Ficlets!
I normally post my fic at secret_dossiers, but as these are pretty informal, they are here. Five prompts down, four to go. They're all rated PG, for the record.
For mcsheplovers: Napoleon/Illya, illness-related hurt/comfort, vulnerability. This probably isn’t as mean as you were thinking, though.
“I’m dying.”
“You have a cold, Napoleon.”
Napoleon shook his head. “I’m dying.”
“You have a cold, and you have survived far worse. I’ve brought you soup and now I’m doing your paperwork. Might I remind you that I could get into a lot of trouble for forging your signature?”
“Thank you kindly,” Napoleon muttered sarcastically. “Have I mentioned that I’m dying?”
Illya tensed. “You don’t even have a fever.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that thermometer. I’m burning up. Feel my forehead.”
“And catch this life-threatening illness? No thank you.”
“This isn’t funny, Illya.”
“And coincidentally, I am not amused.”
Illya turned back to the sentence he had read five times and not yet absorbed, when he heard Napoleon murmur, almost inaudibly, “Well, in your defense, you don’t know why.”
Illya’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
“Never mind.”
“No, Napoleon-” Illya started, then paused. He placed the unfinished report back on top of the pile, then stood up and crossed the room. He knelt down next to Napoleon’s bed, and then asked softly, “What is it? What don’t I know?”
Napoleon did not answer immediately. Just when Illya thought he wasn’t going to, he said, equally quietly, “Earlier I was lying here, perfectly still, and my heart was pounding.”
“That’s not uncommon, if you’re stressed.”
“But that’s just it. I wasn’t stressed. Apart from this damned cold, I was relaxed. THRUSH has been remarkably quiet lately, and if something did come up, I was sure you’d be able to handle it. I was resting, and I wasn’t worried, but based on my heart rate you would think I had just run a marathon.”
Illya swallowed. “That’s why you called me.”
Napoleon nodded. “Yes.”
“Well-” Illya paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not unnatural for heart rate to increase when you’re fighting a cold. Especially if you have a fever.”
“But, like you said, I don’t have a fever.”
“There were at least four hours between when you called me and when I was able to come to you. Maybe you had a fever earlier.”
Napoleon shrugged, obviously unconvinced. “Maybe.”
Illya sighed. “There’s something else, isn’t there.”
After another long pause, Napoleon replied, “Yes.”
“Is there any point in asking what it might be?”
This pause was so long that for a moment Illya wondered if Napoleon had finally fallen asleep. Then, staring determinedly at the ceiling, he answered, “My grandfather died of a heart attack. I never knew him. He was only 42.”
“Oh.” The word slipped out involuntarily. Kicking himself, Illya added, “I’m sorry.” Napoleon nodded listlessly, still staring at the ceiling. Then, after a moment, Illya asked, “Has this ever happened to you before?”
“No.”
At that word, Illya breathed more easily. “You’re going to be fine. See a doctor if you’re truly worried, but I really think you just have the flu.”
“You think I have the flu.”
“Yes.”
“So you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“I’m dying.”
Illya groaned. “You are not dying. If our job hasn’t killed you yet, the flu certainly won’t. And nor will anything else.”
At that, Napoleon turned towards him. “Illya?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Illya smiled. “Anytime.”
For Sara: “Stephen Colbert,” Leo Bloom and Lieutenant the Honourable George Colthurst St Barleigh star in a crackficlet that only she will understand.
“I’m hysterical! I’m floating! I’m hysterical and I’m floating!”
“What do you want me to do? You’re getting me hysterical!”
“Get us out of here,” Leo moaned. Max draped a comforting arm around his shoulder.
Severus pointed his wand at both of them. “Silencio.”
“Max, he’s pointing a stick at us.”
Severus turned, if possible, even paler. “Silencio,” he repeated icily. Nothing happened.
Max groaned. “How do they find me?”
Then another figure appeared. “Where am I?” asked Stephen. “This doesn’t look like America.”
“What it looks like,” interjected Blackadder, finally giving up trying to sleep, “is an expansive wasteland of nothingness, filled to bursting with the most undesirable company, designed to give me a terrible headache.”
“Well, that’s hardly a jolly thought, sir,” said George, having appeared of out of nowhere in the middle of Blackadder’s soliloquy. “Perhaps we can liven the place up a bit, you know, play a game or something. I spy, with my little eye-”
He was interrupted by Stephen, who was rapidly becoming as hysterical as Leo had been a moment ago. “I can’t stay here! My nation needs me!”
“Something beginning with M,” George finished, picking up a mug, which had in fact randomly appeared purely to torture Blackadder.
“I’m in Hell,” Severus muttered.
Blackadder sniffed the air. For once in his life, it was absolutely devoid of eau de Baldrick. “You’re not,” he declared. “Not yet, anyway.”
Severus put on his most murderous glare, and Leo buried his face in Max’s shoulder. George, cheerfully undaunted, tried to interest Stephen in his game. “Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm-” he said encouragingly.
“Where’s Jon? Where’s Tad?” Stephen wailed. “Where’s Papa Bear?”
For Sara: Steed/Emma, I fail at smut and I’m not sure if this counts as role-play, but they’re in a classroom, at least. A tag scene for a non-existent episode.
‘Now Steed,’ said Emma in her sweetest and most dangerous tone, ‘what have we learned today?’ She punctuated the question by slipping off of her perch on the teacher’s desk and striding slowly towards his seat.
Chastened though he was, Steed had trouble suppressing a grin. ‘Never trust a smiling schoolteacher.’
‘Never trust a smiling schoolteacher,’ Emma repeated, clearly enjoying this. Advancing further, she added, ‘And what else?’
‘When setting out with a potentially untrustworthy smiling schoolteacher, it’s best to give my partner some indication of where I’ve gone.’
‘Right,’ said Emma, as she sat down on Steed’s desk. Then, leaning in towards him, she asked, ‘Anything else? For a bonus point?’
Steed grinned, and he leaned forwards and kissed her. Emma made a soft noise of approbation and responded enthusiastically, reaching over to relieve him of his bowler, which hit the floor with a clang. He leaned in further to wrap his arms around her, stroking her back as she ran her fingers through his hair. Just as her hands moved downwards to remove his suit jacket, though, they both heard an unmistakable tritone siren.
Steed groaned as Emma hastily pulled away and stood up. ‘Damn reinforcements.’
Emma smiled. ‘I’ll just have to make this your homework.’
For azdak: AU present-day Napoleon and Illya, misconceptions and insecurity. This was supposed to be funnier than it ended up being. Not exactly slash, but implications aplenty.
“Well, now that that’s over...may I take you to dinner tonight, Petra?”
Illya groaned. After 12 hours in a dark prison cell, the last thing he needed to hear was Napoleon’s seduction routine.
Petra blinked. “Did you just ask me out?”
“Ah, yes,” Napoleon replied, sounding confused.
“But-won’t your boyfriend mind?”
Illya’s stomach did a flip as he realized she was referring to him, while Napoleon’s mouth opened and closed several times. Finally he managed to say, “My what?”
“Oh,” said Petra, blushing. “I’m sorry, I just thought...I mean, you were so worried about him, and you called him your partner, and well, you gotta admit, that was one intense hug.”
“Yes it was,” said Illya dryly, recovered enough now to find the situation funny. “Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me, Napoleon? All these years, you had only to ask.”
Napoleon appeared to have been rendered speechless. Petra grinned. “Well, even if Illya doesn’t mind, my boyfriend probably would. Thanks, though. I like flattery.”
She clearly didn’t think anything of it, but Illya’s nerves returned when Napoleon leaned away from him on the flight back to New York, almost spilling over into the aisle. He deigned to sit properly only when a flight attendant ran over his foot with the drinks cart, and he fidgeted nervously for the rest of the time.
Napoleon’s behavior at HQ was worse. He and Illya usually sat close together to go over case files, but now he sat as far away as possible and flagrantly abused Mr. Waverly’s round table. He flirted more aggressively than usual with every woman he saw, young or old, attractive or not, and he seemed to be taking extra care to do so in Illya’s presence.
It was four days later that Illya finally snapped. “Mr. Waverly asked me to remind you about those performance reviews you’ve been putting off. He wants them on his desk tomorrow and said you could enlist my help if necessary.”
“Meaning he wants us to do them tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Damn. I’ve got a date. With a woman.”
“As opposed to a shark?”
“Illya-”
“Napoleon, you have been avoiding me ever since Petra’s little mistake and I’m tired of it. You won’t come anywhere near me and every night you have a date, with a woman. Because you like women. You do realize that when I said you had only to ask, I was joking, right?”
“Are you sure about that?”
Illya tensed. “Honestly, Napoleon, is there no end to your ego?”
Napoleon held up a hand in surrender. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t. Girls love you, Illya. A couple of times you’ve ended my chances just by being in the same room, but you never seem to notice. I’ve seen you go on about four dates in two years. So...I wondered.”
Illya felt himself flush, but managed to say, “I have a very specific type, that’s all.”
“Except that Mia and Lauren were as different as night and day. The only thing they had in common was that they were both extremely persistent. They wouldn’t let you ignore them.” Napoleon paused. “It’s not like there’s anything wrong with it-”
“Isn’t there.”
“No,” said Napoleon firmly. “Look, I’ve been a jackass-”
“You really have.”
“I know I have, and I’m sorry. I was just...thrown. And worried. I was afraid you’d gotten the wrong idea. I’ll just go downstairs and reschedule with Barbara, and then we’ll get to work on those evaluations. I’ll order Chinese.”
Illya nodded. “All right. I’ll be in your office. But make it Indian.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Oh, and Napoleon?”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t want people to think you’re gay, it’s best not to scream that you aren’t. They’ll think you...protest too much.”
Napoleon grimaced, flushing slightly. “Right. Thank you.”
For xparrot: Man From U.N.C.L.E./Good Omens crossover, Napoleon and Illya as celestial beings...sort of. Probably not what you’re expecting. Plot might be incomprehensible.
“All right, Mr. Solo, you can see him now.”
“Thank you, Nurse Able.” Napoleon quickly crossed Medical to where Illya lay, looking battered and murderous. “All right, partner?”
Illya seized Napoleon by his shirt collar and pulled him downwards. “If I ever run into the Metatron,” he growled into his ear, “I’m going to discorporate him with a chainsaw and say that it slipped.”
Napoleon ruffled his hair and whispered, “And here I thought angels were supposed to be nice.”
“Napoleon, you know as well as I do that ‘good’ and ‘nice’ hardly go hand-in-hand.”
“Yes, I know.” Napoleon paused, then added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Technically, it is.”
“Napoleon, we have been through this far too many times. It’s no more your fault than my own. We both happen to answer to sadists with a fourteenth century mindset at best. Things are what they are.”
“What they are is impossibly unfair,” said Napoleon bitterly. “Except, of course, for the one upside.”
Illya groaned. “The novelty is never going to wear off for you, is it.”
Napoleon smiled. “I am a demon, Illya-”
“You were a demon.”
“-and if I recall correctly, you weren’t complaining last night.”
“There are times when I really hate you.”
“Given my nature? I should hope so.”
For mcsheplovers: Napoleon/Illya, illness-related hurt/comfort, vulnerability. This probably isn’t as mean as you were thinking, though.
“I’m dying.”
“You have a cold, Napoleon.”
Napoleon shook his head. “I’m dying.”
“You have a cold, and you have survived far worse. I’ve brought you soup and now I’m doing your paperwork. Might I remind you that I could get into a lot of trouble for forging your signature?”
“Thank you kindly,” Napoleon muttered sarcastically. “Have I mentioned that I’m dying?”
Illya tensed. “You don’t even have a fever.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that thermometer. I’m burning up. Feel my forehead.”
“And catch this life-threatening illness? No thank you.”
“This isn’t funny, Illya.”
“And coincidentally, I am not amused.”
Illya turned back to the sentence he had read five times and not yet absorbed, when he heard Napoleon murmur, almost inaudibly, “Well, in your defense, you don’t know why.”
Illya’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
“Never mind.”
“No, Napoleon-” Illya started, then paused. He placed the unfinished report back on top of the pile, then stood up and crossed the room. He knelt down next to Napoleon’s bed, and then asked softly, “What is it? What don’t I know?”
Napoleon did not answer immediately. Just when Illya thought he wasn’t going to, he said, equally quietly, “Earlier I was lying here, perfectly still, and my heart was pounding.”
“That’s not uncommon, if you’re stressed.”
“But that’s just it. I wasn’t stressed. Apart from this damned cold, I was relaxed. THRUSH has been remarkably quiet lately, and if something did come up, I was sure you’d be able to handle it. I was resting, and I wasn’t worried, but based on my heart rate you would think I had just run a marathon.”
Illya swallowed. “That’s why you called me.”
Napoleon nodded. “Yes.”
“Well-” Illya paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not unnatural for heart rate to increase when you’re fighting a cold. Especially if you have a fever.”
“But, like you said, I don’t have a fever.”
“There were at least four hours between when you called me and when I was able to come to you. Maybe you had a fever earlier.”
Napoleon shrugged, obviously unconvinced. “Maybe.”
Illya sighed. “There’s something else, isn’t there.”
After another long pause, Napoleon replied, “Yes.”
“Is there any point in asking what it might be?”
This pause was so long that for a moment Illya wondered if Napoleon had finally fallen asleep. Then, staring determinedly at the ceiling, he answered, “My grandfather died of a heart attack. I never knew him. He was only 42.”
“Oh.” The word slipped out involuntarily. Kicking himself, Illya added, “I’m sorry.” Napoleon nodded listlessly, still staring at the ceiling. Then, after a moment, Illya asked, “Has this ever happened to you before?”
“No.”
At that word, Illya breathed more easily. “You’re going to be fine. See a doctor if you’re truly worried, but I really think you just have the flu.”
“You think I have the flu.”
“Yes.”
“So you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“I’m dying.”
Illya groaned. “You are not dying. If our job hasn’t killed you yet, the flu certainly won’t. And nor will anything else.”
At that, Napoleon turned towards him. “Illya?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Illya smiled. “Anytime.”
For Sara: “Stephen Colbert,” Leo Bloom and Lieutenant the Honourable George Colthurst St Barleigh star in a crackficlet that only she will understand.
“I’m hysterical! I’m floating! I’m hysterical and I’m floating!”
“What do you want me to do? You’re getting me hysterical!”
“Get us out of here,” Leo moaned. Max draped a comforting arm around his shoulder.
Severus pointed his wand at both of them. “Silencio.”
“Max, he’s pointing a stick at us.”
Severus turned, if possible, even paler. “Silencio,” he repeated icily. Nothing happened.
Max groaned. “How do they find me?”
Then another figure appeared. “Where am I?” asked Stephen. “This doesn’t look like America.”
“What it looks like,” interjected Blackadder, finally giving up trying to sleep, “is an expansive wasteland of nothingness, filled to bursting with the most undesirable company, designed to give me a terrible headache.”
“Well, that’s hardly a jolly thought, sir,” said George, having appeared of out of nowhere in the middle of Blackadder’s soliloquy. “Perhaps we can liven the place up a bit, you know, play a game or something. I spy, with my little eye-”
He was interrupted by Stephen, who was rapidly becoming as hysterical as Leo had been a moment ago. “I can’t stay here! My nation needs me!”
“Something beginning with M,” George finished, picking up a mug, which had in fact randomly appeared purely to torture Blackadder.
“I’m in Hell,” Severus muttered.
Blackadder sniffed the air. For once in his life, it was absolutely devoid of eau de Baldrick. “You’re not,” he declared. “Not yet, anyway.”
Severus put on his most murderous glare, and Leo buried his face in Max’s shoulder. George, cheerfully undaunted, tried to interest Stephen in his game. “Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm-” he said encouragingly.
“Where’s Jon? Where’s Tad?” Stephen wailed. “Where’s Papa Bear?”
For Sara: Steed/Emma, I fail at smut and I’m not sure if this counts as role-play, but they’re in a classroom, at least. A tag scene for a non-existent episode.
‘Now Steed,’ said Emma in her sweetest and most dangerous tone, ‘what have we learned today?’ She punctuated the question by slipping off of her perch on the teacher’s desk and striding slowly towards his seat.
Chastened though he was, Steed had trouble suppressing a grin. ‘Never trust a smiling schoolteacher.’
‘Never trust a smiling schoolteacher,’ Emma repeated, clearly enjoying this. Advancing further, she added, ‘And what else?’
‘When setting out with a potentially untrustworthy smiling schoolteacher, it’s best to give my partner some indication of where I’ve gone.’
‘Right,’ said Emma, as she sat down on Steed’s desk. Then, leaning in towards him, she asked, ‘Anything else? For a bonus point?’
Steed grinned, and he leaned forwards and kissed her. Emma made a soft noise of approbation and responded enthusiastically, reaching over to relieve him of his bowler, which hit the floor with a clang. He leaned in further to wrap his arms around her, stroking her back as she ran her fingers through his hair. Just as her hands moved downwards to remove his suit jacket, though, they both heard an unmistakable tritone siren.
Steed groaned as Emma hastily pulled away and stood up. ‘Damn reinforcements.’
Emma smiled. ‘I’ll just have to make this your homework.’
For azdak: AU present-day Napoleon and Illya, misconceptions and insecurity. This was supposed to be funnier than it ended up being. Not exactly slash, but implications aplenty.
“Well, now that that’s over...may I take you to dinner tonight, Petra?”
Illya groaned. After 12 hours in a dark prison cell, the last thing he needed to hear was Napoleon’s seduction routine.
Petra blinked. “Did you just ask me out?”
“Ah, yes,” Napoleon replied, sounding confused.
“But-won’t your boyfriend mind?”
Illya’s stomach did a flip as he realized she was referring to him, while Napoleon’s mouth opened and closed several times. Finally he managed to say, “My what?”
“Oh,” said Petra, blushing. “I’m sorry, I just thought...I mean, you were so worried about him, and you called him your partner, and well, you gotta admit, that was one intense hug.”
“Yes it was,” said Illya dryly, recovered enough now to find the situation funny. “Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me, Napoleon? All these years, you had only to ask.”
Napoleon appeared to have been rendered speechless. Petra grinned. “Well, even if Illya doesn’t mind, my boyfriend probably would. Thanks, though. I like flattery.”
She clearly didn’t think anything of it, but Illya’s nerves returned when Napoleon leaned away from him on the flight back to New York, almost spilling over into the aisle. He deigned to sit properly only when a flight attendant ran over his foot with the drinks cart, and he fidgeted nervously for the rest of the time.
Napoleon’s behavior at HQ was worse. He and Illya usually sat close together to go over case files, but now he sat as far away as possible and flagrantly abused Mr. Waverly’s round table. He flirted more aggressively than usual with every woman he saw, young or old, attractive or not, and he seemed to be taking extra care to do so in Illya’s presence.
It was four days later that Illya finally snapped. “Mr. Waverly asked me to remind you about those performance reviews you’ve been putting off. He wants them on his desk tomorrow and said you could enlist my help if necessary.”
“Meaning he wants us to do them tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Damn. I’ve got a date. With a woman.”
“As opposed to a shark?”
“Illya-”
“Napoleon, you have been avoiding me ever since Petra’s little mistake and I’m tired of it. You won’t come anywhere near me and every night you have a date, with a woman. Because you like women. You do realize that when I said you had only to ask, I was joking, right?”
“Are you sure about that?”
Illya tensed. “Honestly, Napoleon, is there no end to your ego?”
Napoleon held up a hand in surrender. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t. Girls love you, Illya. A couple of times you’ve ended my chances just by being in the same room, but you never seem to notice. I’ve seen you go on about four dates in two years. So...I wondered.”
Illya felt himself flush, but managed to say, “I have a very specific type, that’s all.”
“Except that Mia and Lauren were as different as night and day. The only thing they had in common was that they were both extremely persistent. They wouldn’t let you ignore them.” Napoleon paused. “It’s not like there’s anything wrong with it-”
“Isn’t there.”
“No,” said Napoleon firmly. “Look, I’ve been a jackass-”
“You really have.”
“I know I have, and I’m sorry. I was just...thrown. And worried. I was afraid you’d gotten the wrong idea. I’ll just go downstairs and reschedule with Barbara, and then we’ll get to work on those evaluations. I’ll order Chinese.”
Illya nodded. “All right. I’ll be in your office. But make it Indian.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Oh, and Napoleon?”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t want people to think you’re gay, it’s best not to scream that you aren’t. They’ll think you...protest too much.”
Napoleon grimaced, flushing slightly. “Right. Thank you.”
For xparrot: Man From U.N.C.L.E./Good Omens crossover, Napoleon and Illya as celestial beings...sort of. Probably not what you’re expecting. Plot might be incomprehensible.
“All right, Mr. Solo, you can see him now.”
“Thank you, Nurse Able.” Napoleon quickly crossed Medical to where Illya lay, looking battered and murderous. “All right, partner?”
Illya seized Napoleon by his shirt collar and pulled him downwards. “If I ever run into the Metatron,” he growled into his ear, “I’m going to discorporate him with a chainsaw and say that it slipped.”
Napoleon ruffled his hair and whispered, “And here I thought angels were supposed to be nice.”
“Napoleon, you know as well as I do that ‘good’ and ‘nice’ hardly go hand-in-hand.”
“Yes, I know.” Napoleon paused, then added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Technically, it is.”
“Napoleon, we have been through this far too many times. It’s no more your fault than my own. We both happen to answer to sadists with a fourteenth century mindset at best. Things are what they are.”
“What they are is impossibly unfair,” said Napoleon bitterly. “Except, of course, for the one upside.”
Illya groaned. “The novelty is never going to wear off for you, is it.”
Napoleon smiled. “I am a demon, Illya-”
“You were a demon.”
“-and if I recall correctly, you weren’t complaining last night.”
“There are times when I really hate you.”
“Given my nature? I should hope so.”