#delayed drowning | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumpdoyoumean · 2 years

Text

Whumptober #19

part 1

xxx

Napoleon is drowning.

It doesn’t make much sense, considering he’s in his bed in HQ, but having practically drowned less than two days prior he knows the feeling, and he is confident that that’s what’s happening. Each labored breath struggles to claw its way out of his aching lungs, and he can feel his anxiety mounting. He sits up, and being upright eases his breathing somewhat but does nothing to stave off the panic that continues to build. He throws off his blanket and sweat-soaked sheet and gets unsteadily to his feet. If he can just make it to the infirmary, he’s sure a bit of oxygen will put things right…He grabs his robe on the way out of his room, pulling it on over his boxers in a weak attempt at decency.

He makes it a few dozen feet before his legs give up.

xxx

It’s still dark out when Gaby awakens, a few hours earlier than she’d planned. She briefly considers trying to go back to sleep, until she remembers what had woken her up in the first place which was a thump in the hallway. She turns onto her back and groans, laying there for a minute longer before forcing herself to get up. She slides her feet into her slippers and shuffles toward the door to investigate. With any luck it’s just the boys having a bit of a rummach. It wouldn’t be the first time she caught them in the hall at odd hours, and brushes with death always seem to make it harder for them to keep their hands off each other.

She opens the door, a snarky remark already forming, but it quickly evaporates as she sets eyes on Napoleon.

“Solo?”

He's sitting on the floor in his bathrobe with his back against the wall and his legs splayed out in front of him. His face is ghostly white and glistening with sweat, and one hand is clutching at his chest, the other braced against the floor. It’s obvious that he’s struggling to breathe. He looks up at her, eyes wide with fear, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and Gaby feels her blood go cold.

“Illya!” she shouts as she falls to her knees next to the American. She raises her voice. “Illya!”

“Tried…” Napoleon begins. “Tried to…Infirmary.”

“Ssh,” Gaby says, pushing his dampened curls back from his sweaty forehead.

Now that she’s next to him, she can hear a strange gurgling sound with each breath, and her eyes flick to the dark bruises on his chest.

Scheisse.

“Gaby?” Illya’s voice reaches them before he does, and he rounds the corner a second later, a deep frown on his face. “What is--Cowboy!”

“We have to get him to the infirmary!”

Illya nods, wide-eyed, immediately moving to Napoleon’s side. The American frowns.

“Just…need to…catch m’...breath,” he mutters as Illya and Gaby each grab one of his arms and haul him to his feet.

“What is going on?” Illya asks, looking over Napoleon’s head at Gaby as they start down the hall.

“I don’t know. I heard something and when I opened my door he was there on the floor. He said he was trying to get to the infirmary.”

“Did something happen?” It’s unclear if Illya is asking Napoleon or Gaby or just asking.

Gaby’s mind goes back to the horrible bruising and she looks up at Napoleon. “Did you bump your ribs on something?”

Napoleon shakes his head.

“Were you feeling unwell before this?” Illya asks.

Napoleon doesn’t answer for a moment and it’s obvious that it’s not just because he’s trying to catch his breath. “I’ve…” he finally says. “...been a bit…out of breath. Not…not this bad.”

Illya makes a sound deep in his throat, his face stony. She can see the tension in his jaw and neck. He’s struggling to maintain his composure. She can relate. But Napoleon is in bad enough shape without the two of them adding their emotions to the mix.

There’s not much conversation the rest of the way to the infirmary, only the occasional encouraging word to the American whose steps grow increasingly clumsy, his breathing louder. He’s barely standing by the time they get there, and Gaby and Illya lower him into the nearest chair.

“Call Cassidy,” Illya says, and usually Gaby would say something petulant at his commanding tone but now the thought doesn’t even cross her mind. She just nods and hurries over to the telephone, dialing the number for the on-call medic.

“It’s a bit early for a medical emergency, isn’t it?”

Gaby doesn’t have time for this. Her voice is sharp when she says, “You need to get here now.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” The line goes dead before Gaby can tell him that fifteen minutes is too fucking long.

She hangs up and turns just in time to see Napoleon double over, taken by a sudden coughing fit. Illya’s hand is immediately on the American’s back, rubbing in small circles.

“But’ sil’nym,” he murmurs softly. Be strong.

The loud, hacking coughs racking Napoleon’s body make Gaby want to run back to her bed and cover her ears with a pillow. They’re harsh and painful-sounding, and Napoleon looks terrified. And then his already wide eyes get a little bit bigger and he gags and red pours from his mouth, bright and frothy. Illya freezes, staring, his face going pale. Gaby stares, too, just for a second before shaking herself from her daze. She grabs one of the crisply folded towels sitting on the nearest hospital bed and moves to Napoleon’s side, wiping the red from his mouth.

He’s not coughing now, but his entire body is trembling. He sits up, moving slowly, leaning against the back of the chair as he struggles to catch his breath. His battered chest heaves unevenly and he looks utterly exhausted. Illya crouches next to him and envelops one of Napoleon’s hands in both of his.

“Hold on,” he whispers. “The doctor is coming, you hear me?”

Napoleon nods once, weakly. His breath is coming in shallow, wheezing gasps now and there’s a blue tint to his lips that fills Gaby with dread. He blinks heavily, and then his eyes roll back and his head lolls, dipping down toward his chest.

“Hey,” Illya says with mounting alarm as he takes Napoleon’s face in his hands. “Hey, hey! Cowboy!” He tilts Napoleon’s face up, pats his cheek with open desperation. There’s no response. Gaby feels tears spring up in her eyes.

“Solo!” Illya cries. “Please. Please. Pazhalsta!” He places his forehead against Napoleon’s and closes his eyes. Gaby thinks she sees a tear roll down his cheek. “Breathe, Napoleon. Keep breathing.”

She watches, numb. He’s not going to get here in time, she thinks. He’s not going to get here in time and Napoleon is going to die.

And then a familiar voice says, “Does someone want to tell me what the devil is going on?”

They do their best to fill the doctor in and he listens attentively, nodding as he and Illya get Napoleon onto a bed, asking a few questions here and there as he fits an oxygen mask over Napoleon’s face.

“I’ll need to separate you for a moment,” Doctor Cassidy finally says. “I need to do an x-ray of his chest and the two of you can’t be in the room for that.”

“An x-ray?” Illya’s voice is small. His fingers curl and uncurl nervously. “This is…this is from what I did?”

Cassidy looks puzzled as he moves to the head of Napoleon’s bed. “I’m sorry, what you did?”

“After I pulled him from the water. I--I only did what they trained us to do in the first-aid course.”

Confusion gives way to understanding. “Ah,” Cassidy says. “No, I don’t believe Solo’s current state has anything to do with that. You did exactly as you should’ve. I’ve really got to take him for the x-ray.” He looks over his shoulder as he wheels Napoleon off toward the tiny room that houses the x-ray machine. “I know it’s a long shot, but the two of you should try and get some sleep. You look an absolute fright.”

Gaby has no intention of taking his advice--not that she could even if she wanted to. She moves over to Illya and leans against him, his large frame standing reassuringly steady. His arm slowly moves around her, pulling her tighter nearly to the point of being uncomfortable, and she realizes quickly that he’s not just holding onto her for her sake. Rather, he’s clinging on for dear life, like a man overboard.

xxx

Illya Kuryakin has done many hard things in his life. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He’s been pushed to his limits more times than he can count, survived things most men couldn’t dream of. Yet somehow, sitting here seems the hardest. Everything about the room makes him want to flee: the sterile bright white of the floors and walls and ugly washed out green of the blankets, the bitter chemical smell of antiseptic, and of course Napoleon. The figure in the bed looks so far from the vibrant, charismatic cowboy that Illya is used to. He’s pale, with shadows under his eyes and darkening the contours of his stubbly, unshaven face and there are lines running from the backs of his hands to hanging bags and the tube--the awful, invasive tube that looks to Illya like a form of torture--that goes down Napoleon’s throat and is attached to the machine that’s the only thing keeping him alive.

The machine.

The sound of that machine will, Illya is certain, haunt him to his grave. The rhythmic, mechanical sound--two thumps, followed by a loud whoosh, played on repeat--makes Illya’s skin crawl as it forces Napoleon’s lungs to fill and deflate.

It’s been three days and he still isn’t used to it, still has to fight the urge to get up from the cramped, uncomfortable chair and run away and not look back until Napoleon is better.

Unfortunately, he loves the damned fool.

So he stays.

xxx

“So--” Napoleon takes a sip of water to soothe his throat and tries again. “So I was drowning?”

“We in the medical field call it pulmonary edema,” Doc Cassidy says. “Drowning usually involves just a bit more water. One more deep breath…” He straightens up and takes the stethoscope out of his ears and drapes it around his neck. “Well your lungs are certainly sounding better. I’ll check back in the morning but I think one more night here ought to do it!”

Napoleon watches with amusement as Illya perks up considerably at the news, straightening in his chair as the doctor turns to leave.

“So, this means he will be ready to--”

Napoleon cranes his neck and peers around Cassidy to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively at Illya, smiling smugly when the Russian quickly looks away, his cheeks taking on the faintest hint of pink. Illya clears his throat.

“--ready to resume normal activities?”

“I should think so, yes. I could write a prescription for a life jacket if you’d like.” He turns to Napoleon, eyebrows quirked in mock sincerity. Napoleon gives him a dry smile.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Doc.”

“Right. Well, I’m off then! The wife is dragging me to the opera this evening. If there is another emergency, please do not hesitate to get a hold of me.”

“And ruin your lovely night out? I wouldn’t dream of it…Thank you, Doctor.”

“Until next time, Agent Solo.”

His footsteps have barely receded before Illya leans in, his nose bumping the cannula in Napoleon’s. Napoleon smiles.

“You,” Illya says between kisses. “Are never--never--going in the water again.”

Napoleon doesn’t argue.

xxx end

#whumptober2022 #no.19 #enough is enough #head lolling #the man from uncle #tmfu #pulmonary edema #delayed drowning #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #napollya #whumptober #my writing #my fic #whump

48 notes · View notes