Work Text:
He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me…
Napoleon dropped the final petal onto the grass among a scatter of petals like stars. The sun was strong and the sky was blue, with scraps of white clouds moving very high up in a wind that wasn’t touching the calm down here.
This was, quite frankly, boring. Even the guards with machine guns were boring, because how long did a week go by when there wasn’t some kind of goon threatening him with a machine gun? It wasn’t often that they were fired off. The threat was enough.
He lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky. There would probably be pain later, but right now he could enjoy this peace. Somewhere in his peripheral vision he could see the white tops of the alps. Which mountains they were he didn’t know, because they’d brought him here at gunpoint, those machine guns they hadn’t fired off yet, with a bag over his head. He’d expected some kind of dank cell, a cellar or tower or back room with sweating walls, not to be turfed out into a roadside meadow like this. But then, they probably hadn’t expected their car to break down either. At least they’d let him take a piss in the bushes, and they’d let him take the bag off his head.
It wouldn’t surprise him to see Heidi wandering down from the slopes, with a couple of goats at her heels. This was a nice place. Perhaps, in the fullness of time, he could come back here for a vacation.
He plucked another daisy from the grass and held it up. The eye was yellow as an egg yolk, the petals like rays of light. He started plucking them off one by one, murmuring almost inaudibly, ‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…’
Somehow, they all ended on he loves me. Why would that be? Was it like finding a meadow of four leafed clovers? He was surrounded by fallen petals, and they all ended on he loves me.
‘Here.’
One of the men tossed a grease-proof paper packet at him, and he looked up in surprise. He was holding out a glass bottle too.
‘Well, this is unusual service,’ he admitted as he took the bottle from the man, reading the label, translating it automatically in his head. It wasn’t as if limonade needed much translating.
‘Joe walked down to the garage while you were snoring,’ the man told him grudgingly. ‘He bought lunch. Mechanic’ll be here soon and we can get back on the road. Then we can get those answers from you, somewhere more private,’ he added in a menacing tone. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’
‘Ah, how very civilised.’
He unwrapped the paper packet to reveal sandwiches. Sandwiches and lemonade. This really was an unusual Thrush kidnapping. But the sandwiches were good and the lemonade was very refreshing. Maybe this day would end in something very nasty indeed, but at the moment life felt oddly good.
The mechanic arrived on a motorbike, wearing oily overalls, a cap pulled down over his forehead, black smudges on his face. Napoleon wasn’t paying attention, too full and sleepy, warm in the sun. Maybe his life would end later tonight, but for now there was sunshine and daisies.
The mechanic was a distant figure, bent down, peering under the bonnet. The men kept their machine guns out of sight. Napoleon lay on the grass, plucking petals from daisies and scattering them on the ground, staring up at the sky. He wasn’t going to risk the mechanic’s life by trying to make a break for it. There would be time for that later, he was sure.
He heard the bonnet being slammed shut. Then four little sputs, and four thuds. Napoleon was upright in a moment, dropping the last daisy from his fingers, the words, he loves me dying on his lips. The Thrushies were prone on the grass near the car, like so many sacks of wheat.
He saw the blue of Illya’s eyes, the blond of his hair under the greasy cap, a flash of golden chest through the open neck of the overalls.
‘I hope you appreciated the ketchup and mustard on your ham sandwich,’ Illya said.
‘Illya!’
‘Well, who else do you expect to be able to make you the perfect lunch, and fix your car?’
Illya sauntered across the grass and took Napoleon’s jacket lapel between two distinctly oily fingers. Napoleon tactfully removed the fingers, and kissed his knuckles lightly, where the oil hadn’t blackened his skin. Then he took hold of both sides of Illya’s collar with his hands, and pulled him into a kiss. It was a long, warm moment. Everything faded away. There was just the feeling of Illya’s lips and the scent of his breath, and the Alpine breeze toying at his hair and neck.
‘I guess he loves me,’ he said as they broke apart, regarding the subtle smile he had left on Illya’s lips. He picked a daisy from the star sprinkle of the grass and carefully slotted it behind Illya’s ear, then kissed his nose. Illya tutted, but he left the flower where it was.
‘Someone had to save you, since you weren’t bothering to save yourself. Come on,’ Illya said gruffly. ‘There’s a bed at the local hostelry waiting for us. I’m told the sunsets are beautiful over the mountains.’