But Winter and Rough Weather (Man from UNCLE)
Title: But Winter and Rough Weather
Author: Graculus
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Spoilers:(if any) N/A
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Summary: in the space between life and death, two not-very-similar worlds collide for a time
Warnings: none
Author's note: inspired by this picture, title from As You Like It.
At any other time, Illya might have described the scene as idyllic, if that was the kind of word he used to describe anything. Not that this was any other time, this was now and he was sprawled out on his back, hands slippery with his own blood as he tried to keep his insides where they ought to be. Too much blood, a small cynical voice in the back of his mind kept saying, far too much blood.
The voice was probably right.
He was in the middle of nowhere, though he’d left a trail for anyone with half a brain to follow, a drag mark of mud and blood from the car he’d crashed when the world had spun around him momentarily and he’d passed out behind the wheel. That final turn of the road had been too much, though at least he’d been unconscious and only woke to find himself upside down in the bottom of a ditch. At least it had been dry - that was one small thing in his favour, one rare example today of something going almost right. Dry except for the blood he’d left behind, the smear of red that told where he’d crawled out and was a signpost to where he now lay.
The tree was old, one branch low enough that he could use it as a makeshift bed. He told himself that was practical, that it would help him get back onto his feet when the time came to either run or fight, but he knew that wasn’t really true. There would be no more running or fighting, not for him, not if the telltale warmth seeping through his fingers was anything to go by.
He wasn’t dead yet, of course, and what was the saying the English had? Where there’s life there’s hope? He’d always scoffed a little at that expression, clinging to his cynicism like it was truly part of who he was, but he’d also wished there’d ever been a time he could have felt that way. Maybe once, when he was a child, but brutal experience had crushed every possibility of that kind of thing long before he’d become a man.
There were worse places to die, he supposed, though the branch wasn’t the most comfortable of beds and its bark ground into his back uncomfortably. He could carry on, drag himself somewhere else, but had visions of leaving a literal trail of body parts behind himself if he moved again, and that was enough to cause even the most stoic to reconsider their next move.
No, instead he’d stay right here.
Nobody could sneak up on him, crossing from the open gate he’d used to access the field, not unless he passed out again. The only thing he could hear was birdsong, that and the distant lowing of cows - it was mid-afternoon and it must be time for milking soon - they were a few fields away, he was certain of that, so there was little chance of being discovered by accident.
Through the leaves, the sun dappled his face, the warmth relaxing him despite himself. It was a different kind of warmth than the pulsing beneath his fingers, somehow kinder and almost soothing. He could close his eyes, listen to the birds and just see what happened.
Then, without explanation, the light was too bright to bear. Illya closed his eyes, still aware of the heat against his face.
“And that’s your plan, is it?”
The voice was familiar, the accent enough to mark the speaker as his countryman, even if the words were more polished than Illya had ever sounded.
Opening his eyes, which took more of an effort than he’d thought would be the case, Illya found someone standing over him. The expression on his face was easily read, the crossed arms underlining just what he thought of the man lying in front of him.
“I’d hoped for someone more impressive than you for my other self, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
The tone hadn’t improved, if anything had now moved on to ‘distinctly unimpressed’, and Illya wasn’t sure he could summon up enough energy to care anyway. He wasn’t sure how someone had snuck up on him, since he’d only closed his eyes for a moment, but obviously that had still been long enough.
“Your friends are looking for you.” There was a pause. “I’m you, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet.” If Illya was forced to describe the expression on the other man’s face, he thought he’d choose disappointed as the closest word that came to mind. “This is going to make things more difficult than I’d expected - you’re not a physicist, are you?”
Just shaking his head was almost too much of an effort.
“That would be too easy, I suppose,” other-Illya said. “Schrödinger will have a field day when I tell him about this.”
“You are figment of imagination,” Illya said, with feeling, hating the way he had to grind out the words, even more the way other-Illya’s eyebrow raised at the accusation. “Not really here.”
Strong fingers gripped the back of his hand.
“Does that feel like your imagination?”
He could hear the sound of a vehicle approaching from the distance, driven hard on unfamiliar roads.
“They’re nearly here,” other-Illya said. “And it’s time for me to go.” It was funny, there was almost a sense of loss when the fingers gripping his relaxed and let go. “It’s not your time, my friend.”
“Not me and not your friend,” Illya said. In the distance, a car braked a little too suddenly and then there was the sound of a car door slamming. “Imagination, remember?”
There was a flash of light, bright enough to make Illya wince, and suddenly he was alone again. Just him and the tree, dappled sunlight playing across his face as he bled out, the sound of running feet not quite enough to keep him awake any longer.
Author: Graculus
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Spoilers:(if any) N/A
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Summary: in the space between life and death, two not-very-similar worlds collide for a time
Warnings: none
Author's note: inspired by this picture, title from As You Like It.
At any other time, Illya might have described the scene as idyllic, if that was the kind of word he used to describe anything. Not that this was any other time, this was now and he was sprawled out on his back, hands slippery with his own blood as he tried to keep his insides where they ought to be. Too much blood, a small cynical voice in the back of his mind kept saying, far too much blood.
The voice was probably right.
He was in the middle of nowhere, though he’d left a trail for anyone with half a brain to follow, a drag mark of mud and blood from the car he’d crashed when the world had spun around him momentarily and he’d passed out behind the wheel. That final turn of the road had been too much, though at least he’d been unconscious and only woke to find himself upside down in the bottom of a ditch. At least it had been dry - that was one small thing in his favour, one rare example today of something going almost right. Dry except for the blood he’d left behind, the smear of red that told where he’d crawled out and was a signpost to where he now lay.
The tree was old, one branch low enough that he could use it as a makeshift bed. He told himself that was practical, that it would help him get back onto his feet when the time came to either run or fight, but he knew that wasn’t really true. There would be no more running or fighting, not for him, not if the telltale warmth seeping through his fingers was anything to go by.
He wasn’t dead yet, of course, and what was the saying the English had? Where there’s life there’s hope? He’d always scoffed a little at that expression, clinging to his cynicism like it was truly part of who he was, but he’d also wished there’d ever been a time he could have felt that way. Maybe once, when he was a child, but brutal experience had crushed every possibility of that kind of thing long before he’d become a man.
There were worse places to die, he supposed, though the branch wasn’t the most comfortable of beds and its bark ground into his back uncomfortably. He could carry on, drag himself somewhere else, but had visions of leaving a literal trail of body parts behind himself if he moved again, and that was enough to cause even the most stoic to reconsider their next move.
No, instead he’d stay right here.
Nobody could sneak up on him, crossing from the open gate he’d used to access the field, not unless he passed out again. The only thing he could hear was birdsong, that and the distant lowing of cows - it was mid-afternoon and it must be time for milking soon - they were a few fields away, he was certain of that, so there was little chance of being discovered by accident.
Through the leaves, the sun dappled his face, the warmth relaxing him despite himself. It was a different kind of warmth than the pulsing beneath his fingers, somehow kinder and almost soothing. He could close his eyes, listen to the birds and just see what happened.
Then, without explanation, the light was too bright to bear. Illya closed his eyes, still aware of the heat against his face.
“And that’s your plan, is it?”
The voice was familiar, the accent enough to mark the speaker as his countryman, even if the words were more polished than Illya had ever sounded.
Opening his eyes, which took more of an effort than he’d thought would be the case, Illya found someone standing over him. The expression on his face was easily read, the crossed arms underlining just what he thought of the man lying in front of him.
“I’d hoped for someone more impressive than you for my other self, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
The tone hadn’t improved, if anything had now moved on to ‘distinctly unimpressed’, and Illya wasn’t sure he could summon up enough energy to care anyway. He wasn’t sure how someone had snuck up on him, since he’d only closed his eyes for a moment, but obviously that had still been long enough.
“Your friends are looking for you.” There was a pause. “I’m you, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet.” If Illya was forced to describe the expression on the other man’s face, he thought he’d choose disappointed as the closest word that came to mind. “This is going to make things more difficult than I’d expected - you’re not a physicist, are you?”
Just shaking his head was almost too much of an effort.
“That would be too easy, I suppose,” other-Illya said. “Schrödinger will have a field day when I tell him about this.”
“You are figment of imagination,” Illya said, with feeling, hating the way he had to grind out the words, even more the way other-Illya’s eyebrow raised at the accusation. “Not really here.”
Strong fingers gripped the back of his hand.
“Does that feel like your imagination?”
He could hear the sound of a vehicle approaching from the distance, driven hard on unfamiliar roads.
“They’re nearly here,” other-Illya said. “And it’s time for me to go.” It was funny, there was almost a sense of loss when the fingers gripping his relaxed and let go. “It’s not your time, my friend.”
“Not me and not your friend,” Illya said. In the distance, a car braked a little too suddenly and then there was the sound of a car door slamming. “Imagination, remember?”
There was a flash of light, bright enough to make Illya wince, and suddenly he was alone again. Just him and the tree, dappled sunlight playing across his face as he bled out, the sound of running feet not quite enough to keep him awake any longer.