The I'm Stuck on You Affair
"That does it." The doctor tapped the syringe with his finger and smiled even as he plunged the needle into his patient's backside. "You will be feeling much better very shortly, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Why am I dubious of such claims?" In spite of his pounding head, or possibly because of it, Illya Kuryakin was just in the mood to split hairs. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the rock hard mattress, the constant noise from the speakers, the nurse who woke you up to see why you weren't sleeping, or the fact that everyone here seemed terrified of the dark. No, it was more a longing to be free of all the fussing. And to have people stop sticking poking and prodding him—Illya Kuryakin desperately wanted to be left alone.
You see, Illya Kuryakin was convinced that all he needed was a couple of good stiff belts, to crawl into his partner's arms and get a good night's sleep in a bed that couldn't be elevated .
Illya pulled his pajama bottoms back up and rolled over onto his back, closing his eyes at the searing burn. He didn't mind it as much when he was hurt in the line of duty, but to pull a muscle helping a secretary unstick a desk drawer was just damn embarrassing. He'd just been trying to help. Some help... instead four Section Three agents had to extract him and carry him to Medical as if he were a helpless child.
"You just try and get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin. Don't try to get out of bed on your own. If you need to use the toilet, call one of the nurses."
No, you wouldn't want me to get stuck in the toilet. "Have you heard from Napoleon?" He wasn't as interested in having his partner know about his misadventure as he was worried about the lack of communication.
"I don't know the answer to that, but I will go find out for you." The doctor patted his shoulder and Illya made a face.
"Thank you." He was starting to feel just a bit light headed, but after a half an hour, he was still waiting for the medicine to start working. It was the same every time. They promised the world and delivered nothing...
He sat up with a grunt and looked over at the closet. His clothes were in there. He'd seen the nurse quietly slip them in when she didn't think he was watching. Illya got his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. His knees felt a little odd, but after a moment of thinking harsh thoughts at them, they unlocked and permitted him to stagger to the closet. Sure enough his clothes were there.
He wadded them up and carried them back to the bed. It took him a full three minutes to remember that both legs couldn't go down the same hole, then he panicked when he couldn't find his fly. Heh, he had his pants on backwards. That would have been embarrassing. After a few minutes of fighting his socks, he stuffed them into his pants pockets and struggled into his shirt. There were too many buttons or too few holes, he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He got his jacket on and crammed his feet into his shoes. There was just no way he was bending over to tie them.
That done, he sighed happily and walked to the door. Looking left and right, he slipped out and headed for the exit.
Napoleon Solo darted a look at his watch and swore. He'd been out of the office four hours, that was it. Four short hours spent tracking down a known second story man and convincing him that perhaps a life of crime was not the career choice his counselor had in mind when he is told him he'd look good in stripes. Four hours, taking the man into protective custody to keep THRUSH from shooting him, convincing the man that perhaps UNCLE would be a better choice than death and turning him over to the Section Three boys.
Four hours, he'd convinced a criminal to at least think about it, saved his life, thwarted THRUSH and came back to discover his partner was in Medical.
The fact that it was something simple didn't surprise Napoleon. The two of them seemed fairly impervious to the big stuff. No, it was the office cat, the untied shoestring, an Innocent who always knew when to open a door that inflicted the most damage.
"His back?" He'd seen Illya carry twice his own weight, known him to twist and contort his way through the tiniest of cracks.
"His back," the doctor said, reaching for a file folder. "It's not too bad, just a sprain. He should feel fine in a couple of days. In fact, he's probably feeling pretty damn fine. I gave him some pain meds. He should be just about ready to swing from a chandelier, if he was awake. Those pain killers are guaranteed to put him out like a light."
"Ah, Doc, you're new here, aren't you?"
"Just been here a couple of weeks, why?"
"Did you have someone stay with him until he fell asleep?"
"No."
"Did you at least make sure his clothes weren't in the same room?"
"Ah... should I have?"
"Which room?" Napoleon shouted as he started to run.
"What? Oh, five. Room Five."
Napoleon skidded to a stop in front of Room Five and closed his eyes in a silent prayer. He opened the door and sighed. The doctor slammed to a panting stop beside him and looked in.
"How is this possible? I gave him enough pain killers to drop a horse."
"But not a Section Two. We're conditioned, Doc." Napoleon shook his head and pulled out his communicator. They never learned... "Wanda, we have an emergency."
Illya stared up the stairs at his door, or at least he hoped it was his door. He'd already been to half a dozen and none of them had been the right one. Stupid apartment should stay in one spot. Didn't do a man any good to have the damn things jumping all over the place. He still had no idea how he'd gotten this far... New York was a very confusing city at times.
He started to climb the stairs, but his foot missed the step and he grabbed wildly for the banister, swinging around and sitting down hard.
He gasped and crunched his eyes shut in pain, not as much from the jolt to his back, but the fact that the bottle in his back pocket had smashed. Groaning, he hauled his way up the stairs and to his apartment.
The pain helped him to focus and he managed to get into the apartment he shared with his partner with a minimum of fuss. Instantly he pulled off his jacket and fought the clasp on his pants. He could feel something warm trickling down his leg.
He let the pants fall to the floor and stepped out of them on his way to the bathroom. He held a hand to his shorts, hoping to stem the blood flow. Inside the bathroom, he turned and looked at his rear in the mirror. Blood was oozing from a dozen cuts and he moaned, a soft mournful thing. Not so much at the injury, but the thought of all the vodka he'd left on the stairs outside. He'd only managed to drink half of the bottle before he'd gotten here. It didn't seem fair.
A little voice nagged in the back of his head that Napoleon was going to be less than happy when he saw the mess. That would never do—Napoleon could be so fas...fastid... neat sometimes that it made Illya want to vomit. He found a towel and cleaned himself up as best he could. Then he went on the hunt and found a brand new box of Band-aids in the hall closet. With the help of the mirror, he stuck them on every bit that was bloody. Then he collected up his clothes, stuffed everything, including the now empty cardboard box of Band-aids, into the hamper and stumbled into bed.
All's well, he thought as he climbed into the familiar sheets and settled against the pillows and mattress. This is so much better than that damn hospital bed.
The first inkling that there was something wrong was when Napoleon spotted the broken bottle and blood at the base of the staircase. He glanced up and sighed. Trust Illya to take the stairs as opposed to the elevator, for the Stoli label was a dead giveaway. Carefully Napoleon picked up the glass and carried it to the trash. Tossing it away, he went back and followed the drops of blood straight to the door of their shared apartment.
Smears of blood around the handle told Napoleon that Illya at least knew he was hurt, but he wasn't quite prepared for the sight that awaited him inside.
Napoleon again followed the splatter and flicked on the lights. He groaned and pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D please. Patch me through to Medical."
"Medical here."
"This is Napoleon Solo. Tell Dr. Hudson that I have located his patient and that he needs to make a house call."
Illya woke to a blast of pain, but he didn't know which was worse—his aching back, his ass, which seemed to be on fire, or the pounding in his head.
"Бог помогает мне..." he moaned. Just breathing hurt.
"I think it's a little late to ask for His help, partner."
Illya slowly turned his head and watched as Napoleon prepared a hypo. "You had yourself quite a time last night. Don't you know better than to drink while on pain killers?"
"What makes you think I was drin...." Illya gasped as Napoleon stuck the needle into his hip and depressed the plunger. "Дерьмо, that burns."
"You'll feel better in a few minutes. As to how I know you were drinking... there was that mess on the stairs... not too many drunks would waste money on Stoli... The blood trail led here and then I found the towel and your clothes in the hamper along with the empty Band-aids box. But to top it all off, there were the two hundred band-aids that I had to scrape off the mirror in the bathroom this morning..."
