Happy Birthday Threecee...
And because you thought the drabble needed a little more (consider it a birthday treat ;)
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The suitcase fell to the floor with a thud as the weary traveler sank into his leather chair. No ceremony, no chipper 'boy it's great to be home'. Not this time.
Napoleon Solo felt old, his body ached and his face was going to be sporting a bruise the size of a man's fist tomorrow morning. Within minutes a knock at the door signaled that his partner wanted in; he yelled and hoped Illya would hear it. As the lock turned it was evident he had.
Hobbling on crutches, the Russian entered, immediately sorry he hadn't had his partner's back.
Napoleon looked past Illya, a sudden loss of words causing him to feel exasperated as well as broken. The mission hadn't gone well for either of them."Illya…"
"No, let me speak first. I feel as though the failure to complete our mission is entirely…"
"Not your fault!" The shock of hearing his friend yell out that reply caused Illya to step back slightly. When he did the crutch slipped out from beneath his arm, sending him down to meet the unfriendly floor. In what seemed the inevitability of this affair's continuing misfortune Illya yelped in pain as his already damaged knee twisted beneath him.
"Illya, here… let me help." Napoleon was at his partner's side, lifting as Illya struggled to put weight on his good leg without causing any more pain to the other. Together the two men managed to get him onto the sofa where he could stretch out his leg and hopefully alleviate more pain.
Napoleon sat in the chair once more, his head in hands that were visibly trembling.
"See, it's all been my lousy fault. First I failed to dart the goon who tackled you and caused this…', he pointed to Illya's left leg, a knee brace hugging it for support.
"… and now this. I can't believe I yelled at you tovarisch, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm just… so, so sorry." Napoleon looked at his hands then, aware that he was on the verge of something serious, a breakdown of some sort.
"Napoleon, you did not cause this. You were drugged when I got to you; Thrush was very effective in delaying me. I should have been there sooner, perhaps stopped them from pumping you full of whatever they used. It's still in your system, which is something Medical has failed to address properly. I came up here to see if I might convince you to return to Headquarters and …"
"Check myself in? I just want to turn out the lights and sleep Illya. I just need sleep." Napoleon was pleading now, as though his friend were responsible for the final decision.
"You need to go back my friend. You handled yourself well enough in front of the doctors, but look at your hands, listen to your voice. Something else is working on you and I am unable to help you as effectively as I should. None of this is your fault, perhaps there is no fault save the maniacs in THRUSH. In any event, you need to return to Medical and let them have a chance to rid you of this once and for all."
Napoleon had calmed down and could hear the logic, the concern in Illya's words. He was so tired, but the trained agent inside his head knew that his partner was right.
"Okay, but you don't look like you should be going anywhere, I'll go by myself, it'll be fine…" Illya was shaking his head no as a knock on the door caught both their attention.
Napoleon stepped carefully, his lack of confidence very evident. Upon opening the door he was greeted by two other agents, April Dancer and Mark Slate.
"Hello darling, we're here to get you back to Headquarters." Napoleon turned to look at his partner.
"You had this all planed before you came here?"
"Don't be mad at Illya, we all saw you and were concerned. He merely set the plan in motion. Now get your coat and let's go." April had a way of making things happen and this was no exception. Within a few minutes Solo, Dancer and Slate were on their way to Headquarters as Illya stretched out on Napoleon's sofa. His knee hurt but lying down on a comfortable sofa helped; sleep overcame him quickly as he let the pain medication he'd taken earlier do its job.
Napoleon was back in Medical, and this time a full slate of blood tests revealed the chemicals that were causing his behavior. Checking in for an overnight stay, Napoleon figured it wouldn't hurt to have some pretty girls waiting on his every whim. He also knew that his friend was most likely asleep on his sofa and likely to remain so for most of the night.
"Are we that predictable tovarisch?"
The question would remain unanswered for now.