Cold
By Julia Justina


It was cold.  Cold and dark.  Dark and cold.  Which was worse?  The cold or the dark?  Probably the cold.  The dark wouldn’t kill him.  The cold would.  Well that was a cheerful thought.

Okay, so think of something else.  Napoleon.  He could think about Napoleon.  It was all his fault anyway.  Napoleon was always a good person to blame, especially as he wasn’t here.  

He curled up tighter into his corner, trying to conserve what little body heat still remained.  He had no idea how long he’d been here.  He’d been stripped and beaten, then tied up and dumped in the trunk of a car.  The car had driven round for a while; he’d no idea how long.  Then he’d been pulled out of the trunk, beaten up again, and dropped into this cellar.  It hadn’t been a very long drop, about 10 feet he thought.  It wasn’t a very big cellar, perhaps 12 feet square.  At least they had untied him before they dropped him in here.

Funny that they had stripped him, but left his boxers.  Americans were strange.  Perhaps they had seen someone in a film stripped to their underpants and assumed that that was the correct way to do things.  It made no difference; boxers would not stop him freezing to death.

Okay, so think of something else.  Think warm thoughts.  Napoleon.  Napoleon was warm.  Sharing a bed with Napoleon was like sleeping with a life sized hot water bottle.  How many times had he shared a bed with Napoleon?  Too many to count.  Lying back to back.  One facing the window, one facing the door.  So nobody could creep up on them from behind.  Who would watch Napoleons back now?

Maybe he should try again to look for a way out.  The floor was stone slabs with a covering of dirt.  The walls were brick, old, decaying brick.  Some bricks had come loose, so there were finger and toe holds to climb up.  But when he landed on the stone floor, he’d done something to one ankle.  Possibly it was broken, perhaps it was just sprained.  Whatever, it wouldn’t support his weight.  He couldn’t climb the wall using just two hands and one foot.  He’d tried when he first got here.  

At least there were no rats.  He’d never liked rats.  He’d collected some bits of broken brick and piled them up next to him.  If he heard any scuffling, he’d throw the smaller pieces at the rats.  If anyone opened the trapdoor, and it wasn’t Napoleon, he would throw the bigger pieces at them.  Maybe if it was Napoleon, he’d throw a few pieces at him anyway.  It would serve Napoleon right for taking so long to get here.

He was so cold.  He didn’t think he could pick up a half brick, never mind throw it accurately.

It was a week since he’d seen Napoleon.  Or maybe it was longer now.  It had been a week.  That’s why he’d been hanging round the office.  So he could see Napoleon when he reported in after the week in South America.   It was typical.  Napoleon got a week in South America, charming a dictator, being diplomatic, going to receptions, chatting up pretty girls.  He got beaten up and dropped into a cold, dark cellar.

He’d been hanging round the office, waiting for Napoleon, when the two rookie agents on a courier mission had panicked and called for backup.

Had that been today?  Or yesterday?  Probably yesterday.  Or maybe even the day before.  He was hungry and thirsty, as well as cold.  He’d tried to keep awake, but had dozed off at times.  

He’d stopped shivering a while ago, that was bad.  He knew all about hypothermia, he’d been trained in survival techniques.   But no training could help when you’re trapped in a cellar with no way to keep warm.  If he moved he would just encourage the colder blood in his arms and legs to move towards his heart and cool that down as well.  

He’d liked to have seen Napoleon again.

He didn’t feel so cold now.  That was bad.  That was scary.  

He had to hang on.  He had to stay still, conserve his energy and wait for Napoleon to find him.  He had to still be alive when Napoleon got here.

He’d been in the office, waiting for Napoleon when the blonde girl from Records had arrived.  She’d been looking for Napoleon because they had a date.  So he’d gone down to communications, to get away from her.  He’d heard the message that two agents had been trapped by a Thrush ambush and had gone haring off to the rescue.   He’d got there in time, and put down covering fire to allow them to escape.  Then his gun had jammed.

It was all Napoleon’s fault.

Napoleon shouldn’t have been off being diplomatic.  Napoleon shouldn’t have been making dates with blonde girls from Records.  Napoleon should have been with his partner, watching his back, giving him back up.  Napoleons should be here now, keeping him warm.

It was all Napoleon’s fault.

Didn’t matter.  He was feeling warm now.  Maybe he would just sleep for a little while.  Just till Napoleon got here.

The trapdoor opened.  The light hurt his eyes.  Even with his eyes closed, it still hurt.  He wrapped his arms in front of his face.  He just wanted to sleep.  Just for a little while.

He could hear someone calling his name, but he just wanted to sleep.   

He heard a thud, like someone dropping through the trapdoor.  Then someone was cursing.  Sounded like Napoleon.  Good.  Napoleon was here, so he could go to sleep.

Napoleon had hold of his arms, shaking him.  Napoleon’s hands were hot, burning him.

“Illya, wake up.  Talk to me!  Illya!”

There was a pause.  Napoleon let go of him, and he could hear the rustle of cloth.  Then Napoleon was pulling at his arms again.  Threading them into sleeves, wrapping a jacket round him.  Napoleons jacket, warm from Napoleon’s body and smelling of Napoleon.

Napoleon was pulling him to his feet, embracing him.  He went happily, leaning into Napoleons warmth.  His face against Napoleons neck.  Listening to Napoleons voice in his ear.

“You crazy Russian.  What did you think you were doing?  If you’d just waited five minutes, I’d have been there with you.”

He could only manage a whisper, “How long?” but it was enough, Napoleon heard him.  

“Two days.  It’s felt like two years.  I could kill you myself.  Never again.  I’m never letting you out of my sight again.  Never ever.  Understand?”  Napoleon’s hand was in his hair, tilting his head back, then Napoleons warm lips were brushing against his cold ones.

“Mmmm.”  Napoleon wouldn’t get the chance.  He was never going to let go of this warmth.  Never ever.

The end.