Title: The Intermission Affair

Author: Zenia

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Rating: PG

Email: ztovarich@yahoo.com

Series/Sequel: Yes, it's a prequel to “The Let me Count the Ways Affair.”

Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine, though I wish they were. I just took them out to play and put them back. I inflicted no lasting damage, I promise.

Feedback: Please, please, pretty please.

Warnings: It's pre-slash and also not very long. Actually it's an intro to a longer story I'm thinking about writing. It's a clichéd "one of the boys gets brutally shot down and the other has to help him through the physical and emotional trauma" story. You know, like the ones that are done in the Starsky and Hutch and the Professionals fandoms. And I figured that Illya gets beat up enough on the show and that it was Napoleon's turn.

The Intermission Affair

By Zenia

He closed his eyes against the harshness of the lights, breathing in the smell of disinfectants and cold metal. He held himself still, not a difficult feat really. It was easier for him than it was for his partner. Just think of ice, think of cold.

He was keenly aware that he was playing the wrong role. Napoleon should be where he was, waiting for the doctors to finish plucking the bullets from his body. Napoleon was the lucky one, when he was broke he found a twenty on the floor, he needed company and a woman fell into his lap (literally), and when he was being shot at, the bullets missed or else the gun jammed.

Only, not this time.

He remembered with horror the way Napoleon's body jerked each time he was shot. Somewhere, in the analytical part of his mind, he counted four bullets, noticed the points of entry. He remembered returning fire, hitting his targets with a precision that was frightening.

He had rushed to his partner's side, his knees impacting sharply on the cold floor. For a frantic moment he didn't know what to do. But then Napoleon opened pain-filled eyes, eyes that softened as pain bled to numbness. Close to death.

It was then that he opened the communicator and asked, calmly, for an ambulance. Mr. Waverly's cultured voice responded, promising one as soon as possible.

He tried to staunch the blood with his hands but it didn't seem to help. His hands became slick and blood soaked into his pants. Napoleon started having problems breathing and so did he.

Then they finally appeared, pushing him aside. Lost a lot of blood they said, pulse thready, not going to make it. But they didn't know him like he did. Napoleon's heart had stopped twice on the way to the hospital and each time they thought they had lost him, it had started again. They didn't know Napoleon Solo.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya blinked, pulling himself from his memories. A doctor in bloody scrubs looked at him expectantly. "Yes, I'm Kuryakin. How is Napoleon?"

The doctor sighed. "It doesn't look good. He lost a kidney, there was a lot of internal damage."

"Will he live?" He kept his voice as flat as possible, trying to ignore the churning of fear in his stomach.

"We did our best but perhaps you should call Mr. Solo's family. I'm sorry Mr. Kuryakin, but we don't expect him to survive the night." He reached out a comforting hand.

Illya pulled away, pressing his back up against a wall. "Can I see him?"

"Why don't you clean up first Mr. Kuryakin, then I'll have a nurse take you to him. We have him in a private room, making him comfortable."

He wanted to thank the doctor but he knew that if he opened his mouth he would humiliate himself.

Tubes to help him breathe, wires to monitor his heart, bandages to bind the wounds. He almost couldn't recognize Napoleon under it all. He reached out and stroked Napoleon's hair back from his forehead.

"You are going to need a haircut soon, my friend." He drew in a shuddery breath. "The doctors don't believe you'll make it through the night. But you will, I know you will. You have to, Napoleon, who else will tell me that I am too serious. Who else will flirt with all the women in the secretarial pool, if not you?

"You will not die, do you understand me? If you do, I swear that I will follow you into hell and drag you back." He sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs they always provided in hospital rooms. Then he reached out and clasped one of Napoleon's hands and waited.

Sunrise was a long time coming and the agony of waiting was punctuated only by the beep of machines and the occasional visitor. Mr. Waverly had stopped by, as had April and Mark, to see how Napoleon was faring. Fine, he had replied, he's just fine. They tried to get him to go home, or at least to get some air, a bite to eat. He only stared at them then, willing them with a cold stare to go away. Like the doctor, they didn't believe he would live. He understood that they wanted to say their goodbyes. Yet he could not allow that, feeling it somehow lessened Napoleon's chances for survival.

But the sun had risen and Napoleon still breathed and Illya felt pride well up in his chest. The doctor was surprised when he came in for rounds. He merely stared at the doctor, the look in his eyes clearly stating that he knew all a long that Napoleon would make it.

The doctor checked over Napoleon then left, and Illya once more settled in his chair and waited.

Another few hours and it happened. Napoleon's eyes fluttered open and those deep brown eyes caught his for a moment before closing once again. He let out a sigh and stood over him, letting his cheek press against his partner's hair. It would be all right, no matter what had happened in the last day or what would happen in the next few, it would all be fine.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Napoleon's body. Then he whispered the words that no one knew, not even Napoleon. "I love you."