temperedtremble | Be All, End All >> open post

a. I feel like I put out a fire with my hands but I'm not sure if that was a dream or not.

b. This may or may not be the weed talking but this is by far the best tasting toothpaste I've ever had.

c. Are you alive? If you are, you deserve a reward.

d. Join me. I'm on the roof drinking breakfast.

Fuck you, cowboy. "Go left" "oh, right, actually".

Just keeping you on your toes.

Besides, it all worked out.

My jacket does not agree. Or my hat.
Both which you will replace.

Barely.

Then I suggest your jacket and hat consider a change in attitude or they have no business being in this line of work. Threads have been sacrificed for less.

If their navigations system had not been damaged they would not be in the state they are.

Huh. Funny, I seem to recall someone telling me that they train their agents to be prepared for all possible outcomes in the KGB. Suppose it shouldn't tell you the next time an overturned oil tank happens to be in the way.

[It's a few minutes before Solo gets a reply. Illya has to remind himself he's at his allotment for crushing tech this month.]

That was not the point being made.

The point is that 1. you're not part of a flaming car wreck and 2. you're also back in time for breakfast.

Edited 2016-03-19 17:35 (UTC)

You're welcome.

[internal screaming.]

I am not hungry.

I noticed. What's your sustenance then, photosynthesis?

[Waverly said he could only crush so many things a month. The man never mentioned anything about those things quickly finding their way into a wall. Illya doesn't respond. But he also doesn't smash his phone.

The walk back to their hotel isn't long because he's too injured in some way, it's because he's lost. And too proud to ask for directions back. Not that he minds because in the end it helps him cool off. Enough that, when he walks into his room and grabs a small duffle from the closet alcove, he doesn't throw it at Solo in a knee jerk reaction.

Instead he stares and blinks, his once pristine jacket aerated with bullet holes under his arms and grazing his shoulders, hatless, hair suddenly with an odd cowlick atop his head. Moreover, he doesn't even address the brunet. Simply inclines his head, briefly, before turning and walking into the bathroom.]

[ illya's reaction, or lack thereof, is a markedly subdued response for all he's been put through thus far, and napoleon finds himself grateful for it, if only because it'd guarantee the relative safety of his fifth mimosa that morning - well, at least until the russian deigns to leave the bathroom, anyway. he's looking none the worse for wear - save the state of his jacket and questionable hair choices from a cursory observation upon entry, but napoleon keeps an eye on him regardless. ]

Fancied a haircut on your way back here, Peril? Hope you had words with the barber after. Strong ones, no less.

There were no words. [He replies sternly from the bathroom, the faint sounds of taps and clicks from things being set on the sink's edge, as well as sloshing liquid, finding their way out the half closed door. Illya can make quick work of fixing grazed wounds, and he does, making the extra minute or so of silence purely voluntary—as if such a protest meant anything. Or would make the American leave.

With suspenders hanging at his sides, the blond exits the room and makes a point to throw his shirt into the nearest bin and then his jacket at Solo as he crosses the room to his suit case. There are just a few bandages at his shoulders, less at his sides. Though neither are enough to distract from the second part of his hair. Not even the fuss from slipping on an undershirt budges it.]

Where is this breakfast you spoke of?

Here, but I thought all you needed was sunlight. [ the flute of alcohol in his hand is almost empty when he raises it at illya, though it would've been drained had the russian not deigned to send his ruined jacket flying in the general direction of solo's face. that's so rude. ] Then again, plants do need some kind of nutrition so there's always room service if you feel like it. I know I'm getting more of these.

[It's a dull glare Illya throws to Solo before walking back from the bedroom. He sits across from him, in an arm chair he seemed to prefer, managing to half slouch without looking it. True, it was likely he needed to eat, but there wasn't much a desire in him for the work it required. Not after getting chased and nearly gunned down.]

Fine. [Comes the flat, unwavering reply.] Order more. After all, sun is barely up.

Would've done that regardless. You might just get some, too. [ the admission from the russian comes far sooner than he expects it to - if it was going to come at all, even - and the smirk that pulls at a corner of napoleon's lips is triumphant as he takes in the slouch, a little show of concession perhaps, on his way to the phone. not a minute later, solo's already ordered six more of those drinks and whatever food the kitchen has that passes for an continental breakfast - eggs, meats and some croissants, likely. ] I have to say, Peril - loving the new hair. Not many people are that bold when it comes to styles.

[They make a reasonable decision; Illya runs. He runs from the corner of the base where he and Solo are tucked away, taking cover away from cameras and soldiers hunting them down, as a distraction. Admittedly it's a new role for the Russian, a distraction, but he is incredibly swift on his feet for it. Bide some time for his partner to get communications out. Simple. And really their only option.

He doubles back to find the men after them, lead them away, and when he does it's a trickling squad of 8 soldiers that rush after him shouting locations for others to cut the blond off ahead. They're trying to corner him to the floor below, but this station is large, filled with clever ways to evade others. And it works to Illya's advantage, even when 8 turns to 13. It's nearly a training exercise when he whittles that number down to 10 in just a few minutes. Time, however, doesn't favor him for long.

A firefight breaks out, one that the man is largely undersupplied for in spite of his weapon looting. He uses short, precise bursts to take out his opponents, one by one, until the numbers are slightly more fair—6 to 1. Four to 1 it would have been, had a pair of mercenaries not crept up behind him. A burst of bullets crack into the crate Illya hid behind, a few embedding into his side. Enough to make him stumble out of his cover as he returned fire, only taking one out in the process. The staggered belt of ammo wounds the other mercenary, just so to compromise his throwing of a grenade.

And Illya runs, despite knowing such a thing is not so easily avoided. Not entirely. The blast knocks him to the ground, blinded, with a violent ringing in his ears. He struggles to sit up, to find the gun slung across his chest as the seconds tick by in his mind. From it a heavy paranoia slithers up his spine, knowing he was close to being overwhelmed. When his sight returns he stumbles, the world spinning around him. Seconds later he's tackled and struggling to find his way up, managing in his discombobulated state to shove the body off him and fill it with lead.

There's no running this time. He staggers away, dipping and swaying with each rushed,wide step. The ringing fades slightly and Illya can make out the heavy, echoing footfalls of more soldiers, making him turn in such poor time that he catches more bullets in his abdomen, and even a few in his left shoulder. It knocks him to the floor again, a dizziness shooting into his eyes as he tries to take aim again. One falls, two possibly; still plenty for the others to fall back—allow the KGB agent to slink off.

Yet it's not enough to cover his tracks from the soldiers, not with the smeared and dripped trail of blood left behind. An uncomfortable pause falls upon the level for a handful of seconds, followed by unrelenting gunfire for just as long. Silence fills the air then, thick and heavy. Illya lays still to catch his quiet, ragged breath just for a minute before shakily sitting up and stifling the noise in his throat from it.

He slips the gun off over his head as he turns onto his knees, one hand pressed to his belly in a poor attempt to slow the bleeding. A cough finds him as he pushes himself forward, pausing his crawl to spit up more red. It hardly stops him, though he has no clear thoughts. Only a need to leave.Leave where? Illya couldn't make sense of all the storage surrounding and towering over him. After tackling a few steps two yards away, the Russian eventually crumples in another 3 meters, curling slightly in on himself.]

[ the mission is simple: cut off communications to HQ, sabotage the network and bring any backups down. in and out - no muss, no fuss.

well, that was the plan, at least until an extra console came into the picture and the outpost was already radioing for help before the channel could be silenced. he'll have to have a word with waverly later about the dangers of outdated intel - but solo focuses now on the task at hand, because while peril's bought him some time it's the sound of more than a few guns that tells him that they're more than overstayed their welcome.

thoroughly chewing through the console with a handful of heavy tools takes seconds when he finally cuts through its tough external housing, and napoleon's barely out the door before the deafening blast of a grenade shakes the entire structure; he follows the sounds of gunfire, shells ringing as they hit the ground, and if that doesn't point the way then the trail of bodies and what looks to be no small amount of blood sure does the trick. the post is theirs now, at least until support units arrive, and despite all solo's seen in his career the silence is still unnerving as deep red tracks on the ground melt into smudges and finally a long, shallow smear that ends in what looks suspiciously like his partner in the half-light. ]

Peril? [ he calls, with faintly rising alarm; there aren't many things that can completely floor a relatively hardy giant like kuryakin, and solo's not sure how much of the blood belongs to the squadron that came after illya, or how much is actually his. cautiously, the cia agent reaches out to grasp at a shoulder and the gentle shake is meant to rouse, not jostle. if illya is injured, and solo is absolutely sure he is, the last thing the man needs is getting his wounds aggravated. he does, however, need to stay awake.

if he still is alive to be awake in the first place, that is, but the thought doesn't yet cross solo's mind. ] Peril. C'mon. No sleeping on the job.

[Moving around, rushing, had made him surprisingly... cold. Whether that was the actual temperature or simply nerves, he had no idea at this point. The noise had stopped; no pop of bullets or ringing of shells, no loud boots or barked orders. The silence was available in spades and heavily immersive in the way his mind swam. Yet now laying there, he felt hot—his ears, face, chest—while the floor was cooling and welcome.

The Russian hardly thought of it as shock. Didn't take notice of the warm liquid leaking around his hand and pooling beneath his form, half soaked into his clothes, nor even the quickened pace of his heart. All he knew was exhaustion and how keeping his eyes shut seemed ideal.

So he doesn't hear Solo's resounding steps. Can't make sense of the voice that calls out to him other than noise. All the same it gives him worry. Enough that when the man shakes his shoulder Illya snaps awake, groaning as he rolls over and weakly tries to fight off whatever threat has found him. But he can barely push away for all the blood on his shoes, can barely even knock Solo's arm away.

He blinks, mouth wide with quick, uneven breaths, as he tries to make out the figure against a flickering light hanging from the ceiling.] Cowb-boy....? [Illya asks with no small degree of effort, a bit of relief sneaking in, as he squints.] ...Solo—?

Glad to hear you haven't lost your sense of recognition. [ the wounds are almost invisible against the dark fabric of illya's jacket, but when the russian shifts, light catches the wetter stains just so and immediately napoleon puts two and two together, knows that this has the potential to be very, very bad. and not because illya's lost it and used two syllables napoleon's never expected to hear in a time like this, either - well, maybe a little. or a lot.

a cursory check confirms his suspicions and it takes no more than a couple of seconds to call in their extraction, but getting to the chopper is another challenge entirely, one that solo determinedly welcomes as he carefully maneuvers one of kuryakin's massive arms over his shoulder and tries hard not to disturb too many entry wounds. there is no time for too much caution or tenderness here; if illya bleeds out - a very real possibility given the number of damp patches and just how far they've spread - he might never come back from it, but hell if solo's about to just stand by and allow it to happen. ] Up you get. [ his voice is firm - chiding, even, as he coaxes the giant to first sit, then stand. ] We have to go; walk with me, Peril.

Edited 2016-03-22 16:40 (UTC)

[Solo's words register as sass, regardless of their being so or not, since Illya is much more accustom to the former. And he barely has a huff to counter it, the energy to get the words stuck in his mind out his mouth lost trying to keep him upright. Not that his thoughts were anything cohesive—something about a haloed angel dressed as a devil. Which makes even less sense when he hears him call for an extraction, because he had never known disguised angels to use U.N.C.L.E technology.

Those thoughts shatter when he's moved, a winded, groaning protest leaving him:] Нет, нет— [Sitting isn't easy, and standing is much worse. Illya lifts like a rag doll weighted with stone, hunched with legs that don't seem to want to move. He just barely has footing, and nothing about this feels right about "forward". Illya weakly grips at Solo with the arm over his shoulder, laboring for breath.] Оставлять...

Да, мы уезжаем - but you're staying with me or I'm dropping you, just so you know. [ god, but he is heavy. though the facility's helipad is little more than an elevator's ride away the path twists and snakes through a veritable maze of corridors, and the american agent has sincere doubts about successfully dragging his partner out of there if illya's condition deteriorates any further -

which isn't going to happen if napoleon can help it, even if each step feels like they're wading through quicksand and sinking fast. the faint grip on his arm serves only to fuel every movement; it's wrong, this is wrong, the strength stolen away from those hands when they could once so easily break bones like twigs. for now solo keeps at it, drag-carrying his fallen teammate inch by agonising inch over bloodied ground, and tries to keep illya talking if he can. ] Jesus, Peril - the hell are you made of, marble? I've stolen statues that were lighter than you.

[The shake of his head is small, almost negligible, save to himself. To himself it feels like vehement disagreement, and unlikely for the reason his partner may think. A subconscious part in the Russian that knows how bad this is, knows then that he's dead weight. A part that knows that he should have been left behind. Should have, but wasn't. And then that part of him has an inkling that if it had been anyone but his cowboy, those so-called things he knew would have been true.

The epiphany unfortunately has little bearing on his finer motor skills. And yet still, some. Once every few steps Illya manages a willful stride, one that seems to push them forward with a touch more ease. It wavers in strength however, varying—and lessening—with the state of his mind.] бедный вор. To find statues.... [Illya wheezes.] Your size. Must be... difficult. [And what a testament to his state of mind to crack a joke like that. Or to even have a chuckle at it.]

[ a laugh rises out of his chest unbidden despite himself, and solo flips the little switch on his throat mic to open up his comms channel once more as they cover the remaining distance step by heavy step. ] Gaby. Gaby, listen — I think Peril just made a joke. If this doesn't tell you how loopy he is from the bloodloss I really don't know what else would.

[ ' -- so I hope to high heaven that the medics are already up there and waiting for us' goes unsaid, but gaby - bless her soul - picks up on it immediately, and the reassurance provides a brief measure of relief before he turns his attention back to illya who, god willing, is still awake. ]

Anyway, who said anything about it being my size? Eight and a half feet of pure ivory and not a single scratch on it when I was done, thank you very much. Would've been a breeze if I were Superman - did you get those in Russia? comic books? - plus that'd mean I'd be able to lift you right off the ground with just a finger. Maybe two, since you're definitely a giant. [ solo's all too aware he's rambling, but he couldn't care any less regardless; anything to hold illya's attention, anything to keep him here. ] We wouldn't be having this little problem, either, since he could fly too - still, the guy's something of a hero, y'know. I'd have to consider a career switch, but somehow I don't think 'superhero' is an option.

Edited 2016-03-27 15:22 (UTC)

Be All, End All >> open post

tfln cos i'm trash..........

c >> d

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1/2 where did my html go

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peril did you just play along....... that's cute and slightly bizarre

separate pic prompt thing bc we talked about h/c yesterday?? just leaves this here

WE DID and here's to getting the ball rolling

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OH MY GOD I'M SORRY FOR ALL THE EDITS I KEEP MISSING OUT SHIT