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section7mfu(Please note that this is an abridged version of the fic, as I'm only posting the part relevant to the image; the full version can be found here on fanfiction.net, but the expanded version gets a bit angsty (because give me snow for a prompt, and I inevitably think "avalanche")
Napoleon wanted nothing more than to be able to rest—to temporarily escape from his aches and pains in the numbing blanket of sleep. Having escaped from a THRUSH hideout in the Cascades thanks to the help of his trusted partner Illya, he had already been weary as they made their escape on snowmobiles in the middle of a snowstorm. But THRUSH hadn’t been ready to give up their prize prisoner so quickly; a THRUSH grunt had pursued them on a snowmobile, as well, first attempting to take out Illya with a luger. Napoleon had run the side of his snowmobile into the grunt’s, spoiling his aim just in time.
The grunt had turned his attention to Napoleon after that, running his snowmobile into the side of Napoleon’s. Napoleon returned the maneuver, and the exchanged continued for some time until the grunt knocked Napoleon into the path of a large tree.
What had happened next remained a bit of a blur to Napoleon, but Illya had later described it as, “You dented the tree, and then the tree dented you.”
Indeed, Napoleon had crashed into the tree, his momentum sending him flying into it—the end result being the incredibly battered, bruised, and aching state he was in now. The THRUSH grunt, however, had not been so lucky; he had lost control of his snowmobile and had ended up plunging into a ravine. Illya had pronounced the grunt dead after one look over the edge and had then turned his attention to his wounded partner, helping him to an old, abandoned cabin on the slope—all the while under fire by more THRUSHies toting everything from machine guns to rocket launchers. Somehow, they had made it through the onslaught and were hiding in the cabin as the sound of rocket launchers continued.
And now, Illya was still watching the snow continuing to fall—and the rockets continuing to speed past the cabin. And Napoleon was slumped over in a chair, determined to rest his battered body with some much-needed sleep…
“Napoleon!”
He was barely aware of his partner’s sudden panicked shout; but he flinched and opened his eyes as he felt a hand gently slapping his face to bring him around.
“Illya…” he muttered. “Stop that…!”
“You cannot sleep! You may have a concussion, and you need to stay awake until Medical has had a look at you,” Illya instructed.
“Illya, I am ninety percent sure that I don’t have a concussion.”
“You hit a tree at twenty miles an hour on a snowmobile.”
“…Alright, then—eighty percent. Look, have you tried any of the channels?”
“Yes, several times,” Illya sighed. “I haven’t been able to get through any of the channels—not in here. The closest I came to making contact was when we were outside near that foul tree.”
Another rocket whistled dangerously close to them, zipping by a foot from the window of the cabin. Illya pulled Napoleon up, leading him to the window.
“It’s fortunate that these THRUSHies can’t hit the broad side of a barn with all this snow coming down,” Napoleon commented, shaking slightly while on his feet. He placed a hand to his head. “Ow…!”
“Napoleon?”
“…Better make that seventy percent, Tovarisch.”
Illya regarded him with a worried expression.
“You need medical attention immediately, Napoleon,” he said. “The longer we wait here, the greater the risk of your falling asleep or unconscious—or THRUSH making their way to this cabin.”
“There’s no phone,” Napoleon said, shutting his eyes to stave off vertigo. “And you said yourself that the communicator isn’t working in here.”
“Da, I know,” Illya sighed. He looked out the window in resignation, though the American didn’t notice, as he was still keeping his eyes shut. “Napoleon, you must promise me something.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Promise me you will not succumb to sleep—that you will not close your eyes while I am gone.”
“Sure, I… Wait…” Napoleon opened his eyes now, frowning in realization as he saw Illya heading for the door of the cabin. “Illya, are you nuts!?” He flinched as his own yelling aggravated his pain, and he held his hand to his head.
“It’s the only chance I have of getting word back to U.N.C.L.E. about your condition so that they can send help!” Illya countered. “I would take you with me to keep an eye on you if I could, but you are more likely to lose consciousness out in the elements! Just hold on and stay awake. I shall return once I’ve finished making contact.”
“You step out there, and you’re likely to get yourself shot or blown up!” Napoleon held his head with both hands now. “…Oh, my head…”
He shut his eyes again, but heard Illya’s footsteps as he approached him, and felt his presence in front of him as the Russian placed his hands on the American’s shoulders.
“I shall be careful,” Illya promised. “I remember my Survival School training; there’s no need to worry about me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Napoleon muttered. He opened his eyes again, noticing the Russian’s worried expression, and he was suddenly bitter. “You’re only going out there because of me.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same,” Illya said, with a wan smile. “You would have gone out there if it meant saving me; I have no doubt about that. Now, please remember…”
“I know, I know,” Napoleon sighed. “Stay awake.”
It felt like a task easier said than done, but he wasn’t about to tell Illya that. But it hurt to move, and it hurt to even think. The temptation to rest for just a moment was growing stronger by the minute.
Illya sensed this, and he thought for a moment, trying to find the proper motivation.
“If you will not stay awake to save yourself, then stay awake as though my life depended on it,” he said at last.
With his piece said, Illya released Napoleon’s shoulders and headed for the door of the cabin. He paused, waiting first for a lull in the firing outside. Once he was satisfied it was safe, he looked back at Napoleon with a nod and slipped out into the cold, closing the door behind him.
Napoleon took a few steps forward to the window, watching Illya maneuver out in the snow; the Russian was keeping as low to the ground as he could while moving as quickly as possible. Another rocket zoomed overhead—it missed Illya by yards, but it was still concerning for Napoleon to see. Well, at any rate, worrying over Illya would certainly succeed in keeping him awake…
The American sighed as his partner now disappeared from his line of vision. It certainly did irk him that Illya was out there solely because of him. The snow was bad enough without THRUSH attacking. …Although, Illya certainly had a greater tolerance for the snow than he did—though that was to be expected, of course.
Despite himself, Napoleon chuckled; snow had never been a problem for the Russian. He seemed his happiest in the New York winters—a blanket of snow on the ground, coating the trees and the streetlights. And though Napoleon claimed that he couldn’t stand the snow, he’d still begrudgingly go out on those winter walks with Illya; it made the Russian happy, and he always asked for so little…
Napoleon’s thoughts trailed off as be began to slip into slumber; fortunately, his face smacked against the cold glass of the window as he leaned forward, quickly bringing him around. He stood dazed for a moment, quite startled that he had just nearly fallen asleep on his feet.
Several more rockets whistling far overhead caught his attention now. Napoleon frowned as he watched their trajectory—heading the peak of the mountain they were on. He tutted at THRUSH’s aim—or lack thereof—as he continued to wonder whether or not his partner had successfully made contact.
(continued on FFN)
Napoleon wanted nothing more than to be able to rest—to temporarily escape from his aches and pains in the numbing blanket of sleep. Having escaped from a THRUSH hideout in the Cascades thanks to the help of his trusted partner Illya, he had already been weary as they made their escape on snowmobiles in the middle of a snowstorm. But THRUSH hadn’t been ready to give up their prize prisoner so quickly; a THRUSH grunt had pursued them on a snowmobile, as well, first attempting to take out Illya with a luger. Napoleon had run the side of his snowmobile into the grunt’s, spoiling his aim just in time.
The grunt had turned his attention to Napoleon after that, running his snowmobile into the side of Napoleon’s. Napoleon returned the maneuver, and the exchanged continued for some time until the grunt knocked Napoleon into the path of a large tree.
What had happened next remained a bit of a blur to Napoleon, but Illya had later described it as, “You dented the tree, and then the tree dented you.”
Indeed, Napoleon had crashed into the tree, his momentum sending him flying into it—the end result being the incredibly battered, bruised, and aching state he was in now. The THRUSH grunt, however, had not been so lucky; he had lost control of his snowmobile and had ended up plunging into a ravine. Illya had pronounced the grunt dead after one look over the edge and had then turned his attention to his wounded partner, helping him to an old, abandoned cabin on the slope—all the while under fire by more THRUSHies toting everything from machine guns to rocket launchers. Somehow, they had made it through the onslaught and were hiding in the cabin as the sound of rocket launchers continued.
And now, Illya was still watching the snow continuing to fall—and the rockets continuing to speed past the cabin. And Napoleon was slumped over in a chair, determined to rest his battered body with some much-needed sleep…
“Napoleon!”
He was barely aware of his partner’s sudden panicked shout; but he flinched and opened his eyes as he felt a hand gently slapping his face to bring him around.
“Illya…” he muttered. “Stop that…!”
“You cannot sleep! You may have a concussion, and you need to stay awake until Medical has had a look at you,” Illya instructed.
“Illya, I am ninety percent sure that I don’t have a concussion.”
“You hit a tree at twenty miles an hour on a snowmobile.”
“…Alright, then—eighty percent. Look, have you tried any of the channels?”
“Yes, several times,” Illya sighed. “I haven’t been able to get through any of the channels—not in here. The closest I came to making contact was when we were outside near that foul tree.”
Another rocket whistled dangerously close to them, zipping by a foot from the window of the cabin. Illya pulled Napoleon up, leading him to the window.
“It’s fortunate that these THRUSHies can’t hit the broad side of a barn with all this snow coming down,” Napoleon commented, shaking slightly while on his feet. He placed a hand to his head. “Ow…!”
“Napoleon?”
“…Better make that seventy percent, Tovarisch.”
Illya regarded him with a worried expression.
“You need medical attention immediately, Napoleon,” he said. “The longer we wait here, the greater the risk of your falling asleep or unconscious—or THRUSH making their way to this cabin.”
“There’s no phone,” Napoleon said, shutting his eyes to stave off vertigo. “And you said yourself that the communicator isn’t working in here.”
“Da, I know,” Illya sighed. He looked out the window in resignation, though the American didn’t notice, as he was still keeping his eyes shut. “Napoleon, you must promise me something.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Promise me you will not succumb to sleep—that you will not close your eyes while I am gone.”
“Sure, I… Wait…” Napoleon opened his eyes now, frowning in realization as he saw Illya heading for the door of the cabin. “Illya, are you nuts!?” He flinched as his own yelling aggravated his pain, and he held his hand to his head.
“It’s the only chance I have of getting word back to U.N.C.L.E. about your condition so that they can send help!” Illya countered. “I would take you with me to keep an eye on you if I could, but you are more likely to lose consciousness out in the elements! Just hold on and stay awake. I shall return once I’ve finished making contact.”
“You step out there, and you’re likely to get yourself shot or blown up!” Napoleon held his head with both hands now. “…Oh, my head…”
He shut his eyes again, but heard Illya’s footsteps as he approached him, and felt his presence in front of him as the Russian placed his hands on the American’s shoulders.
“I shall be careful,” Illya promised. “I remember my Survival School training; there’s no need to worry about me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Napoleon muttered. He opened his eyes again, noticing the Russian’s worried expression, and he was suddenly bitter. “You’re only going out there because of me.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same,” Illya said, with a wan smile. “You would have gone out there if it meant saving me; I have no doubt about that. Now, please remember…”
“I know, I know,” Napoleon sighed. “Stay awake.”
It felt like a task easier said than done, but he wasn’t about to tell Illya that. But it hurt to move, and it hurt to even think. The temptation to rest for just a moment was growing stronger by the minute.
Illya sensed this, and he thought for a moment, trying to find the proper motivation.
“If you will not stay awake to save yourself, then stay awake as though my life depended on it,” he said at last.
With his piece said, Illya released Napoleon’s shoulders and headed for the door of the cabin. He paused, waiting first for a lull in the firing outside. Once he was satisfied it was safe, he looked back at Napoleon with a nod and slipped out into the cold, closing the door behind him.
Napoleon took a few steps forward to the window, watching Illya maneuver out in the snow; the Russian was keeping as low to the ground as he could while moving as quickly as possible. Another rocket zoomed overhead—it missed Illya by yards, but it was still concerning for Napoleon to see. Well, at any rate, worrying over Illya would certainly succeed in keeping him awake…
The American sighed as his partner now disappeared from his line of vision. It certainly did irk him that Illya was out there solely because of him. The snow was bad enough without THRUSH attacking. …Although, Illya certainly had a greater tolerance for the snow than he did—though that was to be expected, of course.
Despite himself, Napoleon chuckled; snow had never been a problem for the Russian. He seemed his happiest in the New York winters—a blanket of snow on the ground, coating the trees and the streetlights. And though Napoleon claimed that he couldn’t stand the snow, he’d still begrudgingly go out on those winter walks with Illya; it made the Russian happy, and he always asked for so little…
Napoleon’s thoughts trailed off as be began to slip into slumber; fortunately, his face smacked against the cold glass of the window as he leaned forward, quickly bringing him around. He stood dazed for a moment, quite startled that he had just nearly fallen asleep on his feet.
Several more rockets whistling far overhead caught his attention now. Napoleon frowned as he watched their trajectory—heading the peak of the mountain they were on. He tutted at THRUSH’s aim—or lack thereof—as he continued to wonder whether or not his partner had successfully made contact.
(continued on FFN)
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