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section7mfu2016-04-11 10:30 am
gevaudan1986.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2016-04-11 10:30 am
Entry tags:
Challenge - The Short Affair - due 11th April 2016
Prompt Word – Drift
Prompt Colour – Black
Title: Stoic to the Point of Stupidity
Author: Gevaudan1986
Word Count: 750-ish
Awareness crept up on him slowly, although he attempted to evade it. He was content to drift on a velvet black tide indefinitely, serene in the silence. His thoughts spun in lazy, discombobulated patterns, and he lacked any impetus to chase them to their conclusion.
Despite his lassitude, reality had other plans and he became dimly aware of slivers of reality, intent on making themselves known.
The irritating and unreachable itch of a wool blanket against the naked skin of his chest.
The bitter tang of disinfectant coating his tongue.
The persistent squeak of an air-conditioning unit in desperate need of maintenance.
The tired sigh of a partner who had spent too many hours maintaining a silent vigil.
"Come on tovarish, you've been asleep long enough now."
Maybe not that silent.
Eyes still closed, he ran his own internal inventory. No pain, always a plus, but that slight roil in his stomach which signalled the presence of some of Dr Peter's heavy-duty opiate painkillers flowing through his system. His mouth was arid, as though someone had taken a wad of cotton wool and absorbed every drop of moisture they could find; surgery then, with the requisite general anaesthetic, if he was closer to fully awake he would have groaned at the thought of the vomiting that he would doubtless endure later - sometimes forewarning was a terrible thing.
He struggled to recollect, to think back to the events which had landed him in this bed, but all he drew was a disconcerting blank. He was unable to remember a mission that might explain what had happened, in fact the last thing he remembered was being in his apartment, reading a journal with his breakfast coffee and grumbling about the heat of a Manhattan summer. But something unfortunate must have happened, given the ragged edge to his partner's voice.
Slowly he forced open gritty, bloodshot eyes, wincing at the glare from the fluorescent bulb that hung above him. Though quiet, the sharp intake of breath was enough to attract the attention of his waiting partner.
"Hey, Illya," concern swum in his hazel eyes, "how are you feeling?"
The blond attempted to respond choking slightly on his words as vocal chords, stiff with disuse, struggled to form coherent sounds. Smiling crookedly in sympathy, Solo offered him ice chips from a glass beside the bed which he gratefully accepted.
"... happened?" he finally managed to croak out.
"You don't remember?"
Kuryakin shook his head, regretting the move as his head swum.
"... mission?"
Solo smiled as he pulled a chair closer to the bed.
"Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid," he commented, "I came to meet you for dinner, and found you unconscious on the floor of your apartment."
Illya's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, prompting Solo to explain.
"You had appendicitis Illya," the tone was fond, but with an undercurrent of frustration, "but instead of going to the doctor like a normal person, you apparently read an astrophysics journal and drank German schnapps."
"Its medicinal," Illya protested feebly, a dim recollection of a knock at the door, a swimming head as he stood to answer it.
"Not when your appendix is about to rupture it isn't," Napoleon pointed out severely, "You're lucky we had agreed to get dinner, otherwise no one would have found you."
Illya nodded slowly, fragments of memory coming back to him. Memories of a stomach ache worseing to knife-edge pain and persistent nausea accompanied by a steadily rising fever. He vaguely remembered considering calling Napoleon only to decide he would see him shortly anyway. Clearly that had been a mistake.
A gruff voice from the doorway startled him out of his thoughts.
"Indeed Mr Solo," agreed Alexander Waverly sternly, "I will have to take Mr Cutter to task if he is teaching our agents to be stoic to the point of stupidity."
Abashed, Illya blushed and fiddled with the blanket.
"I trust you have learnt your lesson?" the Old Man, his tone gentler than Illya felt he deserved.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I am sure you will follow the guidance of our excellent medical staff and will be back in the field in short order."
"Yes sir," Illya acknowledged the implicit command to, for once, do as he was told.
"Not to worry sir," Napoleon grinned, "He won't be doing it again..."
Illya instinctively knew what was coming.
"He hasn't got an appendix for a start."
Groaning, Illya laid back and closed his eyes - it was going to be a long road to recovery.
Prompt Colour – Black
Title: Stoic to the Point of Stupidity
Author: Gevaudan1986
Word Count: 750-ish
Awareness crept up on him slowly, although he attempted to evade it. He was content to drift on a velvet black tide indefinitely, serene in the silence. His thoughts spun in lazy, discombobulated patterns, and he lacked any impetus to chase them to their conclusion.
Despite his lassitude, reality had other plans and he became dimly aware of slivers of reality, intent on making themselves known.
The irritating and unreachable itch of a wool blanket against the naked skin of his chest.
The bitter tang of disinfectant coating his tongue.
The persistent squeak of an air-conditioning unit in desperate need of maintenance.
The tired sigh of a partner who had spent too many hours maintaining a silent vigil.
"Come on tovarish, you've been asleep long enough now."
Maybe not that silent.
Eyes still closed, he ran his own internal inventory. No pain, always a plus, but that slight roil in his stomach which signalled the presence of some of Dr Peter's heavy-duty opiate painkillers flowing through his system. His mouth was arid, as though someone had taken a wad of cotton wool and absorbed every drop of moisture they could find; surgery then, with the requisite general anaesthetic, if he was closer to fully awake he would have groaned at the thought of the vomiting that he would doubtless endure later - sometimes forewarning was a terrible thing.
He struggled to recollect, to think back to the events which had landed him in this bed, but all he drew was a disconcerting blank. He was unable to remember a mission that might explain what had happened, in fact the last thing he remembered was being in his apartment, reading a journal with his breakfast coffee and grumbling about the heat of a Manhattan summer. But something unfortunate must have happened, given the ragged edge to his partner's voice.
Slowly he forced open gritty, bloodshot eyes, wincing at the glare from the fluorescent bulb that hung above him. Though quiet, the sharp intake of breath was enough to attract the attention of his waiting partner.
"Hey, Illya," concern swum in his hazel eyes, "how are you feeling?"
The blond attempted to respond choking slightly on his words as vocal chords, stiff with disuse, struggled to form coherent sounds. Smiling crookedly in sympathy, Solo offered him ice chips from a glass beside the bed which he gratefully accepted.
"... happened?" he finally managed to croak out.
"You don't remember?"
Kuryakin shook his head, regretting the move as his head swum.
"... mission?"
Solo smiled as he pulled a chair closer to the bed.
"Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid," he commented, "I came to meet you for dinner, and found you unconscious on the floor of your apartment."
Illya's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, prompting Solo to explain.
"You had appendicitis Illya," the tone was fond, but with an undercurrent of frustration, "but instead of going to the doctor like a normal person, you apparently read an astrophysics journal and drank German schnapps."
"Its medicinal," Illya protested feebly, a dim recollection of a knock at the door, a swimming head as he stood to answer it.
"Not when your appendix is about to rupture it isn't," Napoleon pointed out severely, "You're lucky we had agreed to get dinner, otherwise no one would have found you."
Illya nodded slowly, fragments of memory coming back to him. Memories of a stomach ache worseing to knife-edge pain and persistent nausea accompanied by a steadily rising fever. He vaguely remembered considering calling Napoleon only to decide he would see him shortly anyway. Clearly that had been a mistake.
A gruff voice from the doorway startled him out of his thoughts.
"Indeed Mr Solo," agreed Alexander Waverly sternly, "I will have to take Mr Cutter to task if he is teaching our agents to be stoic to the point of stupidity."
Abashed, Illya blushed and fiddled with the blanket.
"I trust you have learnt your lesson?" the Old Man, his tone gentler than Illya felt he deserved.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I am sure you will follow the guidance of our excellent medical staff and will be back in the field in short order."
"Yes sir," Illya acknowledged the implicit command to, for once, do as he was told.
"Not to worry sir," Napoleon grinned, "He won't be doing it again..."
Illya instinctively knew what was coming.
"He hasn't got an appendix for a start."
Groaning, Illya laid back and closed his eyes - it was going to be a long road to recovery.
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Great story...I could feel IKs pain and NS's frustration.
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Thanks for reading and commenting!
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