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section7mfu2014-10-31 12:01 am
jantojones.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2014-10-31 12:01 am
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The Morning After - 7 Days of hallowe'en - (Triple Drabble)
Here's a bonus tale for you. I have to warn you though, it's a little bit icky. Also, much to my shame, it's a personal experience (albeit it one from about 20 years ago).
. . . . . . . . . .
Napoleon had gone beyond worried. Illya was supposed to have picked him up an hour ago, but had yet to make an appearance. After several attempts to raise him on his communicator, he called HQ to ask if they had heard from him. The answer was no, but they did say the homing device in his communicator placed him, or at least the device, at his apartment. Breaking the speed limit, Solo hurriedly made his way to his partner’s abode. He sprinted up to the third floor, taking two steps at a time.
Upon reaching the apartment, Napoleon rapped out their coded knock, but got no response. He tried twice more before taking out the key he’d sworn to only use in emergencies. Once inside, Solo was confronted with a trail of, brightly coloured vomit leading to Illya’s bathroom. Attempting, and just about succeeding, to keep his breakfast down, he followed the trail. What he found was a sorry sight to behold.
Illya had fallen asleep against the toilet bowl having emptied his, rainbow hued, stomach contents into it. Trying hard not to breathe, Napoleon roused his partner. The Russian woke and was obviously confused about the whole situation.
“Take a shower,” Napoleon told him. “Then we’ll see about cleaning the mess.”
Fifteen minutes later, Illya emerged from the bathroom, much cleaner and dressed. He found Napoleon, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, but knew better than to make a smart comment about it. In the back of his mind, he got the feeling a dry cleaning bill would be coming his way.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Solo asked him, a little too tersely.
“I made a small mistake,” Illya replied, repentantly. “It would seem that vodka and large amounts of hallowe’en candy, do not get on together.”
. . . . . . . . . .
Napoleon had gone beyond worried. Illya was supposed to have picked him up an hour ago, but had yet to make an appearance. After several attempts to raise him on his communicator, he called HQ to ask if they had heard from him. The answer was no, but they did say the homing device in his communicator placed him, or at least the device, at his apartment. Breaking the speed limit, Solo hurriedly made his way to his partner’s abode. He sprinted up to the third floor, taking two steps at a time.
Upon reaching the apartment, Napoleon rapped out their coded knock, but got no response. He tried twice more before taking out the key he’d sworn to only use in emergencies. Once inside, Solo was confronted with a trail of, brightly coloured vomit leading to Illya’s bathroom. Attempting, and just about succeeding, to keep his breakfast down, he followed the trail. What he found was a sorry sight to behold.
Illya had fallen asleep against the toilet bowl having emptied his, rainbow hued, stomach contents into it. Trying hard not to breathe, Napoleon roused his partner. The Russian woke and was obviously confused about the whole situation.
“Take a shower,” Napoleon told him. “Then we’ll see about cleaning the mess.”
Fifteen minutes later, Illya emerged from the bathroom, much cleaner and dressed. He found Napoleon, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, but knew better than to make a smart comment about it. In the back of his mind, he got the feeling a dry cleaning bill would be coming his way.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Solo asked him, a little too tersely.
“I made a small mistake,” Illya replied, repentantly. “It would seem that vodka and large amounts of hallowe’en candy, do not get on together.”
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