"I think we lost them," said Napoleon when he'd caught his breath.
"Are you really so uncertain?" Illya replied.
It was a good point: while the last of their pursuers was distracted by Illya's nimble dodging of his knife-thrusts, Napoleon had dealt him a solid blow to the head and sent him tumbling down a ravine. They could probably count on having put him off the trail for a little while. Napoleon chuckled at his friend's usual dry humor, but stopped abruptly when he noticed that Illya had one hand pressed to his side, and it wasn't a stitch from running--the white shirt underneath showed crimson in the glaring sunlight.
Napoleon's heart sank. "He got you?"
"I need to work on my reflexes," said Illya ruefully. "It's only a scratch."
And that was when Napoleon really started to worry. This was bad. He'd heard that phrase before, and he'd been in this business long enough to know that it was never, ever true. Machismo was one of the occupational hazards of being a spy, and that meant downplaying and trying to walk off even the gravest of on-the-job injuries. He'd read a report once that had concluded that It's only a scratch was ranked in the top twenty for reported last words of U.N.C.L.E. agents. And he was sure that when it came to playing it tough, Illya was no better. The guy would gripe at you all afternoon if you dared to put ketchup on his sandwich, but put a knife through his gut and he probably would tell you it was just a scratch, damn him.
Napoleon could see it all now: the wounded Illya struggling, then maybe collapsing out here, far from home, far from help; maybe bleeding to death before an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter could find them...
He shook away the vision and turned his attention to the present situation. "Let me see," he said, reaching in his bag for the bandages. He could at least do basic first aid now, and then call for whatever help they needed.
But Illya was already trying to stand up. "It can wait," he said abruptly. "We had better keep going."
"Oh, no you don't." Napoleon caught his shoulders and pushed him down again. "Sit down and let me take a look." Kneeling, he leaned forward and quickly lowered his hands to Illya's chest to tear off his shirt.
"Buttons, Napoleon!" Illya insisted testily, as if the shirt wasn't already ruined. His hands stickily brushed Napoleon's as they fumbled with the buttons together, and then Napoleon yanked the shirt off before he had time to be finicky about cuffs.
He held Illya's arm out of the way and pressed the other hand flat against his bare chest as a command to be still. Illya kept quiet and stared back at him curiously for several breaths. The amount of blood made it hard to see the wound clearly at first, but soon Napoleon was able to make a diagnosis.
"Why, it's only a scratch!" he exclaimed.
"Isn't that what I--" Illya began, and then flinched as Napoleon, filled with relief and embarrassment and righteous indignation, applied iodine to the cut with deliberate malice.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-10-10 01:30 am (UTC)"Are you really so uncertain?" Illya replied.
It was a good point: while the last of their pursuers was distracted by Illya's nimble dodging of his knife-thrusts, Napoleon had dealt him a solid blow to the head and sent him tumbling down a ravine. They could probably count on having put him off the trail for a little while. Napoleon chuckled at his friend's usual dry humor, but stopped abruptly when he noticed that Illya had one hand pressed to his side, and it wasn't a stitch from running--the white shirt underneath showed crimson in the glaring sunlight.
Napoleon's heart sank. "He got you?"
"I need to work on my reflexes," said Illya ruefully. "It's only a scratch."
And that was when Napoleon really started to worry. This was bad. He'd heard that phrase before, and he'd been in this business long enough to know that it was never, ever true. Machismo was one of the occupational hazards of being a spy, and that meant downplaying and trying to walk off even the gravest of on-the-job injuries. He'd read a report once that had concluded that It's only a scratch was ranked in the top twenty for reported last words of U.N.C.L.E. agents. And he was sure that when it came to playing it tough, Illya was no better. The guy would gripe at you all afternoon if you dared to put ketchup on his sandwich, but put a knife through his gut and he probably would tell you it was just a scratch, damn him.
Napoleon could see it all now: the wounded Illya struggling, then maybe collapsing out here, far from home, far from help; maybe bleeding to death before an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter could find them...
He shook away the vision and turned his attention to the present situation. "Let me see," he said, reaching in his bag for the bandages. He could at least do basic first aid now, and then call for whatever help they needed.
But Illya was already trying to stand up. "It can wait," he said abruptly. "We had better keep going."
"Oh, no you don't." Napoleon caught his shoulders and pushed him down again. "Sit down and let me take a look." Kneeling, he leaned forward and quickly lowered his hands to Illya's chest to tear off his shirt.
"Buttons, Napoleon!" Illya insisted testily, as if the shirt wasn't already ruined. His hands stickily brushed Napoleon's as they fumbled with the buttons together, and then Napoleon yanked the shirt off before he had time to be finicky about cuffs.
He held Illya's arm out of the way and pressed the other hand flat against his bare chest as a command to be still. Illya kept quiet and stared back at him curiously for several breaths. The amount of blood made it hard to see the wound clearly at first, but soon Napoleon was able to make a diagnosis.
"Why, it's only a scratch!" he exclaimed.
"Isn't that what I--" Illya began, and then flinched as Napoleon, filled with relief and embarrassment and righteous indignation, applied iodine to the cut with deliberate malice.