A bit of Halloween fun for Ducky's Lady
Title: Friends in High Places
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,088
Image Prompt:
duckys_lady, I hope you enjoy your bit of Halloween cheer! My thanks to you for participating and, of course, to the betaing skills of nursesparky
The moors of Scotland were not where Illya would choose to be camping on any night, much less Samhain. He tried not to give any life to his superstitions and fears, but with the fog moving in and a very ill partner, he couldn’t help it.
He moved to Napoleon’s side, a matter of a half crawl in the small tent. It was warm inside, thanks to the small lamp he’d lit. It didn’t matter to Napoleon. His face was flecked with sweat and he thrashed in his semi-conscious state.
Illya wrung out the cloth and ran it over Napoleon’s face. “Stay still, my friend. Help will be here soon.” At least that’s what he hoped. It was anyone’s bet if he’d actually gotten a message off just prior to their hasty retreat.
His first notion that something was wrong was when Napoleon started to lag behind.
“We have to keep going, Napoleon. I have supplies for us close to that rock outcropping.”
“I know, I’m just so tired.” Napoleon sunk to the ground, his legs splayed awkwardly beneath him.
“I know.” Illya came to his side and tilted his partner’s head back. He tried to blame the heat of Napoleon’s skin on his own cold hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. Any idea what they gave you?”
His head shook and after a moment, Napoleon struggled back to his feet and stood, swaying slightly. “The fact that we aren’t being immediately pursued is not a good sign. I just hope it’s not contagious. If it is--”
“…then it dies with us. Together.”
It seemed easy then, but now Illya wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t displaying any symptoms, but it didn’t make Napoleon’s decline any easier to watch. If he died, Illya swore revenge upon the people responsible.
He moved outside the tent and to the small campfire. His eye caught something and he reached for his weapon, checking himself at the last minute when he realized it was an animal. Not just an animal, but a cat. The black cat was one of the largest he’d ever seen and still be able to apply the label house cat to it. It sat on a nearby branch, watching him warily, eyes mere slits, almost invisible, black against the yellow of the moon. Only the white spot seemed visible.
Illya nodded to it. “You have nothing to fear from me, good cat.” Illya glanced around at their meager food supply. “I have little to offer you, but this might suit your fancy.”
During his time in England, Illya had grown accustomed to having cream in his tea. He got teased about it, both there and in New York, but when he had the chance, he used it. When packing supplies, he didn’t know how long it would be before he could raid the THRUSH stronghold and free Napoleon. He made sure he packed some cream, a small comfort in a harsh environment.
Now he poured it into a metal dish and carefully carried it to where the cat had been. It vanished the minute he moved, but Illya knew cats and knew it hadn’t gone far. He returned to the fire and went about trying to make the rations he’d brought along palatable.
Sure enough a few minutes later, he glanced up from to fire to see the cat happily licking the thick cream up. “Enjoy, my friend. At least one of us will be content tonight.”
Finished with the now-empty sauce, the cat sat and did its toilet, making sure not a drop of cream remained on its face or whiskers. Illya smiled as he watched it, his smile fading as he heard Napoleon groan. He set the plate down and looked directly at the cat.
“It’s yours, if you want it. I need to take care of my sick friend.” He crabbed walked to the tent. “If you know any prayers, I will happily accept them.”
He stopped, blinking. It was almost as if the cat were nodding to him, but it must have been washing its white chest instead.
He entered the tent and wiped Napoleon’s face again before settling down beside him. No matter how he looked at this, it had long night written all over it.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but suddenly, there was no choice. His head dipped and the more he fought, the stronger the lure.
“I need to stay awake,” he muttered.
“No, your friend will be fine. I will watch out for him. You need your rest.”
The voice was familiar, but not, at the same time. “But Napoleon… THRUSH---”
“All is well,” the voice purred. “Sleep now.”
Illya woke with a start and realized he was alone. Panicked, he clawed his way free of his sleeping bag and flung himself out of the tent. Napoleon glanced over at him and raised a tin cup to him. “The helicopter is about ten miles out. Should be here soon.”
“Napoleon?” Illya was stunned as he sank to a stone beside his partner. “But last night…”
“I know, right?” He poured Illya some coffee. “Had a wild dream about a giant cat, then woke up feeling better than ever.”
“There was a cat here last night.” Illya took the cup and warmed his hands. “I gave her all my cream.”
“I wondered how you’d managed to get away with it.”
“She looked hungry and it was the least I could do.” He glanced over at the half- eaten rations. “Guess the rest wasn’t as up to par.” Then Illya stopped. “Wait, how did you know about the helicopter?”
“Your communicator.” Napoleon held it up.
“I lost it at the satrap… well, not lost as much as was taken.” Illya took it. There were several small nicks in it. “I wonder…”
“Wonder later. We need to be ready to move. Our agents stormed THRUSH’s stronghold and found everyone dead. Mr. Waverly wants us to go in and do a recon.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Huston said it looked like a wild animal attack.”
Perhaps one of the most haunting of the cat legends is that of Ireland and Scotland's Cat Sith. This ancient creature is a dog-sized black kitty with a white patch on its chest that skulks about at night in search of souls to steal. During the annual Gaelic festival of Samhain, the Cat Sith bestows blessings upon residents who leave out saucers of milk for her. However, those who do not offer milk are cursed. Or killed.
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,088
Image Prompt:
duckys_lady, I hope you enjoy your bit of Halloween cheer! My thanks to you for participating and, of course, to the betaing skills of nursesparky
The moors of Scotland were not where Illya would choose to be camping on any night, much less Samhain. He tried not to give any life to his superstitions and fears, but with the fog moving in and a very ill partner, he couldn’t help it.
He moved to Napoleon’s side, a matter of a half crawl in the small tent. It was warm inside, thanks to the small lamp he’d lit. It didn’t matter to Napoleon. His face was flecked with sweat and he thrashed in his semi-conscious state.
Illya wrung out the cloth and ran it over Napoleon’s face. “Stay still, my friend. Help will be here soon.” At least that’s what he hoped. It was anyone’s bet if he’d actually gotten a message off just prior to their hasty retreat.
His first notion that something was wrong was when Napoleon started to lag behind.
“We have to keep going, Napoleon. I have supplies for us close to that rock outcropping.”
“I know, I’m just so tired.” Napoleon sunk to the ground, his legs splayed awkwardly beneath him.
“I know.” Illya came to his side and tilted his partner’s head back. He tried to blame the heat of Napoleon’s skin on his own cold hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. Any idea what they gave you?”
His head shook and after a moment, Napoleon struggled back to his feet and stood, swaying slightly. “The fact that we aren’t being immediately pursued is not a good sign. I just hope it’s not contagious. If it is--”
“…then it dies with us. Together.”
It seemed easy then, but now Illya wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t displaying any symptoms, but it didn’t make Napoleon’s decline any easier to watch. If he died, Illya swore revenge upon the people responsible.
He moved outside the tent and to the small campfire. His eye caught something and he reached for his weapon, checking himself at the last minute when he realized it was an animal. Not just an animal, but a cat. The black cat was one of the largest he’d ever seen and still be able to apply the label house cat to it. It sat on a nearby branch, watching him warily, eyes mere slits, almost invisible, black against the yellow of the moon. Only the white spot seemed visible.
Illya nodded to it. “You have nothing to fear from me, good cat.” Illya glanced around at their meager food supply. “I have little to offer you, but this might suit your fancy.”
During his time in England, Illya had grown accustomed to having cream in his tea. He got teased about it, both there and in New York, but when he had the chance, he used it. When packing supplies, he didn’t know how long it would be before he could raid the THRUSH stronghold and free Napoleon. He made sure he packed some cream, a small comfort in a harsh environment.
Now he poured it into a metal dish and carefully carried it to where the cat had been. It vanished the minute he moved, but Illya knew cats and knew it hadn’t gone far. He returned to the fire and went about trying to make the rations he’d brought along palatable.
Sure enough a few minutes later, he glanced up from to fire to see the cat happily licking the thick cream up. “Enjoy, my friend. At least one of us will be content tonight.”
Finished with the now-empty sauce, the cat sat and did its toilet, making sure not a drop of cream remained on its face or whiskers. Illya smiled as he watched it, his smile fading as he heard Napoleon groan. He set the plate down and looked directly at the cat.
“It’s yours, if you want it. I need to take care of my sick friend.” He crabbed walked to the tent. “If you know any prayers, I will happily accept them.”
He stopped, blinking. It was almost as if the cat were nodding to him, but it must have been washing its white chest instead.
He entered the tent and wiped Napoleon’s face again before settling down beside him. No matter how he looked at this, it had long night written all over it.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but suddenly, there was no choice. His head dipped and the more he fought, the stronger the lure.
“I need to stay awake,” he muttered.
“No, your friend will be fine. I will watch out for him. You need your rest.”
The voice was familiar, but not, at the same time. “But Napoleon… THRUSH---”
“All is well,” the voice purred. “Sleep now.”
Illya woke with a start and realized he was alone. Panicked, he clawed his way free of his sleeping bag and flung himself out of the tent. Napoleon glanced over at him and raised a tin cup to him. “The helicopter is about ten miles out. Should be here soon.”
“Napoleon?” Illya was stunned as he sank to a stone beside his partner. “But last night…”
“I know, right?” He poured Illya some coffee. “Had a wild dream about a giant cat, then woke up feeling better than ever.”
“There was a cat here last night.” Illya took the cup and warmed his hands. “I gave her all my cream.”
“I wondered how you’d managed to get away with it.”
“She looked hungry and it was the least I could do.” He glanced over at the half- eaten rations. “Guess the rest wasn’t as up to par.” Then Illya stopped. “Wait, how did you know about the helicopter?”
“Your communicator.” Napoleon held it up.
“I lost it at the satrap… well, not lost as much as was taken.” Illya took it. There were several small nicks in it. “I wonder…”
“Wonder later. We need to be ready to move. Our agents stormed THRUSH’s stronghold and found everyone dead. Mr. Waverly wants us to go in and do a recon.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Huston said it looked like a wild animal attack.”
Perhaps one of the most haunting of the cat legends is that of Ireland and Scotland's Cat Sith. This ancient creature is a dog-sized black kitty with a white patch on its chest that skulks about at night in search of souls to steal. During the annual Gaelic festival of Samhain, the Cat Sith bestows blessings upon residents who leave out saucers of milk for her. However, those who do not offer milk are cursed. Or killed.