Dreaming of Icarus - Picfic Challenge for 07/07/2015

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Dreaming of Icarus

It wasn't often that he took the time to stop and admire the sky, but it really was extraordinarily beautiful today. The sun was not long risen and the sky was clear above the clouds, glorious shades of purples and greys, so close he could almost touch them. He sighed; for the first time in months he felt entirely at peace, free of all the doubt and loneliness that plagued him.

“Very good, Mr Solo,” a soft musical voice said. “Now, ease the throttle forwards and let's climb to 10,000 feet.”

Oh. He blinked, strangely unsettled. He'd almost forgotten that he was flying the plane.

He turned and smiled at Marissa, his gorgeous instructor, ignoring the cold lurch in the pit of his stomach. “I'm sorry,” he said. “What height did you say?”

“10,000 feet,” she repeated.

He nodded and let the plane climb. It seemed to come naturally.

The problem with having such patchwork flying experience was that it made it difficult for him to log enough flying hours to keep his flying certification. He had no doubt that he had, in fact, spent enough time in the air to qualify, but as at least half the planes had been stolen from THRUSH, it made it more difficult to provide the right paperwork, and the UNCLE flying school were apparently sticklers for the right paperwork.

Advanced flying lessons were the answers given to that, and Napoleon didn't mind much. Even leaving aside the fact that Marissa was very beautiful, he was finding it incredibly relaxing. Besides. It gave him something to focus on.

He watched the clouds drift by, feeling like if he just turned off the engine he could glide right along with them, drifting forever.

Illya was in the hospital and had been for the last two months, leaving him bereft, if not aimless. He'd been on six (or maybe seven? He wasn't sure) assignments in quick succession, and while that was nothing unusual and certainly nothing he couldn't handle, he somehow felt a a bit of a loss.

Funny. It used to be that being alone was comfortable for him. Oh, company had always been easy to find, and friendship only a little more difficult, but those times when he had been on his own back then, he hadn't found himself looking round for someone to share a joke or a significant glance with. Even when he was working with others it wasn't the same.

“Of course not, darling,” April had told him over a bottle of wine in a bar in Seville while they were waiting for Mark to get back. “You like us fine, but we're not Illya. You are allowed to miss him, you know.”

Miss him....yes.

He was supposed to be seeing Illya today, wasn't he? At St Joshua's, the UNCLE rehabilitation hospital. He didn't want to be late, what time was it?

“Focus on flying, Mr Solo,” Marissa said sharply. “That's the only thing that matters here. Now, let's climb back up to 10,000 feet.”

Oh. They'd lost height somehow, and with it his sense of serenity. They were closer to the ground and he didn't recognise anything. He tried banking and looking out Marissa's window for some landmark or something, but he couldn't see through the red splashed across the glass. Determinedly he turned the plane towards the sun and closed his eyes, enjoying the light and the warmth on his face.

For a while he simply let the plane fly where it would and let his mind drift through sunlight.

“You're almost out of fuel, Napoleon,” Illya warned him. “You need to land soon.”

He glanced at the gauge and tapped it clinically. It was sitting on empty and had been for some time. “Just a little while longer,” he said. “There's no rush.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Marissa promised, her voice soft and enticing, the gun in her hand a mere afterthought.

There was something wrong here. “You're supposed to be in hospital,” he said to Illya with a frown, turning round to confront him where he was lying back on the sofa. “When did you get out?”

“Through the window,” Illya replied cryptically. He looked pensive. “Mr Waverly was quite cross.”

He sighed. “You told me you'd stay there until the doctors released you,” he chided.

Illya looked at him. “You told me you would come back,” he said.

“I will,” he said exasperatedly. “Just as soon as I'm done here.” Only...what was he doing here? How long had they been in the air? It felt like years, but the sun was still rising.

He felt a surge of panic and just for a second there was a sharp, shooting pain in his chest and left leg and the sky seemed to dissolve into blackness.

“Why don't we climb higher?” Marissa said quickly. “Say, 15,000 feet?”

“The ceiling on a Cessna 172 is 13,500 feet,” Illya remarked to no one in particular.

Napoleon ignored him.

“That's it,” Marissa whispered. “The sky is no limit at all. Just let go and escape it all.”

“Napoleon.” Illya's hand was resting on his shoulder. “Remember she is THRUSH. Remember she is dead.”

He turned sharply to look at Marissa, and he could see the bloody gash where the bullet had torn across her throat, and his finger was on the trigger, her hands wrapped around his, struggling, and she was choking, dying, blood bubbling out between her lips, her eyes huge and disbelieving.

The sky grew dark and the clouds rolled with heavy thunder.

“I didn't want to remember that!” he shouted accusingly, and then the pain hit him with all the force of a tornado. The instruments were spinning wildly, completing out of control, and he desperately tried to correct, but his leg felt like it was being crushed in a vice, and someone was punching his chest, and Illya was shouting at him from somewhere far away, his accent thicker than usual, his words choked. “Come on, Napoleon, don't you dare give up on me now. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me,” and that wasn't fair, because his eyes were already open.

When the skies cleared he was alone. Marissa and Illya were nowhere in sight. He didn't want to be alone.

The ground looked impossibly far away, hard and cold and remote, and from this distance there was so much less there than he'd ever imagined.

He flew up. He barely needed the plane at all now. There was another sky beyond the cloud and it was wide and bright and glorious and all he had to do was fly off into the light and there was so much more there than he could see. Already, he could feel the peace shining down on him.

Don't give up. I miss you, my friend.

He closed his eyes; somewhere he could hear Illya's voice. And after all, if he had missed Illya over the last couple of months, how could he even pretend that Illya wasn't missing him?

Ah, well. He grinned. When had he ever given up on anything in his life?

He brought the plane around and started descending, and immediately the plane started to shake and break up around him, and he was crashing, falling out of the sky, and the ground was screaming up towards him, and there were too many trees, too many rocks, and he had to try and put it down on the river, he had to try, but just when he thought he should hit, just when he was bracing himself for the impact and the pain, he felt the plane dissolve away and he was just falling now, lost and drowning in the sky -

A strong hand wrapped around his, pulling him up and out of darkness.

He opened his eyes.

He was lying in a narrow hospital bed in a darkened room, and Illya was sitting slumped in a chair by his bedside, his hand wrapped around Napoleon's. He looked exhausted; unshaven and apparently dressed in a hospital gown over a pair of black sweatpants.

“Hi,” Napoleon rasped, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth with difficulty. “I had a weird dream.”

Illya blinked and stared at him, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I will fetch the doctor,” he said, making to stand up.

Napoleon grabbed his hand tighter. “Don't,” he said. “Stay. Please.”

“Of course,” Illya said, sitting back down, the smile still alive in his eyes.

“It was a plane crash?” he managed to ask.

“Yes,” Illya told him. “Three days ago. You were looking for a THRUSH infiltrator in the flight school. Apparently you found her.”

He nodded, hardly listening, concentrating on the feeling of Illya's hand on his. Right now, this was all there was. Keeping him grounded. Letting him fly.

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

This was excellent and the twist was unexpected. Thanks for joining in the PicFic challenge. Glad you're making yourself at home here on Section VII. :D

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you! And thank you for the welcome here, it's been really great.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Your stories continue to astound and delight, and this one... off the scale. I was a little panicked myself with Napoleon's predicament. Brava, once again.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you that's lovely of you.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Wonderfully gripping story, with a brilliantly unexpected twist. I absolutely love the way you write.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much, that's great to hear - I was worried that the twist might be a little too obvious, glad it worked for you.

[spikesgirl58.livejournal.com]

Oh, very nice. I hope we will be seeing much more from you!

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Glad you liked it, and I've got several more fics planned, so you probably will. :)

[spikesgirl58.livejournal.com]

That's great news!

[carabele.livejournal.com]

Wow! absolutely gorgeous imagery throughout.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I was trying to keep it somewhat dreamlike and visual, so that's good.

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

So many twists and turns in this, I loved it! I never would have guested the truth of what was happening. You're good.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you, that's really nice to hear. Glad you liked this.

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Very excellent, the feeling you had Napoleon express was for freeing and comfortable--and the ending a small surprise

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Glad you liked it and glad you found the ending a surprise. The trouble with writing that kind of twist was I really wound up having no idea what clues anyone was going to pick up on. :)