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WIP it good!
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madmogs:
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
They're all slash, but there's nothing worse than a smooch under the cuts.
Napoleon’s eyes snapped open. The room was dark. No sound, no movement, but he felt ... not alone. Not alone in the uniquely reassuring way that told him who it was, seated close by his head, still and silent, watching him. He sighed out a relieved breath, knowing why Illya was there, and said immediately:
“Don’t.”
A hand closed on his biceps, taking comfort, not giving it. Napoleon sat up and reached out, seizing Illya’s shoulders. They felt unusually hard, stiff with the strain of the role he was playing. Napoleon pulled his partner into a fierce hug, shaking him a little, feeling the tension in the taut muscles fade.
“Damn it,” he whispered, eyes burning. “Don’t. I’m fine, and it wasn’t your fault. Stop it.”
He felt the head against his nod, silky hair tickling across his ear. The fingers on his arm clutched tighter for a moment, then his partner pulled away.
Bereft, Napoleon said involuntarily, “Illya–”
He saw the shadow of his partner stop. What could he say? I hurt? I miss you? I feel naked without you at my back? Illya knew all that; saying it would only make it worse. They had to carry it through, regardless. They were too close to stop now. The wounds their playacting had inflicted would be dealt with later.
Napoleon shook his head. “Go. Be careful.”
The shadow slipped away, out the door – a brief sliver of dim hallway light, his partner’s familiar profile looking up and down the hall – then darkness again.
"They've injected him," Mark said. "More than once."
Napoleon blinked at Illya and stopped struggling. His gaze was wide, guileless, bewildered by whatever they'd shot him up with.
"Illya!" Napoleon's shoulders sagged with the utter relief his voice made plain. April and Mark exchanged a glance, relieved themselves.
Then Napoleon put his arms around his partner and said, "I love you."
April and Mark grinned -- but the grins drooped into slack-jawed astonishment when Napoleon pulled his partner against him and administered a kiss, full on the mouth.
Illya didn't react at all, neither struggling nor, as far as the other agents could tell, getting involved in the kiss. When Napoleon let him go he stood red-faced, clearly dumbfounded, fingers clenched in Napoleon's tattered shirt. Napoleon smiled at him and Illya stammered:
"I -- I love you too. But we need to leave, right now." He hauled Napoleon to his unsteady feet and glanced at his cohorts.
Napoleon came into the hotel room to a surprising sight. His partner was stretched on the floor in front of the television – gun before him, within easy and unobtrusive reach – absorbed in a broadcast.
From behind, Napoleon looked at the screen for a moment, then – astonished – said:
“What are you doing?”
Illya didn't shift a micron; he'd known, of course, that someone had entered, and that it was Napoleon, from the start.
“Watching a movie,” he said, not turning his head.
“Godzilla?” Napoleon said, coming forward to sit in the chair next to his partner.
“Is it?” Illya said, his tone indicating most of his attention was still on the screen. Napoleon watched for a while, said, when he was sure:
“Versus Mothra, unless I'm much mistaken.”
Illya turned, then, to give him a small smile. “I'm impressed.”
“I'm amazed. What are you doing watching this garbage?”
“Is there some other garbage I should be watching?” he asked mildly, turning back to the screen.
“Well, you should at least have popcorn,” Napoleon said, settling back in the chair. “I prefer Rodan, myself.”
“Auguste?” Illya asked.
“No. He's a kind of pterodactyl.”
This time Illya gave him a longer, puzzled look. Napoleon waved him away.
“I'll elaborate on the oeuvre later. Let's watch the movie.”
madmogs:When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
They're all slash, but there's nothing worse than a smooch under the cuts.
Napoleon’s eyes snapped open. The room was dark. No sound, no movement, but he felt ... not alone. Not alone in the uniquely reassuring way that told him who it was, seated close by his head, still and silent, watching him. He sighed out a relieved breath, knowing why Illya was there, and said immediately:
“Don’t.”
A hand closed on his biceps, taking comfort, not giving it. Napoleon sat up and reached out, seizing Illya’s shoulders. They felt unusually hard, stiff with the strain of the role he was playing. Napoleon pulled his partner into a fierce hug, shaking him a little, feeling the tension in the taut muscles fade.
“Damn it,” he whispered, eyes burning. “Don’t. I’m fine, and it wasn’t your fault. Stop it.”
He felt the head against his nod, silky hair tickling across his ear. The fingers on his arm clutched tighter for a moment, then his partner pulled away.
Bereft, Napoleon said involuntarily, “Illya–”
He saw the shadow of his partner stop. What could he say? I hurt? I miss you? I feel naked without you at my back? Illya knew all that; saying it would only make it worse. They had to carry it through, regardless. They were too close to stop now. The wounds their playacting had inflicted would be dealt with later.
Napoleon shook his head. “Go. Be careful.”
The shadow slipped away, out the door – a brief sliver of dim hallway light, his partner’s familiar profile looking up and down the hall – then darkness again.
"They've injected him," Mark said. "More than once."
Napoleon blinked at Illya and stopped struggling. His gaze was wide, guileless, bewildered by whatever they'd shot him up with.
"Illya!" Napoleon's shoulders sagged with the utter relief his voice made plain. April and Mark exchanged a glance, relieved themselves.
Then Napoleon put his arms around his partner and said, "I love you."
April and Mark grinned -- but the grins drooped into slack-jawed astonishment when Napoleon pulled his partner against him and administered a kiss, full on the mouth.
Illya didn't react at all, neither struggling nor, as far as the other agents could tell, getting involved in the kiss. When Napoleon let him go he stood red-faced, clearly dumbfounded, fingers clenched in Napoleon's tattered shirt. Napoleon smiled at him and Illya stammered:
"I -- I love you too. But we need to leave, right now." He hauled Napoleon to his unsteady feet and glanced at his cohorts.
Napoleon came into the hotel room to a surprising sight. His partner was stretched on the floor in front of the television – gun before him, within easy and unobtrusive reach – absorbed in a broadcast.
From behind, Napoleon looked at the screen for a moment, then – astonished – said:
“What are you doing?”
Illya didn't shift a micron; he'd known, of course, that someone had entered, and that it was Napoleon, from the start.
“Watching a movie,” he said, not turning his head.
“Godzilla?” Napoleon said, coming forward to sit in the chair next to his partner.
“Is it?” Illya said, his tone indicating most of his attention was still on the screen. Napoleon watched for a while, said, when he was sure:
“Versus Mothra, unless I'm much mistaken.”
Illya turned, then, to give him a small smile. “I'm impressed.”
“I'm amazed. What are you doing watching this garbage?”
“Is there some other garbage I should be watching?” he asked mildly, turning back to the screen.
“Well, you should at least have popcorn,” Napoleon said, settling back in the chair. “I prefer Rodan, myself.”
“Auguste?” Illya asked.
“No. He's a kind of pterodactyl.”
This time Illya gave him a longer, puzzled look. Napoleon waved him away.
“I'll elaborate on the oeuvre later. Let's watch the movie.”
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I can't decide which of the first two I'd like to see more. Probably number 2 -- it's a scenario that can't be used too many times, and your take on it sounds delightful.
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And Illya's response was just so sweet!
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