Ficlet: The Nightmare Affair
Response for dw100 drabble challenge #6 "hate". Once again, it's way over 100 words.
I have no idea where this idea came from... it just appeared and insisted on being written down. I haven't yet figured out quite what this whole muse thing is about, but I suspect you can blame mine for this piece of crackfluff. (Yes, I made up a word.)
Title: The Nightmare Affair
Summary: What is Illya's worst nightmare?
Notes: Gen, 675 words. Cracked-out episode-fixit fluff.
“Whoa - whoa - Illya, it's me, Napoleon. Calm down. Wake up, Illya, it's all right, it's just me.”
“What - wha... Napoleon? What are you doing here?”
“There was only one bed, remember? You gonna be okay?”
“Sorry. It was a nightmare.” He slid off the narrow twin bed and stretched.
“Sounded like a doozy. Want to talk about it?”
Illya shrugged and sat back down, still not facing his partner. “Do I have to?”
“Not really. But I am curious.” Napoleon sat up. “Besides, they say talking out a nightmare can help you forget it. Warm milk?” Each man had helped the other through the aftermath of a good many nightmares, and by now Napoleon knew Illya's preferences fairly well.
“Thank you, no.” Illya stretched again, twisting his shoulders.
“Back rub, then.” Napoleon didn't bother to make it a question, and Illya didn't bother to answer aloud, just sat up a little straighter and let his partner begin massaging the knots out of his trapezius muscles.
As Napoleon worked, Illya began to speak softly. “It was a strange nightmare. No torture, no dogs. I was undercover as a student at a university where Mr Waverly was going to be assassinated. He'd already been assassinated once - I'm not sure how that worked.” He tilted his head speculatively.
“Yes?” Napoleon prompted.
“Mm... there were protests. I was protesting against UNCLE - to blend in, I think. Several times I was hauled about by overlarge policemen. There were also Thrush doubles of faculty members. And a large blonde Amazon who believed that I should father a 'super race' with her.”
Illya's tone of plaintive annoyance at that last point made Napoleon chuckle. “If all your nightmares were like that, my friend, I'd trade in a heartbeat,” he teased. “Here, shoulders back, now. Uuuup... and let them drop. Better?”
Illya grunted. “Better. She wasn't pretty, Napoleon, not even by your standards - merely predatory. Also self-absorbed and impossible to evade.”
“Lie down. You're still tense. Spread your arms, that's right.” Napoleon began rubbing his knuckles up and down next to Illya's spine, feeling the tension still bunched around his partner's shoulder blades. “Was that all?”
“No.” Illya shifted a little. “Upper lumbar region, please? Mmph. There. Thank you. Yes, there was also a pillow fight in the women's dormitory, and a deadly quiz show.”
“A what?”
“A deadly qui--”
“No, the other thing.”
“I said that there was a pillow fight in the women's dormitory. And if you make one single remark about Freud, the super-ego, or repressed desires, you will be needing a lot more than a back rub. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Napoleon replied smoothly. “Tell me about the deadly quiz show, then.” He placed his hands flat against the Russian's sides and began kneading the still-tight back muscles with his thumbs.
“You, I, two captured professors and a girl were imprisoned in a small room. You were required to answer exam questions; if you failed, we would all be gassed. The two professors disagreed on every question, the girl knew nothing, and I--” Napoleon felt the lean body stiffen under his hands-- “I could not speak. Not to tell you the answers, not even one. We all died, Napoleon - you, I, and Mr Waverly as well - because I could not tell you the sixth digit of pi.”
“Ssh,” Napoleon murmured, patting his friend's shoulder. “It's all right, Illya, we're alive. I'm alive, and you're alive, and Waverly is very much alive in New York. And for your information, I know the sixth digit of pi - it's nine, isn't it?”
Illya relaxed all at once. “Good,” he mumbled, then rolled onto his side so Napoleon could lie back down, and was asleep in the next second.
Napoleon lay awake a little while longer, chuckling softly. Being pursued by aggressive women, bullied by larger men, protesting against UNCLE, and getting killed by other people's ignorance. All in one dream. When you have “your worst nightmare”, you really don't fool around, do you, partner mine?
"Good night, Illya. Sweet dreams."
***********************************
Author's note: If you didn't get it... I turned the last episode of third season, The Cap and Gown Affair, into a nightmare. Seriously, it makes more sense this way. ;-)
I have no idea where this idea came from... it just appeared and insisted on being written down. I haven't yet figured out quite what this whole muse thing is about, but I suspect you can blame mine for this piece of crackfluff. (Yes, I made up a word.)
Title: The Nightmare Affair
Summary: What is Illya's worst nightmare?
Notes: Gen, 675 words. Cracked-out episode-fixit fluff.
“Whoa - whoa - Illya, it's me, Napoleon. Calm down. Wake up, Illya, it's all right, it's just me.”
“What - wha... Napoleon? What are you doing here?”
“There was only one bed, remember? You gonna be okay?”
“Sorry. It was a nightmare.” He slid off the narrow twin bed and stretched.
“Sounded like a doozy. Want to talk about it?”
Illya shrugged and sat back down, still not facing his partner. “Do I have to?”
“Not really. But I am curious.” Napoleon sat up. “Besides, they say talking out a nightmare can help you forget it. Warm milk?” Each man had helped the other through the aftermath of a good many nightmares, and by now Napoleon knew Illya's preferences fairly well.
“Thank you, no.” Illya stretched again, twisting his shoulders.
“Back rub, then.” Napoleon didn't bother to make it a question, and Illya didn't bother to answer aloud, just sat up a little straighter and let his partner begin massaging the knots out of his trapezius muscles.
As Napoleon worked, Illya began to speak softly. “It was a strange nightmare. No torture, no dogs. I was undercover as a student at a university where Mr Waverly was going to be assassinated. He'd already been assassinated once - I'm not sure how that worked.” He tilted his head speculatively.
“Yes?” Napoleon prompted.
“Mm... there were protests. I was protesting against UNCLE - to blend in, I think. Several times I was hauled about by overlarge policemen. There were also Thrush doubles of faculty members. And a large blonde Amazon who believed that I should father a 'super race' with her.”
Illya's tone of plaintive annoyance at that last point made Napoleon chuckle. “If all your nightmares were like that, my friend, I'd trade in a heartbeat,” he teased. “Here, shoulders back, now. Uuuup... and let them drop. Better?”
Illya grunted. “Better. She wasn't pretty, Napoleon, not even by your standards - merely predatory. Also self-absorbed and impossible to evade.”
“Lie down. You're still tense. Spread your arms, that's right.” Napoleon began rubbing his knuckles up and down next to Illya's spine, feeling the tension still bunched around his partner's shoulder blades. “Was that all?”
“No.” Illya shifted a little. “Upper lumbar region, please? Mmph. There. Thank you. Yes, there was also a pillow fight in the women's dormitory, and a deadly quiz show.”
“A what?”
“A deadly qui--”
“No, the other thing.”
“I said that there was a pillow fight in the women's dormitory. And if you make one single remark about Freud, the super-ego, or repressed desires, you will be needing a lot more than a back rub. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Napoleon replied smoothly. “Tell me about the deadly quiz show, then.” He placed his hands flat against the Russian's sides and began kneading the still-tight back muscles with his thumbs.
“You, I, two captured professors and a girl were imprisoned in a small room. You were required to answer exam questions; if you failed, we would all be gassed. The two professors disagreed on every question, the girl knew nothing, and I--” Napoleon felt the lean body stiffen under his hands-- “I could not speak. Not to tell you the answers, not even one. We all died, Napoleon - you, I, and Mr Waverly as well - because I could not tell you the sixth digit of pi.”
“Ssh,” Napoleon murmured, patting his friend's shoulder. “It's all right, Illya, we're alive. I'm alive, and you're alive, and Waverly is very much alive in New York. And for your information, I know the sixth digit of pi - it's nine, isn't it?”
Illya relaxed all at once. “Good,” he mumbled, then rolled onto his side so Napoleon could lie back down, and was asleep in the next second.
Napoleon lay awake a little while longer, chuckling softly. Being pursued by aggressive women, bullied by larger men, protesting against UNCLE, and getting killed by other people's ignorance. All in one dream. When you have “your worst nightmare”, you really don't fool around, do you, partner mine?
"Good night, Illya. Sweet dreams."
***********************************
Author's note: If you didn't get it... I turned the last episode of third season, The Cap and Gown Affair, into a nightmare. Seriously, it makes more sense this way. ;-)