WAITING By Periwinkle   Originally published in "Kuryakin Files 25"
	He had done this too many times.  Sitting in the waiting room, staring at his partner's blood on his hands, praying that Illya was okay, scared that Illya was dying and he wasn't there beside him.   He was too old for this.   Every time a nurse walked by Napoleon looked up, hoping for some sort of progress report, but they would just keep going by him leaving him to his cigarettes.  Not that he was actually smoking them.  Rather, he would light one, take one puff, and then put it in the ashtray and forget about it.  The ashtray was full of ashes and long cigarette butts that had burned out.  He wasn't concentrating on smoking, as he was too busy worrying about Illya and becoming introspective.   Had he actually been young once? Had there once been a suave youth who had sauntered into U.N.C.L.E. determined to be a hero? A man convinced his mission was to save the world from Thrush? Where had that young man gone?   What had changed him? Was it too many shots taken at him? Too many cheap hotel rooms and too little sleep?   Solo smiled to himself.  While he might not know what had happened to that cocky young man, he did know when he had begun to change.  It was the day that Waverly had called him in and stuck him with a skinny young Russian scientist for a partner. For that skinny kid had become the most important person in his life.  Illya was now more important to him than anything else in the world.   His priorities had changed somehow.  He no longer cared as much about saving the world or being the best agent in U.N.C.L.E. although he took great pride in being part of the Number One team.  Now what was most important to him was his partner. And at the moment his partner was in the operating room and Napoleon didn't know if Illya was going to survive.   He really was too old for this   *****   Napoleon felt unbelievably weary. What was the phrase he had heard someone use? "Burned out." That was it. He was burned out. And he was definitely sick of sitting in waiting rooms. It didn't help that he had no idea if Illya was going to be okay and it was tearing him up, especially because it felt like it was his fault.  He should have taken better care of his partner.  He knew he was supposed to focus on finishing his mission and be willing to sacrifice his partner if necessary, but it just wasn't in him anymore.   Because he and Illya were the top enforcement team, they usually were assigned all the highly dangerous cases.  As a result, over the years his career with U.N.C.L.E. had settled into a depressing pattern -- moments of sheer terror courtesy of Thrush, punctuated by hospital stays for him or, more usually, his partner, and garnished with endless reports to be completed in triplicate.  Granted, he and Kuryakin still succeeded much more than they failed, but those victories were not what stuck in Solo's mind.  Nowadays when he thought of U.N.C.L.E., he dwelt on the memories of endless waiting in hospitals' visitor lounges.   Moreover, these days there was this terrible sameness to every time Kuryakin was hurt. Solo supposed that was another sign that he had done it too many times.   Definitely getting too old for this.   Each visit would start in the hospital waiting room, which was always a nerve-wracking experience.  Solo never handled it well. He was a man of action and sitting in a chair for long periods did nothing to calm his nerves.   He went outside and paced for a minute or two to try to burn off some energy but he wasn't able to stay out there. Like steel filings to a magnet, the waiting room pulled him back in. He was too afraid that something would happen if he wasn't right there and he already felt guilty enough.   Secondly, there was always the aching desire to be in there with his partner, God dammit, doing something, anything, for Illya. He went back to watching the doctors and nurses racing by.  Meanwhile, his body stored up nervous energy; coiled up like a spring until he would be ready to explode. Just as he was ready to now.  He was a man of action, after all.   He really was tired of this.   Napoleon picked up his coffee, but it had long ago gone cold.  He lit another cigarette and promptly forgot about it.   It took too much energy to concentrate on the cigarette.  God, wasn't he too young to be this tired?   Just then the nurse interrupted his thoughts, beginning her usual speech of "You can visit with Mr. Kuryakin for a few minutes."  Before she was halfway through the sentence, Napoleon had leapt out of his seat and sped to the room, trying not to burst in, trying to restrain himself from charging up to the bed and scaring his partner.   He looked down at the small figure in the bed.  Illya's face was drawn with pain but his eyes were open.  He was surrounded by tubes and machines looking so white and frail that Solo felt like his heart would break and the guilt overwhelm him.   "Hey," said Solo.   "Hey," replied Illya weakly.   "You know it was my turn to get shot. Don't you ever follow procedures?"   Illya glared at Napoleon. "Remind me next time to ask your permission to get in the way of the bullet."   Solo couldn't stop grinning at him. Back to Index