section7mfu | Short Affair - Room Service (Reply)

Yes, I'm back - anyone miss me? I unexpectedly found my desire to write this afternoon. Believe me, I hadn't seen it in a long time, so I figured I'd come back to the community and see if there were any challenges that could help me remember how words work - only to discover that we're taking a break from challenges. This is my typical timing. Anyway, here's a story.

Prompt - Protest/Red
Words - 469
Title - Room Service

On AO3 or

The hard shove in the small of his back sent Napoleon stumbling forwards into the small cell, falling against the narrow window. The sun was just setting over the compound, bathing everything in a dull, sickly glow. “I really must protest,” he said mildly, turning to smile at the guard. “I'm sure I asked for a room with a view.”

“Oh, you'll get a view alright,” the guard scoffed. “The gallows are just in the courtyard there. That window will give you a fine view of your execution tomorrow morning.”

Napoleon blinked. “Well, I suppose I look forward to seeing it. At least that means I won't have to attend.”

Taking a step forwards, the guard shook his finger towards the cell. “Laugh while you can, funnyman. Soon you'll be laughing in your grave.”

“Again, I think you're not quite getting this. Full marks for effort though.”

The guard was already walking away, but he turned back to make an – allegedly – menacing gesture, running his finger across his throat.

Napoleon turned back into the cell. “Well, the entertainment's something, but it doesn't quite make up for the accommodation. I certainly won't be giving this place five stars.”

Illya hadn't moved from where he'd been slumped on the floor, not that Napoleon was surprised. By the looks of him his three days in THRUSH hands hadn't treated him well. He looked round, hoping that he might have missed some water or something that would help. Nothing. Damn.

“Good evening, Napoleon,” Illya croaked, not raising his head. “Did you come here with a plan, or are you just continuing your career as the Michelin man of THRUSH prisons?”

“You know the tyre mascot doesn't actually write the guidebooks, right?” With a groan he sat down beside Illya, letting the cool stone wall soothe his burning back. The forced march through the desert hadn't exactly been fun even before the rest of it. He didn't want to think about how sunburnt he must be – he could already see it on Illya's normally pale skin, now blistered and red. “And, of course I have a plan. I plan to rescue you and destroy the plans.”

“That's really more of a concept than a plan,” Illya told him, eyes closed. “Honestly, I might even call it a whim.”

He huffed theatrically. “Well, I'm sorry if my whims aren't good enough for you, pal. If you'd rather stay here I can set these charges myself.”

Illya's eyes flew open andin spite of the obvious pain he sat bolt upright. “You have explosives?” he demanded, holding out his hands in the internationally recognised symbol of 'gimmee'.

He smiled as he pulled them out of the hidden compartment on his belt. “See? Room service. This place is looking up.”