Admittedly, this is not as silly as the Superman slash snippet from a while back.
So, without further ado, a foray into non-Criminal Minds fanfic.Shocking, isn't it?
fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. / Torchwood
rating: um. There's a bad word. It's "ass."
title: The Cryptic Stranger Affair
disclaimer: these people do not belong to me, and the people who own them should really bloody release the dratted DVDs.
Napoleon was snipping the ground wire on the invisibility projector when the silo wall blew in.
Or not so much blew in, as burned in a ring, coruscated, and vanished, leaving a broad muscular man in a gray woolen trench coat framed in the aperture. He glanced from side to side, surveying a scene of darted THRUSHies in their powder-blue jumpsuits and the carnage Napoleon had wrought with his bolt cutters. Then he smiled, lowered the hand that had held some tiny device adorned with flashing lights, and ducked his head as he stepped over the remaining bit of wall.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take that off your hands," he said, walking forward. "It's interdicted property. I'll take it back to my lab at the North Pole--"
Napoleon glanced down at the projector, which required both hands to lift. His U.N.C.L.E. Special was back in the holster, the bolt cutters slipped into his coat pocket. "That's the property of the U.N.C.L.E."
"Mmm," said the man. He didn't appear armed. But he was definitely out of Napoleon's weight class. "So that's why it has the birdy on the side?"
Napoleon began to backpedal. The stranger closed the gap, while Napoleon contemplated options.
2: Throw the projector at him and grab your gun
3: Heavy or not, try to tuck the projector under one arm and grab for the gun with the other.
4: Hope Illya shows up.
Four would be nice, but three was probably the best option. He went for it.
And found himself moving as if through molasses. The stranger was in front of him, still fiddling with his device, frowning at it. "Drat it. I don't know why the stasis field never works properly. Ah well." He tucked the device into his pocket, reached out, and pulled the projector from Napoleon's numb fingers.
Napoleon groped after it, but his hands moved like a 78 played at 33.
"Look," said the stranger. He tucked the projector under one arm--it didn't seem too heavy for *him--and leaned in close, ducking a little to look up into Napoleon's eyes through his lashes. "I really can't leave this here. But I understand your position, and I could, you know, make it up to you."
And then he kissed Napoleon on the mouth.
Napoleon recoiled, and discovered that apparently he could fall on his ass in slow motion, too. While he was still bouncing, the stranger put his free hand across his mouth, frowned intently, and muttered, "Oh, right. 1965."
Napoleon could *talk* at full speed. "1966."
"Whatever. The point is, you can't have this." He tapped the projector. "It's not supposed to exist in this timeline. Sorry the other thing didn't work out, but I'm sure you'll figure out some way to explain what happened. Ta!"
He stepped through his hole in the wall again, with a cheery wave, and Napoleon struggled to follow. He was clambering laboriously after when Illya appeared at the far end of the corridor. "Illya! Stay there! It's a stasis field."
The Russian screeched to a halt on the tile floor. "Hurry," he said. "There's three minutes on the charges."
"Of course there is," Napoleon said, pushing forward as if through mud. It was a measure of God's goodness that the field ended--or wore off--after the third painful step. He nearly fell into Illya's arms.
"Run," Illya said.
And they did.
Outside, under cover, their ears ringing with the shock, Illya turned to Napoleon and said, "Invisibility projector?"
"I lost it," Napoleon admitted. "To the guy with the stasis field. Somebody in a trench coat."
"Greatcoat," Illya answered. "An R.A.F. greatcoat."
"You saw him?"
The Russian touched his mouth as if probing a bruise for tenderness. "You could say that."