![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuShort Affair 3/13
Prompt: Delicate
Color: Silver
Title: Timely Rescue
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: ~920
Napoleon groaned as he came to his senses. The last thing he remembered was getting run off of the road by what was had most definitely been a THRUSH car and swerving into a ravine. He opened his eyes now, blinking as he found himself lying in the ravine, nothing but the starry night above him. Turning his head slightly to the left, he saw the car he had been driving earlier now reduced to a crumpled mess, lying on its roof; the door had been flung open in the collision, and Napoleon had obviously been thrown from the car—or had he been trying to escape it? Either way, his luck had held out… to a point, that is—
“Mr. Waverly isn’t going to like the expense report,” he mumbled to no one in particular as it became clear that U.N.C.L.E. would have to foot the bill for replacing the now-totaled rental car.
He tried to move now, but he hadn’t gone completely unscathed; his body was battered and bruised, and as he tried to get up, he quickly fell back with a cry of pain. He had a few cracked ribs at the very least, and one of his legs was injured—possibly broken. He’d be on medical leave for a while with this…
But, worst of all, he was alone and vulnerable, and there was no telling when THRUSH or some other opportunists would come by and finish him off.
He had one chance—one way out of this. And the key was, hopefully, still somewhere in his pocket—the delicate, silver-colored pen that was, in reality, his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. His fingers closed around it; it was still intact. Hopefully, it would still work. If it didn’t, then he’d have to struggle to move with his injuries—and as bad as they were, he wasn’t likely to get far with them.
He switched it on, and paused for a moment, gathering the strength to speak as sweat poured down his face.
“Open channel D,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. He paused and winced as a sharp pain shot through his wounded leg.
There was the faint sound of activity over the channel, and then, a voice he hadn’t expected but certainly loved to hear—
“Napoleon!?” Illya exclaimed. “Napoleon, what happened!? Your tracking device stopped transmitting hours ago! Where are you!?”
“Same place I’ve been since my tracker stopped transmitting,” Napoleon said, between breaths.
“…You are in pain,” his partner realized, picking up the subtle cues in his voice.
“Astute as ever,” Napoleon said, with a wan smile.
“You were attacked?”
“In a way,” Napoleon admitted. “Got run off the road and woke up now still at the bottom of the ravine they sent me crashing into.” He paused. “Illya… I don’t think I can get out of here by myself. I mean, I can try, but I’m not sure how far I’d get.”
“Do you have any idea of your bearings?”
“I’m on a back road behind Highway 9,” Napoleon said. “I… don’t remember the last mile marker; I took an exit from Highway 9 about fifteen minutes ago when I suspected I was being followed…” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the details; everything had happened so quickly, and the crash itself certainly hadn’t helped with remembering the details. “I want to say it was Exit 30? Ohh, my head…”
“Keep transmitting to me, Napoleon. George is trying to triangulate your signal. The information you have given will help us narrow your search.”
“Take your time—I’m not going anywhere…”
“Well, your wit is as sharp as ever,” Illya noted, wryly. “I shall take that as a good sign…”
Illya kept him talking, even after George had pinpointed Napoleon’s exact location, and Napoleon realized that Illya was trying to keep him awake in case he’d sustained a concussion in the crash. And a couple hours later, Napoleon saw Illya’s concerned face watching over him as Medical staff filed around him, carefully moving him onto a stretcher. Their observations declared Napoleon to be concussion-free, and the leg that Napoleon had been worried about was merely badly twisted, but not broken.
“We really must stop meeting like this…” Napoleon mused to his partner, giving him a smile to reassure him that he was on the mend.
“Oh, and how would you suggest we meet?” Illya asked, deadpan.
“Preferably when I’m… having one of my better days,” Napoleon said, and he winced as his stretcher was now lifted. “…Incidentally, how bad does it look?
“Really, Napoleon, I think your vanity needs to be lower on your list of priorities,” Illya said, rolling his eyes. “But if it means that much to you, let me reassure you that you won’t have any permanent scarring… Well, nowhere visible at least.”
“…I can live with that.”
“Of course, because the world will stop turning should Napoleon Solo’s face be anything less than perfect,” Illya sighed.
Napoleon managed a chuckle before wincing again from the pain. It wasn’t just the idea of permanent visible scars that Napoleon disliked; it was being reduced to this state—helpless and in pain.
He would be grateful when it would just be him and his partner in the recovery ward. Illya was the only one he didn’t feel uncomfortable around when in this state. They were partners and had shared a great deal during their time together, having seen each other at his very best and very worst.
After all, what else were partners for?
Prompt: Delicate
Color: Silver
Title: Timely Rescue
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: ~920
Napoleon groaned as he came to his senses. The last thing he remembered was getting run off of the road by what was had most definitely been a THRUSH car and swerving into a ravine. He opened his eyes now, blinking as he found himself lying in the ravine, nothing but the starry night above him. Turning his head slightly to the left, he saw the car he had been driving earlier now reduced to a crumpled mess, lying on its roof; the door had been flung open in the collision, and Napoleon had obviously been thrown from the car—or had he been trying to escape it? Either way, his luck had held out… to a point, that is—
“Mr. Waverly isn’t going to like the expense report,” he mumbled to no one in particular as it became clear that U.N.C.L.E. would have to foot the bill for replacing the now-totaled rental car.
He tried to move now, but he hadn’t gone completely unscathed; his body was battered and bruised, and as he tried to get up, he quickly fell back with a cry of pain. He had a few cracked ribs at the very least, and one of his legs was injured—possibly broken. He’d be on medical leave for a while with this…
But, worst of all, he was alone and vulnerable, and there was no telling when THRUSH or some other opportunists would come by and finish him off.
He had one chance—one way out of this. And the key was, hopefully, still somewhere in his pocket—the delicate, silver-colored pen that was, in reality, his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. His fingers closed around it; it was still intact. Hopefully, it would still work. If it didn’t, then he’d have to struggle to move with his injuries—and as bad as they were, he wasn’t likely to get far with them.
He switched it on, and paused for a moment, gathering the strength to speak as sweat poured down his face.
“Open channel D,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. He paused and winced as a sharp pain shot through his wounded leg.
There was the faint sound of activity over the channel, and then, a voice he hadn’t expected but certainly loved to hear—
“Napoleon!?” Illya exclaimed. “Napoleon, what happened!? Your tracking device stopped transmitting hours ago! Where are you!?”
“Same place I’ve been since my tracker stopped transmitting,” Napoleon said, between breaths.
“…You are in pain,” his partner realized, picking up the subtle cues in his voice.
“Astute as ever,” Napoleon said, with a wan smile.
“You were attacked?”
“In a way,” Napoleon admitted. “Got run off the road and woke up now still at the bottom of the ravine they sent me crashing into.” He paused. “Illya… I don’t think I can get out of here by myself. I mean, I can try, but I’m not sure how far I’d get.”
“Do you have any idea of your bearings?”
“I’m on a back road behind Highway 9,” Napoleon said. “I… don’t remember the last mile marker; I took an exit from Highway 9 about fifteen minutes ago when I suspected I was being followed…” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the details; everything had happened so quickly, and the crash itself certainly hadn’t helped with remembering the details. “I want to say it was Exit 30? Ohh, my head…”
“Keep transmitting to me, Napoleon. George is trying to triangulate your signal. The information you have given will help us narrow your search.”
“Take your time—I’m not going anywhere…”
“Well, your wit is as sharp as ever,” Illya noted, wryly. “I shall take that as a good sign…”
Illya kept him talking, even after George had pinpointed Napoleon’s exact location, and Napoleon realized that Illya was trying to keep him awake in case he’d sustained a concussion in the crash. And a couple hours later, Napoleon saw Illya’s concerned face watching over him as Medical staff filed around him, carefully moving him onto a stretcher. Their observations declared Napoleon to be concussion-free, and the leg that Napoleon had been worried about was merely badly twisted, but not broken.
“We really must stop meeting like this…” Napoleon mused to his partner, giving him a smile to reassure him that he was on the mend.
“Oh, and how would you suggest we meet?” Illya asked, deadpan.
“Preferably when I’m… having one of my better days,” Napoleon said, and he winced as his stretcher was now lifted. “…Incidentally, how bad does it look?
“Really, Napoleon, I think your vanity needs to be lower on your list of priorities,” Illya said, rolling his eyes. “But if it means that much to you, let me reassure you that you won’t have any permanent scarring… Well, nowhere visible at least.”
“…I can live with that.”
“Of course, because the world will stop turning should Napoleon Solo’s face be anything less than perfect,” Illya sighed.
Napoleon managed a chuckle before wincing again from the pain. It wasn’t just the idea of permanent visible scars that Napoleon disliked; it was being reduced to this state—helpless and in pain.
He would be grateful when it would just be him and his partner in the recovery ward. Illya was the only one he didn’t feel uncomfortable around when in this state. They were partners and had shared a great deal during their time together, having seen each other at his very best and very worst.
After all, what else were partners for?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-03-13 11:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-14 01:30 am (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2017-03-14 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-14 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-16 08:10 pm (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2017-03-16 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-20 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-20 07:57 pm (UTC)