Napoleon removed his jacket as they reached medical, flexing his shoulder experimentally. "I bow to your engineering genius. What did you do with my holster, exactly?"

"Nothing. I just padded it." Illya shrugged. "Don't test it, Napoleon. Wait until you've seen a doctor."

As if on cue, one of the nurses appeared, ushering them into different exam rooms. Napoleon removed his shoulder holster, tie, and shirt reluctantly, well used to the SOP of medical.

The door opened shortly, and Dr. Holm entered.

"Ah, Mr. Solo. And what damage have you undergone this time?" He asked jovially, an open smile on his face. Dr. Fisher Holm was relatively young, and one of the more easygoing doctors, and if it wasn't an emergency, he was more than willing to engage in banter with his charges. This made him one of the more popular people in medical, and while Napoleon was almost always relieved to find that Holm was seeing to him, this time he wasn't.

"Shouldn't you be checking on Illya?"

"Mr. Solo, I do believe this is my first cold reception. At least, my first cold reception from a man I've treated before."

"Sorry, Fish. But you're one of the few doctors who can treat my partner and escape unharmed."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Kuryakin's reputation as a fighter is not undeserved. Luckily for those seven orderlies, they were already in medical, huh? It's okay, Bob's got him."

Napoleon nodded, relieved. Holm *was* one of the very few doctors who could take Illya, but so was Bob Torres.

"To be fair, there were only five orderlies, and they *were* warned."

Holm laughed. "All right, five orderlies. I wasn't there, I got the story secondhand, maybe third. Do you know what happened?"

"I was in recovery, he was out there. He wanted to be admitted-- apparently, the news he was given on my condition was unsatisfactory. Instead of admitting him to my room, they decided that he should undergo an examination of his own. He disagreed, and the rest has since become legend, and has been blown far and away out of proportion."

"I see. Now, back to the topic at hand-- or perhaps the topic at shoulder-- what happened to you?"

"Grazed me." Napoleon said casually, fingering the still-knotted tie laid out on the exam table beside him. "Illya bandaged it. He called me a bastard."

Another, slightly surprised, laugh from Holm. "For getting shot?"

"Exactly. You see that a lot down here?"

"Usually the partner calls the patient an idiot, but I've heard 'bastard' before once. That one was a secretary, though..."

"Which secretary got shot?" Napoleon asked, confused.

"No, no, she was dating an enforcement agent. He broke his ankle in the line of duty, which is lucky, because if he hadn't taken the fall when he did, his partner said he would have been killed by the next bullet to whiz by. Anyway, the partner came in, said he was an idiot, but a lucky idiot, and then the girl comes in and calls him a bastard. Now he works a desk job, they're married, and he still knows the day before a rain."

"Great story. Tell us another."

"You're trying to keep me distracted, aren't you? Okay, let's see the shoulder..." He peeled back the bandages, and Napoleon closed his eyes and pursed his lips, but didn't actually wince. "Sorry... Did that hurt?"

"Oh, it wasn't fun, but it was nothing compared to the part where I got shot."

"Well, can you move it all right?"

"If I'm careful."

"I would reccomend staying inactive until this has healed up some more. I don't want you on the field if you don't have your full range of movement, because I knwo you don't always think about it when you're out there. Nobody in section two does."

"Right." He nodded. "Are we done?"

"As soon as I re-dress this wound. Now, are you having any other problems? Can you wear your shoulder holster with the graze where it is, or do we need to outfit you with something else for the time being?"

Napoleon shook his head, picking the holster up and showing Holm the modified strap. "Illya fixed it. He said it was just some extra padding, but I think it fits a little differently now, because before, it still would have touched, and now it doesn't."

"Very nice. Well, you're lucky your partner knows how to rig these things. Probably learned through trial and error after we told him he couldn't wear his own with a shoulder wound. All right, you're good to go. Be a stranger, huh? Your partner, too. Especially your partner."

---/-/---

Illya jiggled one foot impatiently as Dr. Torres looked him over. He didn't need to be in medical, and yet for some reason, nobody ever believed him when he told them this.

"Well, it looks like nothing more than some cuts and bruises, nothing serious. I'm prescribing you an antibiotic, because you never know about cuts, they tend to happen under less than sanitary circumstances, but you should be fine."

"Thank you." Illya accepted the bottle, his tone less than grateful.

"I can also give you some homeopathic treatments, if you prefer."

"No, this will be enough."

"Sean's taken your blood sample down to the medlab, and they'll check it for traces of serums or poisons, so I want you to stay in the waiting room while we wait for results."

"I have a meeting with Waverly in an hour." He shook his head. "How long will these results take?"

"Not too long, unless there's a lot going on down there. If you like, you can go to your meeting and come back once it's over. And if we find anything serious, I'll be sending a cadre of orderlies to Waverly's office to retrieve you." Torres joked.

"If you can still find any willing to do this." Illya returned, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "May I go?"

"Be my guest. And be careful out there."

"That's something I've not heard before." Illya grumbled sarcastically. "All doctors tell all section two agents to be careful. All section two agents had been careful beforehand, and continue to be at least as careful if not moreso, and yet we still get sent to medical, whether or not it is necessary."

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, all doctors may tell all section two agents to be careful, but we mean it so much more when we're talking to you."

"If you're so anxious to keep me out of medical, why am I forever being dragged down here when I don't need to be?"

"One part SOP, one part Napoleon Solo, I'd wager." Torres grinned, opening the door.

Illya nodded, slipping out of the room. It was Napoleon, moreso than it was standard operating procedure, because if he had a partner who would let him get away with breaking it and staying out of medical, he would. And speaking of Napoleon, there he was in the waiting room, talking to the receptionist, an older Irishwoman.

"--and if the undressing is really necessary, maybe you could see to it that the next time I get admitted to your lovely establishment, they put me in a warmer room?" He asked sweetly, giving her *the look* he gave anyone he wanted something from.

"I thought section two agents were made of sterner stuff. And Mr. Solo, if you don't mind me asking, what is the terrible hardship? You go through so much else, after all."

"Ah, well, if you must know..." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for the nearby Russian to hear. "I would just have rather kept my tie on."

"So!" The receptionist laughed. "It's all part of your debonair image, then, is't?"

"Not entirely." He kept the stage whisper, glancing over to Illya for a split second and winking. "But this morning, my tie was knotted by a particularly gorgeous blond, so you see, it's sentimental."

"Why, Mr. Solo! Sentiment? Over just one of your many lovelies?" She teased. "I think 'tis more of the cold than of sentiment."

"I may have a reputation as a ladies' man, but I am sentimental when provoked." He shrugged his good shoulder. "You won't tell anyone, of course. If they thought I was in love, the typing pool might go on strike, or start leaping from rooftops."

"You've quite an opinion of yourself." The woman laughed.

"That he does." Illya said, stepping forward from where he had been lurking.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, your aman cara has emerged! And I suppose your opinions aren't so unpopular... why, if I was some ten years younger, I might be of such a mind, myself."

"It couldn't be *ten* years!" Napoleon gasped. "Not even five!"

She shook her head, making clucking noises with her tongue. "You've no off button, have you?"

"No, he doesn't." Illya said, practicing a martyred expression.

Napoleon turned to his partner, this time his voice was actually hushed. "Aman cara?"

"Gaelic." Illya replied, a smile appearing unbidden on his face. "I will find the exact translation for you later, but for now, I must leave a note with the front desk."

Napoleon nodded, and Illya leaned against the counter.

"I will be going. When the lab results from my blood test arrive, chances are I shall be in my meeting with Waverly, so I am not to be contacted, aside from some instance of poisoning. I will come back for them later this afternoon."

"All right, ducks." She said fondly. "Take care of him, will you? Wouldn't want to deprive the secretarial pool." This last part was spoken louder, with a teasing note. "Have a nice day, then."

"Yes, and you, thank you." He inclined his head politely, then turned and took Napoleon's elbow, dragging the other man from a conversation with a young nurse. "Come on, Cassanova. Paperwork, then Waverly."

---/-/---

"Cassanova?" Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"Seduced countless women, rarely actually made love to them. The description *will* fit from now on." Illya's toone allowed for no argument, not that Napoleon would have offered one. He flipped through a small blue book until he found what he was looking for. "Aman cara. Literally, friend of the soul. Basically, a very close companion, like a partner. Of course, it is possible to use in the context of a lover, but it is not necessarily romantic, and it has nothing to do with sexuality, just the-- the bond. I'm sure that many long-time partnerships in enforcement form such friendships, and she probably uses the phrase for all of them."

"Such friendships as ours?"

"That's not what I meant, Napoleon. I meant that partners who work together for a long time have a bond. Naturally, ours is the best, regardless."

"Oh, naturally. You know, I like it. Aman cara. It's got a certain ring..."

"Yes. You were going to help me?"

"Right. Where's the paperwork you wanted done?"

Illya dug through the mound of files on his desk, handing one to his partner. "Finish filling these out while I type up the report for Waverly. It's due in... forty-two minutes."

---/-/---

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