Don't Forget To Drabble...

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The Section VII Halloween Round-Robin! "The BOO from U.N.C.L.E."

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                 

( More info behind the cut: )

"That'll do it" ~ for A Little Drabble Do Ya!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Illya had a massive headache; wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, he felt jittery and nauseous.

Why? No THRUSH drugs in his system. Why was he ill?

“You okay?” Napoleon asked.

Being off duty on an unusually hot night, they’d gone to one of Kuryakin’s jazz clubs. It wasn’t Napoleon’s thing, but being sans date for the evening...better than sitting home.

Illya described his symptoms.

Looking at the numerous empty glasses on their table, Solo quickly figured it out.

“I think a dozen ice-teas full of caffeine did it, don’t you?”

Illya shrugged.  “I was thirsty.”

A Little Drabble Do Ya: Irresistible

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

“Go away!  I’m busy!” Napoleon was pleased to now hear silence in the hallway.

Ten minutes later, the door slid open to reveal Illya with Morris trailing behind him.  The kitten immediately ran to the CEA and half – jumped, half – climbed into his lap.  Smiling down he said, “What?  I tell you I’m busy and you wait for Illya to let you in?”  Stroking Morris’ fur, he opined, “You love me! I’m irresistible.”

The Russian snorted.  “The affection of one cat hardly makes you irresistible.  Morris is equally fond of the kitchen staff.”

“Stop trying to burst my bubble.”

“Blockhead.”

New Air - A Little Drabble Do Ya

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Napoleon took in a deep breath and exhaled.  He smiled at his partner before taking another deep breath.

“It’s finally Autumn.  Crisp air and the promise of cozy fires...’ He winked conspiratorially.

“The season changes and you’re thinking of women?”  Illya shook his head, rolled his eyes, then clucked his tongue in mocking dismay.

‘‘Seasons reflect our emotions.  The summer is hot with passion, fall lets us cuddle with a lovely maiden...”

“Maiden?  Who are you, and where is my partner?”

Napoleon didn’t care if Illya made fun of him.  He loved Autumn and everything that the season would bring.

Prepared - A Little Drabble Do Ya! - Sept 28th

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

“I don’t suppose you have anything which could help us out of this,” Napoleon asked, indicating the locked door of the cell.

“Of course,” Illya replied. “We could use my shirt buttons, or the tip of my belt, or maybe even my tooth cap. But then again, there are the ends my shoe laces, the contents of my left heel, and the stitching on my handkerchief. Oh, and I also have my money clip and some fake breath mints.”

“I have to say, Tovarisch, I think you may just be carrying a little too much explosive material around with you.”

.

If We Can Hold on Through the Night (A Little Triple Drabble Do Ya 9/28)

[colonial-teapot.livejournal.com]

This was the result of a drabble switch with Anamary Armygram and was inspired by Fiorenza-a's "The Cell," partially in plot but primarily in mood.

---

Another draft courses violently through the dungeon. He shivers. His partner, slumped beside him against the wall, doesn’t even stir. Though they’re both badly battered, he took the worst of it, and has yet to regain consciousness.

He has his hand around his friend’s forearm, just as he has since their assaulters left. At first, the grip was to control bleeding that was both too fast and too heavy. But now that the flow has significantly slowed, the gesture is much more for his own sake than it is for his partner’s. He’s too weak to do anything else for him, even worry, so it seems he ought to be steadfast about at least that small thing--particularly because he can feel that his friend’s fingers are still wrapped around his shoulder holster, barely laxed by unconsciousness, exactly the way they were when he was trying desperately to pull him out of the line of fire.

For once, when the rescue squad gets here, his partner won’t be leading the pack. But as far as he’s concerned, he’s already saved the day. And if they can both hold on long enough to see tomorrow, all that’s left to do is wait.

It proves to be a long night. Sleep eludes him, and as the hours wear on, the dungeon’s cold wall and floor siphon all the feeling from his body. The pain slowly ebbs away, replaced bit by bit with numbness, and fogginess subsumes his mind.

And still he knows, as if by some twinging inside of his own soul, the very moment during the night that his partner awakens, that he is alive and someday, he will be well again. But not a word is spoken. Their eyes don’t meet, and neither hand tightens its grip.

Neither needs to.