Okay, so I lied. I have too much material to end this as a two shot. So hope you enjoy and keep an eye out for the final chapter, hopefully coming soon.
Solo tries to give Illya the slip, in more ways than one.
Even at such a distance, Illya could swear that he felt the residual force of the blast as the aircraft carrier rocked ever so slightly in the swift moving ocean. As far as the Russian agent was concerned, that witch Victoria Vinciguerra got exactly what she deserved.
A few paces over to the side, Waverly gave a sigh of relief that seemed to speak for every man - and woman - in the room. The older British gentleman quirked a lip at Solo in an almost smile. "Well, that's taken care of. Nicely done, Solo."
For his part, Napoleon Solo simply gave a short nod, the frown not yet faded from his face. Illya eyed him from the other side of the control room. From what he'd experienced of the American's colorful personality, Solo would normally have answered with some clever and charming quip as cockiness practically oozed from his pores. Instead, Solo wore a slightly pinched expression, the few lines on his face looking deeper than just the day before.
But before Illya could comment on any of this to his enemy-turned-partner, he felt Gabby stumble slightly at his side, her battered shoulder catching him in the elbow. He reached out to steady her with one large hand and she sent him a grateful look, her lids riding low over tired eyes.
"Gabby?" Illya asked, concern immediately shifting. "Are you okay?"
"Hm," she hummed softly, shaking her head gently to rouse herself. A single mud-streaked curl freed itself from behind her ear with the movement. "I'm fine, it's just been… It's been a long day."
Suddenly Waverly was hovering at her other side and Illya was beginning to wonder if he hadn't hit his head harder than he'd thought. He hadn't even sensed the other man move, let alone approach.
"An understatement if I've ever heard one, Miss Teller," the Englishman commented lightly. Then, with surprising gentleness, Waverly extracted Gaby from Illya's grip and steered her towards the door. "Why don't we get you settled in a room and I'll have a medic see to that shoulder?"
Illya allowed himself to watch until Gaby was lead from the control room, throwing one final glance at him over her shoulder. He had to admit he was impressed with her fast thinking; after all, without her suggestion that they turn on the bomb's coupling device, the whole situation might have ended completely differently. She was a strong girl and she would bounce back from all of this.
Satisfied that at least one of his teammates would be seen by the medics, Illya turned back to look for Solo only to let out a curse in his native tongue. That slippery American. Even after sustaining such a serious head wound, he had somehow managed to slip past when Illya was distracted. Growling to himself, the Russian stalked out of the control room.
He'd make sure the stubborn Solo got to medical even if Illya had to drag him there himself.
As it turns out, that wasn't necessary. Solo hadn't made it far; Illya found him out on the deck, seated off to the side with his back pressed against the control room's outer wall, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. It might have looked as though Solo had simply dozed off if not for the fact that Illya could clearly see the tenseness underneath the slouched posture, the way his fists were clenched tightly and the vein in his jaw that kept jumping. Sweat glistened on his brow, which was still furrowed with discomfort.
With a sigh, Illya eased himself into a crouch beside the American. "Cowboy?"
Solo gave no response. Gritting his teeth, Illya tried again. "Cowboy, I know you hear me. You need to go to medical, get your head checked."
"Peril, your concern," Solo's eyes blinked open momentarily before sliding shut again, "is touching. You've got my heart all a flutter."
Frowning at the American's words, Illya leaned in closer and pressed two figures against the pulse in Solo's throat, much as he had when he'd first freed Solo from Rudi's chair. Sure enough, Solo's pulse was racing under Illya's fingertips and there was a slight irregularity to the pattern as well. Illya was by no means a doctor, was in fact far more skilled in killing people than in keeping them alive, but even he knew Napoleon's heart was not supposed to be doing that.
"So what's the verdict?" Solo quipped, though his voice was tight and lacking his usual charm. "Buy me a drink?"
"No good, Cowboy," Illya shook his head, hoisting Solo to his feet and slinging Solo's arm over his own shoulders. Luckily he was expecting it when Solo's knees almost went out on him and managed to keep the American standing with a strong hold on his belt. Solo gave a short grunt of protest.
The aircraft carrier was swarming with men intent on their duties, but they cleared a path for the giant Russian and his nearly unconscious burden. One young officer was kind enough to offer up the direction to the medical bay and Illya rushed off in that direction without so much as a thank you. His own heart was doing something funny, making his chest tight and blood rush in his ears as though he'd just finished a fight. He kept thinking back to Rudi's bunker, to finding Solo slouched in the chair, dead.
That wasn't going to happen again. Not on Illya's watch.
When Illya finally burst into the medical bay, all of the heads in the room turned to look at him at once. The closest medic, seeing the failing American at Illya's side, gestured him towards one of the cots. "What's happened?"
Illya deposited Solo on the cot and the American immediately curled over on his side, his breath coming in short gasps. As the medic moved to examine Solo, Illya searched for the right words. "His heart is… Он был на электрическом стуле , и его сердце бьется слишком быстро."
Even when Illya trailed off into Russian, the medic seemed to get the point. Abandoning his perusal of Solo's head wound, the medic instead reached down to take his pulse. He didn't need to check his watch to confirm that the American's heart was pumping too fast and too erratically. "Did you say he'd been electrocuted?"
"Yes." Illya responded in surprise. Waverly's men were good.
The medic's frowned deepened. "And how long has his pulse been racing?"
That Illya could not answer. He grasped Solo's shoulder and that seemed to rouse the American somewhat. "Cowboy? How long has your heart been fast?"
"O-only for the past three hours or so." Napoleon answered honestly, grimacing through the suddenly unbearable tightness in his chest.
The medic looked horrified. "That last thr- well, shit. If this goes on any longer, it'll kill him. Hey, can I get some Amiodarone* over here?"
Another medic came running over with the requested syringe and within seconds they were pulling Solo's arm flat, trying to get him to relax so they could find a vein. Illya was relegated to standing awkwardly off to the side, listening as the silence filled with the medics brisk murmurings and Solo's gasping breaths.
*Amiodarone was an anti-arrhythmic medication that came into common use in the 60s and 70s.