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Illya scowled as he took the thermometer from his mouth and glanced at it.
“Well?” Napoleon asked, still sitting in the chair beside the bed in Medical.
“I’ve got a fever,” Illya grunted. “It looks as though I have picked up whatever it was that’s been going around.”
“Well, you know the procedure from here—they’ll let you recover at home if you actually can convince them that you’ll stay in bed and not try to overexert yourself,” Napoleon pointed out. He shrugged. “Good luck with convincing them, though—everyone knows that you’re a terrible patient.”
“And what are you?” Illya asked, with a scoff. “I’m contagious, and here you are.”
“Realistically speaking, with our close proximity, it’s a cinch that whatever it is you’ve got, I’ll get it, too,” Napoleon sighed. He ruefully indicated the empty bed beside Illya’s. “I’ll probably be there tomorrow. You know the old saying, ‘If you seek revenge, dig two graves?’ Well, apparently here in medical, they have a variation: ‘If a field agent falls ill, set two beds in Medical.’ The partner is always the next one to come down with it.”
“Actually, Mr. Solo, that only applies to you and Mr. Kuryakin,” the doctor said, entering with a mask on. “And so, I insist you get into that bed now. You’ll both have dinner brought to you in an hour.”
Napoleon winced at the thought of having to stomach Medical’s fixings yet again.
“…I don’t suppose you could let us recover at home?”
“Not at the present time,” the doctor said, exiting again.
Napoleon’s nose crinkled in both disgust and in an attempt to stifle a sneeze; the tiny snark from Illya’s bed did not escape him.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing,” Illya said, innocently. “Now that you’ve fulfilled your self-fulfilling prophecy, you might as well accept everything that comes with it.”
Napoleon grumbled his way to bed.
“Imagine that doctor having the nerve to say that this rule only applies to the two of us…” he muttered.
“Perhaps he was merely trying to get your sheep.”
“Goat.”
“Close enough.”
“I’ll tell you what really gets my goat,” Napoleon sighed. “Getting sidelined like this. You know, we would arguably be of more use in a THRUSH satrap right now?”
“How do you figure that?”
“Easy—we’d get everyone in there to catch whatever we’ve got.”
“Da, run it by Waverly and tell me what he says,” Illya said. “Get some rest, Napoleon—you’re already starting to sound delirious.”
Napoleon responded with more grumbling, and, in spite of himself, Illya managed a wan smile.
At least they didn’t have to suffer alone.