Part 3 of The Meanest Thing storyline
(Part 3 of The Meanest Thing storyline)
By Hazelayes
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Song?: Boom-bang-a-bang
Mmmm... this is nice... so still. Everything is quiet. It must be morning, do I HAVE to get up yet Baba?...
His eyes flew open. Green. Moving green. Leaves and branches. He was looking up into a tree. Or was it a film of a tree? There was no sound... no rustling, no... birds, nothing. He could feel cool wind on his face. Yes, it was real, and he was outside, but why was it so silent?
A face appeared suddenly between himself and the tree branches. Napoleon! How good it was to see him! It felt like he'd not seen him in years, he wanted to hug him and kiss his cheeks! His comrade, his great friend...
But he looked so upset... what had happened? He was speaking but making no sound. Had Napoleon lost his voice? That was awful. He'd help him. Yes! Napoleon needed him, and here he was lying about under the trees... that was why he looked so distressed... he must have fallen asleep and been dreaming... about his Baba, that's right. But now, he must get up and help Napoleon...
--------------------
"Oh Jesus Christ, Oh God.. ILLYA!"
The ground dropped away from his feet at every step as he stumbled over the lawn towards the drifting smoke and Illya, on his back under the trees.
Half way towards his partner Napoleon's knees gave way and he crawled the last few yards, reaching out to, but not daring to touch, the still figure in the smoking overalls.
He didn't know what words he used, only hoping they were magic words that would make it alright, make Illya not dead... please, not dead...
He froze and his jaw fell open at the blinding smile that split Illya's soot-blackened face, the naked joy in eyes now devoid of lashes or eyebrows...
He shook his head to clear it, he must be hallucinating.
Now Illya was trying to get up... "Stay still, don't move... "
Why wouldn't he ever do as he was told? The anger rose in Napoleon's heart as relief, like a tidal wave, swept away the horror of Illya, dead, and he began to shout at him.
"I said stay STILL you... stubborn, pig-headed, crazy Russian!"
Illya closed his eyes. His head was hurting now. He'd get up and help Napoleon... in a minute. When he felt a bit better.
----------------------
omewhere in the Pyrenees, France.
"Your colleague is a very lucky man, Monsieur Solo."
"He's my partner."
The doctor looked up into Napoleon's tired face and his habitually irritated tone of voice became warmer as he laid a hand briefly on Napoleon's arm. A gesture of sympathy and comfort.
"I am sorry, I was not aware. It must make these.... things, these... hazards of the job, you say? so much harder to deal with."
"I... er, I don't..."
"Please do not worry, Monsieur, I do understand." And the doctor patted Napoleon's arm again and left.
"How nice for you. I wish I did." Napoleon muttered as the door swung closed behind the diminutive man. Just then a nurse came in and beckoned to him. He could see Illya now.
--------------------------
With dark glasses and a woolly hat pulled down over his brow, Illya was rather more conspicuous than he would have liked as he crossed the hotel foyer. Still deaf from the explosion two days before, and uncomfortable about his singed and hairless face, he felt more like someone who needed a minder... or a hearing dog... or a knee rug and a seat in the sun.
Fortunately for Illya's pride, if he but knew it, he looked nothing like it. The lean figure 'prowling' across the carpet while continuously scanning the area (he expected someone to jump out at him, maybe, from behind the pot plants?) made the clerk at the desk do a sly check whether he could reach the 'panic button' under the rim of the desk... in case he needed to. But here was that pleasant Mr Solo...
Napoleon waved to catch Illya's attention and tapping his watch he made a small gesture 'up'. Illya nodded and bounded off up the staircase to their room while Napoleon went to the front desk.
"Good afternoon Monsieur Solo. Your bags are ready?
"Yes, we'll bring them down ourselves. Can I settle the bill please?"
"Bien sur. OH! la la la la, m'sieur, there is a message. It was supposed to have been given to you. I will find out who it was and...
"Just give me the message."
The clerk handed over a slim telegram envelope and politely took himself away to the other end of the counter, though he still managed to catch the sudden look of anger that crossed Napoleon's handsome face. He was sorry. It was probably to do with that... that ami feroce of his upstairs. What were such a pair doing travelling together anyway? What did the English say? What strange bedfellows?
Suddenly, he decided to empty and re-pack a box of hotel stationery and count the complimentary biros.
---------------
"We've been recalled."
Illya's head popped out of the top of the sweater he was putting on and he stared at Napoleon. "Something is wrong?"
Napoleon passed over the telegram.
"Do you know why?"
Napoleon shook his head and gestured at the flimsy paper in Illya's hand, he knew no more than what was there. Mr Waverly wanted them both on the plane back to New York, soonest.
"But I'm not supposed to fly yet."
Napoleon allowed himself to touch his friend this time, giving Illya's shoulder a squeeze. The deafness was a bit of a boon, in a way, making it alright for there to be contact, for them to focus attention on each other and hone their non-verbal skills.
The doctors wouldn't clear Illya to fly till his ears had healed enough. His hearing was beginning to return but the pressures of a long flight might make the damage permanent. Furthermore, they were close to enemy territory and Napoleon was the only other Section 2 agent within 200 miles. He would stay with Illya, at least till he could get him to safety in UNCLE Milan or Paris. Mr Waverly would have to accept that.
-----------end of part 3
By Hazelayes
----------------
Song?: Boom-bang-a-bang
Mmmm... this is nice... so still. Everything is quiet. It must be morning, do I HAVE to get up yet Baba?...
His eyes flew open. Green. Moving green. Leaves and branches. He was looking up into a tree. Or was it a film of a tree? There was no sound... no rustling, no... birds, nothing. He could feel cool wind on his face. Yes, it was real, and he was outside, but why was it so silent?
A face appeared suddenly between himself and the tree branches. Napoleon! How good it was to see him! It felt like he'd not seen him in years, he wanted to hug him and kiss his cheeks! His comrade, his great friend...
But he looked so upset... what had happened? He was speaking but making no sound. Had Napoleon lost his voice? That was awful. He'd help him. Yes! Napoleon needed him, and here he was lying about under the trees... that was why he looked so distressed... he must have fallen asleep and been dreaming... about his Baba, that's right. But now, he must get up and help Napoleon...
--------------------
"Oh Jesus Christ, Oh God.. ILLYA!"
The ground dropped away from his feet at every step as he stumbled over the lawn towards the drifting smoke and Illya, on his back under the trees.
Half way towards his partner Napoleon's knees gave way and he crawled the last few yards, reaching out to, but not daring to touch, the still figure in the smoking overalls.
He didn't know what words he used, only hoping they were magic words that would make it alright, make Illya not dead... please, not dead...
He froze and his jaw fell open at the blinding smile that split Illya's soot-blackened face, the naked joy in eyes now devoid of lashes or eyebrows...
He shook his head to clear it, he must be hallucinating.
Now Illya was trying to get up... "Stay still, don't move... "
Why wouldn't he ever do as he was told? The anger rose in Napoleon's heart as relief, like a tidal wave, swept away the horror of Illya, dead, and he began to shout at him.
"I said stay STILL you... stubborn, pig-headed, crazy Russian!"
Illya closed his eyes. His head was hurting now. He'd get up and help Napoleon... in a minute. When he felt a bit better.
----------------------
omewhere in the Pyrenees, France.
"Your colleague is a very lucky man, Monsieur Solo."
"He's my partner."
The doctor looked up into Napoleon's tired face and his habitually irritated tone of voice became warmer as he laid a hand briefly on Napoleon's arm. A gesture of sympathy and comfort.
"I am sorry, I was not aware. It must make these.... things, these... hazards of the job, you say? so much harder to deal with."
"I... er, I don't..."
"Please do not worry, Monsieur, I do understand." And the doctor patted Napoleon's arm again and left.
"How nice for you. I wish I did." Napoleon muttered as the door swung closed behind the diminutive man. Just then a nurse came in and beckoned to him. He could see Illya now.
--------------------------
With dark glasses and a woolly hat pulled down over his brow, Illya was rather more conspicuous than he would have liked as he crossed the hotel foyer. Still deaf from the explosion two days before, and uncomfortable about his singed and hairless face, he felt more like someone who needed a minder... or a hearing dog... or a knee rug and a seat in the sun.
Fortunately for Illya's pride, if he but knew it, he looked nothing like it. The lean figure 'prowling' across the carpet while continuously scanning the area (he expected someone to jump out at him, maybe, from behind the pot plants?) made the clerk at the desk do a sly check whether he could reach the 'panic button' under the rim of the desk... in case he needed to. But here was that pleasant Mr Solo...
Napoleon waved to catch Illya's attention and tapping his watch he made a small gesture 'up'. Illya nodded and bounded off up the staircase to their room while Napoleon went to the front desk.
"Good afternoon Monsieur Solo. Your bags are ready?
"Yes, we'll bring them down ourselves. Can I settle the bill please?"
"Bien sur. OH! la la la la, m'sieur, there is a message. It was supposed to have been given to you. I will find out who it was and...
"Just give me the message."
The clerk handed over a slim telegram envelope and politely took himself away to the other end of the counter, though he still managed to catch the sudden look of anger that crossed Napoleon's handsome face. He was sorry. It was probably to do with that... that ami feroce of his upstairs. What were such a pair doing travelling together anyway? What did the English say? What strange bedfellows?
Suddenly, he decided to empty and re-pack a box of hotel stationery and count the complimentary biros.
---------------
"We've been recalled."
Illya's head popped out of the top of the sweater he was putting on and he stared at Napoleon. "Something is wrong?"
Napoleon passed over the telegram.
"Do you know why?"
Napoleon shook his head and gestured at the flimsy paper in Illya's hand, he knew no more than what was there. Mr Waverly wanted them both on the plane back to New York, soonest.
"But I'm not supposed to fly yet."
Napoleon allowed himself to touch his friend this time, giving Illya's shoulder a squeeze. The deafness was a bit of a boon, in a way, making it alright for there to be contact, for them to focus attention on each other and hone their non-verbal skills.
The doctors wouldn't clear Illya to fly till his ears had healed enough. His hearing was beginning to return but the pressures of a long flight might make the damage permanent. Furthermore, they were close to enemy territory and Napoleon was the only other Section 2 agent within 200 miles. He would stay with Illya, at least till he could get him to safety in UNCLE Milan or Paris. Mr Waverly would have to accept that.
-----------end of part 3