in. The sun was bright, but weak, and Napoleon had no idea whether taking Illya outside was a brilliant decision.

"Outside," Illya insisted. "It is dull and stuffy in here. I want to go outside."

"I'll have to ask if..."

"If you won't take me outside," Illya interrupted. "Then I will take myself."

He wouldn't be able to yet, Napoleon knew it. But he would be before they discharged him, and he would probably simply take off home. To the home that was no longer his in the first place.

"I have to check with the nurses, Illya," Napoleon said gently. "You've taken thin into a whole new realm, you know. And it's April. Winter isn't yet over. It's cold outside."

"They're called blankets," Illya replied flatly. "And clothes," he added pointedly, plucking at the hospital gown.

"Tell you what," Napoleon bargained. "If I bring you a pair of your old pyjamas in tomorrow, then I'll take you out to the park in the wheelchair. We'll wrap you up properly and take you out, but not like this."

Illya thought about it. His calculating mind was still there, and Napoleon was almost sickly glad to see the cogs turning behind those blue eyes, turning without rust in the joints or screeching from a lack of oil.

"Fine," Illya said. "But only if I get something more flavoured than chicken soup and water."

"The finest juice," Napoleon beamed. "I promise."