Part five of The Meanest Thing
Going to see my mom tomorrow, through till Friday. No computer!!!!
here's the latest anyway....
Part five, The Meanest Thing
By Hazelayes
-----------
Sanders was a mess. Napoleon checked the patient records before he entered the room and saw the usual litany of abrasions, bruises, cracked ribs and wired jaw to give him a good idea of what had happened. It was a brutally efficient job too. The answers to questions two and three, the Who? and the Why? Napoleon hoped to get from the victim himself.
"Sanders, you awake?"
Shief! Nyshe ub you tuh cun she ne..." Sanders pushed himself further up the bed, wincing and struggling.
"Whoa, there. Don't get up on my account. You feel up to answering a few questions?"
"Yesh uff corsh, ashk array Shief."
"Ah... my interpreter is otherwise engaged at the moment. You just nod or shake, okay?"
Sanders grinned as best he could and nodded. A blotchy potato trying to smile...
"Okay, my friend, we play twenty questions. That you were attacked by several assailants is a matter of record already. Were you on duty?"
Shake.
"Were they known to you?"
Shrug, eye contact broken.
"You knew them." It wasn't a question. Napoleon sat forward slightly and peered into Sanders averted eyes, there was no escaping this.
"Section Two?"
Sanders sighed, then nodded once.
Napoleon's face tightened into a hard mask. "I want names. Write them down for me, all of them," and he took a pen from his jacket, removed the top and put it in Sanders scratched and swollen right hand. "Use this to write on," and he tore the bottom off the treatment sheet hanging from the end of the bed, giving the clipboard itself to Sanders to rest the paper on.
Sanders looked at Napoleon, pleading silently to not be made to do this.
Napoleon sat on the edge of the bed and leaned closer. "Anyone does this to one of my men, does it to me. That it was men from my own section makes it ten times worse. You cannot, you must not, try and cover for them."
Sanders began to write.
'It was my fault, I provoked them.'
Napoleon frowned and blew down his nose in contempt. "How?"
'I told them James Bond was a homosexual.'
Napoleon couldn't suppress the laugh, despite the serious situation. "Is that all?"
Sanders put pen to paper again.
'Said being queer gave him edge and all the best spies flexibly oriented.'
"And are you...," Napoleon's eyes slid away from Sanders' face momentarily, but he dragged his gaze back again. He had to see Sanders' face when he asked this.
"Are you... flexible?"
Sanders' swollen lips pursed (kind of) and he shook his head. Then, after a moment, he wrote:
'Does Cambridge count?'
"Cambridge?"
'I'm Cambridge man.'
"So's Illya."
Sanders began to fidget suddenly as he was if trying to get comfortable and Napoleon stood, preparing to leave.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tire you out. One more thing though... Do you know a Marcie? "
Sanders' colourful face took on even more pink and he nodded, his eyes shining... until Napoleon pinned him with a hard, bleak stare which caught him totally off guard.
"Don't lie to me. You were beaten because you defended me, weren't you." Again it wasn't a question.
Sanders grabbed the pen and scribbled furiously.
'Called me a fag! Couldn't let it lie.'
"I don't believe you."
Sanders looked confused and upset.
"Shief, ang teying de chooth!"
"You may be telling the truth alright, but it's not the whole truth, is it?
I will find out who did this, and I will deal with them."
Napoleon took his pen and replaced the clipboard, with its torn notes, at the bottom of the bed. "Meanwhile, you will get well... and get back to work."
Sanders watched in silence as his boss walked away from him to the door, but before leaving Napoleon turned and and looked back. "I've been a fool, haven't I? Thank you for showing me... and not making me hate you for it. That takes skill, Mr Sanders, and courage."
Sanders was too tired to move even a hand, and he couldn't think what to say, so he lifted his eyebrows and twitched his face, hoping it looked like a smile. A humble, grateful Napoleon Solo was something one could take only in very small doses, he realised.
"By the way, the name is Napoleon, not Chief."
The door closed and Sanders was alone. He sighed and slid down into his bedclothes, feeling very tired and sore, but curiously content.
"Yesh Shief."
Napoleon, meanwhile, was tearing down corridors like a Pamplona bull, punching lift buttons and growling at any delays. Napoleon's heart was hammering and he was in full seek and rescue mode. Illya was already in a bad way from Waverly's scathing reprimand... and if he should the hear about this from anyone but himself...
end of part 5------
here's the latest anyway....
Part five, The Meanest Thing
By Hazelayes
-----------
Sanders was a mess. Napoleon checked the patient records before he entered the room and saw the usual litany of abrasions, bruises, cracked ribs and wired jaw to give him a good idea of what had happened. It was a brutally efficient job too. The answers to questions two and three, the Who? and the Why? Napoleon hoped to get from the victim himself.
"Sanders, you awake?"
Shief! Nyshe ub you tuh cun she ne..." Sanders pushed himself further up the bed, wincing and struggling.
"Whoa, there. Don't get up on my account. You feel up to answering a few questions?"
"Yesh uff corsh, ashk array Shief."
"Ah... my interpreter is otherwise engaged at the moment. You just nod or shake, okay?"
Sanders grinned as best he could and nodded. A blotchy potato trying to smile...
"Okay, my friend, we play twenty questions. That you were attacked by several assailants is a matter of record already. Were you on duty?"
Shake.
"Were they known to you?"
Shrug, eye contact broken.
"You knew them." It wasn't a question. Napoleon sat forward slightly and peered into Sanders averted eyes, there was no escaping this.
"Section Two?"
Sanders sighed, then nodded once.
Napoleon's face tightened into a hard mask. "I want names. Write them down for me, all of them," and he took a pen from his jacket, removed the top and put it in Sanders scratched and swollen right hand. "Use this to write on," and he tore the bottom off the treatment sheet hanging from the end of the bed, giving the clipboard itself to Sanders to rest the paper on.
Sanders looked at Napoleon, pleading silently to not be made to do this.
Napoleon sat on the edge of the bed and leaned closer. "Anyone does this to one of my men, does it to me. That it was men from my own section makes it ten times worse. You cannot, you must not, try and cover for them."
Sanders began to write.
'It was my fault, I provoked them.'
Napoleon frowned and blew down his nose in contempt. "How?"
'I told them James Bond was a homosexual.'
Napoleon couldn't suppress the laugh, despite the serious situation. "Is that all?"
Sanders put pen to paper again.
'Said being queer gave him edge and all the best spies flexibly oriented.'
"And are you...," Napoleon's eyes slid away from Sanders' face momentarily, but he dragged his gaze back again. He had to see Sanders' face when he asked this.
"Are you... flexible?"
Sanders' swollen lips pursed (kind of) and he shook his head. Then, after a moment, he wrote:
'Does Cambridge count?'
"Cambridge?"
'I'm Cambridge man.'
"So's Illya."
Sanders began to fidget suddenly as he was if trying to get comfortable and Napoleon stood, preparing to leave.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tire you out. One more thing though... Do you know a Marcie? "
Sanders' colourful face took on even more pink and he nodded, his eyes shining... until Napoleon pinned him with a hard, bleak stare which caught him totally off guard.
"Don't lie to me. You were beaten because you defended me, weren't you." Again it wasn't a question.
Sanders grabbed the pen and scribbled furiously.
'Called me a fag! Couldn't let it lie.'
"I don't believe you."
Sanders looked confused and upset.
"Shief, ang teying de chooth!"
"You may be telling the truth alright, but it's not the whole truth, is it?
I will find out who did this, and I will deal with them."
Napoleon took his pen and replaced the clipboard, with its torn notes, at the bottom of the bed. "Meanwhile, you will get well... and get back to work."
Sanders watched in silence as his boss walked away from him to the door, but before leaving Napoleon turned and and looked back. "I've been a fool, haven't I? Thank you for showing me... and not making me hate you for it. That takes skill, Mr Sanders, and courage."
Sanders was too tired to move even a hand, and he couldn't think what to say, so he lifted his eyebrows and twitched his face, hoping it looked like a smile. A humble, grateful Napoleon Solo was something one could take only in very small doses, he realised.
"By the way, the name is Napoleon, not Chief."
The door closed and Sanders was alone. He sighed and slid down into his bedclothes, feeling very tired and sore, but curiously content.
"Yesh Shief."
Napoleon, meanwhile, was tearing down corridors like a Pamplona bull, punching lift buttons and growling at any delays. Napoleon's heart was hammering and he was in full seek and rescue mode. Illya was already in a bad way from Waverly's scathing reprimand... and if he should the hear about this from anyone but himself...
end of part 5------