#oh tut tut Napoleon!

[andorianimpostor]

1.25

[sightofsea]

prompt number 25 for those good omens bitches please AND thank you

thank you so much!!! tried to go for angst but failed. ah well, c'est la vie. it's the spirit of the thing.

25. “It hurts…” “what?” “Loving someone who doesn’t love you…”

“Well it does hurt, is the thing," Crowley says, restarting an argument that had been born outside the theater, raised on the way to the restaurant, and had been on a quick gap year over canapés.

Aziraphale stops fussing with the sleeves of his coat. “What?” 

“Loving someone who doesn’t love you, it hurts," Crowley clarifies. 

Aziraphale goes back to fussing. "Yes, I suppose it does," he says, then shakes his arms out. Perfect. "But I don't see what that has to do with how dreadful that production of Cyrano was."

Crowley holds the door open for him, and all the warm air inside the restaurant is quickly replaced with a brisk chill that bites the nostrils. Aziraphale says a quick thank you, and Crowley goes back to arguing. He walks along with a small jump in his step, shoulders to his ears as if trying to lift himself off the sidewalk. Aziraphale loops an arm around the demon's elbow, to keep him grounded.

"I'm just saying," Crowley says. "I'm all for criticism. Love criticism, me, but I don't think he was being that overdramatic. It really does feel like that sometimes."

"He was wailing!" Aziraphale argues back. "Rending his garments, throwing himself at the walls--I'm just saying, there's something to a subtle performance."

"Sub--subtle performance?" Crowley lets that percolate in delighted disbelief. "Bit rich coming from you."

Aziraphale's jaw pops open, feet's coming to a standstill, and he unhooks himself from Crowley's arm. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks. It's intended to come off as mildly offended, but lilts a little to the left. Crowley stares at him, and Aziraphale tuts. "Oh...!" He stomps back up to Crowley and hooks their arms together again, bringing them back to their familiar trot. "That is besides the point."

"No it's not," Crowley says. "You love drama. You love those books where they go on in the hillside, waving poetic and, and diving off of cliffs."

"Yes, but that's books," Aziraphale says. "That's fiction in its purest form. This is performance, it must have some grounding in reality. You can't honestly say you've ever acted like that in the name of unrequited love."

Crowley hums, and is quiet for a few moments. They turn into a nearby park, and everybody considered mugging the flash bastard and his posh twat boyfriend suddenly find their wallets heavier and their thoughts elsewhere.

"Maybe I have," Crowley says, all mumbled and high pitched. "Who's to say?"

Aziraphale does a double take. "Really?" Crowley nods, looking straight ahead. Aziraphale hesitantly points to himself. "Over...?"

It's now Crowley's turn to do a double take. "Wh--no, over Napoleon. Yes, over you!"

"Oh, well that makes me feel terrible!" laments Aziraphale, who is beginning to feel something rise up within him that he's too proud to admit to but most would call 'flattered'. "That you did all that screaming and wailing over me."

Crowley shifts as if trying to shed his skin. "Mm."

"All that--all that rending of garments and throwing yourself about." Aziraphale puts his free hand on Crowley's hooked arm. He tuts. "And over me."

Crowley lets put a creaking sound of embarrassment, and tries to wave away his confession with his free hand. "Okay, that's not--"

"That you were overcome by...by such enormous affection and love," Aziraphale continues, near giddy with it now. "For me!"

Crowley stares at him, deadpan. "You're enjoying this."

"I'm not," lies Aziraphale. He schools his face as best he can--which is to say, quite portly. "I'm feeling...quite guilty."

"That's not your guilty face," Crowley says. "That's your...that's a different face. A smug face."

"Not smug," says Aziraphale, smugly.

"Delighted, then."

Aziraphale tuts, shaking his head. "Not in the least. I'm quite overcome with agony, as I imagine you were." Crowley hums in disbelief. "Again, over me."

"Alright, alright," says Crowley, who does his best to gesture wildly with one arm lovingly held captive. "I take it back. I take it all back. There was no wailing or garment rending or any of that. I was perfectly fine with it." He expects a response to come. When it doesn't, he turns to see Aziraphale looking distinctly put out. Something seizes in Crowley's chest, and the words come out before his brain can bar the door. "Okay, I screamed at a tree once about it. Does that satisfy you?"

"Mm," says Aziraphale, still displeased.

"Maybe had a...good cry, or three," admits Crowley.

Aziraphale softens. "Oh, did you really?" he asks, curiosity sliding from smug to concerned.

Crowley bristles at the genuine emotion. "Oh, what, and you didn't?" he asks defensively.

"No, I have," says Aziraphale, soberly. He blinks up at Crowley before surveying the landscape, no doubt imagining lonely nights and cold mornings scattered over many the millennia. Crowley imagines them as well.

"You...so...yeah," he says. He supposes he's won the argument, but it doesn't feel like it. "We both..."

"We've both suffered over each other," Aziraphale says. His voice is heavy with guilt, and not for the first time, the two of them think of the same thing. 

Crowley distinctly remembers the slam of the bookshop door, and winces at it. Sounds get clogged in the back of his throat. "Y-Yeah," he says. They walk along another few steps, before stopping. "Not...not any more, though," Crowley adds, half statement and half question. He brings his free hand over Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale squeezes his arm lightly and smiles. "No," he whispers. "Not any more."

Crowley smiles back--because it's dark and there's plausible deniability, because he's in love, who's to say--and moves to cup Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale's already ahead of him. The kiss to short, soft, and simple--a reassurance, more than a declaration. For a moment, there's a break in the chill night air, and all is warm.

They part, and continue their walk in tandem. "You still think the play was shit though, don't you?" Crowley asks.

"Not in so many words," Aziraphale admonishes, which is to say, yes.

[stardustedcloud]

Pop quiz!

The Sphinx’s face is modeled after

1. Napoleon Bonaparte

2. Augie Pagon

3. King Tut

4. King Kafre

Oh shit uhhhh Obama?

Wait no 3? Maybe 3?

[goblininawig]

Red Dwarfcember: Presents

Summary: Lister scavenges gifts for his crewmates.

Prompt: Presents

Rating: T (no warnings)

Words: 1,239

A03 link or keep reading below.

Lister wanders through the refuse of ghosts long gone, scavenging another derelict vessel. This one, though, stands out from most he’s seen. Usually space vessels had seen commercial use of some sort, but this one was a billionaire’s private pleasure vessel. 

Unfortunately, he and his many companions seemed to prefer silk, so all of the beddings and clothing had fallen apart over time. The once-fresh food, neither canned nor irradiated, had long since rotted, even what had been in refrigeration units. There were no large stockpiles of supplies, either mechanical or medical. 

It seems that there isn’t actually much of anything worth salvaging. But Lister is going through all the rooms and storage spaces just once more. In case he missed something worthwhile. He doesn’t want to go back empty handed, especially since Rimmer and Holly’d already told him it was a waste of time. 

In the expansive kitchen, he paws through the objects beneath the sink. He’d ignored most of them before, after seeing that none of it was edible. But now, he looks more carefully, and selects a few likely-looking cleaning products and an unopened packet of sponges. He shoves them all in a duffel, and moves on.

In the master bedroom, he steps into the spacious closet, and sorts through the scraps of clothes, plucking ornate buttons off their rotting threads, and shoving them in his pockets. By the time he’s gone through all the piles, he’s got enough that they clink against each other as he walks.

At the back of the closet, he stands, swinging the duffel up on his shoulder. It hits the wall panel, knocking it loose. Curious, Lister peers into the dimly lit space. It seems to be a secret compartment. Putting his duffel back down, he pries the loose panel away. Lister kneels, and peers at the object inside what appears to be a hermetically sealed plexiglass display box.

“Oh, no smeggin’ way!” he exclaims to himself. 

Sat inside the box, on a plush crimson pillow, is a bicorne black beaver felt hat. A faded red, white, and blue cockade is affixed to the top right. It’s Napoleon Bonaparte’s hat. Right there for the taking. So take it, he does.

Back on Red Dwarf, Lister finds Kryten in the Drive Room. “Hey there, Krytes. Found ya somethin’.”

He unzips the duffel and pours out the cleaning products. They fall in a heap on the carpet. Lister drops the bag and scoops the bottles and packet of sponges up in his arms. Clumsily, he passes them over to Kryten. The mechanoid’s lipless mouth turned up into a smile.

“Oh, Mr. Lister, sir! I haven’t seen this brand of cleanser since I was on the Nova 5. This does bring back memories. Oh, thank you, sir!”

“No prob, Kryters,” Lister grins. “Enjoy.”

He leaves the duffel on the floor for Kryten to pick up, and returns to the trolley he left in the corridor. Lister pushes the trolley with the hermetically sealed box to the service lift. 

On the way, he spots the Cat, curled up on top of a vending machine, napping. He pulls the handfuls of buttons from his pockets and leaves them in a heap beside the Cat, for him to find when he wakes. Then he keeps on towards the lift.

Lister stops the trolley outside his sleeping quarters and enters to find Rimmer sat at the table with a magazine in front of him, a skutter beside him.

“No, no, no, you moronic mess of metal! Turn the other page! I’ve already read this one.”

Rimmer’s nostrils flare as the skutter makes a rude gesture with his clawed head. He kicks at it in frustration, but his projection, of course, phases right through the skutter, who takes this as its exit cue.

“Sorry to interrupt your fascinating day, Arnie,” Lister smirks, drawing Rimmer’s glare to him. He holds up his hands, placatingly, “I got something to show ya from that ship.”

“Why did you even bother, Listy?” Rimmer tuts, standing and striding closer. “The scans showed there wasn’t a smegging thing worth salvaging.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time Holly made a mistake, would it?” Lister returns cheerfully. “C’mon, this might make up for your toy soldiers.”

“I hardly think bringing that up will put you on my good side, squire…. Oh, my god,” Rimmer stops just outside the bunkroom, eyes locked on the tricorn hat in its case. “You didn’t – that couldn’t be – it isn’t –”

“Napoleon’s hat, yeah,” Lister taps the small museum-like information card affixed to the front of the case, which identifies the hat’s original owner, and dates the relic to 1815. 

Rimmer takes a knee. He shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle a whine of overwhelming fanboy glee. Then he gets up, jogs down to the end of the corridor and back again. He stops in front of the trolley, trembling with excitement. He phases one hand through the case, and mimics touching the black beaver felt. “I’m touching Napoleon’s tricorne!” he whispered. 

Lister rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. The poor smegger hasn’t been this excited since he mistook a garbage pod for an alien vessel.

Lister is starting to regret giving Rimmer the stupid hat. He’s become obsessed. He whined and fussed until Holly gave him the white and blue uniform worn to command the Grande Armée, complete with knee-high boots, golden epaulets and white waistcoat. He won’t let anyone else use the cinema, insisting that he’s got weeks worth of Napoleonic War documentaries to binge. And now, he’s found the git trying to actually put the thing on.

Of course, there’s no way for Rimmer to wear it, but he’s got four skutters holding the case above the chair he’s sat in. When they hold it steady, it looks, for a moment, as if the hat is actually on Rimmer’s head…above a pillow, surrounded by a large case, and likely not the grand effect the hologram had been hoping for.

“Hold it steady, you worthless mechanicals,” Rimmer snips, adjusting his white sash. “It was working there for a moment.

Lister draws a hand down his face. “Rimmer, this is low, even for you. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a hat.”

Rimmer makes eye contact with him in the mirror. “I’ll have you know, miladdo –” he begins.

But then he stops, as one of the skutters loses hold of the case, causing it to swing wildly through Rimmer’s projection. Everything seems to move in slow-motion, but even still, Lister can’t get to the case before it crashes to the metal deck, breaking off a large corner. He watches, horrified, as the hermetic seal breaks, the felt is exposed to air for the first time in millions of years, and it disintegrates. Rimmer staggers to his feet. There’s a moment of utter silence, and then Rimmer starts to scream.

“You utterly smegging worthless skutters!” he hollers, face turning red. “I’ll see you all disassembled for this! You’ll be used for parts! You’ll never work on this ship again!”

Taking advantage of his frothing tirade, the skutters head for the door. Rimmer growls and rushes after them.

Left alone with the remains of the hat and case, Lister kicks it out of his way, and shrugs. “At least he  can’t blame this one on me.” He climbs up into his bunk, and settles in for a nice, quiet smoke.

[louvay]

You are hired to cater Lord Seliph's house party. It's a charming Regency villa built during the times of French Revolution... oh, the irony. But far from the somber undertone the tumultuous time cast, the villa is charming. The rooms are comfortable, and you begin to like the night as it progresses. Lord Seliph needs extra helping hands in this party, and you are promised a good pay if you can see the night through. Sure, you may hear some things aren't meant for mansion staff like you, but you can't help but noticing how juicy these things are. You have been walking in and out of boudoirs, and to the tables where people have their games and probably more. What a time to be alive. It is 1820, and you understand the post-Napoleonic war brought a merry feeling among people.

You can see how sorrowful Lady Lana is even though she tries her best not to show it. You are mildly annoyed that she tries so hard, however, because otherwise it will appear as though you are idle considering she practically tries to do your job. You did see her and Lord Seliph talk separately at a quiet corridor whilst everyone else is playing chess and card games, and Lord Seliph seems contemplative whilst she is leaving hastily.

Murmurs you catch as you pass some cupcakes make it easier to put two and two together. You understand why Lady Lana feels especially close to Lord Seliph. They are childhood friends and their estates border one-another, but the same snide murmurs speaks of the quiet yet shy Lady Julia, where she talks to Lord Seliph the most. Lady Lana is seen clutching a letter. You have a good feeling that you can earn a good tip if you are heartless enough to be her messenger.

You hear murder being whispered. Just the word, and you don't know who did it. It has never been brought up again, but you notice Lady Ishtar looks uneasy because she must have not realized she took the wrong champagne glass. It's not hers. It's Lord Sety's; you do know this because you served him that exactly five minutes ago. You can see her glancing at her butler a lot. You aren't sure if she is supposed to do that, either.

"He is the most able person at the field," you see some hooded figures crowding Lord Arion. "Perhaps just as we need..." Lord Arion doesn't say anything yet, but his gaze is straight towards the unknowing Lord Sety. You feel your heart sinking somehow.

"He is -- he is what?" you hear Lord Julius gasping. It was audible. He didn't realize it, for sure. His composure is gone, and he appears like a totally different person. "What do you mean... no, what are you trying to say?!" you feel goosebumps. You aren't sure whom he meant because Lord Seliph is just some distance away in front of him, while Lady Ishtar's butler is to his right, outside of earshot.

"This is dangerous," you hear a young man begging. His raven hair glistens because he stands too close to a candelabra. You are about to warn him because it is so easy to get burnt if he continues, but 'dangerous' makes you halt your footsteps. "If you are wrong, all eyes will be on us. If you are right, then..." his twin, sharing his hair color, simply shrugs. You catch a thing or two about 'mother', and 'murderer'. You have a good hunch that this isn't the kind of conversation you should be eavesdropping.

"He is not bad," you recognize Lady Tinni's voice. She is persistent. If only she was more comfortable with herself. "If you must do it still, can you spare him?" Lady Tinni's brother -- or so you assume because of their shared hair color -- 'hems and haws'. He is irritated, but somehow you just know it's not towards his sister. He leaves. His companion, a woman with green hair, runs after him. They are heading towards the chess table, where you are set to serve drinks next.

"If this is true, then this is bigger than yourself," you overhear Lady Tinni's brother's lady companion tutting. "You cannot manage an alibi in due short time, Artie. There will be witnesses." 'Artie'? You have seen the guest list when Lord Seliph asked you to arrange the seating for dinner. Among the invited ones, you don't remember there's a guest called Archibald. Should you be concerned of intruders?

"He is here." You stop dead by your track. The voice speaking just now is gruff, full of anger. A blond man glares at his chess pieces. You can tell that he's losing a lot to the lady in pink facing him. What an odd sight, you think -- this is a party, yet he dresses as though he's attending a funeral. "I'm sure of it. Finally, I will avenge my father."

The lady in pink in front of him is probably too fearless for her own good. She just pinches the blond man's nose. "And what is next?" she huffs. "He isn't the one who killed him. He didn't even notice anything when he invited me and didn't mind I brought a plus-one." The blond man doesn't reply, but something sounds like a 'clank' when he shifts in his chair. You now desperately wonder whether his walking stick is just good, or if it's a cane sword...

You can see a brown-haired lad whispering to his attendant. The latter... you wonder when this man slept for the last time. He looks very somber. You wonder if his soul is still intact because he barely touches all the cake slices and drinks you just put in front of him. They are too far from where you are now, but you faintly catch the word 'sister' spoken.

"No. We are not doing that." You hear a woman speaking. Tall, graceful, yet with an air of formidability about her, she is conversing with a woman in pink. This is not the chess player with the blond man prior -- this woman's hair is pink. "No. I think..." she glances at Lord Arion. The pink-haired woman follows where her eyes linger. Both sigh. You don't know what they are talking about, and you have a good feeling that perhaps you shouldn't, anyway.

You find a diamond. That's right, on the ground as well! You look back and forth. You swear you catch a glimpse of a young woman sprinting towards the door few seconds ago. Blond and braided. You pick up the diamond and hold it in your hand to show your good will. You must give this to Lord Seliph soon.

"First time?" someone nudges you. He's also blond, but he wears a bandanna. You sense void in his voice. He sounds exhausted, although probably not physically. He sharply glances at the diamond in your hand. "The lass just now..." you wait, but he shrugs. "Mayhaps just mine feelings." You ask him if he hates his job. He laughs sarcastically at your face.

You can't find Lord Seliph, but perhaps he is in his study. He has said that he will be there to catch up with some of his letters that he hasn't had the chance to finish reading today. Considering the senders might attend the party, he's going to tactfully choose which matter needs immediate, in-person attention and not. You have been to Lord Seliph's study before. His auburn-haired butler wonders why you are running there, however. Should you tell him about the diamond?

"That must be another guest. If you excuse me!" the butler leaves you. Lord Seliph's study is just at the end of the corridor. You hasten your footsteps, but you catch a glimpse of a young girl walking seamlessly. Silvery-purple wavy hair. You blink, and she is gone. You aren't sure of what you saw. You wonder if you need to see Lord Seliph at all...

You now have precious information in your hands, with nearly-guaranteed anonymous bullet-proof should you decide to do... ahem, some things, about them. After all you are not the only staff who went back and forth into these rooms and attended to these noble guests tonight. You are probably the last person to leave since you clean up after the guests, but hey, who knows; you will not be the only staff who does this, and half of the guests are probably too merry, too stuffed, or too drunk to care!

Perhaps some people need to be reminded of their faults...

I would definitely contact my local bishop and tell him that I will soon get hexed by a magical forest girl and will soon pick a fight with Lord Sety (He is bad at swordplay ergo the live tuna fish I use for this duel will reign supreme)

[mrsarnasdelicious]

Orgasm Desperation - Napoleon Solo

The American struggles against his bonds. “You are a cruel, Miss Y/L/N.” He growls. “I know.” You purr. 

You give him a last withering kiss on his straining erection. Napoleon Solo swears under his breath. “Will you let me cum anytime soon?” He rasps. “Not if you keep running your mouth.” You get up from the bed. Solo arches to keep looking at you. You smirk, knowing his eyes on you as though he is a hawk. 

You undress slowly, taking off every item as leisurely as he can. “Goddamn, you are so beautiful.” Napoleon murmurs hotly. You giggle seductively. “Thank you, Mister Solo.” You cooe. Once you are fully naked, you go back to the bed. You smile widely at Napoleon and lick your lips. “Shall we get down to business, then?” You ask warmly. 

Napoleon smirks up at you. “Oh, gladly.” He purrs.

You smirk back at him and straddle his pelvis. Solo yanks at his bonds, wanting to grab you by the hips. But the bonds hold. You tut down on him. “We do this my way.” You tell him firmly.  “Yes ma’am.” Solo says. His tone is filled with mischief. To shut him up, you grab his cock. Napoleon groans. You slowly sink down on him. He swears softly and closes his eyes, to relish the feeling of your wet velvet head enveloping him. “Holy shit.” He hisses. “Hm?” You humm. “You feel so fucking good.” He praises. 

“You do too, Mister Solo.” You purr. 

You begin to ride him, slowly. Napoleon attempts to speed you up by bucking his pelvis, but you get off of him. He swears at the loss of you. “Lay still.” You purr. “I can’t.” Solo replies.  “You must, if you want me to ride you.” You say. “I can also just leave. I am sure Kuryakin will be amused when he finds you like this.” You smirk. “You wouldn’t do that to me.” Napoleon sounds only mildly desperate. “I would.” You answer.

“Please.” He whispers.

You shake your head, but straddle him again. You grind your folds over his length. Napoleon groans lewdly. “I want you to ride me. Please.” He hisses. “It is not that easy.” You muss. “Then what must I do?” Napoleon asks. You chuckle darkly. “Beg, beg some more Mister Solo. I know you can do it.” You purr. Napoleon swears under his breath. You roll your pelvis once again, smearing your wet arousal all over his cock.  “Please, Miss, Y/L/N. Please.... Please let me fuck you. Please Mistress.” Napoleon begs like he was made to do so. “Hmm, that sounds like music to my ears.” You purr. 

You sink down on him once more.

“Oah! Yes, thank you Mistress.” Napoleon groans.  “Good boy.” You smirk down on him.   While you ride him, Napoleon tenses beneath you and can only moan. “Oh god... god. I am so close. I can almost taste it.” He grunts. “Go ahead, cum for me.” You encourage him. Napoleon shakes his head. “I want to enjoy you a little while longer.” He whispers.  You ride him, harder. Napoleon groans below you, louder and louder. “Fuck, I am so close.” He growls. “Fill me up, Mister Solo.” You purr. It is the utter undoing of him. His hips buck, entirely beyond his control.

He spends himself, thick gushes of his semen spewing into your core. 

Into your womb...

He rests against the pillows, panting hard. “My god, that was something.” He grunts. “I needed that, badly.” He smirks up at you. “I knew you did.” You cooe.

[lady-divine-writes]

Never Have I Ever

A demon, an angel, a witch, several bottles of whiskey, and a 6000 year old secret. What could possibly go wrong? (2848 words)

“Never have I ever …” Aziraphale glances around the table, pausing on Anathema, poised with shot glass in hand, then Crowley, sinking into the yellow-and-brown paisley tablecloth, having already polished off an entire bottle of whiskey on his own and starting in on a fresh Jack Daniels “… plotted to overthrow King Richard the III!”

“Jesssusss Chrissstmasss!” Crowley hisses, picking up his shot glass and throwing back his whiskey, filling it immediately after and throwing that one back as well.

“Wait!” Anathema says. “You only have to take one shot for that!”

“Technically, I have to take three since that’s how many tries it took to dethrone the bastard.”

Aziraphale giggles as Crowley sloppily sucks down his final shot. He’s slightly less sloshed than his demon compatriot, but only just. Crowley’s eyes have begun to cross, and he’s toppled out of his chair twice.

A dozen more shots and Aziraphale may succeed in knocking the idiot out.

That would be a first.

“You know, I appreciate the fact that the two of you have been around since the dawn of time, but the things you guys pick are both obscure and bizarrely specific.”

“So …?”

“So, the point of Never Have I Ever is that you choose things that could apply to anyone. But the two of you seem to be on a vendetta to get one another wasted.”

“Fine, book girl,” Crowley drawls. “Let’s try this one on for size. Never have I ever … finished college.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both turn to Anathema - Crowley grinning like a jackal, Aziraphale with a snarky eyebrow raised. Anathema rolls her eyes and downs her shot. “Touché.”

“Congratulations! Ya got one!” Crowley says smugly. “May we continue? Never have I ever ...” The demon’s eyes glow with delight as they bounce from Aziraphale to Anathema … then back to Aziraphale “… sunken a ship!”

“Wha---what the Devil are you talking about?” Aziraphale barks, but he quickly reconsiders. “Are we talking a rowboat? Or an ocean liner?”

“Steamship.” Crowley pops the p, making Aziraphale’s head ring.

Aziraphale peers into Crowley’s eyes, silently enquiring, but he tuts in disgust when he figures it out. “You’re not going on about the Waratah, are you?”

“Oi! That was mah ship and you sank it!”

“I did no such thing! I commandeered it because I knew you were going to sink it!”

Crowley drops his head back on his shoulders and groans loudly – too loudly for drunk Aziraphale. “I already told you! No one would have gotten hurt!”

“No. You were going to do what you always do! Abandon those poor men on some deserted island with no way off! It was the 1900s! They had no cellular phones! No one would have known where they were!”

“And …?”

“They had families, Crowley!”

“Their fault. Not mine. What did you do with them anyway?”

“I reunited them with their loved ones, wiped their memories, and reassigned them to secure locations. It all turned out fine.”

“Still …” Crowley sniffs “… seeing as no one’s ever found the wreckage, it’s considered a sunken ship (hard k and another popped p).” He crosses his arms over his chest, affecting a superior pout. “Drink up.”

“I don’t see how that works in your favor but whatever helps you sleep at night. But you’d better take a shot, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“You mean to tell me that in 6000 years you’ve never sunken a ship?”

Crowley’s eyes pop slightly. “Quite right, quite right. Forgot about that.”

Aziraphale downs his shot, then reaches for the whiskey to refill it. He grabs the bottle around the belly and lifts, nearly tossing it across the bookshop when it comes off the table too easily. He brings it up to his swimming eyes and peeks around the label to get a look inside. “This one’s empty, I’m afraid.” He puts it back and rises unsteadily to his feet. “We’re going to need another.”

“Hold up!” Anathema grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and stops him. “We need to change the parameters of this game somewhat if we’re going to keep playing! I’ve taken maybe three shots to your, oh, let’s call it one-hundred-and-fifty!”

“You’re just sore … because you’re losing,” Crowley accuses with a belch in between.

“Wait wait wait …” Aziraphale slurs.

“Wait what?”

“Are we sure she’s losing? What exactly is the object of this game? Does the first person who falls down drunk win? Or does the person who remains sober win?”

“I …” Crowley squints his eyes painfully as he gives it a think. “I think it’s … it’s probably … oh, I don’t care! She’s being a sore loser! That’s why she wants to change the rules!”

“But you don’t even know what the rules are!”

“Don’t care. Things were going fine before she (*mumble mumble mumble mumble*) sore loser …”

Aziraphale surmises that his demon friend is grumpy because he thinks he’s winning, but Anathema has a point. They’re supposed to be having fun, and a game isn’t fun if you don’t get the chance to play. “Change how, my dear?” he asks her in an attempt to smooth things over.

“First off, anything that happened before the 90s is strictly off limits.”

“The 1790s?” Crowley asks, swaying like a snake as he tries to figure out which of the three Anathemas he’s seeing is the real one.

“The 1990s.”

“Pffft! The 1990s were dull!”

“Plus, be vague. I mean, believe it or not, there are things I have done in the broad sense that you may not have …”

“Not likely …”

“… but never have I ever …” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, trying to come up with the most ridiculous thing she can think of in short order “… sold Napoleon Bonaparte’s dismembered penis on the black market.”

“Ha! Cheers!” Crowley crows, snapping his fingers to refill Aziraphale’s glass. They hold up their shots ceremoniously, then drink them down, slamming their empty glasses on the table in unison when they’re done.

“Good lord! You two can’t be serious!?”

“I sold it first,” Crowley admits. “But he sold it by accident trying to return it.”

“How do you sell a penis by accident?”

“It’s a long story,” Aziraphale says sternly, the thin line his mouth makes clearly translating his distress at the mention of his faux pas, “and I’d rather not go into it. But all right. From now on, we’ll be vague.”

“Great!” Anathema smiles triumphantly. “Let’s start over.”

“In that case, it might help if we were a little less sozzled,” Crowley suggests.

“Right.” Aziraphale clunks a second empty whiskey bottle on the table beside the first. “Fill’er up, Crowley.”

“What?” Anathema watches wide-eyed and grossed out as Crowley strains, bending over at the waist, white-knuckling the seat of his chair between his legs, making the most revolting noise imaginable, the level of the liquid in the bottle rising with every grunt. Aziraphale, in contrast, is much quieter with regard to his own evacuating, but the whole process between the two is far too reminiscent of something else entirely.

It almost puts Anathema off her drink.

“That’s your guys’ bottle now,” she says, getting up to retrieve a brand new bottle from a nearby shelf.

“Obviously,” Crowley grumbles.

She cracks the cap on a fresh bottle of Jack and returns to her seat. “Okay, since I’m still not convinced you guys fully grasp the concept of this game, I’ll start.” She sits up straight and clears her throat as if preparing to make an important announcement. “I’ll make it simple. Never have I ever been rock climbing.”

“Ugh!” Crowley drinks his shot, revolted at how banal her selection is. Of all the things she could have chosen, she went with rock climbing. What? Did baking seem like too much of a stretch?

When he’s done with his drink, he notices Aziraphale’s glass has gone untouched. He glares at the angel, who stares back in confusion.

“What?”

“You’ve been rock climbing. Take a drink.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Whaddya call that big stone gate ‘round the Garden of Eden?”

“A gate, not a rock.”

“If it’s made of rock, I’ll allow it,” Anathema declares.

“But I didn’t climb it.”

“You were on top of it.”

“Yes, but I just sort of … appeared there. And after I gave away my sword, I miracled my way back up.”

“Ya climbed a rock. Take a drink.”

Aziraphale sighs and raises his glass. “Whatever.”

Anathema beams. “There. Isn’t this fun?”

“Loads,” Aziraphale says. Crowley sputters obscenely in response.

“I’ll pick another one,” Anathema offers. “Never have I ever stolen anything.”

“Oi!” Crowley gestures at Aziraphale after he sucks down his shot and the angel hasn’t moved. “You need to drink!”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks, righteously offended.

“You’ve stolen stuff before! I’ve seen you!”

“I’ve acquired. I haven’t stolen.”

“Same diff! Right, book girl?”

“I’d say so.”

“Name one thing I’ve stolen. Go ahead.”

“You stole that … that … wooden chalice thingy from the Knights Templar! And they were on your side!”

“I’ll have you know that wooden chalice thingy, as you so smartly put it, was the Cup of Christ! And I was moving it to a safe location. I tried to explain that to the chap on duty, but he couldn’t hear me.”

“He was six-hundred-and-seventy-three years old! He was deaf as a stump!”

“Yes but he looked amazing for his age, didn’t he?”

“After you took the cup, he died!”

“It was in the job description. He understood his fate,” Aziraphale says, dismissing the demon’s commentary with a wave.

“Right. And I’m sure that was a huge comfort to him!”

“I couldn’t say. Anyway, you haven’t proven anything. I have not stolen.”

“Fine,” Crowley growls, pouring his shot. “My turn. Never have I ever killed a six-hundred-and-seventy-three year old knight!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Anathema waggles a scolding finger. “That’s against the rules!”

“It’s necessary.”

“Of course it is, you sour serpent,” Aziraphale mutters, draining his glass. “My turn. Never have I ever nearly mowed down innocent pedestrians whilst behind the wheel of a vehicle traveling 90 when it should only go 30 tops!”

“What did we say about specific?” Anathema says.

“I don’t know. I think that could apply to anybody,” Aziraphale returns icily. “Have you seen the way you ride a bicycle?”

Crowley drinks his shot, mimicking Aziraphale while he does. When his glass hits the tablecloth, Aziraphale refills it. “Good of you to take your medicine, my dear,” he says. “Now whose turn is it to think of something?”

“I will,” Anathema says. “Someone needs to get this game back on track. Never have I ever worn high heels.”

“How high?” Crowley asks.

“I’ll say … four inches.”

With shaking heads and irritated sighs, Aziraphale and Crowley take a shot.

“Never have I ever ridden bare back,” Crowley says. This time Aziraphale and Anathema drink.

“Never have I ever eaten a rodent,” Aziraphale says. Crowley drinks his shot, snickering into his glass.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asks.

“You picked one you’ve done, so you have to take a drink, too.”

“What? I’ve never eaten a …!” Crowley nods through Aziraphale’s protesting and the angel goes pale. “When?”

“1683. At that little restaurant in Naples. That crooked asshat of a chef wat served everyone rat and claimed it was chicken?”

Aziraphale goes numb, jaw slack, the abject horror growing on his face making Crowley snicker more.

“You had seconds,” he reminds him.

“Oh my Lord, you’re right!” Aziraphale’s lower lip trembles as he drinks his shot. “I’d forgotten. Though I think I forgot on purpose, to tell you the truth.”

“Don’t blame you.”

“Yikes. Okay. Never have I ever …” Anathema bites her lower lip, hemming and hawing between two questions - both of them fairly blah, she has to admit - when a third pops into her head that’s too good not to use, if for no other reason than to possibly get back at these two imbeciles if it lands the way she hopes it will “… had a crush on my best friend.”

Anathema half expects glaring yellow eyes behind dark lenses boring through her skull as a sulking demon reluctantly takes a drink, but Aziraphale downs his shot before anyone can reach theirs, leaving Crowley and Anathema looking at him strangely before he realizes what he’s done.

“Oh!” he squeaks when he sees two sets of eyes trained his way. “I … I was … I was in a rhythm. I don’t think I was paying attention to the question, I …” Aziraphale gulps, wiggling nervously in his seat. “Come again?”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Anathema says, pretending to believe him. She refills his glass and pushes it in front of him. “We’ll call a re-do. Do you want to do the honors, Crowley? Or shall I?”

Crowley doesn’t answer her. He leans towards Aziraphale, as amused as Anathema but much more invested in Aziraphale’s answer. “Never have I ever …” he says slowly, chewing each word thoroughly before it leaves his mouth, drawing Aziraphale’s full attention to it, “had a crush on my best friend.”

He stares Aziraphale down, unblinking, the angel shrinking farther and farther back as the demon inches closer, eyes locked so hard on Aziraphale’s, he can feel their hold on him like physical hands keeping him rooted to the spot. Crowley’s eyes don’t unnerve him. Not in the slightest. It’s the idea that the secret Aziraphale has held on to the longest is about to be unearthed, and by virtue of a common, vulgar drinking game.

Whose idea was this anyway? he thinks, mentally side-eyeing Anathema before he comes to the sobering realization that, in truth, it was his. He’d seen it on a TV show – the first TV show he’d watched in decades. He’d fancied it, thought it could be a lighthearted and fun way to pass the time, get to know new friends.

Ha.

But the longer Crowley stares at him, the more the expectant grin on the demon’s face begins to wither, and if there’s one thing Aziraphale doesn’t want, it’s Crowley’s feelings hurt.

This had to come out sooner or later. Might as well be now.

Aziraphale grabs the glass and throws it back, grimacing at a burn on the finish that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “Happy? Now you know.”

“Ecstatic.” Crowley bypasses his shot altogether, grabbing the closest bottle by the neck and downing what’s left in a single impressive chug.

Aziraphale gasps. “Are you … are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“How long?”

“How long do you think?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up with the outlandish suspicion that he knows exactly how long. That he’s always known. “That long?”

“Yes, Aziraphale. That long.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think I was being subtle about it, really.” Crowley fidgets his fingers, worrying the thumbnail of his left hand with the index fingernail and thumb of his right. “I just … I figured that if you didn’t say anything about it then you probably didn’t … you know … feel the same.”

“But I did,” Aziraphale says softly. “I … I do. Feel the same.”

Crowley’s face lightens, something resembling hope lifting the corners of his mouth into a cautious smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Crowley rises from his chair and saunters over to Aziraphale. Aziraphale starts to stand but stops when Crowley gets down on his knees, removing his glasses and tossing them aside to get an unfettered view of him as if Anathema isn’t sitting mere feet away.

“I … I thought …” Crowley starts, interrupting himself with a bittersweet cough of a laugh.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale runs a soothing hand through the demon’s hair. “What do we do now?”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Crowley whispers, “I’d really like to kiss you.”

“I think … I’d like that, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Now that he has permission, Crowley wastes no time capturing Aziraphale’s lips with his own. After 6000 years, he’s tired of being subtle. From now on, he’s going to lay his feelings for Aziraphale on the line, out where the angel can see, and pray the important ones find their match alongside his.

Feeling like an awkward third wheel on a broken velocipede, Anathema begins gathering her things. “I’m just gonna go,” she says quietly, hopping out of her chair while demon and angel continue kissing. “Have some important, you know, witch business to get around to. I’m going to leave you two alone to … ahem … talk. But we should do this again some time. It was … educational.”

“Mmm … mind how you go, my dear,” a breathless Aziraphale mumbles between kisses.

“Right,” Crowley concurs, his hand sliding up into Aziraphale’s hair and pulling him deeper.

“Okey-dokey then.” It takes several tries before Anathema verifies she has everything, hugging books, a newspaper, a scarf, and her coat to her chest as she scurries away through the stacks and shelves with a laugh in her throat when the moaning begins.

[cha-melodius]

The Definition of Madness Chapter 2

Whumptober No. 23: Exhaustion

Fandom: The Man from UNCLE (2015)

Pairings: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo & Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller

Summary: They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

Or, Illya gets stuck in a very whumpy time loop.

Ao3 Link

*****

Previous Chapter

Illya gasps as he wakes, still choking on air that’s too thick to be breathable, but what fills his lungs is comparatively sweet and fresh despite the fact that it’s been shut up too long inside a musty safehouse and smells vaguely like onions and cooking eggs.

It was a nightmare, he thinks, still huffing his breaths. The light is dim in the bedroom, but he can see that he is, in fact, lying in his bed. He can hear the soft sounds of Napoleon in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.

“Fuck!” Napoleon swears loudly.

For a moment, Illya forgets to breathe again. It can’t be. He pushes himself out of bed quickly and hisses at the unexpected pain in his knees. What the—? Pressing his fingertips into his kneecaps yields a bloom of discomfort, like they had been bruised, like he had landed hard on them.

It can’t be.

He yanks the door to his room open and finds Gaby already tutting over Napoleon in the kitchen, pushing her sleep-mussed hair out of her face while their partner runs cold water over his burned hand.

“Impossible,” Illya blurts, causing them both to look up at him in confusion.

“Christ, Peril, are you ok?” Napoleon asks, momentarily forgetting about his own injury. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”

Illya knows his eyes must look wild, which is probably fair because he feels like he might be going insane. “What day is it?” he demands.

“What?” Gaby says, gaping at him.

“What day is it?”

“October twelfth,” Napoleon answers carefully. The furrow of concern in his brow deepens. “Why?”

“Have we been up to the compound?” Illya asks. “Yesterday, did we go?” Slowly, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal, Gaby moves around the counter and approaches Illya with her hand outstretched. “Illya, what is going on?”

“Did we go?” he snaps, stumbling backward and wincing against the pain in his knees.

Gaby gives her head a little shake. “No, we got here yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

He does remember arriving at the safehouse, remembers their now-routine thorough check of the house and settling in over dinner. But the thing is, he also remembers Napoleon’s burned hand, and climbing up the mountain, and cutting through the fence… and he remembers them all being captured. Remembers falling to his knees on a concrete floor, remembers choking on some chemical in the air. He doesn’t say any of this.

“I…” he says, trailing off as he looks from Napoleon and Gaby and back again. The whole thing would sound insane, he knows, and as he stands there it is starting to seem insane even to him. He swallows hard. “Just… just a vivid dream.”

Illya retreats to the bathroom before either of them can say anything more. He needs some time to think. He needs to calm down. There must be another explanation, even if he doesn’t know what it could possibly be. The porcelain of the sink is cold under his hands, grounding, and he forces himself to breathe in and out slowly.

Eventually he looks up at his reflection in the mirror and fuck, he does look like shit. There are heavy dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks are sallow. He feels like he didn’t sleep the previous night, exhaustion heavy in his bones, even though he knows he must have slept.

Just a terrible dream, he tells himself.

He’s almost starting to believe it, but then he reaches up to pull the medical supplies off the shelf next to the sink for Napoleon and catches sight of his wrist. The skin is rubbed raw, as if by rope bindings, and there is simply no way that could have possibly happened except…

Illya leaves the bathroom under the watchful stares of his partners and says no more about his ‘dream’.

“Maybe we should put the op off for a day or two,” Gaby suggests, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“No,” Napoleon and Illya say in unison. Well, at least they agree on that.

“We’ll be fine, Chop shop,” Illya tells her, and hopes he’s right.

*****

The hike to the compound is much the same as it was, excepting the fact that his knees protest every step until the pain finally recedes to a dull ache, and the exhaustion still hasn’t left his bones. His partners watch him carefully the whole way, clearly waiting for him to show any more signs of his earlier madness, but he knows better now. And if he happens to know exactly where Gaby will trip on a root, or the precise way that Napoleon will complain about the lunch he himself packed, Illya keeps it to himself.

He also keeps it to himself when they split up at the rally point, even though he wants to insist that they stay together. Just because he apparently had some kind of strange, precient dream, doesn’t mean that things will work out exactly that way. It’s disconcerting that he doesn’t know how Gaby and Napoleon were captured, but he can at least make his own choices to change the terrible outcome he’d forseen.

When he finds the building, right where it’s not supposed to be, he skirts carefully around its perimeter first. It really does seem to be empty, so the people who appeared must have entered from somewhere else. He checks each of the surrounding buildings, taking note of the group of five armed men in one and ten in another. They must have been part of his capture, but his vision had been too compromised to be sure of anything.

What he does not find is any sign of the man who had given the orders. Illya wonders if he tripped some kind of undetectable silent alarm by entering the building the previous time, and then he wonders if he could trip it again to draw the man out and still leave the building fast enough to get caught. In the end, he decides it’s too risky with all of the armed guards in the area. He’s supposed to meet his team back at the rally point in five minutes, so he can just report what he’s learned and they can make a plan from there.

Except his partners don’t return to the rally point. Not after five minutes, and not after ten. Illya swears softly under his breath and does the only thing he can do: begins searching parts of the compound that his partners were assigned to cover. The night stretches on, inky black shadows gaining luminous contrasts as the moon rises, and he finds nothing. No sign that they had ever been there. He must be missing something, but he can’t see what.

Eventually he returns to the rally point—and finds no trace of his team there either, of course—and decides to check on his sector and see if the guards are still in the same locations. Maybe if he plays it right he can draw one out, then use him to find his partners. When he turns the corner, though, he finds them all milling around outside the chemical building, which is now completely lit up from within.

Fuck.

It seems almost a certainty that the organization has Gaby and Napoleon, and that they’re holding them in the same building where Illya had seen them brought before. The problem remains, though, that there is only one of Illya and at least twenty armed guards outside the building, plus some unknown number within. The good news is that they don’t seem to know he’s there, or if they do they aren’t searching for him.

Most of the guards are focused around the front of the building, and he finds when he goes around the back that the rear is nearly deserted. Perhaps because there are only a few windows high off the ground, not that this would stop Illya. He manages to silently knock out the two guards posted there, leaving them slumped against the back wall, and with a small hop his fingers find purchase on the window ledge.

Carefully, he pulls himself up high enough to peer inside and confirm his suspicions: Gaby and Napoleon are bound, kneeling on the concrete floor, as the man giving orders paces in front of them. They don’t look drugged, not like Illya had been, but they clearly put up a fight, because there is a purple bruise blooming over one side of Napoleon’s face and Gaby is sporting a split lip. A few guards are posted nearby, watching the only door and not, thankfully, the windows. Before he can see much more, the man turns toward his window and he has to drop back down to avoid being seen.

After a few more moments he decides to risk another look. Fortunately the man is turned away, facing Gaby and Napoleon and apparently speaking to them, though it’s not audible through the glass of the window. Napoleon glares up at him, but Gaby is just staring at the ground. It’s a standard move for her, and it means she’s trying to look frail and unintimidating so the captors will underestimate her. It usually works like a charm, though Illya gets the feeling these people won’t be as easily fooled.

Illya carefully tries the latch and finds it unlocked, then slowly pushes it open, keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s back. His luck holds for once, and it slides open silently. Their captor seems quite intent on his partners, so Illya takes the opportunity to hoist himself up and halfway through the window in one smooth motion. The movement clearly catches Napoleon’s eye, but Illya can see the moment he realizes what is happening and keeps his gaze moving so as not to attract attention. Their captor doesn’t seem to notice.

“We’ll have your partner in custody soon enough, when he comes for you,” the man tells them. “Whether you are still alive to say your goodbyes is up to you.”

“He wouldn’t be stupid enought to come after us alone,” Napoleon bluffs. “He’s probably halfway down the mountain already, calling for backup.”

In reality, there is no backup. The whole operation had to be kept exceedingly quiet because of political instability in the region, so there would be no helicopters or armored convoys coming to save them. Just Illya.

“Oh no,” the man says, the amusement obvious in his voice. “I assure you, he’s still on the premises. We would know had he left.”

Illya watches the scene from his perch in the frame of the window, knowing that he’ll have to drop nearly half a meter down to the floor. He needs some noise to cover, and when Napoleon’s eyes flick to his for half a second he knows he’ll have it. What he doesn’t expect is for that cover to come via Napoleon trying to lunge toward the man, triggering several guards to rush forward. One slams a rifle butt across Napoleon’s face while another kicks him in the gut, and Napoleon doubles over, spitting blood onto the concrete floor in front of him.

“Solo!” Gaby shouts, which is somewhat disconcerting because it means that the man must already know their real names.

In the commotion, Illya drops to the floor and quickly hides in the deep shadows thrown by the lab benches. The man is saying something to Napoleon again, but Illya tunes them out, watching the guards intently. Their hands are on their weapons but they’re clearly not ready to fire, and Illya knows he would have enough time to take them out before they could get a shot off. What he doesn’t know is what the man in charge would do, nor how long it would take the guards outside to respond. He needs to get his partners free, but the distance between he would need to cover is too great.

He takes a few calculated risks and gets closer, until he knows he’s just going to have to make his move. The adrenaline thrumming through his body doesn’t quite muffle the pain that still lingers in his knees, nor the exhaustion that weighs heavily on him, but he doesn’t have many options. Four soft pops from his silenced handgun, and the four guards inside the building drop, but some of his shots don’t exactly find their marks. One of the guards manages a spray of rifle fire in Illya’s direction that he just avoids, and rapidly all hell breaks loose.

Illya expected guards from outside to rush through the single door, and he expected that any guards he didn’t fatally wound might try to get shots off at him. What he did not expect is for the man in charge to also have a gun, somehow hidden from sight. He did not expect for the man to grin as he pulls it and points it at Napoleon’s chest, and he did not expect him to simply pull the trigger instead of threatening to do so in order to take them all captive.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion, then. Illya hears himself scream Napoleon’s name as his partner slumps forward. Gaby lurches to the side, away from the gun, trying to get her feet under her with her hands still bound behind her back. The man twists away with what seems like too much speed when Illya fires at him, or maybe it’s just that his shots go wild. Illya feels something thud into his shoulder, just below his collarbone, and when he looks down there seems to be a rather large amount of thick liquid soaking through his black shirt.

Must have hit an artery, he thinks distantly as conciousness rapidly slips away from him. He doesn’t feel himself hit the ground.

Next Chapter

[histoireettralala]

How the (Quarantined) Murats broke the Internet (and Lannes).

Hello friends! I know we already have several ongoing projects with @joachimnapoleon, but we couldn’t resist unleashing this one.

It’s set in the Quarantine!AU which is itself a spin off of the Roadtrip!AU, Trifecta Universe, name it as you will :^)

Inspired by real world situation, unfortunately. Hoping this will bring to those of you who are in lockdown (same here!) some much needed levity.

****************************************************************************************

Caroline is cursing the day Napoléon enrolled her in Mme Campan's Institute; no, scrap that/rewind, she is cursing the day he met Joséphine, and consequently, Hortense, bane of her life, goody-two-shoes of the century who has inspired Napoleon with the truly visionary idea of trying to copy and paste Hortense's behaviour onto Caroline's whole self.

Now, Caroline is mature enough to admit some slight controlling tendencies. And maybe a contrarian streak - but try being the youngest sister in the Bonaparte family - you have to fight twice as hard to make yourself a place and get some respect.

Her point is, she hasn't taken to the Institute. For excellent reasons. If Hortense has made it a point of honor to excel in some subject, Caroline has systematically hated it. No use fighting for scraps after the star pupil has received the old hag's whole quota of praise, after all. Now Caroline wholeheartedly embraces whatever makes Madame Campan pinch her lips, shake her head, or sigh (as much as the snobby old lady allows herself to), treasuring every sign of disappointment the way Hortense collects gold stars. (Not to brag, but Caroline is now a master at it).

Even her marriage is a testament to that superhuman ability of hers.

Not that she didn't love Joachim anyway - she's been ridiculously besotted with the man since she was fifteen, and nothing has yet managed to abate her feelings towards the maddening, adorable goofball. But honestly, the way Mme Campan's face had fallen (oh, ever so slightly, but Caroline knows how to look) in disapproval had been the cherry on top of the delightful, curly-haired, long-legged cake.

She has relished every single one of their subsequent media appearances, and she would lie if she says she hasn't occasionally baited the press with their nationwide famous PDA. For now, Caroline admits, in spite of the "scandals" and all the choices she has made, the old witch is still standing and tutting in disapproval - like that would work. But someday, yes, oh someday she would break, and it would be all thanks to Caroline.

So - she is cursing. Because, of course, Hortense has always been committed to arts and crafts, and Caroline, therefore, has pointedly ignored them.

And now she can't sew to save her life.

Literally.

Because masks are mandatory now.

And she has four kids to protect.

And, well, she may suck as a student, but she does NOT suck as a mother. So, taking a deep breath, she watches videos, buys fabric, filters, and elastic bands, and sets herself to the task.

Two hours later, her eyes are red, her voice hoarse, her fingers raw and pricked, and she is irreparably breaking her ties with the sewing machine.

She vaguely considers calling Pauline - even if she can't sew herself (can she ?) Pauline will surely know someone who can, and at least she is kind enough not to let anyone know of Caroline's embarrassing problem.

She is still scowling fiercely when the shrieking chorus begins (the kids' usual reaction to Joachim's arrival), promptly followed by the sound of bags hitting ground and little feet running, three, two, one, impact. And Joachim's laugh.

God but that sound can still bring a smile to her face.

She wipes her eyes and straightens herself up before opening the door to the entry hall where the kids are now swarming around their father and drowning him in cuddles and kisses, stuffing their drawings under his nose and chattering excitedly. ** Beneath the squealing, adoring, warm little pile of his children's wriggling bodies, Joachim soaks up the innocent love and its side dish of kicking little feet and shrieks in the ear. As Louise's sticky little fingers pat his cheek, he sees from the corner of his eye the door open on his wife.

His sunshine.

His glorious little dynamo.

But there's a problem, Joachim thinks frantically (what has he done now ??? nothing comes up!!), because she doesn't spark her usual energy - oh my God, she's disappointed, that's it, disappointed and SAD (WHAT I HAVE DONE ???), her walk is nothing like her usual triumphant gait (it's the COUCH), even her hair looks listless (Lannes may still let me crash, where is my sleeping bag ??). Joachim takes a deep breath and centers himself before looking at her again, and - oh. She's not angry at him.

Oh.

Then whatever has her so bothered is going to die a fiery death and if she wants, Joachim will stomp it to death (with his hooves, Achille's voice adds in his mind).

** Famous last words, Joachim muses, hesitantly fingering the white cotton.

He has watched the video. Three times, to make sure.

He has cut the necessary length and width for six masks (his ambition for tonight is moderate). 

The machine looks back at him, reminding him of a crouched feline, poised to pounce. He eyes it warily. Caroline's explanations, though thorough, had been... fast paced. Joachim has caught the general idea and in what order the different steps of the process are supposed to happen. He has minded every fold of the fabric and set aside the elastic bands.

It's... daunting. If he messes that up his family will be stuck inside forever and the house will probably catch fire spontaneously from the sheer frustration burning inside them. Murats need to be OUTSIDE (Bonapartes don't deal much better with being locked up).

He carefully selects the stitch and folds the fabric by instinct - patterns are as useless as maps, anyway - he'll go with his guts and God bless the bold.

He takes a deep breath and lines up the three layers of material - with the elastic bands properly tucked inside- under the needle, lowers the presser foot, and gently pushes on the pedal.

Oh my God.

Oh my God it's happening.

Joachim marvels at the speed the machine uses to execute its task, remembering to steer the fabric only if needed, and being careful with it ("To be honest, sweetie, I'm not even sure if it's working well, " Caroline had admitted. "I think Mama gave it to me, ugh, when I went to the Institute. " Joachim hadn't pushed because he wasn't that insane, some things were taboo in this house).

When the first side is done, he takes a moment to inspect his work before switching to the other side.

Wow.

It's... Pretty okay ?

The mask all done, Joachim holds it to his face, and stands up to find a mirror (they're everywhere in this house, and see, it's useful).

He tries it on.

It's very... white.

Time for some color, he decides.

Heh. If anyone had told him before tonight that he was going to sew a mask and like it, he would have sent them to a psychiatrist. Because, even though he'd been quick to assure Caroline he totally could do this (I've repaired my suits several times! ), his skills were limited to a temporary little tweak and quick repair when he didn't have the time to go to the tailor.

In front of the mirror, Joachim smiles beneath the mask.

This is going swimmingly. ** Caroline grumbles when a weight hollows the mattress out.

"It's late," she mutters.

"Shhhh, " says the voice. Then, with a giddy sort of energy Caroline can only wonder at (who the hell is so alive at such an ungodly hour -oh yeah, that's right, only Joachim). "Love."

A pause.

"Sweetheart ?"

Caroline groans.

"Yeah", she forces out.

"We have seven masks!"

The proclamation wakes Caroline completely and her hand is already searching for the light switch.

"What?"

She pushes the switch and looks at Joachim's face. Blinking under the sudden flood of light, he looks …

Surprised and happy. A little bit like a dog who has just learned a new trick. The smile on his face is infectious.

"You want to see them ?"

Caroline is already up.

In her office, the old machine sleeps and seven masks wait in a wicker basket. They're real. They look like the models Caroline vainly tried to follow. She touches them, putting one over her face. It fits. The elastics do not hurt.

They have masks.

Joachim watches her, waiting anxiously for her verdict. Her eyes shine in the mirror, and then she turns towards him, takes off the mask and sets it aside.

A purring Caroline leaps into his arms.

So much for sleep.

** At the usual hour, Lannes, bottle and glass at the ready, flicks on Skype. He has so much to tell Murat (to be honest, he never knew before quarantine how much of a gossip he'd turn out to be, but what can you do) and even without any grand news (which is the case most of the time) it's always a highlight of his day.

The kids are lovely but sometimes you need an adult conversation, okay ?

An adult male conversation.

A bro discussion, yeah, okay.

"Murat ?" he calls.

Weird. Usually Joachim leaps onto any greeting, if he's not the first one to call.

"Yo ? Murat ?"

Nothing.

"JOACHIM MURAT" he bellows.

Finally,  a harried face appears. The black curls are everywhere and the eyes seem inhabited by some unholy light.

Has Joachim started to drink without him ?

Or worse, with someone else ?

Lannes feels oddly cheated at the idea.

"Ah, yeah, okay, hello, Lannes!" says Murat, blinking. "Is it already time ?"

Already ? The day had dragged on.

"What the hell is happening," he blurts out. "Have you started drinking ?"

Murat looks weirdly offended, scrunching up his nose.

"Drink- what ? No!"

He straightens up and clears his throat.

"No, Lannes, I didn't cheat on our Skype cocktail hour with some random booze harlot, I respect you too much for that. I was just, " he lowers his voice and Lannes instinctively leans towards his screen, intrigued.

"I was busy.

- Are the kids okay ?

- Yeah, they're fine! Excellent! The spirit is undaunted, yeah!

- Joachim," Lannes slowly articulates.

Artless blue eyes look up at him.

"I was making masks, and I forgot the time, that's all!"

- Masks, " Lannes repeats in a bland tone.

- Masks," Joachim nods.

- Masks ?" What the hell, Lannes wonders, masks, like, actual masks against Coronavirus ? Masks, as in, paper masks or clown masks for the kids, right ?

- Masks, as in, mandatory masks, yeah, I'm making them, " and Lannes has stepped into an alternate dimension.

- You're making masks.

- I am.

- Masks.

- Masks, " Joachim patiently assures him.

- Making ? As in, as in SEWING them ?"

The black curls fly as Murat vehemently nods.

Holy shit.

Lannes almost busts a gut laughing.

" I could show you", Murat says with a hint of disapproval in his voice (it was weird) "but if this is the way you react I might not bother."

The laughter stops short. Murat's headmasterly tones are frankly weirding Lannes out.

Is this a prank ?

Lannes knows it's not. It's all over Murat's face. He's actually serious.

Holy shit.

"Why are you the one sewing the masks ?" he finally asks.

"Because," Murat shrugs. "I volunteered."

Lannes blinks.

"Plus, " he adds, with a smile, " Turns out I'm great at it!"

That is still to be seen, Lannes thinks, remembering, oh, way too many boasts.

"You'll see", Murat nods sagely.

"Right", Lannes croaks.

The evening goes on.

** He made the haberdashery's day, Joachim thinks, fabric piled up in his arms.

Good for them, and good for his family.

Today, he is going to let the kids choose the fabric for their masks. Just because they are young doesn't mean they have to settle for their parents' choice, right ? He carefully picked anything that could interest or amuse the little ones.

He has turtles, an armada of kittens, various birds, flowers, geometric patterns, dots and stripes of all sorts.

"What are you doing, Papa ?"

Joachim turns to face Letitia.

"I just bought some fabric to make some masks for you all, sweetheart. Do you want to choose yours ?"

The little girl nods eagerly.

"Can I stay with you ?" she says, leaning into him.

Joachim can't resist such a request.

** Caroline climbs up the stairs to Joachim's office where he finally set camp with the sewing machine two days ago.

She is still mesmerized by his mastery over the beast.

He has adopted a routine, and tonight, she needs proof that Joachim sewing actually happened (Pauline had laughed, and Joséphine had asked for receipts), so she's carrying her camera. She scowls inwardly, why can't anyone ever believe them ? Joachim told her about Lannes the other day - well, what is so extraordinary about it ? Being male doesn't make you genetically unable to sew, you know. Men!

Hushed voices wash over her, Letitia's flute-like voice overlapping with Joachim's warm tones.

"And then I put the fabric here," their little girl is saying.

"Uh huh," her man agrees, with the softness he saves for his children (and herself). " Perfect!"

Letitia giggles.

Caroline, readying her camera, silently enters the room. Both father and daughter are so absorbed by their task and by each other that they don't notice her presence.

Letitia sits on her father's knee, her little hands holding the fabric - a giraffe pattern - and Joachim is entirely focused on her.

Caroline starts filming.

When the giraffe-adorned mask is ready, Letitia snuggles into her father's chest and he offers her the next selection, apparently a swarm of tropical fishes.

"Your turn, Papa", says the little girl.

"Oh, you're right, princess", Joachim smiles, mock chastened. "Shall I ?"

Letitia nods determinedly. “Go on good Sir".

Joachim sews the next mask.

It's very sweet, Caroline thinks, beaming behind her camera. This is the perfect proof that she was right, not only about his sewing ability, but about her own choice years ago. I'm so going to upload this as soon as I'm out of here, she rejoices.

** New video uploaded, by @carolinemurat, 7.54

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: oh my god it's so cute!

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: and he's doing great!! how many has joachim already sewn ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.08: sorry, just had to watch it again. (<3) This is an adorable duo and you were totally right, I should never have doubted you.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.14: wow

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: I'm speechless.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: In a very good way!! Congratulations to Joachim.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.17: very sweet and actually educational! Congratulations!

@aimée-davout, 8.26: I wish Louis would do that with our little one!

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.34: Can I share this on other social medias , Caroline ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.36: was about to suggest the same! I can boost it up with my contacts. Up for it sister ?

The phone rings.

"Mama ?"

"Uh huh, he did that. He's... Yes, Mama, he actually offered, and.. Mama. Mama! Listen to me please ? Yes, I promise. Uh huh. Yes. Yes, really. Did you watch the video ? You really should, your namesake is on it too. "

Ten minutes later.

"Yes, Mama ? Is everything  - oh. Oh. Well, yes, he's still sewing. Wha- yes, Mama, I won't disturb him. Of course, Mama. You.. what ? His favorite dessert ? Why... Mama we're in lockdown, he can't go to Corsica. You.. Ah, yes, of course, I'll ask him. And yes, of course, I'm feeding him! Mama!"

@aglaéauguiéney, 8.47: mind boggling.

@eleonoredenuelle, 8.49: how talented can a man be ?

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.53: It's actually a better tutorial than the official ones ? And so much cuter.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.55: I wish I had a little girl.

@carolinemurat, to @joséphine-malmaison, @pauline-borghese, 8.58: Yes.

TBF...

[karmabansheenz]

Do I Stay or do I Go Now?

Well, everyone, this is it, my first ever Fanfic. I’m a Guy Ritchie super fan and I, like most, am obsessed with the character dynamics between Ilya, Solo, and Gaby.  As I attempt to pay homage to this, please forgive any faux pas! Trigger Warning: Fiction contains attempted sexual assault.  

1960’s

Napoleon Solo Ilya Kuryakin Gabriella ‘Gaby’ Teller

Who am I?

I’m an orphan. My Father was a Nazi rocket Scientist and my Mother – I don’t speak of her.  

I am not proud of my lineage, not many daughters of the Nazi regime are.

I don’t like to go on about myself and neither do I particularly enjoy talking of the past. Therefore, all you need to know is that in the pursuit of trying to locate my Father I was recruited by one Alexander Waverly of the British intelligence agency and have now somehow found myself embroiled within a covert operations team alongside a devastatingly incorrigible American CIA Playboy, Napoleon Solo and a giant brooding Russian KGB Agent, Ilya Kuryakin.  

Our codename; U.N.C.L.E.

“My, my Gaby.” Waverly tutted, jutting his short chin out as he admonished me, “We are particularly disinterested today I might say.”  

He wasn’t wrong, he was never bloody wrong but I refused to take the bait, instead, I simply folded my arms across my chest lounging further back in the dark leather armchair.  

Beside me, I felt Ilya tense, not one to approve of my ever being anything but the soft feminine creature he so yearned for me to be.  Unable to resist I, therefore, took a deliciously long, sweet time altering my crossed legs.  Fingers suddenly struck, ticking against his pressed grey trousers. It was a dead giveaway that I’d be successful in agitating him and only happy to further the strain I cocked my head and slipped the end of my pencil into my mouth.  

Napoleon’s sharp kick to the back of my chair startled me as I slid against the linoleum floor.  

“What?” I asked him doe-brown eyes wide.

“You know what. Take pity on Peril.”, the almost permanent natural quirk to his lips made it hard to take him seriously.

“Don’t speak for me, Cowboy.”  

I rolled my eyes at the deep gravelly growl.  

“Don’t do this, don’t do that.” I mimicked his surly monotone. “Can’t you ever have fun?”  

“It’s nice,” interjected Waverly in his overly dry clip, “to see that after two successful missions you’re still all such good friends. Now if you don’t mind,” the slap of a stack of folders hitting the desk echoed around Alexander’s office, “back to business.”  

I took the top folder scanning the front page of the dossier, paying particular attention to the small polaroid attached.  

“William Chisholm,” The ice in Waverly’s glass chimed as he swirled his whiskey around, “Philanderer, business tycoon, madman. Quite standard statistics for a man with naturally sadistic tastes. Rumor has it he’s grown tired of kidnapping and trafficking women for fun and now has decided that biological warfare is more ‘his thing.’”

“Sounds like a real swell guy.” Napoleon drawled rising and releasing the top button of his shirt as he helped himself to a drink. “So, what's the plan?”

“It's delightfully simple really.” Waverly’s eyes met mine. “He’s very, very partial to a particular type of woman. And we, well we just seem to have exactly what he's looking for.”  

“No.” Ilya stood his chair crashing against the floor. “Absolutely not.”  

I took the whiskey from Napoleon's outstretched hand and shot it back. “When do we start?”

Ilya took a menacing step towards me and ignoring him I stacked my feet up on Waverly’s desk, empty glass shaking in Solo’s direction for a refill. Waverly cocked an eyebrow at me and I smiled,

“Well...?”

***

“Let's run through this, again shall we?”  

Ilya towered over Napoleon, “I. Don't. Need. To. Go. Through. It. Again.”

Solo pushed on unperturbed. “Gaby and I will attend the event together in the pretense of being Husband and Wife.”  

“You are not-”

“Oh, for god's sake Ilya.” I turned from the window overlooking New York City’s grandeurs skyline, my small foot tapping against the plush mustard carpet. “It’s a good plan, Solo and I will-”

“You should be My Woman.” the big blond Russian barked.

“Yes, yes,” I waved my hand at him, “Because it worked so well the last time, we played pretend.”

“Face it Peril,” Solo fitted his sapphire cufflinks, adjusting the sleeve of his tailor-made shirt, “Once again our Little Iron Curtain Girl has the right of it. You couldn’t even standby and be mugged next to Gaby. How do you think you’ll behave when the entire goal is to try to have her accosted?” he slanted an eyebrow, expertly knotting his bowtie even without the use of a mirror.

Ilya’s huge hands curled into fists at his side. “I do not like this plan.”

“You don’t have to like it.” I sighed lifting my thick brunette hair over my shoulder as I turned my back to him. “Now, zip me.”  

Napoleon saluted me with his glass as he left the sitting room.  

“Gaby,” I felt the hairs on my neck spark to life as his large index finger pressed against the top of my spine, skimming down, dipping into the low curve of my back before he pulled at the zipper, quickly covering once exposed skin.  

I could feel the heat of his body behind me so close pressing inwards without moving. I turned, sliding the string straps of the dress up and over my shoulders as I craned my neck all the way back, just to look up at him.  

“Gaby.”

“It’s time.”  

I smiled at Solo’s perfectly timed call, feeling Ilya’s long fingers slide from the back of my neck where they’d briefly tangled into my hair.  

“No garter this time?” I quipped up at him. His light grey-blue eyes were sad as he reached into his pocket pulling out a large engagement ring with a familiar centered pearl, surrounded by diamonds.  

“No.” He took my hand, sliding the band onto my finger and this time I let him. “I will be listening.”

I smiled feeling my bottom lip tremble with a sudden stab of fear. “As usual.” was all I managed as we gathered to leave.

Ilya again balled up his fists, “I will be able to hear her Cowboy. But you, you do not let her out of your sight.”

Solo bristled, his pretty ego so easy to rattle, “Christ Peril, you think you’re the only one who cares about Gaby?”  

“Not out of your sight Cowboy!”

Napoleon wrapped the white minx coat around my shoulders and nodded at the Russian, suddenly utterly serious. The intensity of the moment made the fine hairs on my arms prickle.

I rested my tiny hand on Ilya’s wide chest, feeling the quick thud of his heartbeat, pearl winking from the overhead lights. “I will be fine Ilya. I’m a big girl.”

***

Solo pressed against me as we swayed to the live orchestra at the Charity Gala. It was always the same, deranged men hiding behind mountains of good deed diversions.  

“Spotted him yet?” Napoleon's warm whiskey-scented breath tickled over my ear and I moved to tuck my head under his chin scanning faces around us as he waltzed me across the floor. I spied ‘him’ suddenly striding down the main stairway, a stoic blond porcelain doll upon his arm.  

“Gaby?”

“Mm-hum.” I made the affirmation in my throat gently taking over the lead in the dance to turn Solo back the way we’d come.

“Well done.” he smiled down at me. “Ready?”  

I wasn’t, not really but when did that ever seem to matter?  

Dressed head to toe in red I knew I was hard to miss and though I was small, I was not oblivious to the desire to ‘protect’ that that brought out in most men. William Chisholm's character profile was simple. He liked a good chase and he certainly enjoyed taking things that didn’t belong to him. Therefore, in order to bait our trap well, Napoleon and I were really going to have to sell this sham marriage.  

My back now to the target I felt Solo’s hand slid down drifting over my backside. I reached behind me and gripped his wrist. “Naughty boy.”

“But Darling,” he drawled his middle American accent thick like honey. “It’s simply impossible not to misbehave when you look like this.”  

“But Darling,” I cooed, “This is not the time.”

His dark blue eyes flashed along with his smile and probably for the first time, this close I really, clearly understood what that azure gaze could do to a woman when you had its full attention.  

“It's always time.” he teased filling his hand and squeezing.  

I turned it up, giggling and slapping at his tuxedo covered shoulder. “Not here.”

His hand trailed upwards cupping my face and I turned away in a spin but was quickly pulled back and dipped over his strong arm. “At least play fair Mrs. Jones.”  

Laughing as he set me back on my feet, I noted eyes on us. Happiness did that, it drew people like flies, sucked them into its web. A few even softly clapped as he kissed my hand and led me from the dance floor deftly plucking two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “To us.”  

I clinked glasses with him and sipped coquettishly.  

“Careful now.” he chuckled catching my chin in his thumb and forefinger, dipping to press his mouth against mine. My lips tingled and my knees wobbled as his tongue swept along my lower lip. I let my eyes shine; wasn’t sure I could have stopped them. “Shall we leave early?” he purred his gaze flicking quickly to the left.  

“I would hope not.”  

I pressed my fingers to my lips in feigned surprise, drawing away from the unfamiliar voice.  

Solo turned to face the cause of our interruption, shifting slightly so his body was between me and our Mr. William Chisholm. “Excuse me I don’t believe we’ve met.” He extended his hand, “Theodore Jones.”

Chisholm took it, his dark green eyes never leaving my face. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones.” Releasing Solo’s hand, he sipped from his own glass, eyes raking over me. “And who might this delightful creature be?”

‘Theo’ moved backward his hand again at my lower back, “Ah, allow me to introduce my beautiful wife, Olivia.”  

William took my proffered hand his thumb grazing my knuckle's as he pressed a lingering kiss. “Wife?” he glanced back at the porcelain doll. “Yes, I have one of my own though I must admit she seems rather dull compared to yours.”  

Solo cleared his throat, pressing me possessively against his side.  

William’s smile thinned. He was by no means an unattractive man, wavy black hair, tanned skin, fit build. But knowing what I did, I could see it. The underlying darkness that sequestered his inner demons.

“How have I never met your acquaintance, before now?” he inquired casually, too casually.  

Before Napoleon could answer I excused myself feeling both men's eyes on me as I weaved through guests in the pretense of needing the powder room. After touching up my lipstick and tucking away a few loose curls of hair I reentered and helped myself to a new glass of liquid courage.  

I was unsettled. I felt like I’d stared into the belly of the beast, and it had rattled me.  

Strolling through the wide corridors of the gallery I finally stopped before an abstract painting of two bodies intertwined. I drained the flute I held and reached for another, fingers colliding with Chisholm's.  

“Please, allow me.” he raised the glass, licking off the droplets that had spilled over the rim before handing it to me.  

I took it, trying to make every movement exaggeratingly slow. Through shuttered lashes, I stole a peek up at him and was pleased to watch his nostrils flare.        

“Where have you been hiding Mrs. Jones.?”    

I turned my back on him facing the painting once more. “Olivia, I insist.” Sensing him move rather than seeing him, I assumed he’d come to stand directly behind me.  

“Not Livi? Or Liv?”

His breath brushed my bare neck and I snorted into my champagne. “You insult me, William.”

“How so?”  

Looking back over my shoulder at him I again sipped my drink, “Do I look like a Livi or a Liv to you?” The question hung in the air, I felt the heat of it and cleared my throat putting space between us. “Besides I’m sure my husband told you of our recent adventures abro-.”

“He did,” William interrupted, “But I would prefer to hear your take on matters.”

I smiled, obviously wanting to make sure our stories matched I obliged him stepping slightly further away each time I felt him reach for the small of my back. “Is your curiosity quite satisfied?” I ended.

“No.” He breathed his movement more determined this time as he caught my wrist. Startled and playing the role I needed to, I tried to pull away. “Not at all I’m afraid.”  

I eyed him nervously.  

His smile flashed, predator-like. “I know your type Olivia.” he jerked on my wrist dragging me against his body. “You like to play at being in charge, but that’s just because someone hasn’t taken you in hand properly yet.”  

It was a risky move but I went with what my instincts told me as his hard mouth crushed down on mine. Reeling back I slapped him, immediately covering my mouth with my hands in shock.  

His eyes were alight. “Oh yes, I know your type indeed.”  

“I have to go.” I stammered.  

“Where are you staying?” he caught my upper arm, “Answer me.” his voice, though quiet, cracked like a whip.  

Impeccably timed as usual ‘Theodore’ appeared around the corner with my fur coat in hand. “Darling, there you are.” he slid me back into the minx, “We’re going to be late.”

“Another engagement?” Chisholm feigned polite interest.

“I’m afraid so.” Solo smiled.  

“Let me extend an invitation to you both to join me at my home tomorrow.”  

I pressed into Napoleons side averting my eyes from William. Letting the men speak, though made sure enough that Chisholm could see my shaky hand clutching at my husband's jacket lapel.

“It’s a little get together. A celebration of a job well done for tonight's event. I won’t take no for an answer.”  

“Well if that’s the case,” Theodore Jones quipped and the men shook hands again, “We’re staying in room 308 at the Waldorf if you would like to send the information over. Sadly, I must insist we leave now though.”

Knowing that Chisholm would expect further contact, I purposefully denied him interlocking my hands around Solo’s elbow as we nodded our goodbyes and slipped from the venue.  

***

  “Why must you always insist on behaving like this?”

I rubbed my head in my hands eyeing the half empty bottle of vodka sitting in front of me. It had been a long night, Napoleon made sure we had stayed out in case we were being followed.  So, of all the wonderful thing we could have done in New York City, we’d attended the god-awful opera for appearances sake and now, well after midnight, all I wanted was to drink myself to sleep.  

  “More importantly,” I complained, “Why must you always insist upon making me drink alone?” I shook the vodka at Ilya, “Besides, this is my room. So, I will drink how I like. In my room.”

 “You are like a little girl.”

Swigging straight from the bottle I waggled my finger at him.

  “Hey!” I cried out, dumbstruck as he moved suddenly, snatching it out of my hand and striding straight across the room, begin emptying the rest of my vodka down the bathroom sink.  

I flew after him, slapping my hands against his back and shoulders. I might as well be hitting a block wall for all the notice he took. One steely strong arm held me off as he poured out my only hope of a good night's sleep. “Stop!” I yelled resorting to yanking at his shirt.  

Finished he swung to face me his eyes a stormy grey. “I will do it.”  

I chewed on my bottom lip backing away from the raw heat of him, even as I stubbornly lifted my tiny chin, “Do what?”  

  “You. Know. What.”          

  “Pfft.” It was an un-lady like snort, my eyes daring him, “You had your chance in Istanbul and you didn’t.”

His face was stony as he towered over me “Do not speak to me of Istanbul.”

  “Why?”  

His palm struck the wall beside me. I didn’t even flinch.

  “Why Ilya?” I purred finger jabbing him in the chest before trailing down lower, “Is it because you liked it?”

His jaw ticked, “Stop.”  

My finger hit the ridge of his belt buckle, “Ilya?”  

He was staring at my hand, resting above the seam of his trousers.  

“Is it because you like to listen to me?” Tick, tock went his jaw again. “Did you want to watch me?”

Squealing I found myself suddenly tucked under his arm as he carried me from the bathroom. “What are you doing?!”  

Huffing as my elbow found his abdomen, he juggled his hold on me until I was face down staring at the ugly carpet of the suite's bedroom. I could feel the restrained violence in him. Actually, folded over his thighs I could feel all of him.  

His hands on my shoulder and hip pinned me and then he branded me with one.  

I couldn’t even cry out, or gasp.

The second one was harder, sharper and mouth open against the side of the bed I sucked in a breath at the third before coming to life. “Ilya stop it!” I scrambled to free myself from his lap, fists clutching at the bedding and his trouser leg. “Stop Ilya!”  

Four – Five.  

  “Ilya!” my blood pounded in my ears.  

Six.  

I screamed and he released me so suddenly I fell onto the carpet on all fours. Scrambling away I sat against the wall, hissing at the tenderness of my backside, ending up on my knees.  

  “Bastard.” It was a sob.

His eyes lifted from staring at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him, to my face and I read the regret in them, and... something else entirely.  

  “Russian Bastard.”  

Shame flickered across his aquiline features and my gut responded in kind. How long had I taunted him, teased him, goaded him into putting his hands on me?  

I had wanted him too and knew him well enough that nothing would have driven him to touch me like his anger would. We'd worked side by side for well over six months and other than wrestling in a hotel room in Italy he had only ever really touched me with his eyes. He didn’t think he was worthy of me; he didn’t think he was enough.  

And here it was, my moment to tell him, he was.  

And I couldn’t do it.  

On his feet suddenly he paced before me, long legs eating up the limited space in the room. Hands plowing through his thick blond hair before he froze in place, staring at the door to the room.

  “No.” I whispered.  

He made to move towards it and I grabbed one large hand in both of mine. “Ilya.” He looked past me still at the door, “Please,” I begged softly, “Please don’t leave me here on my own.”

The plea hung in the air between us. I pressed my forehead against the backs of his knuckles. “Please.”

And then...  

Finally, his strong long fingers wrapped around mine.  

***

“Good Morning.”  

Solo’s voice was irritatingly bland as if finding his partners together abed was nothing out of the usual. Granted we were both still completely clothed I was however fully curled atop the huge Russian like a happy kitten.  

Ilya’s arms that had been wrapped around me dropped away as the curtains were opened and sunshine stung our eyes. As we moved away from each other the Americans eyebrows did suddenly arch in surprise as I wiped quickly at the corner of my mouth and he spied the corresponding wet patch on Ilya’s shirt.  

The envelope in Napoleon's hand was waved in front of my face. I snatched it from him, broke the seal and scanned the contents as he dropped into one of the suites armchairs.  

Snorting I flattened it against Ilya’s chest in disgust.  

  “What?” Solo smiled drolly.

I looked up at Ilya watching his expressionless features as he read the letter and then reread it. “I don’t like it.” was all he said after a while and handed it over to the American.  

  “Oh, for god's sake,” I quipped heading towards the bathroom, “that's all you’ve said since we arrived!” Shutting the door, I slid back against it to the floor, my hands were shaking.  

  “So, it’s a different invitation than we were expecting.” Solo called out, “But it’s still an invitation.”

  “Oh wow,” the Russian drawled, “Love your logic Cowboy.”  

I pressed my face into my hands, I wanted my mother and that gross juvenile desire only fueled the rise of quickening anxiety I'd begun to experience. Splashing cool water on my face I flushed the toilet for effect and returned to the room, leaning against the wall as casually practiced, as I could.  

  “We go then?” even I was impressed with how disinterested I sounded.  

Napoleon's fingers drummed on the armrest.  

Ilya stared at me, I stared at Solo, Solo stared at the ceiling.  

The clock in the room ticked, ticked, ticked.

  “We go.”

***

  “You never cease to surprise me, Gaby.” Waverly signaled for the waiter as I removed my enormous white circled glasses and folding them placed them carefully in my handbag.  “Tea?” he asked.

I shook my head.  

  “Very well. Just the one tea then.”

I waited until we were left alone again.  “Thank you for coming to meet with me.”

  “Yes well, you didn’t really give me choice.” he cleared his throat and busied himself with his cuffs.  

I forced a smile.  

Again, we waited for the waiter to finishing serving Waverly his tea.

 “So?”

I watched people on the sidewalk outside the café, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him when I made my shameful admission. “I can’t do this.”

The teacup clinked loudly as it hit the saucer on the table but I bravely continued,  

  “It's different this time. I just, I can’t.”

Alexander took a deep breath, leaning on his elbow’s he stapled his fingers in front him peering over them at me. “But I’m afraid Gabriella, that you and I both know, you don’t have a choice. Do you?”

I snapped my eyes to his and was shocked at the sadness there, it was genuine.  

  “Somethings different Waverly.”

He lent back, resumed drinking his tea and mused. “I’ve never lied to you Gabby. So, I won’t start now. He’s a dangerous man, but no worse than the dangerous men you’ve faced before. Remember who your uncle was?”

Remember who my uncle was? What a hellishly absurd thing to say, how could I possibly forget?  

Me? His innocent, pretty, little, trusting niece.

Waverly read the change in my expression and held up his hand, “Forgive me.” was all he said and we resumed a collective silence.  

  “He sent us, well I should say, my husband, this, this morning.” I slid it towards Alexander.  

I didn’t watch him read it; I had already memorized it.  

Mr. T Jones,  

I delightfully request your presence tonight at a rather intimate gathering at my home.   All I ask is that you bring your lovely wife with you of course, along with a very, very open mind.

R. Chisholm

Waverly pushed it back towards me, “What did he say when you met with him last night?”

  “He invited us to a party, a celebration to mark the end of the charity drive I assumed.”  The silence stretched out, “I’ve read the dossier, I’ve read his file, I know what he’s capable of. You all know, yet you all expect me to somehow walk in there as bait while you search for files.” Silence still, I was beginning to become agitated. “Me, my body, myself – for what? For paper? For documents?” I’d started to hiss.  

  “Gabriella,”

 “No!” I slapped the palms of my hands on the table. Wavery looked bored. “If I do this. If I do this thing for you, it is the last assignment Alexander. The last!”

He was lazily nodding, more so to keep the peace. I was drawing lots and lots of very unwanted attention.  

  “Say it.” My eyes dared him to refuse.  

  “Yes.”

I unpacked my sunglasses. “Say it properly.”  

Waverly crossed his arms and sighed. “Very well Miss Teller. After the successful completion of this assignment, I will release you from the task force, codename UNCLE.”

***

My Hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My mascara wouldn’t stop running. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding.  

I needed a drink.  

Startled as I left the bathroom and found Solo again in the armchair of my suite, I didn’t have time to paste on my normal bored façade.  

  “Where is Ilya?” I rushed out panicked that he too might see me in my current vulnerable state.  

Solo, ever the gentleman, was quick to pour me a drink, and then another. “He’s busy playing with his Russian tech.” his long slender finger wiped at my cheek coming away black.  

I hadn’t even realized I’d begun to cry again.  

Wrapped up suddenly in Napoleon's arms I felt him kiss the top of my head, “It will be over before you know it.” He rocked me slightly as my breathing softened, “We may even get to dance again. You danced divinely Mrs. Jones.”

I laughed, soothed by the natural confidence Solo exuded. “For a chop-shop girl?”

He pulled back to look down at me eyes sparkling as he winked, “For a chop-shop girl.”

The suite door suddenly crashed open and desperate to hide my very real fear from Ilya I flew back to the safety of the bathroom as he advanced quickly on Napoleon.  

  “Now Peril, it's not what it looked like!”

From within my sanctuary, I heard the sound of splintering furniture, followed by plenty of huffing and grunting.  

Fine, I thought, just fine. Let them tear the place to shreds. They’d been acting like caged bears with sore heads ever since we arrived, it would do them both good to burn off some steam while I somehow got myself together.  

***

  “You’ll never get in.” Solo mocked.

  “I will.” Ilya was dusting the sleeves of his tuxedo as we emerged from the Mark X Jaguar and Solo handed the keys to the awaiting valet.  

  “No. You won't.”  Napoleon retorted

  “Watch me work Cowboy.” At the last minute, the Russian disappeared leaving just the two of us to be received at the front doors of the mansion. Wealth had never impressed me, Alexander Vinciguerra had tried to dazzle me with his enormous fortune in Italy, and I was even less moved as I stood in the ridiculous chandeliered foyer of William Chisholm’s ‘home’.

A home had to have a heart and I knew enough about this one's owner to know that wasn’t possible.  

  “Theo!” The booming cry came from down the hallway. “So good of you to join us.”  

The men heartily shook hands and I pressed tighter against Solo’s side.  

  “So good of you to bring your little wife too.”  

He gestured for us to follow him and I kept step with ‘Mr. Jones.’

  “You picked our curiosity with your strange invite William. We weren’t quite sure what to make of it, were we Darling?”

I smiled, shaking my head. “No, it was very vague.”

William laughed; it was forced. “Well you can’t go around advertising your personal life when you’re an upstanding citizen like myself.  I couldn’t quite risk openly inviting you to a swinger's party, having just met you.” His eyes never left my face as he spoke. “How would I know if you’d go straight to the papers, invite in hand.”

At the mention of swinging my heart dropped to my stomach, my fears confirmed and I pulled sharply on Solo’s arm, “Theo, we should go.”

  “Now see here,” Solo began squaring off with William “This is absurd, I-”

  “Mr. Jones, I specifically requested an open mind,” the quick clip of shoes told me at least three men were approaching us from behind. “I’ll be so disappointed if you tell me you’ve left that behind.”  

I peered over my shoulder at the same time as Solo, acknowledging the presence of the three large suited men. The message was clear.  

  “I suppose, err that is, there is no harm in a married couple broadening their horizons.”

William clapped Theodore on the shoulder, “Yes indeed! Well said Mr. Jones.”  

We followed Chisholm into the next room, Solo having to drag me the rest of the way.  

  “If it was good enough for the Romans and the Greeks!” William declared pushing red wine glasses into our hands, “It’s good enough for me.”  

I turned my back on the debauchery before me, cheeks flaming from the site of half-naked men and women openly coupling in front of one another. Gulping at the wine, Solo’s hand had ended up pressed against my abdomen and I could feel the tension in him. Being a handsome, quick-witted Playboy was one thing but this was too lewd, too base. I knew he disapproved.  

Seeing the stricken look on my face William countered, “Perhaps a quiet alcove for a gentler immersion?”

I allowed myself to be led and sat docilely beside Napoleon.  

  “Theo, let me properly introduce my wife, Tatiana?”  

The demure porcelain doll from the night before had been replaced by a lively half-dressed one that happily trotted over, arms wrapping around her husband as her eyes undressed mine. Although nowhere near as tall, her sharp facial features reminded me of Victoria Vinciguerra. I disliked her immediately and by the tightening of Solo’s hand on my knee, he’d made the unpleasant comparison also.  

  “Darling, are they here to play?”  

Napoleon cleared his throat as she moved towards him and not even having to act my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t want to see this; this sort of thing wasn’t for me.  

  “Olivia?” my husband called as Mrs. Chisholm suddenly perched on his lap and began to undo his tie.  

  “I’m fine.” I stammered, glancing around. I needed to get this over with, fast. “Where are the facilities?”

William gestured to the other side of the room and without delay I made a beeline for it. I didn’t dare look around until I was outside in the hallway again.  

Trembling, I was so far out of my depth.  

Thankfully alone, I slid past the obvious powder room making my way quickly up the stairs looking for a study. All our intel had said was it was in the left wing but so far the only bedroom after bedroom lined the hall.  

I was beginning to panic; I could feel the bubble of it rising up threatening to choke me as I opened the final door - to the master bedroom. Heat flashed behind my eyes, there were no more rooms to check.  

Hands against my heaving rib cage I stole one last look around the master bedroom, a tiny sliver of light I hadn't seen before winking under an internal doorway, into which - was a study.  

I had never shaken so much or worked so fast in my life. The bottom drawer was locked and running my hands under the desk I hit a secret compartment, my fingers touching the cold metal of a key as the sound of the outside master bedroom door closing reached my ears.  

I don’t know how I managed it but the key was back in place, papers folded and tucked in my purse and I was standing at the far side room, a book, hastily plucked from the wall to wall shelves, open and in hand as Chisolm entered.

Mask in place I turned slowly.  

  “Can I help you with anything?” he asked nonchalantly leaning against the desk I had been rummaging through only seconds before.  

I took a deep settling breath, “Books comfort me.”

He smiled lazily, “I think you were more comfortable downstairs than you want to admit, Mrs. Jones.” He crooked a finger at me. “Come, show me what novel was more interesting than getting to know me better?”

I obeyed, handing him the book and he briefly eyed the cover before placing it on the desk. “Emily Bronte. She has a unique way of describing love.” he mused as he lifted my hand to cradle his tanned face. “Will you haunt me I wonder?” he turned me suddenly, roughly, unzipping the back of my dress.  

I went numb. I had what I needed, clutched stupidly between my hands, by all accounts the job was done but my limbs started to go cold with the realization that this time there may not be any escape.  

  “Theo?”  

Chisholm’s lips pressed against my shoulder urgently as he took the purse out of my hands throwing it to the floor and yanked my dress down to follow it. “Where’s Theo-” I cried out as his hand tore into my hair, scattering pins as he wrenched me back to face him.  

  “It seems your husband can’t handle his wine, Mrs. Jones.”

In any other circumstances, I might have found it funny that once again the great Napoleon Solo had been easily incapacitated by another spiked drink, instead, my teeth chattered. “William,”  

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh.” His hand was still fisted in my hair as he lowered his forehead to mine, “Looking at you I think I do finally understand what drove Heathcliffe mad.” His teeth crushed against my lips as he forced his thick tongue inside my mouth.

Everything in this moment was predator verse prey and as the prey, I froze. William laughed amused as I screamed suddenly pinned underneath him on my back. Stars burst in my vision, as after successfully raking my nails down his face he struck me, hard and the back of my skull bounced against the floor.  

I fought to stay conscious, “Stop - stop – stop-”  

And then... he stopped.

Over-aroused by my terror Chisholm hadn’t heard the large blond Russian enter the room, he didn’t have time to feel the long blade slip deftly in between the back of his ribs. All he had time for was a wide-eyed stare a question on bloody lips as his head hit the carpet beside mine.  

Ilya ridiculously casual, rolled the dead man off of me, shucking his impossible shoulders out of his jacket and then dressing me in it.  

 “Ilya.”

He brushed the hair from my eyes watching where I pointed and gathering me in his arms, stooped to pick up the discarded purse before leaving the room. Exiting the mansion from a side door I soon found myself tucked inside the back of the Jaguar, large hands holding the sides of my face. “Gabby, look at me. You will wait here.”  

I shook my head at him. “Ilya,”

  “You will wait here and I will be back how Cowboy says, Lick it Spit.”

I didn’t have time to correct him, he was already gone.  

***

    “Gabby, stay awake.”  

Solo’s drawl sounded foggy in my ears.  

  “I’m sorry Gabby.”

I must be in shock, Napoleon never apologized.  

***

   “Gabby, wake up.” -  Ilya’s curt clip.

  “I suppose a thank you is in order.”  - Solo.

  “No.”

  “That's twice now you’ve saved my ass Kuryakin.”

  “Three times, if you count Istanbul.”

Solo chuckled beside me. “Well then, damn. I guess I really do love your work Peril.”

***

Too much to drink Ilya had told the concierge as he carried me through the lobby and knowing our room number and how often I requested room service for a ‘top up’ I guessed it was an easy sell.  

  “Ilya.”

His steely blue eyes were at my level as he knelt beside the bed and removed my shoes which after everything were still absurdly on my feet.  

  “I don’t want to talk Gaby.”  

He was angry. Very.  

  “Ilya.” I touched his cheek, “I’m sorry.”  

Unplanned, it had come out in a sob and unbelievably I watched the Russians eyes redden.  

“No, I’m sorry.” he croaked his accent even thicker than usual, “I should have been faster. I was too slow.”

Hot tears streamed down my face, he and I both knew he’d been just in time but I couldn’t form the words. I couldn’t reassure him that somehow my body had remained unmolested. I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat because it was so clear now. Clearer for me than it had ever been before.  

As soon as we had arrived at the mission, all I had wanted was to be safe in Ilya Kuryakin’s iron curtain embrace. Whenever I was scared or unsure, he called to me, like a lighthouse to a lost ship looking for port.

He was my church, my sanctuary. He was, home.  

It wasn’t practiced, it wasn’t restrained. I threw my arms around his neck, pressing my lips against his. Fervently. Urgently.  

Months of unspoken sexual tension exploded, utterly engulfing us both and hands that I had witnessed committing the most violent of acts suddenly touched me like I was the most precious object in the world.  

Softly, tenderly Ilya worshiped all of me showing me wordlessly how much he cared and how much he loved.  

Crying out against each other's lips at the end, he crushed me to him, as if he wanted to take me inside his body and unable to resist, I kissed him, and kissed him and kissed him.

And kissed him.                                                                                                       

***                             

Sitting down to breakfast the next morning, Russian on my left, American to my right I stopped buttering my slice of toast as Alexander Waverly entered the dining room.  

The folded newspaper tucked under his arm looked larger than normal and following my gaze he sighed,  

  “Yes, well I suppose I can’t say it was a total disaster, considering.” he jostled the paper to make a point. “But killing the man wasn’t really necessary, was it?”  

Cutlery clanged onto the table from both the left and right of me and sensing his error in judgment Alexander took a quick step back. “Fine then,” he held up his free hand, “What's done is done, Lads.”  

Sighing Waverly looked down at us all, his ragtag group of ‘professionals’. “I guess you’ll be saying your goodbyes then Gaby?”

My left hand pressed quickly overtop Ilya’s to stop the sudden ticking fingers on his thigh, large pearl winking from the overhead lights,  

  “No Alexander. No, there won’t be any goodbyes.”                                                                                

[rose-of-pollux]

And yet another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: In which Napoleon is recovering from being tanked on a THRUSH drug, and Illya is just trying to put a decent meal together for him.

Notes: this is very light slash; gen version is on dreamwidth.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Trying to look after Napoleon when under the influence of a THRUSH drug was like trying to catch lightning in a bottle.  While Illya usually got loopy and overly affectionate while drugged, Napoleon basically unleashed the energy of a burning sun.  Illya often had to wonder whether Napoleon had all of this energy while sober, but merely reigned it all in.

Nevertheless, Illya was concerned that after several hours running around without stopping, that Napoleon had to be running on fumes, starving and dehydrated without realizing it.

Somehow, he managed to guide his tanked-up partner back to their apartment and managed to get him to drink some electrolyte drink (well, Napoleon pretty much chugged it down in ten seconds), and then had to figure out how to get him to have some food.

Napoleon was being a bit difficult about that, insisting that he wasn’t hungry and then trying to prove it by attempting to rearrange all of the furniture in the apartment; Illya frantically sat him back down as their cat, Baba Yaga, looked on in concern and confusion from her scratching post.

“You need to eat,” Illya insisted again.

“Fine, I want a 10-course gourmet meal,” Napoleon said, his voice still quite loopy.  “Served on silver platters.”

“…You would…” Illya muttered.

“Ahh, but that’s right, you can’t cook…!” Napoleon slurred.  “Tsk-tsk-tsk.  Lemme do it.”

He gave Illya a patronizing pat on the shoulder and stumbled off towards the kitchen.

“Oh no you don’t—in your state, you’ll burn the place down,” Illya muttered, running after him. He grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him back to the couch.  “I kept myself alive long before I met you.  I will cook you a meal, and you will like it!”

Even drugged out of his mind, Napoleon gave Illya such a look of disbelief that Illya felt himself blushing.

“I thought you didn’t believe in impossible things?”

“Just you wait,” Illya vowed.  “You will eat your words, along with the food!”

“You made a pun!” Napoleon exclaimed, and he burst into a fit of giggles, shaking with laughter as he sat back down on the couch.

Illya seized the opportunity to pull a meal together—toasted bread and butter, borscht, and a soufflé in the oven.  He could feel Napoleon’s wide-eyed gaze trying to focus on what he was doing, but he ignored the tsks and tutting from his partner.

At last, he presented the main meal to his partner, who glanced at it with some derision.

“…This is regular bread.”

“Da.”

“…Did you drown my raisin rye again!?”

Illya rolled his eyes.

“Nyet, you have forgotten that we are out of your precious raisin rye because only one bakery in the state of New York makes it!” he chided his partner.

“…Oh…”

Napoleon got up.

“And where are you going?” Illya insisted.

“Purple Valley Bakery.”

“Napoleon!”

Illya scrambled to catch him before he went out the door and guided him back to the couch.

“Eat this!”

Napoleon made another face at it, and Illya decided to lead by example, quietly slurping a few spoonfuls of borscht.  It had turned out quite well, actually; he was pleased with it—and since Napoleon usually did the cooking, it had been quite a long time since he’d made it himself, yet it was as though he had last done it a week ago.

He was suddenly aware of Napoleon staring at him, and he innocently held the bowl and spoon out to him.

“…Borscht?” he offered.

He wasn’t sure whether Napoleon was going to go for the soup or for a kiss, given how he was staring at both Illya and the bowl with a desperate expression.  He chose both in the end, kissing Illya on the lips before stealing the bowl from him and chugging it down.  He then helped himself to the toast (Illya having to sneak a couple pieces for himself), and Illya watched in pure satisfaction as Napoleon went to town on the soufflé next.

It was as he was finishing that the high from the THRUSH drug wore off, followed by the unpleasant, inevitable crash.  Illya made him comfortable on the sofa and went to procure more food for himself.

He was pleased when Napoleon woke up some hours later, his eyes and expression back to normal.

“What happened…?” his partner groaned.  “I don’t remember anything…”

“THRUSH drug—you spent all your energy, as usual, and you’ve been sleeping it off for the last few hours,” Illya said.

“That explains almost everything,” Napoleon said.

“What are you wondering?”

“…Why do I have the weirdest aftertaste in my mouth?”

He put the pieces together himself after Illya’s response was to throw one of the throw pillows at his head.

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Die Frau des Buchhändlers (7): “Tränen in der Nacht” (1b)

“Sonnenuntergang” by unjerri

         Joseph musste lächeln, als er an jenen Tag zurück dachte. Als er von der Fahrt nach Monmouth House zurückkehrte, war der königliche Haushalt bereits in heller Aufregung. Überall wurde gepackt und geplant für die bevorstehende Reise zur Insel Wight. Und am anderen Morgen, in aller Frühe, ging es los. Erst wurde alles in Kutschen verpackt, dann in die extra bereit gestellten Eisenbahnwaggons. Für viele der Diener war es die erste Fahrt mit der Eisenbahn und auch Joseph konnte seine Aufregung kaum verbergen. In Southampton angekommen musste wieder alles umgepackt werden. Erst in die Kutschen, dann auf das Dampfschiff, das die Königin und ihren Hofstaat auf die Insel bringen würde. Es war viel Arbeit, doch Joseph genoss die Ankunft am Meer und die anschließende Fahrt mit dem Schiff sehr. Nachdem das Schiff  in den Zielhafen eingelaufen war, galt es, das gesamte Gepäck wieder in Kutschen umzuladen. Dann ging die Fahrt Richtung Osborn House, wo der königliche Hof die nächsten Wochen verbringen würde. Im Gegensatz zu den vorausgegangenen Fahrtstrecken, dauerte die Fahrt diesmal nicht sehr lange. Schon eine Stunde später trafen sie in Osborn House ein. Wieder galt es, die Kutschen zu entladen und alles in das Haus getragen. Als Joseph an diesem Abend in sein Bett fiel, wusste er, was er getan hatte. Der Lohn dieses Tages war mehr als redlich verdient.

         Die folgenden Tage sollten ihn jedoch reichlich für die Strapazen der Reise entschädigen. Das Anwesen Osborn House war - im Vergleich zum Buckingham Palace in London - klein. Die Chance, dass er Sophie bei seinen täglichen Diensten begegnete war daher umso größer. Schon am zweiten Tag ihres Aufenthaltes dort, sollte Joseph ausgiebig Gelegenheit haben, in Sophies Nähe zu verweilen. Prinz Albert hatte es sich in den Kopf gesetzt, seine Kinder die historische Schlacht von Waterloo als eine Art kleines Theaterstück aufführen zu lassen. Das Ganze fand im Garten von Osborn House statt und der verkleinerte Hofstaat fungierte als Zuschauergruppe. Joseph und der Koch Francatelli waren dazu auserkoren, die Schlachtrosse der gegnerischen Heerführer zu spielen. Francatelli trug Prinz Bertie auf seinen Schultern, der den Duke of Wellington spielte und Joseph fungierte als Schlachtross für Prinzessin Victoria, die als Napoleon auftrat. Beide “Schlachtrösser” mussten immer wieder aufpassen, dass sie im Eifer des Gefechts nicht von einen der Hiebe mit einem der Holzschwerter von “Napoleon” oder von dem “Duke of Wellington” getroffen wurden. In einiger Entfernung zum “Schlachtfeld” stand Mr. Penge, der - ganz zu seinem Leidwesen - eine kleine Trommel schlagen musste. Eigentlich hätte es Joseph gefallen, Penge so zu sehen, doch er würdigte den Königlichen Verwalter keines Blickes. Er hatte nur Augen für Sophie, die ihn ebenfalls immer wieder mit einem Lächeln bedachte. In der Situation, in der sie sich befanden, war das vollkommen unauffällig, denn ihre freundlichen Blicke hätten jederzeit als Ermutigungen für den kleinen Prinz oder die kleine Prinzessin durchgehen können. 

         Das kleine Theaterspiel fand ein Ende, als der junge Diener Brodie einen Brief für die Königin brachte, in dem ihr berichtet wurde, mit welchen abschätzigen Worten der Außenminister, Lord Palmerston, sie und die anderen gekrönten Häupter Europa im Unterhaus bedacht hatte.

         Als die Diener kurz darauf in de Küche zurück kehrten, sah Joseph, wie Francatelli bei Penge sein Kündigungsschreiben einreichte. Wenig später erfuhr er, dass der Koch und Mrs. Skerrett am Tag vor der Abreise zur Insel Wight geheiratet hatten. Er gönnte den beiden Kollegen das Glück, das sie teilten, aber es verstärkte auch Josephs eigene Sehnsucht, Sophie nahe zu sein.          Am Nachmittag desselben Tages hatte er dazu endlich wieder Gelegenheit. In einem der kleinen runden Räume der Nordseite, die auch als Leseräume genutzt wurden, hatten sich Lady Portman, Prinzessin Feodora und Sophie zum Tee versammelt. Josephs Aufgabe war es, sie zu bedienen. Während er das tat, wurde er Zeuge ihres Gesprächs, das sich in erster Linie um den britischen Außenminister, Lord Palmerston, drehte. Dieser hatte die Abwesenheit des Königspaares dazu benutzt den ungarischen Oppositionellen und Revolutionär Lajos Kossuth, der im Vereinigten Königreich Ayl suchte, in der britischen Hauptstadt willkommen zu heißen. Bereits am Vormittag, während der Kinderspiele im Garten, war deutlich geworden, wie sehr das Verhalten des Außenministers die Königin und den Prinzgemahl erzürnten. Kurz nachdem Brodie den Brief aus London überbracht hatte, war das königliche Paar aufgebrochen und hatte sich in seine Privaträume zurückgezogen.

         Nun brachte Lady Portman das Gespräch erneut auf die Vorgänge in London. Sie hatte die aktuelle Zeitung bei sich und bemerkte, dass die Äußerungen, die  Palmerston im Parlament gemacht hatte, die Königin sehr verletzt hatten. Joseph hatte die Zeitungen in der Küche gesehen und von den anderen Bediensteten gehört, dass der Außenminister die gekrönten Häupter Europas (also auch die Königin!) als Tauben bezeichnet hatte, die ihre Nester verlassen hätten. Er hatte sogar hinzugefügt, dass man das Land auch gut ohne diese “Vögel” verwalten könne. Lady Portman hatte die Zeitung ebenfalls dabei und verwies, während sie sprach, auf eine Karikatur, die die Königin und den Prinzgemahl als Tauben zeigten, die aus London fort flogen. “Fleeing London” stand in großen Lettern darüber.

         “Der Mann ist ein Halunke,” sagte Sophie, die die Bemerkungen von Lady Portman bestätigen wollte. Doch dann lenkte Lady Portman das Gespräch in eine andere Richtung:

         “Ich frage mich, wie lange wir wohl auf der Insel bleiben werden. Eure Königliche Hoheit werden sich sicherlich danach sehnen, endlich wieder nach Hause zu kommen.”

         Doch die so angesprochene Prinzessin Feodora reagierte anders, als gedacht:

         “Das einzige Zuhause, das ich habe, ist bei meiner Schwester und wenn sie sich entscheidet, auf einer Insel zu wohnen, so sei es so.” 

         Nach einem Moment fügte die Prinzessin von Leiningen hinzu:

         “Allerdings wünschte ich mir, dass mein Zimmer ein Fenster zum Meer hinaus hätte.”

         “Mein Zimmer hat ein Fenster zum Meer hinaus, wollen wir tauschen?” bot Sophie an.

         “Oh, das ist sehr freundlich. Aber sicherlich wünschen Sie, dass Sie bald nach Hause zurückkehren können? Ihr Mann sehnt sich sicherlich nach Ihnen.” gab die Prinzessin zurück. Damit hatte sie genau Sophies wunden Punkt getroffen.

         “Wissen Sie, was dieser Mann getan hat? Er hat unseren Sohn auf ein Internat geschickt. Das Kind ist gerade sechs Jahre alt!”          Joseph entging der Schmerz in Sophies Stimme nicht.

         “Es ist besser, dass ich hier bin,” setzte sie hinzu und griff nach einem weiteren Stück Toast.

         Es verwunderte Joseph nicht, als wenige Tage später der Premierminister, Lord John Russell, und der Außenminister, Lord Palmerston, in Osborn House eintrafen. Unter den Bediensteten waren bereits Wetter darüber abgeschlossen worden, wie lange es wohl dauern würde, dass die Königin den Außenminister zum Rapport bestellen würde. Im Gespräch mit Francatelli hatte er erfahren, dass der Premierminister Palmerston wohl nur zu gern entlassen würde, dies jedoch nicht tat, weil er dessen Opposition noch mehr fürchtete.

         Als er am Nachmittag eine Stunde frei hatte, zog sich Joseph in eine Ecke des Gartens zurück, von der er annahm, dass sie nicht von Mitglieder des Hofstaates frequentiert wurden. Er machte es sich auf einem der dort stehenden Stühle bequem, streckte sich und hielt sein Gesicht der Sonne entgegen. Beinahe wäre er eingedöst, doch dann hörte er Schritte und plötzlich stand Sophie vor ihm. Sie hatte ein Buch unter dem Arm und sah ihn leicht amüsiert an. Joseph stand sofort auf und nahm Haltung an.

         “Ich wünsche mein Zimmer mit Prinzessin Feodora zu tauschen,“ sagte sie und fügte hinzu: “Sie wünscht, auf das Meer hinauszusehen. Könnten Sie das arrangieren?”

         “Selbstverständlich, Euer Gnaden,” hatte er versichert und als sie sich zum Gehen wandte, wünschte er nichts sehnlicher, als dass sie noch einen Augenblick verweilen und er mit ihr sprechen könnte. 

         “Auf das Meer hinauszublicken ist eine wunderbare Sache.”

         “Für mich macht es keinen Unterschied, was ich mir anschaue, wenn es nicht mein kleiner Junge ist,” gab Sophie zur Antwort und ihr Gesicht verdüsterte sich merklich.

         “Es tut mir sehr Leid, dass Sie sich von ihm trennen mussten …”

         Josephs Worte waren ehrlich gemeint, doch er sah an ihrem Gesichtsausdruck, dass sie Sophie nur noch trauriger machten.

         “Entschuldigung.”

         Fieberhaft suchte er in Gedanken nach irgendetwas, das er ihr sagen und das sie vielleicht aufmuntern würde. Doch alles, was ihm einfiel, war:

         “Übrigens, der Premierminister und der Außenminister sind angekommen …”

         Sophies Reaktion überraschte ihn.

        “Lord Palmerston!” sagte sie und ihr Gesicht erhellte sich sofort. Es war offensichtlich, dass sie diese Nachricht erfreute. Im Gehen begriffen, wandte sie sich noch einmal um und fragte: “Joseph? das ist doch ihr Name, oder?”

        Er nickte. Als er wieder aufblickte, war sie verschwunden.

         Am selben Abend versammelte sich der verkleinerte Hofstaat einschließlich der beiden Politiker zu einem ‘gemütlichen Beisammensein’ in der größeren Bibliothek. Es war Josephs Aufgabe, die Gäste mit Portwein zu versorgen. Sophie stand an einem der Bücherregale und las etwas. Als er zu ihr kam, um ihr Glas zu füllen, fiel ihm auf, dass der Kragen ihres Kleides sich verzogen hatte und und weit die Schulter heruntergerutscht war. Joseph wies sie daraufhin und schirmte sie dann so lange vor den Augen der anderen Gäste ab, bis sie das Missgeschick in Ordnung gebracht hatte. Als er sich dann entfernte, um die anderen Gäste zu bedienen, kam ihm Lord Palmerston entgegen, der ganz offensichtlich auf dem Weg zu Sophie war. Ein böser Verdacht beschlich Joseph als er meinte, in den Augen des Außenministers den Blick eines Raubtiers zu erkennen, das sich auf einem Beutezug befand. Als der Portwein in den Karaffen sich dem Ende näherte und Joseph auf dem Weg in die Küche war, um für Nachschub zu sorgen, kam ihm eine Idee. Er stellte die Karaffe auf einem der Tisch im Gang an und rannte dann so schnell er konnte die Treppe in den ersten Stock hinauf. Am Nachmittag war er dem Wunsch der Damen nachgekommen und hatten den Tausch der Zimmer von Sophie und der Prinzessin von Leiningen arrangiert. Nun stand er wieder vor diesen Zimmern. Vorsichtig schaute er sich um und lauschte. Als er sich sicher war, dass niemand ihn beobachtete, vertauschte er die Namensschilder an den Türen. Den Damen, so glaubte er, würde das nicht auffallen. Und für den Fall, dass sie es doch bemerkten, so konnte er sich damit herausreden, dass er in der Eile, in der die Arbeiten am Nachmittag vorgenommen werden mussten, vergessen hatte, die Namensschilder den richtigen Türen zuzuordnen. Sollte jedoch jemand anderes in dieser Nacht nach dem Zimmer der Herzogin von Monmouth suchen, so würde sich diese Person mit der Schwester der Königin auseinandersetzen müssen. 

         Was Joseph nicht wusste (und auch nie erfahren sollte) -  es kam genau so, wie er es vorausgesehen hatte. Als Lord Palmerston einige Stunden später, mitten in der Nacht, in das - vermeintliche - Zimmer der Herzogin schlich, erwartete ihn dort eine böse Überraschung.

         Irgendetwas sagte dem Diener jedoch, dass die Gefahr, die von Lord Palmerston ausging, noch nicht gebannt war. Aus diesem Grund versuchte er am nächsten Tag, wann immer möglich, in Sophies Nähe zu sein. Und tatsächlich beobachtete er, wie es am späten Vormittag zu einem Treffen zwischen ihr und dem Außenminister in einer eher versteckt gelegenen Ecke des Gartens kam. Er selbst hielt sich in seinem kleinen Laubengang verborgen, der vom Garten zu den Anlagen mit den kleinen, eingefassten Teichen führte. Von der Stelle aus, von der er die beiden beobachtete, konnte er ihr Gespräch nicht mit anhören, doch er sah, wie Sophie sich plötzlich an Palmerstons Mantel festhielt und ihn an sich zog. Ihr Blick, ja ihr ganzes Verhalten, machten auf ihn den Eindruck einer einzigen flehentlichen Bitte. Doch der Außenminister reagierte gänzlich anders, als Joseph es erwartet hatte. Palmerston machte sich, wie es schien auf eine sehr unsanfte Art und Weise, von Sophie los und eilte davon. Auch Sophie rannte davon, jedoch in die entgegengesetzte Richtung, d.h. genau in die Richtung, in der sich Joseph verborgen hielt. Er stürzte aus seinem Versteck heraus und wollte sich davon schleichen, damit Sophie ihn nicht sah. Doch er war nicht schnell genug und beinahe wären sie auf dem Weg unter dem Laubengang zusammengestoßen.

         “Geht mir aus dem Weg!” war alles, was Joseph von ihr zu hören bekam, dann eilte sie davon. 

         Joseph ahnte, wohin ihre Schritte sie führen würden und er folgte ihr mit einigem Abstand. Tatsächlich fand er sie an einem der kleinen Teiche stehend. Vorsichtig näherte er sich ihr. Er sah, wie versuchte, sich die Tränen aus dem Gesichts zu wischen und reichte ihr ein Taschentuch. Sie nahm es und er drehte sich dezent beiseite. Zu seiner Überraschung begann Sophie jedoch ganz offen zu ihm zu sprechen:

         “Solch’ dumme Tränen! Warum suche ich auch Trost, wo er nicht zu finden ist!”

         Joseph sah vor sich hin und als er nichts erwiderte, sprach sie ihn direkt an:

         “Oh bitte, sagt etwas!”

         Er entschied sich, nicht auf das gerade Geschehene einzugehen, sondern sie ein wenig abzulenken. 

         “Euer Gnaden, horcht! Hört ihr die Wellen, wie sie am Strand übereinander schlagen?”

         “Das Meer, es ängstigt mich … ein wenig,” gab sie zur Antwort.

         “Mir gibt das Meer das Gefühl am Leben zu sein,” sagte er lächelnd.

         Sie reichte ihm das Taschentuch zurück. Joseph verbeugte sich und während er zum Haus zurück ging, faltete er vorsichtig das Taschentuch und steckte es wie einen kostbaren Besitz, den es zu bewahren galt, in seine Jackentasche. Er wusste nicht genau, was zwischen Sophie und Lord Palmerston geschehen war. Joseph verstand auch nicht, warum der Außenminister, der noch am Vorabend ganz offensichtlich auf ein Abenteuer mit der Herzogin aus gewesen war, nun davon Abstand genommen hatte. Aber im Grunde genommen, war das auch alles egal. Als Palmerston sie zurückgewiesen hatte, war er für sie da gewesen. Es war sein Taschentuch, das ihre Tränen aufgefangen hatte. Und Joseph Weld war sich sicher, dass sie das die Herzogin von Monmouth das nicht vergessen würde. Er sollte sich nicht täuschen. Der Aufenthalt des königlichen Hofstaates auf der Insel Wight sollte noch so manche Überraschung bereit halten. 

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Relic ~ 10

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine

Tags: @omgcupquak3stuff @dora3374  @the-butterfly21 @oakenshieldgisborneandwinchester @everyjourneylove  @russian-empress @cd1242

(sorry to those who I can’t tag for some reason. If you like, you can message me and I’ll just start sending you the link to the chapters as they come out)

Add yourself to the taglist here

After your morning interrogation, your day only seemed to get worse. Jenn arrived to cover you as you tried to untangle the knots forming in your stomach. Everything felt off. Of course, you had never expected to have to speak with a CIA agent and to be pressed so closely; as if you were guilty. But what more had you done than befriend a stranger.

You ignored your e-mails, too distracted by your impending doom. You were certain you’d be arrested or at least detained. Perhaps you should have been more co-operative. This wasn’t the time to be making enemies. You had really gotten yourself involved in a snare way beyond your expertise.

As the afternoon waned and you prepared to close up, you had managed to push your worries to the back of your mind. The mindless routine of announcing the end of the day to patrons and tidying up any messes left behind settled you. It returned to you a sense of normalcy and with Jenn’s help, it didn’t take so long as usual.

You packed up your bag and headed for the doors, locking up as you bid farewell to your intern. You were exhausted having failed to sleep the past two nights. All you wanted was to go home and get in bed. Even if it meant nightmares and overwhelmingly realistic terrors, you needed to close your eyes.

The walk home was calming but when you came in sight of your front door, you knew your night would be anything but relaxing. Agent Ross stood outside your home, arms crossed as he waited for your arrival. You had known it was far from over but could he not have waited another day?

“Miss Y/N,” He greeted as he turned to see you.

“Agent,” You replied flatly, adjusting your bag awkwardly, “Should I even ask why you’re here?”

“Well, I’ve got a warrant this time so you don’t need to worry about that,” He pulled forth a folded piece of paper, shaking it open and holding it out to you, “We’ve the authority to search your home.

“And you waited for me to begin? I’m almost flattered,” You read through the warrant; even if you had been a lawyer, you couldn’t argue it, “Go on then.” You folded it back up and shoved it towards him, “Get to it. I haven’t got all night and I can imagine how excited you are to look through books on Napoleon’s horse and Caesar’s premature balding.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, his hand rising and falling before him as he thought better of whatever he had intended to say. He gave a huff and folded one arm over his chest awkwardly, pointing at you weakly with his other hand,

“You know, you could make this easier without the attitude. We’re just doing our jobs,” He paused, trying to give an intimidating scowl but it was more a dour grimace, “If you’ve not anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so reluctant.”

“Forgive me, but while I may not have any secrets on the same tier as yours, I do value my privacy,” You retorted, “And to be quite honest, I’m fucking tired. Of you, most of all, so if you’d tell your men to make it quick, I should forever be in your debt.”

The agent shook his head, turning his back to you as he waved his men towards your door, Saving them the expense and inconvenience of kicking down your door, you unlocked it and welcomed them in with a venomous smile. You sat outside on the curb, waiting for them to find nothing.

“Your bag, Miss Y/N,” Ross appeared at your shoulder; you looked over at him with disbelief.

“My bag?” He nodded and you pulled the strap over your head, tossing it at his feat angrily, “Have fun.”

You set your chin in your hands and looked back to the street; your neighbours were not so inconspicuously watching from their windows. You were certain you’d be the subject of their gossip for weeks to come. You listened to Ross stir around in your bag and subtly touched the chest of your jacket; James’ letter and photo rested there. You were thankful you had kept them on you.

The agent dropped your bag at your side before walking back to the house and you listened to the rabble from within. It sounded as if they were doing their best to destroy your possessions rather than search them. You were nearly dozing on the street by the time they finished and Ross announced your dismissal as if it were a favour.

You stood and hitched your bag up on your shoulder, “I hope you found what you were looking for.”

“We found enough,” He lied and you could tell he was trying to fan a fear within you which did not exist, “I’ll be seeing you again.”

You walked past him for your front door, left ajar in the midst of the agents’ intrusion. You listened to the vehicles start and closed your door, locking it with a muttered curse. Every book on your shelves had been tossed to the floor; pages bent, spines broken, and some without covers. Your kitchen was a jumble of dishes, the cupboards hanging open, and your bed had been flipped from its frame.

You just wanted to sleep.

You sighed and set your bag on the table in the hallway, kicking through the mess they had left along the floors. You would have to deal with it tomorrow, you hadn’t the energy left for it that night. You kicked your shoes off and returned to your bedroom, dragging the mattress back to its frame and taking a pillow and blanket from the pile.

You sat on the edge of the bed, reaching into the pocket of your jacket and taking out the paper within. You opened James’ letter and read it once more before staring at the photo of his former life. Why couldn’t he have warned you?

It felt as if he had led the wolves to your door and now you were left to fend for yourself. Sure, he was used to fighting; running, but you were just a curator; a weak historian; a measly academi. These were dangers far beyond your scope and he had left you to withstand the storm without a hood. You didn’t know so much that you missed him, rather you were starting to regret ever meeting him.

Was it a surprise? Not really, only a grim reminder. When you walked up to the museum, you spotted the dark SUVs on the other side of the road and before you reached the history gallery, you knew you had visitors. But what was unexpected was Holly; the ever elusive curator speaking with Agent K. Ross before the information desk.

You could feel the weight grow heavier in your stomach; your nerves and muscles twisting together in agony. You were starting to feel your stress and the lack of sleep was not helping. How were you suppose to sleep long when your house had been ransacked and your life was slowly splitting at the seams?

And you couldn’t tell yourself it wasn’t your fault, because it was. Sure, you blamed James when you met the end of your wits but you truly knew it wasn’t his doing. It was only a consequence of knowing him.

You neared the pair; both of them irritating in their own way. While Holly was never around, you couldn’t get rid of the pesky CIA agent. You greeted them with a forced smile and they stared back in shared discontent. You knew it was bad if Holly was there.

“Agent Ross is here to search the museum,” She announced in a dangerous tune, “Which means we must close the gallery for the day.”

“Oh,” You looked between them darkly, “Great.”

“Yes, great,” She echoed harshly, pausing to look to the agent, “Mr. Ross you can begin. I just need to speak with my assistant for a moment.”

“Do what you must,” Ross nodded, “We can find our own way.”

“Y/N,” She gestured for you to follow with two fingers, leading you to her office. She ushered you in and closed the door with a sharp snap, pointing to the chair across from hers. When she sat, she tutted and you were ready to leave. It wasn’t worth it. “Well, I see you’ve made a fine mess in my absence.”

You remained silent, knowing you were to tense to censor yourself once you had begun.

“A curator needn’t be worrying about her museum undergoing an international investigation for harbouring a fugitive. I suppose I don’t need to explain that. You’re smart enough to at least see how much trouble you’ve caused.”

You gripped the arm of the chair as Holly spoke, staring at her with restrained rage. To have her lecturing you on your management of the museum; the museum she had left behind, not bothering to care what is hung upon its walls, let alone what goes on within them. You sighed, chewing on your nail as you tried not to speak.

“Well,” She looked at you as if you were stupid, “You do understand this is a fireable offense, right?”

“Yes,” You said sharply, sitting up straight, “Yes I know it is and I don’t care. Go on and fire me,” You were nearly laughing; from disbelief; from exhaustion; “I don’t really care. Why would I want to continue to clean up after you, Holly? You run around from conference to conference and leave me to do all your work and mine.

“When’s the last time you planned an exhibit? Led a tour? Reviewed an intern? Hell, when have you last opened an e-mail? I could work the same position with less trouble anywhere else, but I think I’d rather just be a recognized curator rather than your little workhand.”

“Y/N,” She looked as shocked as you felt. You had not intended to say all that but it had come so naturally, “You’re coming dangerously close--”

“I know,” You shrugged, “So just do it. You’re right, I should be fired. I’ve brought the CIA down on us and I’d rather not clean up another mess they leave.”

“Go,” She was livid, her cat-like eyes flashing at you, “Pack your things and go. You’re done here.”

“Alright,” You stood, smiling at her as you heard the agents working in the gallery. It hurt to know they were handling the exhibits roughly but you had done all you could for the place, “Goodbye, Holly.”

[notable-law-music-tech-news]

These 1923 Copyrighted Works Enter the Public Domain in 2019

“I’m free! I’m free!”

For the first time in twenty years, as the Atlantic points out, a whole year’s worth of copyrighted works will enter the public domain in the U.S. on January 1, 2019. Under the terms of the Sonny Bono Copyright Act, works first published in 1923 will enter the public domain, meaning anyone can re-publish them, or chop them up and use them in other projects, without asking permission or paying the old rights holders. You can record new versions of the musical compositions; you can show the movies for a profit; you can even remake them. Amazon can sell you the ebook and keep all the money, and Project Gutenberg can give you the ebook for free. The Atlantic has a short list; we have a longer one below.

You can even make new copyrighted works based on the old works—the way Disney made all its cartoons based on public-domain fairy tales—and people can’t copy any of the new parts you include. (That’s why anyone can make movie about the fairy tale of Snow White and the seven dwarves, but only Disney can make new things where the dwarves are named Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Happy, Bashful, and Doc.)

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Speaking of Disney, they’re the ones who lobbied for such long copyright terms, because in 1998 Mickey Mouse’s first appearance (in the 1928 cartoon Steamboat Willie) was close to losing its copyright. But after the Sonny Bono Act, Now that first Mickey Mouse appearance will enter the public domain in 2024. Walt Disney had just started his company in 1923, but they hadn’t produced anything major. So we won’t get any free Disney stuff in January.

But here’s what we will get:

Safety Last!

Movies

All these movies, including:

Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments 

Harold Lloyd’s Safety Last!, including that scene where he dangles off a clock tower, and his Why Worry?

A long line-up of feature-length silent films, including Buster Keaton’s Our Hospitality and Charlie Chaplin’s The Pilgrim

Short films by Chaplin, Keaton, Laurel and Hardy, and Our Gang (later Little Rascals)

Cartoons including Felix the Cat (the character first appeared in a 1919 cartoon)

Marlene Dietrich’s film debut, a bit part in the German silent comedy The Little Napoleon; also the debuts of Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Fay Wray

“Dizzy Fingers”

Music

All this music, including these classics:

“King Porter Stomp”

“Who’s Sorry Now?”

“Tin Roof Blues”

“That Old Gang of Mine”

“Yes! We Have No Bananas”

“I Cried for You”

“The Charleston”—written to accompany, and a big factor in the popularity of, the Charleston dance

Igor Stravinsky’s “Octet for Wind Instruments”

And these songs I picked purely based on their titles:

“Back To Croa-Jingo-Long”

“I’m Sitting Pretty In A Pretty Little City”

“Come On, Spark Plug!”

“Dizzy Fingers”

“I’ve Got The Yes! We Have No Bananas Blues”

“When It’s Night-Time In Italy, It’s Wednesday Over Here”

“Oh Gee Oh Gosh Oh Golly I’m In Love”

“Old King Tut”

“Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up”

Note that these are published songbooks, not recordings, meaning you can record a cover version without permission or payment, but you can’t just steal any post-1923 recording. So Connie Francis’s version of “Who’s Sorry Now?” is still under copyright.

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Even worse, rights over music recorded until 1972 is governed by state law, and if its copyright was registered and renewed, it doesn’t automatically enter the public domain until 2067.

Virginia Woolf

Literature

This is the real good shit. All these books, and these books, including the classics:

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Cane by Jean Toomer

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Bambi by Felix Salten, illustrated by Barbara Cooney—the source of Disney’s animated film, and the first in a series

The Ego and the Id by Sigmund Freud

Towards a New Architecture by Le Corbusier

Whose Body?, the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Dorothy L. Sayers

Emily of New Moon, the first book of L.M. Montgomery’s Emily trilogy

The Inimitable Jeeves and Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

Two of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot novels, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and The Murder on the Links

The Prisoner, volume 5 of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (note that English translations have their own copyrights)

The Complete Works of Anthony Trollope

George Bernard Shaw’s play Saint Joan

Short stories by Christie, Virginia Woolf, H.P. Lovecraft, Katherine Mansfield, and Ernest Hemingway

Poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay, E.E. Cummings, William Carlos Williams, Rainer Maria Rilke, Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, Sukumar Ray, and Pablo Neruda

Works by Jane Austen, D.H. Lawrence, Edith Wharton, Jorge Luis Borges, Mikhail Bulgakov, Jean Cocteau, Italo Svevo, Aldous Huxley, Winston Churchill, G.K. Chesterton, Maria Montessori, Lu Xun, Joseph Conrad, Zane Grey, H.G. Wells, and Edgar Rice Burroughs

Brancusi’s Bird in Space

Art

These artworks, including:

Constantin Brâncuși’s Bird in Space

Henri Matisse’s Odalisque With Raised Arms

Marcel Duchamp’s The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass)

Yokoyama Taikan’s Metempsychosis

Work by M. C. Escher, Pablo Picasso, Wassily Kandinsky, Max Ernst, and Man Ray

Many 1923 works, like the blockbuster film The Hunchback of Notre Dame, are already in the public domain, as the owners failed to renew their copyrights. Until 1963, a rightsholder had to manually renew their copyright after 28 years.

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According to the LibraryLaw Blog, not everything published in 1923 will be public domain; only works with an authorized publication in 1923. The distinction came up in the legal fight over the rights to “Happy Birthday to You,” whose current owners maintained that the song had only been published by unauthorized sources, without the permission of the original owners. (The bad song was eventually ruled public domain for other reasons.) So if you’re worried about litigious rightsholders, make sure the 1923 publication isn’t considered some stolen unauthorized version.

Remember, the works above only lose their copyright on January 1, 2019. Double-check before you use anything listed above, and watch out for all the many ways that works can enter, or not enter, the public domain. Remember that certain uses of copyrighted works are protected as fair use. And check out the many existing collections of already rights-free works, and freely available copyrighted works.

A Landslide of Classic Art Is About to Enter the Public Domain | The Atlantic

from Lifehacker https://ift.tt/2JJQddA

[flyingsassysaddles]

The Battle of Navarino Bay

“The Greek Revolution needs a miracle,” an old woman sighed, picking out her vegetables and putting them in a bag, her shawl coming loose and fluttering in the wind. She turned back to the Greek man who had helped her pick up her stuff before she dragged him over to the marketplace, because after all, she had said, you're such a nice strong man, and I can’t carry these home myself! The Greek didn’t mind though, and helped pick up her bought food and bring her to her home.

“The Ottomans have made such big steps! We’re holding onto the skin of our teeth here! Nikos, bless his heart, says I shouldn’t worry about it, that the revolution will be back on its feet in no time, but I still do. I’ve been around a long time, and this the biggest revolution I’VE seen,” she rambled, guiding the man to the steps of her house, before finally stopping. The man almost dropped dead in exhaustion. Apparently, the old woman hadn’t been exaggerating when she said she lived on the far side of the sea town.

“I am so sorry! I dragged you all the way up here and I don’t even know your name!” the old woman realized, taking his hands and patting them with a severe grandmother look on her face.

The Greek man was at a loss, shuffling and looking at the ground. “Er, that’s okay ma'am, just trying to be a good person.”

“Nonsense! Tell me your name. I must know who to thank for helping me! ”

“My name is Heracles, ma’am.”

“Heracles. Oh, I know a man who has a nephew named Heracles! What’s your last name good boy?”

Again the man was at a lost, stuttering and looking at the ground, and the food, before saying the first thing that came into his head.

“Um, Karpusi.”

“Karpusi? Your last name is Watermelon?”

Heracles looked up from the watermelon that had inspired this brilliant idea and came up with a foolproof plan on why he was named after a fruit.

“Er, my father was a watermelon farmer.” The old woman tutted and gave a sympathetic look, patting his hands once more.

“You poor boy. You must have been bullied so much when you were a child. Though once I knew a man called Alexios Psari. Imagine that! Your last name being Fish! Thank you so much Mr. Watermelon, I’ll make sure to pray for you on Sunday,” she chirped, before patting Heracles on the cheek and preparing to go up the stone stairs to her house above the bakery.

“It was no problem, ma’am. Have a nice day!” The man shouted back at the rapidly retreating woman, going down the hill and to the sea, after a couple of tight turns of course. Pylos really was a beautiful city, even if it was sparsely populated, thought the Greek, passing the tavern he was staying at and following the road, up another hill, to the sea.

Unfortunately, Heracles wasn’t here to sightsee, as was made clear when instead of going straight towards the narrow and rocky beach the sea town boasted, he went to the shipyard, where he had a full view of the mighty galleons and mile high ships that floated blissfully on the other side of the bay. There were so many of them sitting in the water that it almost looked like the ocean had given up and let trees grow on its soil once more. The flags of the ships fluttered and strained in the sea breeze, turning the leaves of the sea forest into an orchard of red, white, and blue. The three flags of the bay looked similar, with the same main colors, but after that, the difference between the 3 national fleets stopped there.

The British ships in Navarino Bay glowed brilliantly, outdoing the other 2 in sheer size and number. Though Heracles knew that they weren’t the true best that Britain could conjure, the gloating ships were pretty close. After all, the more to intimidate the Ottomans into doing what they wanted.

The French ships were much less impressive by international standards, but to the humble Greek people of Pylos, they were still in a league of their own. However, if you squinted past the glare of the well-oiled masts and bows, you could see the faint bruises of wars already lost and an almost shameful way in which they carried themselves, wincing away from the gloating British ships. Heracles had heard of the Napoleon Wars of course, and he knew the French were desperate to prove that they were still relevant by butting into international affairs.

The Russian ships were muttering about the glamour and fashion the other ships were boasting, rocking their own hulls in the water with simple compliance, not bothering with the wasteful banter the other fleets filled the bay with. They were simple machines, they sighed, made to do what the ropes pulled them to do or fly where the wind commanded them to go. They were still amazing, the ships smiled, but why waste something on glamour?

A lump gathered in Heracles's throat as he gazed at the smiling Russian ships that were simply happy to be in warm waters. He had asked his Orthodox brother for help when the revolution first started, only to be refused once more. “Aren’t we the same?” Greece had argued, “are we not of the same religion, brother, are we not simply Christians trying to fight off our enemies? Was I not the one who gave you the gift of Christianity? Was I not the one who gave you the foundations for your language? Was I not the author of the poems and the philosophies you know so well? I know you helped Serbia, I know you will help Bulgaria, for you are both Slavs of the same blood, but am I not the one who taught you what that meant? If I am the one who did this, if I am the one who gave you the religion you now hold onto so dearly, if I am the one who taught you to write and to learn and to read and to believe that there was more to life than what we see, why won’t you help me brother? Why won’t you send the ships and the soldiers and the weapons I need to be free? Why won’t you help me escape a heretic’s grasp and be among my own people as a true nation once more? If I helped you with what you desperately, unknowingly needed in the past, why won’t you help me with what I need today, orthodox brother?”

“I cannot,”  the Russian had responded. “Because I cannot afford to send my soldiers, my ships, or my weapons. I cannot afford to send you money that I desperately need here at home.  I cannot show support to a rebellion against an empire I need for trade. I cannot supply a revolution that might be doomed to fail. I cannot waste my resources. I’m sorry Heracles, but I cannot help you.”

Clearly, though, the Russian could afford to send ships to batter the Ottoman Empire rather than helping a rebellion that might be Heracles's last. The Greek could sense the gut feeling in his bones, and the deepest recess of his mind. It was the same gut feeling that crept into his bones as Constantinople burned around him, and he prayed in the Hagia Sophia with the claws of dread hanging from the tears in his heart. It was the same feeling that dripped from his bloody body as the Ottoman Empire killed him once and for all, thrusting his sword into the Greek’s burning heart, and leaving him dead on the mosaic floor of the sacred church. And it was the final thought in his disappearing mind as he faded from existence, only to be the very first remnant he received after his reincarnation, after he was born as a child once more and with no memory. It was the first thing he remembered from his Byzantine days, the first thing he hated the Ottoman for, the first thing he screamed at the man when his killer asked him why he hated him so viciously. It was the feeling of death. Not the quick, sudden death a rabbit screams when its neck is snapped, or the desperate clawed death that dragged you down farther into the water as you tried to fly away. It was the stalking, aging, steady death that followed every creature, only showing itself when the being had fought off all other challengers, creeping onto the victim when it was worn and old, and didn’t have the strength to fight back. It was the type of death that showed its face rarely to the beings of the living world, only to the ones that boasted a long life, smiling and dragging them down into the darkness of death so slowly that the victim never even noticed what death was doing to them.

This was the emotion that sank into Heracles now, along with the dread that often followed. He knew this emotion, the gut feeling, and he knew, in the darkest corners of his cavernous mind, that this death would claim him if he didn’t succeed in his fight, in his endless struggle to escape the vacuum of the Ottoman Empire. He would die, this time with no hope of survival or rebirth if he failed.

This is why he had begged Russia to help him, crossed the ocean to America to receive a few measly ships, appealed to his other sucked in captives of the vacuum who might disappear as well. Regardless of what the Ottoman might think, he didn’t want to die. He had escaped that death before, but he knew, the same way he knew that his heart would beat and his lungs would breathe, that he would not escape again.

CRACK! A gunshot shattered the air, and Heracles snapped out of his inner thoughts to see a boat between the Ottoman’s and the European fleets hosting a dead man and a group of startled diplomats. Now that's odd.

 ---

Britain gaped as the newly dead man bled over his shoes, eyes rolled back and body limp. France became a white sheet of shock, and the Russian man besides them dropped his always present smile in favor of a light frown at the sight of the inconveniently dead translator. The gun smoke still curled in the air from the blank-faced Egyptian man, who looked coldly at the corpse and spoke a few words in Greek.

“I think we are done here.”  The party of diplomats stared in confusion before Russia remembered that his fellow nations couldn’t understand Greek.

“He said: ‘I think we are done here,’” Russia explained in French, mostly to see the Englishman irritated at having to translate it to English for the rest of his crew. The Egyptian looked Ivan Braginsky with raised eyebrows, still addressing him in the tongue of the land they were in.

“You speak Greek?”

“Da. That means yes,” Russia hurried.

“Huh. Even the barbarians are learning your language Heracles. Told you they haven’t forgotten,” Gupta muttered in Ancient Greek this time before being interrupted by a chuckling Russia.

“I wouldn’t call myself a barbarian.”

“Oi! What the bloody hell are you two talking about?” the British Empire commanded, eyes rapidly switching from one startled man to another.

“Nothing of your concern, Arthur,” Ivan responded, nearly rolling his eyes. “Now Gupta, you must understand that this,” he pointed to the dead man between them, “Is not acceptable behavior.”

“Perhaps. But it is an answer,” Gupta replied, speaking in French to the frustration of the British Empire.

“And what might that be?”

“That the Ottoman Empire sees your terms as unfit.”

“Why doesn't he come out and tell us then,” muttered France, before being jabbed in the rib by Arthur.

“The Ottoman Empire has refused our terms?” Russia docked his head to the side and then pointed at the forest of ships behind him. “Do you think you are in a position to refuse?”

“It is an answer.”

“Alright,” the British man interrupted, in English this time. “This is going nowhere. How about we discuss these proceeding again tomorrow, with a new, er, translator. Thank you so much for that by the way.”

“I no like your terms. I shoot. Is simple,” Gupta waved, getting onto his own boat with his crew and preparing to go out to sea.

“So you DO know English!”

“Of course. You think me a barbarian?” The Ottoman delegation was soon gone, leaving behind a very angry England, a confused France, and a chuckling Russia.

“I think that meeting went well,” Russia remarked.

“You THINK?! There’s a DEAD translator on this boat and we haven’t made any progress at all! God I can’t wait to leave this blasted land. There’s a cruise in India with my name on it after this,” Arthur grumbled, walking away to go to his own ship.

“Isn’t putting your name on things the only things you do as a great power?”

“OH! Angleterre, he got you good!”

“Leave me alone DAMN IT!”

__

Arthur Kirkland scowled at the map before him, looking around the world on a sheet of paper and ticking off things that needed to be done, places that needed to be explored, etc, etc. God his job as an empire never ended, he muttered internally, as he crossed out tiny places around the map, pen hovering over North America before crossing out the large territory in the north. The ship rocked from east to west, groaning and complaining over the burden of the ship and muttering curses that it could never stop rocking. Arthur almost threw the map onto the ground in frustration, when he looked at the small, million island territory of Greece.

He remembered Rome teaching him of the place that he now rocked in, the million islands, the heaven blue skies. One might have thought he was in love with the place, though it was a pity that he never met the mother of such a land. Really, the only reason he was in this blasted bay was to pressure that STUPID Ottoman to stop being distracted by what must be the millionth rebellion against him and start being more cooperative with trading! It wasn't that hard! Just do whatever he wanted, and everything would work itself out. Not everyone could be reasonable though, as was shown by the day’s diplomatic meeting, where the translator was shot in the head by that silent puppet of the masked man.

That was one other thing ruined by this revolution, the fact that instead of a calm, agreeable Heracles being on the other side of the negotiating table, they had to deal with that judging mute! He remembered back in the day that Heracles was the only man you could talk to if you wanted direct access to that smug Turk, and then the poor Greek had to sit there and translate everything he said. He once asked why Heracles did this, and Heracles said, and he quoted, “Because that smug Turk bastard doesn't like learning new languages and thinks that he's so much better than all of you that he refuses to learn your language and instead using his territories like parrots to stroke his ego.” He always liked that man.

Pity that he would have to remain a territory though. The British couldn't afford to help such a failing rebellion, especially if it destroyed the balance of power in Europe. One of the Great Powers would get control over the country if it ever succeeded, and Arthur really did not want to see another one of those BLASTED smug smiles from Russia. And France, well, the Napoleon Wars proved he could be fierce when challenged.

The only way he would ever help this rebellion, he chuckled to himself, is if the Ottomans declared war. But what are the odds that something that stupid would happen?

BOOM! The ship shuddered, and muffled screaming could be heard above deck. Arthur knew that sound. He knew it from decades at sea, from the long months he spent alone on the blue waves, from the times he would storm into a golden ship and pillage the wealth for his own. That sound was the sound of cannon fire.

Arthur flew up the stairs and onto the deck, only to find the crew in a state of total confusion. Mutters and panicked cries sat behind him as Arthur looked for the source of the cannon. Surely it couldn't be the Russians, with their humble ships that were now whispering in the bay, or the French, with the bruised galleons sitting innocently on their left. No, it had to be someone else.

There. The Ottomans. A single wisp of smoke curled from a metal stump in the distance and the crew could be found in disarray on the other side. Arthur couldn’t believe it. The Ottomans had fired on British ships.

“Sir!” A young sailor said, snapping to attention, “The Ottomans has fired upon our fleet. What is your response?”

His response? He looked around the bay to the audience of ships waiting for the battle. He looked at the thousands upon thousands of cannons and weapons they had brought to intimidate the Ottomans. He looked at the French and the Russian who waited in shocked silence to see what the mighty British Empire would do when attacked by a foreign power. Finally, he looked at the Ottoman fleet, with a single ship still sighing out a deadly smoke. The world balanced on a pin as the British empire decided whether to shoot back or let the attack on his own ships slide.

“Sir?”

“Rain down hell.”

____

The tavern walls shuddered, startling a tired man and dragging him back into the realm of the living.

“W-what-” Heracles muttered before the world rumbled once again, and the patrons below him whispered muffled cries. He raced to put on his clothes and his left shoe that never really seemed to stay on, and a few seconds later he burst out of the small tavern he was staying at to then have the sight of a mob of people greet him as they stared and muttered in shock.

Then someone said, “It’s coming from the beach!” and the people of Pylos swarmed towards the sea, tripping and trampling each other to see the source of the rumbling earthquake. Heracles ran in the front of the pack, the first one to greet the glorious sight of the bay that was golden with fire.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” breathed a woman next to him, and Heracles couldn’t agree more. The bay was on fire. What seemed like hundreds of ships burned in the dark bay, as the Great Powers shot their rifles at the sinking ships and annihilate the fleet that screamed in the water. It wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre. The ships roared in fury, drawing their bows and shaking the earth with their thunder. The ships gutted the Ottoman fleet in righteous fury, making the cavernous bay, one of the deepest in the world, house the souls of the screaming condemned. The European fleets received a few chinks in their armor, a Russian ship here, a French ship there, but no amount of cuts or bruises would stop the onslaught as the execution continued. More and more ships fell, leaving a gaping hole where they once glowed bright, and Heracles felt something tug onto the edges of his mind, the same tug he felt so long ago as the world burned around him. It was the tug of destiny changing the fates of thousands, of millions, of all of his people, with a simple action. The world was changing. His fate was changing. As the Great Powers went to war against the Ottomans, slaughtering their men, drowning their ships, the hope grinned on the Greek for the first time in months, the first time since he dragged himself to the sea town to see the international exchange, waiting for something, anything, to happen as he sat in the tavern, waiting and waiting for the tug of fate. Heracles, no, Greece, felt the hope blossom and grow as he watched the war unfold before his eyes, now with three more nations on his side.

The Greek Revolution had its miracle.              

[crimsonrae]

I saw you were taking request. May I request your take on sub! Napoleon, with a plot of course. I don’t know really. If you don’t feel comfortable please ignore this request!! Xx

Hey Nonnie! 

I had to really think about this, because while I don’t think Napoleon would be averse to being a submissive in private, I do think that the notion wouldn’t occur to him right away. He’s a very take action and control type of guy, so I wrote this as more intro Sub!Napoleon... if that makes sense and it came out a little more of a tease fic than I intended, but I like it. I may make a part two to this that will be a bit more explicit, but for now - I hope you enjoy

Warning: Mature Themes.

NapoleonxOFC

Nightingale.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Napoleon knew that for certain as he watched his mark walk away. She had been his ticket into the theatre... quite literally. Illya had discovered days ago that the theatre’s manager was a woman with access to all pertinent areas.  

They needed that access.

Why?

Because in two days' time, an exchange between the premier warlord of Eastern Europe and the Black Market’s most successful weapons dealer was going to occur during a viewing of Stravinsky’s, The Nightingale.

Tickets had been sold out for months and frustratingly they had only been able to gain intel on Sergei Rundolski, the warlord. The information that U.N.C.L.E. had attained on the weapons dealer was simply a codename: Viper. Not even a description.

It hardly mattered now. Their time was up and they needed access to that theatre.

He had taken one look at Peril’s surveillance photo of the manager and knew he would have admission to that opera in no time. She was a mousy, quiet-looking woman. Her hair pulled back into a bun and glasses too large for her face. Cute, in a librarian-chic sort of way he supposed... Lonely too, he’d bet. All he needed to do was turn on the charm and she’d be putty in his hands.

At least that had been the plan.

He had ‘stumbled’ upon her outside of the bar she frequented for a nightcap. Smooth apologies for knocking into her small frame and an offer for a drink falling from his lips before she could so much as blink at him. Her eyes had been wide as he smiled down her. A shy hesitance fluttered at him as she accepted his offer.

He thought he had her then.  

She had wine. He a scotch.

“What is it you do, Mr...?” She queried politely.

“Burke. James Burke, I’m in acquisitions.” He answered calmly with a quirk of his lips, “And you?... No, let me guess. Glasses, a simple, but very flattering day dress, smudges of paint on your hands and we’re near several museums... An art restorer by chance...Mrs. -?”

Faint amusement shimmered in her gaze as she sipped at her wine, “Miss. actually...And no, I’m not nearly talented enough to restore art. My job is much more boring, I assure you.”

He didn’t miss that she hadn’t given her name. She was cautious... and bashful. Against his will he found himself being charmed. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given him a truly honest smile and not a coquettish smirk or suggestive grin, but the rueful quirk of her lips was nothing but genuine.

He tilted his head curiously, “Oh, I’m sure you’re plenty talented, my dear. And I doubt you could ever be boring.”  

A cute little hum, almost a giggle bubbled from her as she shook her head, “You’re too kind, Mr. Burke... And what is it that you acquire?”

“Gems.” Napoleon stated softly and by the intrigued look he received, he remitted flirtatiously, “I find precious little gems that have been undervalued and make them shine again.”

“Oh, I see. Diamonds in the rough?” She responded with a timid grin that was just the right amount of tempting.  

Napoleon responded with an answering grin, “Yes...diamonds in the rough, indeed.”

His hand moved gradually across their little table and brushed tentatively against her soft fingers. She inhaled sharply at his gentle touch, her fingers flexing under, but not pulling away. A curious – searching gleam entered her eyes as she peered up at him uncertainly, “Mr. Burke....”

She petered off and dropped his gaze embarrassed.

So, he pushed, not hard, but gave her a definite nudge as he rested his warm paw fully over hers, “Would you like me to walk you home?”

She tensed and slowly removed her hand from his. Her shyness, now replaced by impassivity as she politely murmured, “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Burke...but I think I should be on my way – alone. Goodnight.”

Without another glance in his direction, she slipped from her seat and darted for the exit. He watched as she scurried from him and wondered where he had erred. 

Hurriedly, he threw a few bills on the table and started after the curious little mouse. Missing Illya watching from the back of the bar with an exasperated frown, “Smooth, Cowboy.”  

She was half a block away by the time he caught up, “Wait... wait, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She huffed quietly before glancing at him from the corner of her eye, “You don’t follow direction well, do you, Mr. Burke?”

Napoleon’s brow furrowed, “Wha-”

“I believe I said that I would make my way alone.” She stated simply, sharply – never once breaking her stride.

Her tone caught him off guard. It was the first time that she had shown him more than a meek-mild exterior. There was a thin strain of steel shinning at him now and he was fascinated by its appearance.  

He easily kept pace with her as he responded amused, “You did, but -”

“But you decided that the shy little girl didn’t know what she really wanted.” She interrupted, annoyance coating her visage, “You took my very vague interest and decided that I was charmed and willingly for whatever games you had in mind, no?”

“No.” He denied with equal fervor. Unwilling to admit that she was partially right, but he hated being so easily read, “I was merely being polite.”

She scoffed and turned to gracefully scale the steps of a stooped home. He followed like a moth to a flame.

Her hand rested on the handle to her door, but she turned to glower at him, “I’m not so naïve, Mr. Burke. Charming as you are, your intentions were less than polite.”

The latch disengaged as she pushed down on the handle. Napoleon quickly placed his hand over the door, preventing her from opening it but didn’t speak until she met his gaze again, “I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”

“And I don’t like you.” She returned bluntly, “Leave.”

He narrowed his gaze at her.  

He had hoped to seduce into his bidding, but frankly, now he would coerce her if need be. Too much was ridding on this mission, “Make me.”

He didn’t expect the kiss.  

Not with the infuriated glare he had been receiving. He had expected to be slapped for his petulant challenge. Instead, her hand had wrapped swiftly around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a bruising kiss that had made his head spin. 

By the time he had bearing enough to reciprocate, her delicate fingers had snagged onto his tie and cinched the knot uncomfortably tight against his throat. He choked, partially in pain, partially in surprise. His hand reached for hers to relieve the pressure but found himself stilling as she tutted.

He was shocked by the hot stir of arousal that flooded him at the sound and blamed the lack of oxygen to his brain for that reaction.

“I do like it much better when people are direct. Don’t you, Mr. Burke?” She murmured, brushing his lip with her thumb.

He nodded hesitantly, his skin buzzing with the need to touch and be touched.

“Do you want me, Mr. Burke?”

His gaze widened intrigued and confused by the drastic change in the woman before him. Gone was his little mouse and in her place stood a confident vixen.

Napoleon nodded again and found it to be true. He did want this confusing creature. He wanted to push her, bait her... see how she would react, see what she would do to him. He had a feeling he would enjoy it. 

Desire burned in her gaze and she whispered  “But there is still the problem of you following instructions. Perhaps, I should teach you a lesson.”

“And what lesson would that be?” He managed to rasp out.

They stared at each other a moment longer. A silent war waging within her that he only half understood. 

She pursed her lips and tugged a little on his tie, “I’m going to invite you in, Mr. Burke, under the condition that you do exactly as I say when I say it. Do you think that you can do that? If not, leave now.”

She released his tie and he finally was able to take a deep breath. He cocked a brow at her as he smoothed his appearance, “And if I do neither of those things?”

She shrugged, “The police are only a phone call away.”

She pushed the door open to her home, allowing him the chance to make the decision of staying or leaving unencumbered. Not knowing that leaving wasn’t an option for him.

His eyes fell to her hips as she swayed passed him and he bit his lip appreciatively as his gaze traveled down the curve of her legs to the dangerous-looking heels she wore.  

He always did have something of a shoe fetish.

His cock stirred and twitched. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 

When she looked over her shoulder, he smirked, “I can follow instruction.”

She arched a brow at him, “We’ll see about that.”

Part Two___________________________

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