Let It Snow

by Aconitum-Napellus

Napoleon and Illya are trapped over Christmas in a snowed-in cabin with only trash fiction to read. Written from a prompt by vintagetvfan on Tumblr.

'Her alabaster breasts heaved like twin globes with every impassioned breath. Philippe was mesmerised by their movement, which was echoed by the ponderous tears that trembled on her lowered lashes.'

Illya looked up from the book, looking distinctly nauseous.

'Oh, brother, Napoleon, can you believe this even got published?'

He slid his reading glasses more firmly onto his nose and continued.

'Her eyes were turquoise orbs that – Oh, really. That's the fifth time the author's used the word orbs to describe eyes.'

Napoleon humphed and commented, 'Maybe someone needs to give her a thesaurus for Christmas. It is a her, I take it?'

Illya turned the book to look at the spine. 'Troy Cummings. Hmm. Could be a nom de plume...'

'Toss that one. Pick up the next,' Napoleon suggested.

Illya dropped the flimsy paperback as if it were contaminated and plucked the next from the pile. The cover bore a picture of a woman in a gauzy, low cut dress.

'Troy Cummings again,' he said, flicking through the pages. 'Orbs. Orbs. Orbs... Good lord, surely there are other ways to describe eyes?'

'I suppose it's better than marbles...' Napoleon pushed himself up to a sitting position on the couch and then stood and wandered across the room. He came back with two shot glasses and a bottle. 'I'll tell you what, how about a drinking game?' he asked. 'You read a chapter and every time you hit the word orbs we have a drink. First under the table loses.'

'I will win,' Illya said prosaically.

'I don't doubt it, my vodka swilling friend,' Napoleon replied, regarding him with raised eyebrows. 'You could drink a pub full of hardened Irishmen under the table. But it'll be fun while it lasts.'

Illya flicked through the pages of the book in a desultory way. 'I'd find Flaubert or Dostoevsky a deal more fun.'

'Only you could describe Dostoevsky as fun, tovarisch,' Napoleon grumbled, but Illya corrected him.

'I didn't say fun. I said more fun than these books. Who even reads this swill, Napoleon? Do Americans have so much spare time and so much money that they will waste it on such tripe?'

'Don't tar us all with the same brush,' Napoleon griped. 'Surely Russians have trashy novels?'

Illya grew rather silent. He dropped the second book and got up and went over to the window. He pushed the thick patterned curtain aside to see it was still snowing heavily outside.

'We're going to be trapped here over Christmas,' he said, angling his head up to look at the sky, which was apparently still quilted with the thick grey clouds that hadn't stopped spilling their frozen load since dawn. It was so dark now he could see no more than the flakes falling close to the window. 'At least, over your Christmas,' he amended. 'Perhaps we will be out by mine.'

'In that case, you can treat me to a proper Ukrainian Christmas,' Napoleon said magnanimously.

'I don't celebrate Christmas. I celebrate New Year,' Illya grunted, still peering into the snow. His forehead was pressed against the glass, the cold pushing into his skull.

'Close those curtains. You're letting all the heat out.'

Napoleon tossed another log into the stove and closed the doors. Flames sprung up behind the glass. Illya tugged the curtains closed and turned from the window, pulling his cable knit jumper down a little, glad of his thick corduroy trousers. They hadn't expected to end up trapped in this cabin. They'd only come here for a quick weekend break before Christmas because it was the first chance they'd had in months to get away. But now the snow was falling so hard there was no way the car would make it down the winding road, the phone lines had been pulled down the night before by freezing rain, and even their communicators were having a hard time getting through the dense cloud to bounce off the requisite satellite. Illya had brought one novel with him for the two nights they were expecting to stay, and he had devoured that on the first evening. They were now on their fourth night.

'I suppose we can burn those books if we run out of wood, at least,' he said rather morosely.

'You're not burning those books,' Napoleon chided him. 'They're not ours. They belong to someone.'

'However deluded. Can we rely on the sanity of someone who would read such drivel?'

'We don't have to rely on her sanity. We just have to acknowledge that we can't burn her books. I'm sorry, I mean, you have to acknowledge that you can't burn her books.'

Illya slumped down into the chair again and picked up the third book. He skimmed through the first page.

'We've started early. His sable orbs gazed into hers of violet. Does that count as one drink, or two by implication?'

Napoleon picked up his glass, raised it in a kind of salute, and downed the whiskey. 'One. Cheers, Illya.'

Illya raised his own glass. 'Za zdorovie.' And he knocked back the whiskey in one mouthful. Napoleon poured out two more glasses. Illya flicked on a few pages and read, 'Tears brimmed in her violet orbs, and he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips were like snow angels on her full mouth. What does that even mean?'

'It means another drink.'

So Illya swallowed his next shot and put the glass down with a thump.

'Bryn's tongue was like a seeking snake as it plunged into her cherry cavern – '

'Uh, are we still kissing?' Napoleon asked, sitting up a little.

Illya skimmed his eyes down the page. 'I think so. Oh, yes, and her tongue reciprocated, tasting the cherry brandy he had recently swallowed. She wanted to be swallowed too. Bryn's arms were around her, his fingertips like brands of fire against her alabaster skin. He slipped his – Oh.'

He shut the book quickly, leaving his finger trapped between the pages.

'Oh?' Napoleon echoed. 'Go on, Illya. He slipped his – ?'

Illya looked a little pink, but he opened the book again and cleared his throat. 'He slipped his nomadic fingers up to her brassiere and – Napoleon, do you really want me to read this?'

Napoleon grinned. Illya tried to pretend to himself that the heat in his face was because of his proximity to the fire. He cleared his throat again.

' – and pressed under those silky cups to find her hard teats. He rolled them between his fingertips and heard her give an orgasmic gasp. His nether orbs shivered at the sound. Napoleon, this is not written by a man. Have your nether orbs – if I'm interpreting that correctly – ever shivered?'

Napoleon grinned. 'Well, perhaps if I went outside in this weather... Anyway. Drink.'

So Illya drank and started to feel the warmth inside grow to match the warmth from the fire.

'Go on, read,' Napoleon urged him.

Illya scanned to find his place. 'His nether orbs shivered at the sound. He moved his hands in a silken trail to slip the confining straps from her body. She arched her back, a perfect rainbow. Her breasts were like snow covered hills. Well, that's topical. He massaged the pristine mounds and was gratified by her loin deep moan. Oh, Napoleon, must I, really?'

Napoleon held out his hand and Illya tossed the book over to him. Napoleon caught it and flicked through the pages, a slight smirk on his face.

'Well,' he said. 'Where did you find these, again?'

'In a box under the bed,' Illya said rather uncomfortably. 'Maybe they weren't meant to be found.'

'Maybe they weren't. What were you doing, anyway, rummaging around under other people's beds?'

'It's my bed for now,' Illya objected. 'I was looking for something to read.'

Napoleon laughed. 'Well, you found it. Maybe that'll teach you to – What was that?'

Illya was instantly alert too. He had heard the noise as well. At first it was a scratching, but then he heard a piteous cry. His gun was in his hand without hesitation, although he didn't think that could be the sound of a Thrush out in the snow.

He moved cautiously to the door and opened it, and looked down as a thin ginger cat stepped daintily in to the cabin and insinuated itself around his legs.

'Well, hello,' he said, looking down at the cat and then over at Napoleon. 'It's a cat,' he said, picking up the thin animal and holding it against his chest.

'You don't say?' Napoleon threw the book aside and came over to investigate. 'Scrawny, isn't he? You better watch he's not crawling with fleas.'

Illya unceremoniously held the cat out at arm's length, inspecting first its coat and then looking at its back end.

'She,' he said decisively. 'She is female. Only about a year old, I think.'

'It's ginger,' Napoleon objected. 'You don't get girl gingers. Well, not cats, anyway,' he amended with a grin.

'The gene is recessive in the female but as long as she receives two recessive genes for ginger you will get a ginger female,' Illya corrected him. 'And she doesn't have fleas,' he added, bringing the cat back to his chest. She purred and rubbed her head against the thick knit of his jumper. 'I wonder if she will drink powdered milk,' Illya mused.

'I'll fix her some milk while you steel yourself to carry on with that book,' Napoleon said, but Illya groaned and said, 'It's very late, Napoleon. Give her some milk, and let's go to bed.'

'I thought you were going to drink me under the table?' Napoleon protested.

Illya grunted. 'I can do that without the aid of extremely poor literature. No, we don't know how long we'll be snowed in here. Better save the wood and go to sleep.'

((O))

In the morning the snow was still falling in thick, lazy flakes outside the window. The ginger cat had spent all night sleeping on Illya, sometimes on his side but mostly on his head, winding herself about his hair and kneading needle like claws into his temple.

'It's Christmas Eve,' he commented to Napoleon as he opened a tin of salmon and scraped it into a saucer for the cat.

'Yeah, I think we're going to be here for Christmas,' Napoleon said disconsolately.

'I suppose you're missing about five parties with New York socialites,' Illya said rather darkly, and Napoleon looked hurt.

'One, Illya. Only one. I'll have you know I was hoping to spend a quiet Christmas at home. In fact, I was going to ask you to join me.

'Oh.' Illya looked up, startled, one hand absently stroking the cat as she ate noisily from the saucer on the kitchen table. 'Oh, well – Thank you, Napoleon. I didn't expect – '

'Of course you didn't. You're a good godless Soviet citizen.' Napoleon reached out and ruffled Illya's hair much as Illya was ruffling the cat's fur. 'But I wanted to share the holiday with you.'

Illya stared at him, still rather taken aback. 'I would have come,' he assured Napoleon. 'It would have been nice. Thank you.'

Napoleon grinned. 'Well, it looks like we'll be spending Christmas together after all. Just you, me, Ginger, and a tin of salmon.'

'No salmon,' Illya replied, meeting Napoleon's eyes with a wry grin. 'That was the last can.'

'Ah, well... Any breakfast left in this place?'

Illya busied himself looking through the cupboards. It was obvious that the owner expected to get snowed in from time to time. There were plenty of canned and dry goods.

'There are oats. Still plenty of dried milk. I could make porridge?'

'That sounds like a perfect meal for a morning like this,' Napoleon said, looking out through the gingham-curtained kitchen window at the thick snow. 'While you do that, I'll go out and dig some more logs out of the wood pile. If I don't come back, send out the dogs.'

'Well, I could send Ginger, but she'd probably ignore your predicament,' Illya shrugged. 'Cats are like that.'

The cat was still there by evening, the snow was thicker than ever, and Napoleon had found a stock of candles in a cupboard which he had set out on surfaces around the cabin. There was still firewood and the place was enormously cosy. Illya had twiddled through the dial on the radio and found a station broadcasting carols from a church in New York, and the small space was filled with the soft voices of the choir. It was rather strange, Illya reflected, to be sitting in this snow bound cabin in New England, cut off from the world physically, but able to hear what was going on in a church not far from where he lived.

'You know, this isn't bad,' Napoleon said, raising his socked feet to the fire. 'I know dinner wasn't exactly gourmet, but the fire, the carols, the candlelight – it's bliss.'

'Yes, I suppose it is quite pleasant,' Illya mused, scratching at the cat which was asleep on his lap. 'If we were back in New York, odds are Mr Waverly would have us chasing Thrushies through the snow.'

'Well, if we can't get out, the Thrushies can't get in,' Napoleon shrugged. 'Why don't you get out another of those books? We can resume our drinking game.'

Illya looked down at the cat. 'I can't disturb her,' he said. 'Besides, it's your turn, if you really want to wade through that mush. In my opinion you'd get a better read unrolling the toilet paper.'

Napoleon grunted and got up to pick another random book from the pile.

'Not Troy Cummings this time,' he commented.

Illya perked up a little. 'Please tell me it is something which has some value as literature. I am starved for reading matter.'

Napoleon flicked through the pages. 'Sorry to disappoint you, tovarisch, but it's not exactly Tolstoy. The Heart Yearns by Leonie Clearwater. I don't think you're going to get deep meaning from this one.'

Illya groaned. 'In that case you had better get out the whiskey now. I'm going to need to be drunk.'

So Napoleon fetched the bottle and poured Illya a generous measure, and then opened the book at a random page.

'Her loins burned tremulously like a winter fire as Clint raked his perfectly manicured fingers up the length of her arching torso. Her breasts made two peaks tipped with crimson, like targets made to guide his love.'

'Spare me,' Illya muttered. He took a large mouthful of the drink. 'Surely no one bought these books on purpose? You are trying to tell me that there are entire bookstores in this country which stock such tripe and that unassuming American housewives turn over their pin money – '

Napoleon held up the book and waved it in the air. 'Behold the evidence. Published by Phoenix Press of New York, New York. Third edition. People buy them.'

'Perhaps I should start writing trashy novels,' Illya grumbled. 'It might be more lucrative than being a secret agent.'

Napoleon laughed. 'Illya, I could as much see you writing cheap romance as I could see you – I don't know – becoming a fashion designer. You wouldn't be able to resist filling the book with Russian cynicism. Besides, it would be too well written. They wouldn't accept it.'

'Oh, Napoleon, please let me feed it to the flames,' Illya urged him. 'It's not right that such things should exist.'

'No,' Napoleon said firmly. 'Why don't you go scour the house for something else to read? Surely this can't be the only printed matter in the place?'

Illya huffed and scooped the cat off his lap and stalked out of the room. He had already thoroughly scoured his room for books, so he went into Napoleon's room instead, but found nothing more than a leaflet about a ski resort and a copy of the Bible. He picked that up, because at least it was dense with text, and moved on into the third, unused, bedroom. In there he found a couple of spy novels, but nothing else. He returned to the sitting room with his hoard.

'Two books about our occupation,' he commented, tossing them to Napoleon, 'and the Bible, King James version.'

'Careful with that,' Napoleon said with mock seriousness. 'You might catch on fire if you try to read it.'

Illya snorted and threw himself back down in the armchair. He really didn't fancy the Bible or the spy novels. He got enough of the spy business in real life and he had no doubt that these fictional versions of it would be terrible. So he picked up another of the romance novels and settled himself to reading it diligently. The cat leapt up onto his lap again, and he idly stroked it as he read.

Once he actually applied himself to it it was strangely gripping. It was awful, true, but in its awfulness there was a kind of charm. The writer seemed very fond of sea-based similes and every time one came up he smiled a little. The cat sat purring warmly and his fingertips were lost in its fur. The radio softly dropped carols into the air. Napoleon had picked up one of the spy novels and was reading that. Occasionally he came to a passage that made his face flush, but the writer was so bad at composing erotica that the blush usually turned very quickly to mirth.

When he finally finished the book it was very late, the radio station had gone off the air, and Napoleon was dozing quietly in the other armchair, his feet still splayed towards the fire and the spy novel hanging loosely from his fingers. Illya put his own book down and padded over to his friend. He poked him lightly on the arm.

'Come on, Napoleon,' he said as the American came blearily awake. 'Santa Claus won't come if you're not in bed.'

'Huh?' Napoleon asked sleepily. 'Oh, did I fall asleep?' He looked down at the book in his hand, and tossed it aside. 'Doesn't say much for the thrilling nature of the storyline. What time is it, Illya?'

Illya smiled. 'It is a little after midnight. Happy Christmas, Napoleon.' He looked down at the cat that was purring about his ankles. 'Happy Christmas, Ginger.'

'So what's for Christmas dinner?' Napoleon asked a little ruefully. 'Canned tuna and graham crackers?'

'We'll make do with what we have,' Illya said staunchly. He went over to turn down the fire and make sure the doors were properly closed. 'Goodnight, Napoleon.'

'Goodnight, Illya,' Napoleon said, and they both went to their separate rooms. Illya was followed by the cat.

((O))

He woke to silence. There was utter silence. Over the last few days the wind had been almost a constant sound, but this morning there was peace. The light through the curtains was blue and bright, and when he breathed in the air was frigid in his lungs. His out breaths filled the air with white vapour.

The cat stirred. She was sitting on his chest, and she purred and stretched out a paw to softly touch his lips, and she seemed to smile.

'And a merry Christmas to you too, Ginger,' he said with a smile.

He dislodged the cat and moved the blankets back in one swift movement. It was better to do it quickly. He pulled on his clothes just as swiftly and slipped his feet into thick socks, and went over to the window. Pulling back the curtains he saw a world quilted in snow. It was so fat on the limbs of trees that they looked like sticks of marshmallows. Every sharp edge and object was covered with a puffy crown of snow. Somewhere down there was their car, but that was completely invisible under its blanket.

But there were footprints in the snow. Illya drew in a sharp breath, just looking down at that broken trail. It led straight towards the cabin and around towards the front door.

It was the work of a moment to pick up his gun and slip into Napoleon's room, where the American was still fast asleep. He shook his arm through the blankets, saying, 'Hey, Napoleon!'

Napoleon stretched and blinked and yawned, then when he saw Illya he smiled angelically and said, 'Well, merry Christmas to you too, Illya. Did Santa come?'

'Someone did,' Illya said grimly. 'There are footprints outside.'

Napoleon transformed instantly from sleepy little boy to alert agent.

'Footprints, huh? Coming here?'

Illya nodded. 'I think so. I haven't heard anyone, though, or seen anyone.'

'Give me a moment to get dressed,' Napoleon said, and he jumped out of bed, heedless of the cold, and was dressed within a minute.

They crept downstairs with guns ready, but there was no one there. The cat wound herself around Illya's feet and chirruped, and made no sign of being aware of anyone else in the house. Then she walked purposefully over to the door and scratched at the wood. The door already bore a good deal of scratches, which made Illya wonder if the cat spent a lot of time conning guests into giving her food and warmth.

'She needs the bathroom,' he said.

'Well, take care opening the door,' Napoleon said. He was looking cautiously through a gap in the curtains. 'The prints lead to the door, but they don't seem to have come inside.'

So Illya opened the door very carefully – and then gasped.

'What is it?' Napoleon asked.

Illya crouched down to take hold of a large wicker laundry basket, which he swung inside with a grunt and placed on the coffee table.

'Turkey, cranberries, potatoes, carrots, peas, ingredients for stuffing. Napoleon, it's Christmas dinner!'

'How on earth?' Napoleon faltered, then he said, 'Better take care.'

Illya carried the whole basket through into the kitchen and dumped it on the counter. Carefully, he rifled through the entire contents of the basket, including the cavity of the raw turkey.

'The turkey's not armed,' he said with a crooked smile.

'Look, there's a note.'

Napoleon plucked a piece of paper from the side of the basket and unfolded it.

'I thought you boys might appreciate Christmas dinner since you're snowed in. Thank you for looking after the cat. S.C.'

'S.C.?' Illya repeated, and Napoleon said with a wondering grin, 'Santa Claus?'

Illya snorted. 'Isn't the owner of the cottage called Sandra Cunningham?'

'Well, why wouldn't she sign it Sandra, or Mrs Cunningham? Besides, we're snowed in. How would she get out here?'

Illya shrugged. 'Maybe she has snow chains. Maybe she came on foot and dragged the stuff up on a sledge. Any tracks from sledge runners out there?'

'You know who else uses a sled?' Napoleon asked.

Illya tsked. 'Napoleon, Santa Claus did not descend in the night and deliver us a turkey. Aside from anything else, I'm sure he's far too busy delivering toys.'

And Napoleon grinned. 'Just when I thought you had a heart of stone, and you admit you believe in Santa after all.'

Illya bridled at that. 'I admitted no such thing. But I do believe in dinner, and if we want this thing cooked before nightfall we'd better get it started.'

'If we don't know who it's from, to whom do we address our thank you note?' Napoleon asked.

'Our thankfulness will be indicated by the bare bones of this bird.'

Illya grabbed an apron and rolled up his sleeves and shoved the bag of potatoes towards Napoleon.

'Get peeling,' he said. 'We have a lot of work to do.'

((O))

Christmas, overall, was pleasant, Illya decided. He had a full stomach and warm feet. The cat was flaked out in a liquid curve over his middle, her own stomach distended with turkey. Napoleon was at the other end of the sofa, full and happy, with a glass in his hand. Soft music came from the radio, soft snow fell outside, and the world was dark and quiet.

'So, now do you believe in Santa Claus?' Napoleon asked rather sleepily. It was late, and such a full stomach and warm fire were soporific things.

Illya grunted. 'If Santa Claus existed he would have brought me some Camus or Steinbeck.'

Napoleon smiled, and from somewhere beneath the sofa cushions he produced a neatly wrapped package. Illya took it in amazement. It was definitely a book. He unwrapped it very carefully, smoothed the paper open, and saw the name Truman Capote printed on the cover.

'Napoleon, have you had this hidden all this time?' he asked with a mixture of gratitude, amazement, and chagrin as he leafed through the pages that were blessedly free of purple prose.

Napoleon just smiled enigmatically and stretched out with his hands behind his head and his feet angled towards the blazing fire. Somewhere in the distance, Illya thought he heard bells ringing.