The Randomness of Life~Chapter 92 for "A Little Drabble Do Ya" ~ Section VII Drabble Challenge

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

(This started out to be a double-drabble but I just couldn't stop. So it's a quadruple drabble...)



Prompted by: Before The World Was Made~William Butler Yeats

If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity’s displayed:
I’m looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I’d have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

Napoleon Solo stepped gingerly from his bed in Medical, needing to use the lavatory. No bedpan for him, thank you.

He hobbled into the bathroom, pausing as he caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His eyes were sunken, with dark circles underneath them, his skin looked ashen, except where there were bruises that were in varying stages of color, from black and blue, green and yellow.

He’d been beaten by his captors over a ten day period until Illya found him...just in time.

Kuryakin charged in like a bull, disposing of the head of the satrap, Carlos Santini, rounding up guards, locking them away in their own cells, and once done, he rescued his badly beaten partner.

After getting him out of the building, Illya went back, setting charges for its inevitable destruction.

.

Napoleon finished in the bathroom, stopping by the sink again to throw some cold water on his face….mistake.  It stung like hell.  After carefully patting dry his skin, he headed back to bed just as his partner walked into the room.

“How are you feeling?” Illya scrutinized him, looking Solo up and down.

“Miserable. Not one spot on my body doesn’t hurt. Hate looking at myself in the mirror, though I’m sure my lovely bruising will illicit endless sympathy and attention from the ladies; still I’d prefer not to look like this.”

“Hmm, I suppose then you will not be able to eat this?” Illya held out a container of soup. “Your Aunt Amy sent this for you.”

“Really? Well, my lips aren’t that sore.” When he tried to smile, it did hurt but not enough to keep him from a healthy serving of his Aunt’s soup.

Illya set the container on the bed table along with a spoon.

“None for you chum?”

He shook his head. “I had lunch with your Aunt and ate several bowlfuls. I must admit, it is the best chicken soup I have eaten since my mother made hers.”

“Wow,  some compliment… secret family recipe.”

Napoleon stopped talking, and gingerly ate his first spoonful, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction. Once finished, he laid his head back on the pillow, dropping off to sleep.

Illya left, knowing that and Amy’s soup were the best thing for him right now.

Napoleon’s vanity was bruised more than his face, though he was well enough to be released tomorrow.

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Chicken soup has the power to heal almost anything. I'm sure poor Napoleon's bruises will lead to many dinner dates.

I've always loved that poem and you've matched your story to it so well.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

I'm rather partial to Yeats myself. I did an Illya backstory based on a Yeats poem. The fic is called "Zaporoche." Lots of Cossack and Russian research in it.

Yep Chicken soup...nothing like it, Napoleon did peg it right as his boo-boos will get him sympathy dates.

Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to comment!

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Chicken soup for the UNCLE soul :D

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Ahhhh was waiting for someone to say that. :D Thanks!