Chapter Text
Act 1
The two agents were in Illya's office. Illya was getting a backlog of paperwork out of the way while Napoleon stood nearby looking through a thin folder.
"Napoleon? I do not feel well."
Napoleon glanced up just in time to see his partner, his face pale, suddenly crumble to the floor. Moving quickly he reached for the phone in order contact U.N.C.L.E.'s medical section at the same time checking his partner's pulse. Something had to be seriously wrong. Up until Illya's startling announcement, he'd shown no signs of illness.
In a matter of minutes a pair of orderlies arrived with a gurney. They loaded the smaller agent onto the gurney, while Napoleon looked on anxiously. One of the orderlies noticed and offered, "Don't worry; we'll take good care of the little guy. It could just the flu, a lot of that is going around."
Napoleon frowned, hoping the orderly was right. There being nothing he could do Napoleon decided to help Illya finish up his paperwork. If it was the flu, it would be a while before Illya would feel up to doing it himself. Unable to concentrate, Napoleon didn't get much accomplished and every few minutes found him glancing at the phone waiting for an update on Illya's condition.
After several hours and no news, Napoleon gave up and decided to go the medical section planning to get some answers. His concern escalated when leaving the elevator he spotted a somber Mr. Waverly standing at the door in consultation with one of the doctors.
"Is Illya all right?" Napoleon asked anxiously. The glance that past between the two men assured him that Illya wasn't. Mr. Waverly nodded to the doctor, indicating that he should be the one to inform his senior agent. "Dr., if you please.
The doctor adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it's bad news," he said gravely. He paused before continuing in his best bedside manner. "Mr. Kuryakin appears to be dying."
Napoleon, rocked with shock, looked from one man to the other. "Impossible! You must be mistaken?"
Mr. Waverly responded grimly, "I only wish it were so, but I'm afraid not, Mr. Solo."
"We've run dozens of test so far. I'm afraid there is no doubt," The doctor added.
"I don't understand. What...?"
"At the moment we don't know. We're continuing to run tests."
"Can I see him?" Napoleon asked quietly, unsure of what he'd say when he did.
The doctor considered the request. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. He's conscious now."
"Does he know?" Napoleon asked before pushing the door open. It was Mr. Waverly who shook his head sadly before turning without a word and walking away.
Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Napoleon entered the room expecting to find his partner at deaths door, only to find him sitting up in bed, his blue eyes thunderous, looking as if nothing was wrong
At the sound of the door opening, Illya looked up and smiled, obviously relieved to see him. "Napoleon, get me out of here. I've been stuck so many times I feel like a pincushion." Sensing something not quite right, he frowned and asked, "What's wrong, Napoleon?"
Never having been able to deceive his Russian partner, Napoleon took a deep breath. "They think you're dying," he said bluntly.
Illya started to smile, and then seemed to realize Napoleon wasn't joking. He blinked. "Of what?" he asked incredulously.
Napoleon sat gingerly on the bed beside his partner, his hand resting comforting on Illya's arm. "They're not sure.
Napoleon's stomach clinched as Illya closed his eyes clearly trying to take it all in. Reaching his hand out, Illya clutched at Napoleon's jacket sleeve, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Napoleon covered Illya's hand holding it in place, letting his partner know without words that he was there for him. He stood up, when a nurse entered the room and nodding to Napoleon prepared to administer a sedative. When Illya didn't balk, it occurred to Napoleon that he must be in shock, so he stayed close by until Illya drifted off, giving Illya's hand a supportive squeeze before leaving.
The first thing the next morning he headed for the medical section on arrival. Catching sight of a nurse as she was leaving Illya's room, he asked, "How is he?" He was stunned when the nurse shook her head sadly before continuing down the hall.
Illya was tossing in his sleep. Somehow he seemed to sense someone else was in the room and opened his eyes.
With a drawn smile upon his face, Napoleon said, "Hi." He wanted to ask Illya how he was feeling but the words stuck in his throat.
"Who died?" Illya quipped weakly.
Napoleon turned away, his emotions getting the better of him.
Illya sighed. "I'm sorry, Napoleon."
Napoleon turned back to him and shook his head in disbelief. "You're sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry." Closing his eyes in pain, he continued, his voice was full of the distress he felt. "Last night I couldn't sleep, all I could think about is what am I going to do when..."
Illya reached out and put his hand on Napoleon's arm to pull him closer. "Napoleon, I have a favor of you to ask."
Napoleon nodded, surprised at the phrasing of the request and waited for him to continue.
"I would like to go home," Illya said earnestly.
"Illya, I don't think they'll let..." Napoleon started to say.
Reading Napoleon's mind, something they had been able to do for years, he shook his head and continued, "Not to my apartment, Napoleon, to Russia. If..." he looked away and closed his eyes for a minute, before turning back to plead, "If...I am to die, I would wish to see my homeland again. Please?"
Looking into those beseeching blue eyes, Napoleon swallowed hard. "I'll see what I can do," he promised.
"Thank you. That is all I can ask for," Illya's hand squeezed Napoleon's arm as he slipped back into slumber and Napoleon reached over to cover it with his own.