"And how are you feeling now, Mr. Solo?" The nurse asked him a few
hours later as she checked on his vital signs.

"Hungry," mumbled Napoleon around the thermometer in his mouth.

"Mmm, I'll have to check with the Doctor," said Nurse Ryan, nodding
approvingly as she wrote something on Napoleon's chart. "If he
agrees, then I'll have the canteen send up some soup for you."

"Soup?" asked Napoleon, a note of disappointment in his voice. "I
was hoping for something a little more substantial."

"You've been shot, had major surgery, and then had to be transferred
by helicopter back to Headquarters. You're lucky that you're still
breathing," admonished Nurse Ryan. "Your body's been through a hell
of a lot in the last twenty-four hours and you need to be taking
things easy. You might not even be allowed a little bit of soup."
She patted Napoleon's hand gently. "But I'll have a word with Doctor
Perry and see what he says."

Napoleon shifted restlessly in the bed as she left. The incision
from the surgery nagged at his side. He'd been given painkillers,
which had reduced the pain to a dull ache, but it was still
there...reminding him of how careless he had been...yes, careless.
He had been too concerned with watching Illya's back instead of
allowing the younger agent to take care of himself. His distraction
could have cost him his life...worse; it could have cost Illya's
life. Napoleon sighed heavily, stifling a groan as the pain in his
side flared up momentarily before returning to the dull ache. He
couldn't deny the facts...he had been treating Illya like an
Innocent, instead of the trained professional that he was. And it
had only been through luck that neither of them had paid the ultimate
price. Biting his lip, Napoleon wondered if Illya would be better
off assigned to another partner. Preferably somebody who would treat
him as an equal...but then, those types of people seemed to have been
in short supply lately. Napoleon couldn't forget the way he had seen
Illya been treated by his fellow agents, and he wondered if rumors
were already on the go as to how that 'Commie bastard' had been
responsible for the injury to his partner.
However much of a danger he was too Illya by trying to watch his back
too much...at least he was *willing* to watch his back...and another
agent might not be so keen.

Twisting around, trying to get comfortable, Napoleon resolved not to
go with his first impulse to ask Mr. Waverly to reassign Illya...he
would just have to learn to trust the young Russian to be able to
take care of himself...no matter how difficult it would be...

"Napoleon?"

Napoleon looked up. A smile appeared involuntarily as he recognized
the source of the interruption. "Hey Illya, come on in."

"The Nurse intercepted me in the corridor," said Illya,
awkwardly. "She said that since I was down here so often that I
should make myself useful." He nodded towards the tray in his hands,
and Napoleon could see a bowl of liquid on it. "Apparently my duties
as your partner would appear to include feeding you while you are
incapacitated...I hope you like soup, as that is all that is on your
menu for now."

--------------

Illya had spent much of the previous few hours in Napoleon's office,
writing up a report on the incident. Although if he was being honest
with himself, he would have admitted that he was hiding there in
order to avoid facing his fellow agents. In the short journey from
Mr. Waverly's office, the few agents that he had met had treated him
with coldness, if not outright hostility. Not that he could blame
them thought Illya when he had finally reached the sanctuary of
Napoleon's office. He knew they blamed him for Napoleon's
injury...he could hardly fault them for that when he blamed himself
just as much.
A better agent would not have let his partner get shot...
He had wanted to apologize to Napoleon as soon as he had regained
consciousness, but the words wouldn't come, and he had been shooed
out of Medical before he could say anything...and even though he knew
that Napoleon would be awake and able to listen...he had still
hesitated over facing him again.

But Illya knew that he couldn't stay in hiding indefinitely, and he
didn't really want to, so he had finally summoned up his courage and
braved the outside world again. Only to be commandeered into service
as a waiter upon reaching the Medical section. Not that he minded
the task too much...anything to put off having to speak to Napoleon
about the mission and his failure of it.

--------------------

"I'm sure it will be very tasty," said Napoleon, knowing that he was
smiling like an idiot, but unable to stop himself. He started to
pull himself upright in the bed.

"Let me," said Illya, quickly. He put the tray down on the trolley
beside the bed, and then moved to Napoleon, expertly slipping an arm
under his shoulders and lifting him up to a sitting position, before
sliding the pillow behind him to keep him steady. For a second, blue
eyes met brown, only a few inches apart and Illya found himself
strangely reluctant to tear his gaze away. "Your soup...it will be
getting cold," he said, almost stumbling over the words. "You
need...you need to eat...to regain your strength..."

Napoleon relaxed against the pillows, feeling the warm imprint of
Illya's arm on his shoulders slowly fade away and found himself
wishing that the contact hadn't been so brief...

---

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