Work Text:
Hotel, Venice
“The Polizia rang – I told them we’d stop in to ID the gunmen.”
“You go ahead, I’m feeling rotten.”
“Ha, join the committee.”
“I mean it, Illya, I can’t seem to breathe normally.”
“Nor can I. Get up.”
“I don’t suppose…”
“Napoleon, my throat hurts, my sinuses are throbbing, the only consolation of this place is the pasta and I can’t taste anything. And, it pains me to admit as much, but my grasp on the Italian dialects has always been weaker than yours. Now. Please.”
Hospital, USA
[Pointed silence.]
“How was I to know you had pneumonia?”