Say Ah
by Charlie Kirby

One of the best things about being a nurse isn't what you think it is—I love the sound my shoes make on the floor. That squeaky sound that tells my patients I'm here for them, that I'm ever vigilant and caring. I shudder to think what Freud would make of it, but some days a cigar is just a cigar. I just like the sound.

What I don't like about being a nurse is easy and it's not what you think. Certainly, I hate losing patients. It's hard to see a young life snuffed out in its prime. It's especially hard here in UNCLE Medical because we know these guys are fighting the good fight, paying the ultimate price. Still, loss is part of being a nurse. For me the worse part of my job is the mind-numbing, gut-clenching boredom of paperwork. It seems like I spend my entire day wading through reams of paper. Being self insured, you'd think it would make a difference. After all, we share a common bottom line. Don't tell the jerks in the Worker Comp department that. They will argue over the smallest claim, the most petty of charges. They make the best job in the world frustrating and at times make me contemplate switching careers. Then we have a week like we did last week and I know better.

I'd had a great weekend. Medical had been empty of Section Twos and Threes for nearly a week—a record for us, all things considered. We'd still had our share of emergencies: a Section Five tripped and broke her ankle. A Section Eight took a corner too fast and got a chest full of hot coffee. He wouldn't be doing that again. I'd gotten my tiny apartment sparkling clean, saw a couple of movies, did laundry and attended a wonderful church service. I was in great shape until that morning.

I was walking in chatting with Renee—she's the other day nurse—and we approached the front desk. It was empty, which is weird, but not totally unusual at this time of the morning. Sherrie and Sandy were probably busy elsewhere. Renee reached for a couple of in-patient files and that's when I heard it.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, no, no, no, no, no." That can only mean one thing—we have a Section Two or Three agent in house. "I'm sorry, Nellie..."

Ah, shit, I instantly knew what that meant. "The Pretty or the Brunet?"

"Both"

"Please God, they're not both inpatient?"

"Uh huh and it gets worse." Her voice dropped a bit. "It looks like Kuryakin got a snootful of the same crap that THRUSH fed McClintok."

I grabbed the file from her and scanned it. This was very bad. They'd brought McClintok in experiencing the early stages of pulmonary failure. His heart was racing so much that the otherwise fit and healthy thirty two year old eventually had major heart failure. It was long and agonizing and the worst part was he was all alone. Hancock didn't even stop in after the first day. Said it was too painful. Guess he didn't think about what his partner was going through. What was left of McClintok's heart was shredded hamburger and Hancock though he was the only one hurting. I held McClintok's hand until the end, just so he wouldn't be completely abandoned.

"What about Solo?" I gave up my pet names. This was too serious for games.

"Just out of surgery and in Recovery."

I tossed my sweater in the general region of the front desk and headed first for Room Thirty-four, where they'd put Kuryakin.

Reaching for the door knob, I said a prayer to God to be merciful. If he was going to take Kuryakin, I begged that he not be put through the hell McClintok had suffered. "Please," I whispered. "Please, God, they try so hard. If you have to take him, take him fast." I opened the door and released the breath I'd been holding.

The heart monitor was steady and strong, not racing like McClintok's. That didn't really mean anything. Either Kuryakin was in better shape than McClintok, THRUSH had refined the drug some more before doing additional testing, or this was an earlier stage of the same drug.

For his part, Kuryakin looked like he was sleeping, although I noted he'd been restrained. I checked the chart at the foot or the bed to see what tests had been performed. Seems it wasn't just THRUSH who was using our agents as lab rats. The lab guys had been all over Kuryakin, performing some tests I'd not even heard the names of and some that I had, but winced at the thought of the procedures. No wonder they'd tied him down. I'd have gotten up and left too, given the chance.

Reassured for the moment, I headed over to Recovery. Again, the same moment and the same prayer. These two were special favorites of mine, although the truth be known, I was a little more sweet on Kuryakin. And that Napoleon Solo, flirt of all flirts. I loved him too.

Solo was hooked up to a dozen different machines, each performing some special function. He was pale, but his vitals were strong and I wasn't hearing any raspiness. He usually tolerated anesthesia well, so there were no fears there.

As I approached the bed, his head turned. "Illya?" His voice was so hopeful that it hurt to answer.

"Nope, just me." I tried to make my voice light, like nothing was wrong.

"Nellie...hi," Napoleon's eyes were only half open. "Pardon me if I don't get up." A standard joke of ours and suddenly I was blinking back tears. Of course he saw and one hand moved towards me. Even drugged and weak, his first reaction was to try and comfort me. Is it any wonder he has women lined up out the door? "It's not that bad a joke that you need to cry."

I took his hand and stroked the back of it gently, avoiding the IV needle. "What did I say about coming back here, Mister? I thought I gave you your walking papers."

"Good looking woman like you is like honey to a bee for a man like me, my sweet." He paused to cough painfully. His chart mentioned a few broken ribs, along with a lacerated spleen and trauma to his kidneys. Both his hands were bandaged, so I suspect he went down with quite a fight. "Illya?" he asked, almost hesitantly.

I knew I should lie, tell him the Russian was fine, but it would be a lie. If Kuryakin was fine, he'd be here, right beside the bed. That's what these two did for each other. "We're doing the best we can, Mr. Solo."

"They gave him the same thing as McClintok. They made me watch, tried to make me talk." Instead of sounding angry, Solo's voice was curiously flat, emotionless. He was paying the ultimate price for loyalty to UNCLE.

"Is there anything you can remember to tell the lab boys? They're still trying to isolate it." He looked so tired that I didn't want to push any harder. He really needed to rest.

"Send them in. I'll do my best "

I gave him my most comforting and reassuring smile and walked back to the desk. I was bending over to pick up my sweater from where it had fallen when an alarm went off. Room Thirty-four—shit! It was only a hallway away, but it seemed like a mile. There were already medical personnel there, streaming in and out of the room, some running, some swearing, none of them looking very happy.

Kuryakin was seizing, that's how Hancock said McClintok had started. By the time I'd managed to squeeze my way in, the drugs had started to take effect and the seizure was over. I'd have never injected him with anything, not at this stage, but I guessed the doctors knew what they were doing.

Two of them were taking more blood samples, lots of blood, more than I would have felt comfortable with.

"Doctor?" I knew they instantly understood my question. I looked over at the monitor. The readings were elevated, but not that much. Doctor Prince sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"It's already too late for him, Nellie, but what we can learn from his blood might save others."

"How can it be too late? He's still in better shape than McClintok was."

"Perhaps, but his blood is so thick with contaminants, it can hardly flow. Soon his heart won't be able to pump it and we know the path that follows." A crazy thought occurred to me—a thought that I think hit the doctor at the same time. We exchanged a glance.

"So why not?"

"It's dangerous, completely transfusing a man."

"You said he was already dying and we have his blood on hand." We had all the agents' blood on hand. It was SOP. And the equipment. It was merely the case of bringing in an outside specialist. We had a dozen that we tapped as needed and the folks upstairs always made a fuss.

"But expensive. They'd never approve." He looked skyward, but he wasn't talking about God, but rather the banes of my existence—the not so friendly folks of our Worker Comp department.

"Let me deal with them, Doctor, and you do what you need to do." My voice took on a whole new edge of strength. I'd be damned if we were just going to let a man die without even trying.

It was a battle, don't get me wrong, but my dander was up. How dare they deny anything to a man who gave everything without hesitation? Oh, they didn't know what kind of a fireball they had with me on the line. Maybe it was sheer determination, the feeling that God had my back or a combination of the two, but I managed to convince them of the necessity and to completely waive all of the red tape garbage before they had Kuryakin out of surgery and into Recovery.

Dr. Prince looked like hell, in fact, worse than Kuryakin who actually looked a whole lot better than when they took him in. His color was good and he was breathing easier.

"How did it go?"

"He seized once more, just as we were getting ready to start, but nothing since then. We may have merely bought him a few more hours. There's no way of knowing. He's still not regained consciousness."

"Have the orderlies put him in with his partner. If that doesn't do it, nothing will." The doctor looked at me like I'd lost my mind, but I really hadn't. I knew, you see, that like so many of the other agents, there was a special connection between these two. Some like to wag their tongues and whisper about things in corners, making lurid suggestions. Hell, some have even come to me to find out if there are any 'signs.' Like I'd be willing to violate patient privacy to feed their warped little minds! Whatever else went on between Solo and Kuryakin, it was between them and God and no one else as far as I was concerned. What I did know is that these two were there for each other and I was going to do all I could to keep them together for as long as possible.

Solo brightened up immediately when he saw Kuryakin being wheeled into the room. I dismissed the orderlies and went to check on him. He was running a post op fever, nothing too bad, but he didn't fight the cool towel I wiped his face with.

"How is he?"

"We don't know. We completely transfused him. We're hoping that got enough of the drug out of his system to make a difference." I dropped the right side rail of his bed and the left one on Kuryakin's and pushed the two beds as close together as possible. "Talk to him, Mr. Solo. I think you're his best bet right now."

I watched Solo's hand reach out, not to grab Kuryakin's hand, but his wrist, to settle a finger upon a pulse point as if he didn't trust the machines. I'd done all that I could for now. It was up to the Big Man upstairs.

I won't say I slept well that night. I'd left word for Sandy or Sherrie to call if anything went south and woke up a couple of times thinking I'd heard the phone, but I didn't.

When I walked in, my feet were dragging, both from fatigue and worry. No one looked exceptionally upset though and that was encouraging. However, nothing was as encouraging as the two heads that swiveled towards me when I walked into Room Thirty-four.

"So you decided to wake up after all?" I asked Kuryakin, My Pretty.

"It was a tough decision, but there are a couple of things I'm not quite prepared to let go of just yet." His partner's hand for example, his obvious anchor this time. I smiled. How tongues would waggled if they saw this. Ha! Like they'd ever see this.

"You look like you could use some rest, Mr. Solo." My Brunet. I felt safe falling back onto my pet names again. I had the feeling we'd all dodged some major bullets this time.

"I am a mite tired." And, I noted, hoarse. According to Sandy, he'd spend much of the night talking to his partner, first in Russian, then in some other language she didn't know and, finally in English until My Pretty decided to wake up.

I was even more convinced that it was why Kuryakin was still alive when McClintok had died. He didn't have anyone to make his time on this planet worth living. God certainly does move in mysterious ways and that was all right with me. Now if He'd just see fit to move Workers Comp...