I was forced, FORCED I TELL YOU, to read another Biggles book for inspiration, hence the lag on this ficlet.
***
"Bigglesworth."
Von Stalhein's voice is not loud, but it cuts through the howl of the snowstorm, the ringing in Biggles' ears after he crash-landed the aeroplane into a snowdrift. Biggles unclenches his stiff hands from the controls and turns to face his prisoner.
"We ran out of petrol," Biggles informs him.
Von Stalhein dips his head in acknowledgement. His jaw is clenched, as if to keep his teeth from chattering. The temperature is already dropping rapidly.
Biggles blows on his hands. "I'll have to untie you," he tells von Stalhein. "We'll only survive this cold if we huddle for warmth. Do I have your parole you won't try to escape?"
Von Stalhein's brows lift. "Where would I go?" Biggles lifts his brows in return, and von Stalhein lets out a sigh that is almost a snort. "You have my word."
Biggles is already untying von Stalhein's bonds. They round up every scrap of fabric in the aeroplane, including the parachutes, and cocoon themselves, sitting so close together that Biggles can feel von Stalhein's bony hip digging into his own. He considers a joke about whether the Soviets are feeding von Stalhein, only suddenly it doesn't seem funny. He swallows the joke and wonders if there is anything else in the aeroplane that he could feed von Stalhein.
"Don't suppose your people suit up their kites with iron rations," Biggles says.
Von Stalhein snorts again. His breath is warm against Biggles' neck, a surprising warmth in the frigid cabin. Biggles sighs. He ate up all his own food while staking out the arctic research station that is the headquarters of von Stalhein's latest operation.
But then von Stalhein wriggles. He holds out a chocolate bar, which Biggles takes and splits, and they each sit nibbling on their half, trying to make the food last. The snow has piled up around the plane, muffling the howling of the wind to a dull soporific roar.
"Next time I take on a job," Von Stalhein says, "I shall endeavor to make it somewhere tropical."
"Next time you take on a job," Biggles suggests, "you should take it with me."
Von Stalhein shakes his head. But he doesn't snort this time, and that, Biggles thinks, is progress.
no subject
***
"Bigglesworth."
Von Stalhein's voice is not loud, but it cuts through the howl of the snowstorm, the ringing in Biggles' ears after he crash-landed the aeroplane into a snowdrift. Biggles unclenches his stiff hands from the controls and turns to face his prisoner.
"We ran out of petrol," Biggles informs him.
Von Stalhein dips his head in acknowledgement. His jaw is clenched, as if to keep his teeth from chattering. The temperature is already dropping rapidly.
Biggles blows on his hands. "I'll have to untie you," he tells von Stalhein. "We'll only survive this cold if we huddle for warmth. Do I have your parole you won't try to escape?"
Von Stalhein's brows lift. "Where would I go?" Biggles lifts his brows in return, and von Stalhein lets out a sigh that is almost a snort. "You have my word."
Biggles is already untying von Stalhein's bonds. They round up every scrap of fabric in the aeroplane, including the parachutes, and cocoon themselves, sitting so close together that Biggles can feel von Stalhein's bony hip digging into his own. He considers a joke about whether the Soviets are feeding von Stalhein, only suddenly it doesn't seem funny. He swallows the joke and wonders if there is anything else in the aeroplane that he could feed von Stalhein.
"Don't suppose your people suit up their kites with iron rations," Biggles says.
Von Stalhein snorts again. His breath is warm against Biggles' neck, a surprising warmth in the frigid cabin. Biggles sighs. He ate up all his own food while staking out the arctic research station that is the headquarters of von Stalhein's latest operation.
But then von Stalhein wriggles. He holds out a chocolate bar, which Biggles takes and splits, and they each sit nibbling on their half, trying to make the food last. The snow has piled up around the plane, muffling the howling of the wind to a dull soporific roar.
"Next time I take on a job," Von Stalhein says, "I shall endeavor to make it somewhere tropical."
"Next time you take on a job," Biggles suggests, "you should take it with me."
Von Stalhein shakes his head. But he doesn't snort this time, and that, Biggles thinks, is progress.