The Tuesday Affair
by: RAC
Rated NC-17
E-MAIL ADDRESS: RAC_fic@yahoo.com
PAIRING: IK/NS
DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to whoever the heck owns Man From Uncle now. And that's not me.
SUMMARY: Something horrible has happened. Can Napoleon change it?
FEEDBACK: Absolutely.
THANKS: To Morr, my partner in crime! Wait until you see the story she's writing! And thanks to Deb and Lee the T for their editing skills and to Dword for keeping all my stories safe. Go visit all my stories at: http://www.dwordslist.net/rariindex.html
The Tuesday Affair: Part 1
Napoleon poured himself another drink, sloshing a good portion of it over the table, partly because he was drunk, and partly because he wasn't drunk enough. He didn't think there was enough liquor in the world to do the job tonight.
Illya was dead. He'd been alive this morning when he'd gone into the office. They'd chatted a bit, like they did every day. Then they both went off on errands for Mr. Waverly. Illya didn't come back from his.
Late in the afternoon, Napoleon had been called to Waverly's office, and with more compassion than he'd thought the old man capable of, he'd been informed that his partner was dead, shot to death in what had obviously been a trap.
Napoleon had refused to believe it. He'd insisted on being taken down to the morgue, needing to see Illya's lifeless body for himself, see the bullet wound in his chest that had taken his partner's life, killing his partner, and his best friend. And maybe more.
That was the thing that was ripping Napoleon apart. Illya had been so much more to him, and he'd never said anything, never acted on it, never held the Russian as he'd wanted to, or kissed him, or caressed his body. He'd always thought he'd have time, that they'd eventually make their way there. That Illya would, one day, give him some sort of clue that he wanted it too, that Napoleon was more than just a friend and a partner.
Napoleon had ordered his escort to leave him alone with Illya. He'd seen the look they exchanged, but as he was second in command they could hardly disobey. He didn't care what they thought, he just knew that once he left this room, he'd never set eyes on Illya again.
His partner was laying on a metal table, covered with a thin sheet. The attendant had pulled it back to reveal the Russian's face and it was folded over just below Illya's nipples, a couple of inches from the wound where the bullet had pierced his heart.
Napoleon had first touched the wound, as if that might make it real. Then he had touched Illya's cheek. His hand had jerked back as if he had touched a hot stove, except there had been nothing hot about it. Illya's skin had been so cold, all of its pliancy gone. That had gotten through to him like nothing else had. Napoleon had sunk to his knees and let out a sob.
The loss was like a physical injury. Napoleon's skin had felt too tight, his chest as if he had been the one to take the bullet, but instead of bleeding blood, he bled out hope, and dreams, and memories of shy smiles. He had been seconds from putting his head back and screaming out his anguish when he'd remembered where he was and that the agents were probably right outside the door. He had jammed his knuckles in his mouth to keep any other sound from escaping; his eyes shut tightly, an ineffective defense to keep the tears at bay.
It had taken more control than he thought he had to pull himself together and walk out of that room. Everyone kept their distance as he made his way down the hallways wanting only to get back to his office so he could retrieve his keys and go home. He saw several red-rimmed eyes, knew that the news about Illya was out. Napoleon was grateful for whatever was on his face that kept people away. He wasn't sure he wouldn't have killed anyone who offered him sympathy.
He'd driven home in a fog, and once in the garage he had sat in his car staring at nothing until the guard had rapped on his window to ask if he was all right. There was no answer to that, so he'd smiled tightly and made his way up to his apartment, heading immediately for his kitchen to grab the first full bottle of liquor he found.
So here he was, hours later, and he still wasn't drunk enough. He finally managed to get the glass full, his hand shaking so hard he was barely able to set the bottle back down on the table safely. He didn't know how to do this anymore. He'd done it once, when his wife died, but that was a long time ago, with the resiliency of youth on his side, surrounded by family and friends and the support of a church and a God he used to believe in.
Napoleon hadn't realized how insular his life had become. Ever since Illya had walked into Waverly's office, and been introduced to him as his new partner, he had slowly taken over Napoleon's life, until now that he was gone, it truly felt as if there was nothing left. Nothing to hold on to, nothing to pull himself up by. Just an empty office, and an empty life.
Anger suddenly swept through him and changing his grip on his glass, he hurled it against the wall. The bottle followed immediately after. He watched as the glass shattered, the liquor staining the wall in an ugly splotch, slowly puddling on the floor. The anger not nearly spent, Napoleon stood, upending the table in a furious motion.
The china salt and pepper shakers exploded on impact with the floor, the white and dark spices mixing as momentum spread the particles in a wide swath across the linoleum. The pepper made him sneeze once, then twice and he moved into the bedroom to escape the pepper dust.
Napoleon sat on the bed. He wished for a moment that he were at Illya's. He wanted to lie down on Illya's bed, and use his pillow, and sleep under his blankets, smelling the scent of his body, the soap he used, his shampoo, before time erased all trace of him. He might have gone if his body hadn't curled into a fetal position, if he hadn't started weeping, if the combination of the alcohol and the tears hadn't mercifully pulled him into sleep.
Part 2
Napoleon felt drained of emotion and physically exhausted when he awoke. The day ahead of him felt like the first of an interminable, unbearable stretch of weeks and months and years. He lay in bed as long as he could until any further delay would make him late for work.
He knew that he could take time off. In fact, his co-workers would probably be surprised he chose to come in. But he saw no earthly good in staying home where there was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep him company except the darkness of his thoughts.
Forcing himself to get up, knowing he now only had time for a quick shower he headed for the bathroom. It wasn't until he looked at himself in the mirror that he realized that he didn't have a hangover. His face looked relatively unscathed considering the effort he put toward drinking himself into oblivion. Napoleon felt the sting of tears, and clenched his jaw, refusing to surrender to the painful emotions.
He dressed as quickly as possible and paused at the kitchen, wondering if he had the energy to make a quick cup of coffee. The table caught his eye; it was upright. Napoleon shook his head. He must have been drunker than he thought because he could remember tipping it over, but he couldn't remember picking it up. He glanced around. He must have swept up all the glass as well. And swabbed down the wall. And swept up the salt and pepper. He frowned. There was no way he could have forgotten that he did all of that.
He shook his head again. It didn't matter. He wondered if April had come by after he'd fallen asleep and cleaned the place up. Tired of the mystery already, he dismissed it, and left the apartment.
On the way to work, he almost reconsidered the wisdom of venturing out. Everything he saw reminded him of Illya. What would it be like to sit in his office, seeing Illya's desk, his chair, his coffee cup? Napoleon wasn't sure he could stand it. But he kept driving. There was no sanctuary from this agony. There were memories at his apartment, memories all over the city, all over the world, for that matter.
He arrived at the UNCLE parking garage and drove in. The guard gave his usual greeting, Mr. Del Floria grunted his, and the receptionist gave him a cheery smile, pinning on Napoleon's badge as if this were any other day. He glanced at her, wondering if somehow she hadn't heard the news. Napoleon had no intention of being the one to tell her; he didn't think he could force the words past his lips.
Napoleon made it to his office without seeing more than a handful of people. They all looked as if they might greet him, but on closer examination of his face, they passed him by silently. As he was about to enter his office, he heard sounds within.
A rage filled him as he imagined someone cleaning off Illya's desk, packaging up his personal effects. He moved closer and triggered the door to open, having every intention of ripping the intruder's head off.
Illya looked up from his coffee, shaking out the newspaper. "Good morning."
Napoleon put a hand out to balance himself against the wall as his knees gave out.
Illya was next to him in seconds, grabbing his arm, holding him up. "What's the matter? Are you ill? You look horrible."
Napoleon let out a strangled laugh. "Me? I look horrible?" All he could see was Illya lying on that metal table, white and cold and hard. He let Illya lead him across the office, allowed him to push him down onto his chair.
Illya's face was full of consternation. "I'm serious, Napoleon. You don't look well. Maybe you should go home."
"What day is it?"
Illya looked even more worried. "That's it. Come on, I'm taking you home."
"No, what day is it? Tell me."
"Tuesday."
Napoleon dropped his face in his hands and let out a shaky breath. It was Tuesday. That meant the Tuesday he'd just lived through had all been a dream. The whole thing. That's why his table had been fine, why he hadn't had a hangover. It had all been a dream. A horrible, larger than life, vivid dream. Napoleon drew in a long breath.
Illya had crouched down by Napoleon's side. "Napoleon, what is it? What's happened?"
Napoleon lifted his head and just stared at his partner. At his worried, frowning, and very alive partner. He had never seen anything more wonderful. He raised a hand and touched Illya's face, cupping his cheek. The skin was warm, and soft. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Illya's. "Don't ever die, okay?"
"Did someone die? Is that what happened?"
Knowing he was confusing Illya, he decided to tell him the truth. Napoleon pulled his head back and smiled tightly at him. "I had a dream last night that you died. It felt very real."
Illya cocked his head to the side as he considered his partner. "But now you see that I am alive. Yes?"
"Yes. Now I see that you are alive." Napoleon couldn't stop looking at him, drinking him in.
"Good. I'm hungry. Let's go eat." Illya stood. "Food will make you feel better."
Napoleon let out a half-laugh, trying to feel normal. "You're confused. Food always makes you feel better."
Illya nodded. "That's true. But considering what it takes to make you feel better, I thought eating would create less of a public spectacle." He grinned. "That's assuming you met someone willing along the way."
Napoleon twisted his mouth in mock annoyance. "There is always someone willing."
Illya crossed the office and the door slid open. "Well, don't let me stand in your way." He gestured, as if offering Napoleon the entire building. "Not when all I have to offer is breakfast."
Napoleon shook his head. Nothing was going to pry him from Illya's side, not until he was able to throw the dream off. Right now, its talons were still deeply embedded. "And deprive you of my company? Never." Napoleon tried for insouciance but he knew he didn't hit it quite right.
Something in his voice must have tipped Illya off. He walked back over to Napoleon. "It must have been a very bad dream."
"It was."
Illya smiled softly at him and reached out a hand, pulling Napoleon to his feet. "Then come with me, and you can watch me eat until you are sure I am alive."
Napoleon fought off the urge to hug him. Then he had to fight off the urge just to touch him, to take him by the arm, or the hand, or to touch his cheek again, maybe run his fingers through the blonde silky hair.
Illya was staring at him again. Then he reached out and took Napoleon's arm. "I think you need a cup of coffee, too."
Napoleon willingly allowed himself to be pulled. Actually a cup of coffee might be a good thing. As they walked down the hall, he noticed that Illya still kept hold of his arm, and suspected that Illya had guessed that he needed the touch. Whatever the reason, Napoleon was grateful.
They made their way through the commissary line and found a table where they could sit alone. Napoleon drank his coffee, watching as Illya dug in to his breakfast. He knew Illya knew he was watching him, but Napoleon couldn't pull his eyes away. That dream had felt so real. He didn't think he had ever had a dream like that.
"Tell me about it."
"Hmm?"
"The dream. How did I die?"
Napoleon shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it.
"No, I want to know. And I think you need to talk about it."
"You…you were shot."
Illya's eyebrows went up. "That's it? I was shot?" He sat back in his chair. "By your reaction I thought I'd been drawn and quartered at least, or died a slow miserable death sinking into quicksand while you stood by watching, held captive by THRUSH."
Napoleon gave a quick shake of his head. "I didn't actually see you die."
A puzzled expression crossed Illya's face. "I thought you said you did."
"No. The dream started after you'd been shot. I dreamed all the things that would have happened afterwards. I dreamed getting called into Waverly's office and being told you were dead. I dreamed I went and saw your body in the morgue, and touched your chest wound, and felt how cold you were. I dreamed that I went home and tried to drink myself into a stupor so it wouldn't hurt…."
Napoleon stopped, appalled that his voice was getting thick and his eyes stinging. He took another sip of his coffee, giving himself a minute, hoping Illya wouldn't see how his hand was shaking. He glanced up at Illya, saw that he had noticed, saw the concern in his eyes. Napoleon tried to laugh it off. "It's all right. Probably something I ate."
"A bit of undigested meat? More of gravy than of grave?"
Napoleon barked out a strained laugh. "Exactly. And I got a visit from the ghost of Christmas yet to come." Somehow having a literary reference to wrap his arms around made it feel more like a dream, and less a shocking reality.
"I would suggest a menu change this evening."
"Have dinner with me?" The words were out before they became a conscious thought.
Illya gave him a lopsided smile. "Watching me eat one meal wasn't enough to convince you?"
Napoleon just shook his head, keeping his real reason to himself. It felt remarkably like he'd been given a second chance, and he didn't want to waste another day. It was time to start making Illya his. "I just want to be with you." The lopsided smile turned into a shy one, and Napoleon was charmed by it. He smiled back. "Will you?"
Illya gazed at Napoleon for a few seconds. "Do I get to pick the restaurant?"
"Anywhere you want to go." Illya's eyes took on a mischievous glint. Napoleon qualified his answer. "Within reason." He qualified it again. "And it can't be someplace you know I hate."
Illya scowled. "You take all the fun out of it, Napoleon."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes, yes, I'll have dinner with you." Illya stood. "Now let's go back to our office and you can stare at me while I do my paperwork."
Napoleon grinned. The dream was finally starting to lose its hold on him and something inside began to relax. "Sounds good. And when you're done, I can watch you do my paperwork."
Illya snorted, and led the way back to the office. Once there, the morning slipped by as both men slowly cleared their desks. Right before lunch, Napoleon was called into Waverly's office.
Waverly spun the table around until an envelope rested in front of Napoleon. "I need you to deliver this. It needs to be dropped off at 1:30, exactly."
Napoleon frowned at the envelope. He didn't like playing delivery boy. "Why me?" Something about the conversation rang a bell but he pushed it aside as he listened to his boss.
"The contents are rated top security. Besides myself, only you and Mr. Kuryakin have the clearance to have it in your possession. And I have other plans for your Russian friend this afternoon."
Napoleon tensed. "What sort of plans?"
"Something's come up in the lab."
Napoleon relaxed. He stood, picked up the envelope and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and looked at Waverly. "Anything else I should know?"
"Just get that delivered safely, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon gave Waverly a jaunty salute. "Consider it done." He felt quite cheery now that he knew Illya would be safely ensconced in the lab all afternoon. He left the old man's office and headed for the office he shared with Illya. He poked his head in the door and said, "I've got to go deliver a package. I'll grab some lunch while I'm out."
Illya furrowed his brows. "What? You don't need to watch me eat again? Does that mean dinner's off?"
Napoleon gave him a look. "Very funny." He pointed a warning finger at his partner. "Waverly has you playing in the lab all afternoon so be nice to the other boys and girls. And I'll be at your place at 7:00. Figure out where you want to go and make reservations."
Illya waved him off. "Go deliver your package and stop bothering me."
Napoleon grinned and shut the door. He made his way out of the building and hailed a taxi, deciding he didn't have the patience to drive across town during lunch hour traffic. Once seated in the back seat, the cab in motion, he took a closer look at the address and it triggered a sense of déjà vu. It took Napoleon a few moments to place it but it finally slid into place. He had dreamed this last night. This errand, this address. His blood ran cold.
For a moment he considered stopping the taxi and running back to headquarters, needing to be sure his partner was all right. Then he got a grip on himself, and took a deep breath, trying to think about it rationally. He must have seen the address on a piece of paperwork he'd done over the last few days and for some reason it got caught in his nightmare. Certainly it seemed as if an infinite number of pieces of paper flew across his desk. And Waverly would hardly find his worrying about a dream adequate excuse for missing a drop-off.
Only partially reassured, Napoleon sat back in the cab. As the minutes ticked by faster than the traffic, his anxiety began to grow. Wishing vehemently that he'd never gone to bed last night, he turned his thoughts to daydreaming about dinner with Illya and how, if he were very lucky, he might end up with a night of little actual sleeping.
He ignored the rational voice that told him he was dreaming. Napoleon didn't care. It was a better dream than the one he had last night, and everything had to start somewhere.
Napoleon let out a sigh of relief as the taxi finally arrived. He glanced at his watch; it had taken almost an hour to get here. That left him about 45 minutes before he made contact with the drop. Napoleon decided he'd grab a bite to eat now. He looked for a likely location and saw a little Italian place called Angelo's that looked promising.
He was seated and handed a menu. When he opened it, a shiver ran down his spine. He'd been here in his dream. He'd ordered the rigatoni with a side of garlic bread. He fumbled for his communicator, looking quickly around to make sure no one was watching him. He signaled his partner.
"Kuryakin."
Napoleon almost gasped in relief. "Where are you?"
"In the lab." Napoleon could almost hear his partner frown. "Why? Where are you? Are you in trouble?"
"No. No, I'm fine." Napoleon wasn't sure about that; he thought he might be going a little crazy. "I'm having lunch."
"I'm sorry, Napoleon, but I already ate. Otherwise I'd chew a little for you."
"Wise ass." Napoleon heard the soft chuff of Illya's quiet laugh. He could hear someone calling his partner.
"I have to go. They're calling me."
"Okay, but Illya…?"
"What?"
"Stay in the lab, all right?"
"I'm not going anywhere, and if you stop interrupting me, I might actually be done with this experiment in time for dinner."
"Crabby Russian." Solo sighed off, grinning. The grin slid off his face when he looked at the menu again. What was the rational explanation for this? He couldn't remember eating here before. He supposed that every Italian restaurant had a similar sort of menu. The waitress showed up. Napoleon decided not to tempt fate. He ordered the lasagna, and passed on the garlic bread.
He barely tasted his lunch; his guts were churning. He avoided the temptation to check in with Illya again. Napoleon noted the time and, throwing a more than adequate amount of money on the table, he hurried out.
Napoleon arrived at the drop-off point at exactly 1:30. No one was there. Napoleon snorted. The thought crossed his mind that his contact had been late in his dream. He remembered looking at his watch when the contact had shown up, and noting that it was 1:36. It had been a man, a big man, a couple of inches taller than Napoleon, and quite a few pounds heavier. He'd been wearing a light brown belted London Fog raincoat with a burberry patterned collar.
Napoleon hoped with everything in him that a woman would show up, or a skinny short man, or even a goddamn circus clown with a red rubber nose. Anyone but a big man wearing a London Fog raincoat. When his watch showed 1:36, Napoleon closed his eyes and then, guardedly, looked in the direction the man had approached from in his dream.
He was there. All six foot whatever of him, and his damned raincoat. It was the fastest handover in Napoleon's life. The man said the required password and Napoleon practically threw the envelope at him. He was hailing a taxi as he yanked out his communicator, signaling his partner again.
He cursed when there was no answer. He signaled the main operator and once through he wasted no time on pleasantries. "This is Solo, put me through to the lab."
Realizing he was on a bad corner for a cab, he started to sprint down the block. Someone he didn't recognize answered. It sounded as if he caught them mid yawn. "Lab."
"I need to talk to Illya." He added a postscript. "This is Napoleon Solo." He didn't usually throw his name around, but he was in no mood for delays.
The person on the other side grew suddenly obsequious. "Oh, Mr. Solo, I'm sorry, but Mr. Kuryakin isn't here. He left about 30 minutes ago to see Mr. Waverly."
Napoleon ran a hand down the lower half of his face. "Patch me through to his office."
There was a hesitant pause. "Uh, I don't know how to do that. Let me go get…"
"Never mind." Solo disconnected and signaled the main operator again. In a few seconds he was talking to his boss.
"Yes, Mr. Solo? I trust you successfully delivered the package."
"Yes, signed, sealed and delivered. I need to speak with Illya. Is he there?" Please, he thought, please be there.
"No. One of the lab suppliers called with a shipment to be picked up. Due to the explosive nature of the supplies, they requested that Mr. Kuryakin pick it up himself."
Napoleon's heart was pounding. "I have reason to believe that he might be in danger. Do you know where he was going?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." Waverly rattled off an address. "What makes you believe he's in danger?"
A taxi finally answered one of Napoleon's frantic hails. "If you don't mind, I'd rather tell you later." If Illya was fine, and Napoleon went chasing off after him because of a dream he'd had, Waverly would have him seeing a psychiatrist before the day was through.
Waverly harrumphed. "Perhaps I should send an agent out from here."
"No, I'm actually closer to him than you are. It's probably nothing." Napoleon hoped to God he was right.
Another harrumph came across the communicator. "Very well, Mr. Solo, but I expect a full report later."
Solo signed off and climbed in the cab that had just stopped. He gave the address to the driver and sat back. Then he leaned forward. "Get me there fast and there's an extra twenty in it for you." He was slammed back against the seat as the taxi took off with a squeal of rubber. Satisfied that only a miracle could get him there faster, he still drummed a nervous tattoo on the seat next to him.
He worked out the times in his head. If Illya had been called to see Waverly thirty minutes ago, and had then gone back to his office to get his jacket, maybe stopped to talk to a few people…. Napoleon sighed as he glanced at his watch. No matter how many people Illya stopped and talked to, considering how short conversations with Illya generally were, he was still going to get to the address in question before Napoleon could.
Napoleon pressed his foot to the ground, as if it might make the taxi driver go faster. He knew that was not only unlikely, but dangerous as well. He winced as the driver accelerated from a good distance when a light was turning yellow. It was full red as they raced through the intersection. The guy was certainly earning his twenty dollars.
Suddenly Napoleon remembered that Illya hadn't answered his communicator. He ran another set of times through his head. If Illya had left immediately, he could have already been there when Napoleon had tried to contact him. A feeling of dread shot down his spine. He tried to come up with reasons why Illya hadn't responded. Maybe Illya left the communicator in the lab, maybe he dropped it, maybe he'd heard Napoleon calling him, and decided he was sick of trying to convince his partner he was alive.
Not caring what the cabdriver thought, Napoleon pulled out his communicator and tried, once again, to hail Illya. "Come on, come on, answer." Nothing. He held the silver cylinder in his hand, trying to stem the tide of his panic.
He was thrown forward as the cab came to a slamming halt. "There you go, Mister."
Napoleon pulled out a wad of bills and threw two twenties in the front seat. He got out of the car, quickly orienting himself. Spotting the street sign, he found himself going down a quiet street. He counted numbers and when he arrived at Illya's destination, he frowned. Surely this couldn't be the place. This wasn't any sort of a supply warehouse. It was a deserted building. He could only hope that the location had raised enough red flags for Illya that he'd called for back up. Then Napoleon remembered whom he was dealing with, the man who never called for back up, unless there were no other options. Illya wouldn't have known he was out of options until it was too late.
Annoyed by his dithering, Napoleon tried the door. It was unlocked. Pulling out his gun, he opened it carefully, standing to the side. He waited for bullets to start flying, but all he was met with was silence. He pulled it all the way open and darted inside. His heart stopped when he saw his partner lying on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood.
Napoleon let out a cry as he ran to him, falling to his knees next to his partner, heedless of the blood he knelt in. He felt for a pulse, but he knew he wouldn't find one. Illya's sightless eyes were staring up at the ceiling. Napoleon let out a deep groan and he pulled Illya up against his chest, rocking his body.
He heard a clink and turned around to see Illya's communicator had fallen from his hand when Napoleon had moved him. Napoleon wondered if he'd been attempting to call for help, or trying to respond to Napoleon's pages, unable to speak as the blood drained out of his body. Or, God, maybe trying to answer Napoleon's call had distracted him for that fatal second.
Napoleon had no idea how long he knelt there holding Illya's body, but he was shocked back into awareness when both communicators went off. He looked at Illya's as if it were some alien artifact. Finally, not loosing his grip on the Russian, he leaned down and picked it up. He could hardly speak. "Solo."
"Ah, Mr. Solo. Have you found Mr. Kuryakin yet?" When there was no answer, the voice spoke again, a bit more demanding. "Mr. Solo, report."
"He's dead."
"What?"
Napoleon's voice caught on a sob. "He's dead. I got here too late."
There was a long pause. Then a clearing of a throat. "I'm sending someone to retrieve you now."
Napoleon just nodded, not caring that Waverly couldn't see him, and let the communicator fall to the ground. He tightened his hold on Illya and buried his face in the blonde hair.
They finally sedated him to get him to let go of Illya. Napoleon lay in an infirmary bed, still groggy. Waverly came to speak to him, wanting to know how he'd known Illya was in danger, but Napoleon didn't want to talk about it and turned his head away; it didn't matter anyway. Napoleon, in a foggy haze, heard the doctor shooing Waverly away, telling him that Napoleon needed to rest.
Napoleon didn't want to rest. He wanted to rail at the world. He wanted to claw his own heart out. He'd been given an unprecedented gift of foresight to save his partner's life, and he'd blown it. He'd ignored all the signs, and rationalized every hint of danger. Illya was dead, again, but this time it was his fault.
Somewhere, unbidden, a crazy thought flickered through his mind. He saw it, and the hope it implied terrified him for a moment. Maybe he'd get another chance. Maybe he'd get another Tuesday. He let out a quiet moan. Maybe he was insane. He pushed the thought away.
But, like a cork in water, it kept bobbing to the surface. Maybe he just needed to fall asleep and when he woke up, it would all have been a dream again. One of the nurses walked through, doing her rounds. "Napoleon? Are you awake?" She spoke softly. Everyone was speaking softly to him. He knew they were all afraid he was inches away from losing it. He wasn't sure they were wrong.
She peered down at him, and saw his eyes were open. "Oh, you are awake." She hesitated. "Do you need anything?"
Napoleon was glad she hadn't asked him if he was all right. If tomorrow proved to be Wednesday, he didn't think he'd ever be all right again. Right now, he was supposed to be having dinner with Illya, being charming, and seductive, trying to woo his way into the Russian's heart and into his bed. "Can I have a sleeping pill? Something strong?"
He hated the pity in her eyes. Napoleon closed his so he didn't have to see it. He heard her response. "I'll go get you something."
Napoleon nodded. The sooner he was asleep, the sooner he'd know if he'd get another chance or not.