"I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
Who died before the god of love was born."
( Read more... )
Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today."
Stupid. How stupid! Napoleon Solo threw the splattered glass in the bin. Stupid was the right word. Stupid Russian. Illya Kuryakin. A master about explosion, bombs, blasting whatever you asked... He had fulfilled his assignment, managed to set off the Thrush lab, but the villain had told him about an innocent housekeeper. And his stupid friend had dashed around the lab to get to the entrance, knowing that it was too late, knowing that it would be useless, and deadly. Stupid. Stupid Napoleon Solo. For more than one reason. He held out his hand to the bottle, but changed his mind. That... that didn't help. He would shower, go to bed, and sleep. He paused at the door, peering around at his living room, his deserted living room. Deserted, of course. Shaking his head, he headed towards the bedroom.
“That's a wonderful view of the town you have from here, Napoleon”
Napoleon Solo staggered back to the wall. Illya Kuryakin's slender silhouette stood out against the moonlight, his blond hair bathed in an amazing silver gossamer. Then, the man turned to him, smiling.
What the hell would he do, at the moment? It was only an illusion, and he knew how to make it disappear. “Close your eyes, man. Close your eyes, and you'll get rid of ...”. Of what? Of who?
The smile faded, and his friend turned again to the view. Powerless.
“You are right, my friend. All you have to do is to close your eyes...”
There was no doubt that the apparition was just a figment of his imagination, but Napoleon Solo took some steps forward.
“And you'll be back, again, a few minutes later...”
The harsh tone gave him a start. No more softness, no more humor. Impatience, anger and something quite unusual in Illya Kuryakin's face: fear. Ghosts frightened people. They were not frightened. Napoleon Solo held his hand to the switch, waiting for his friend's reaction, but the blond man leaned his forehead against the window.
“Do you mind, if I...”
A faint voice hissed resignedly.
“So, fiat lux...”
Napoleon Solo cursed, and gave up. Okay. He was out of his mind. He stood in the middle of his bedroom, bathed in the moonlight, and he was talking with an illusion.
“You are not real.”
“What do you think?”
Illya. The usual Illya Kuryakin's way of sneaking out a tricky argument.
“I am not the one who is sneaking out, Napoleon.”
Oh, great. That was great. The living Illya Kuryakin was a devil when it was about guessing his partner's thought. The Russian's ghost didn't guess. He knew. Did he?
Napoleon Solo burst into anger, sneering maliciously. This... "thing" wouldn't fool him any more.
“You are not real. You are not reading my mind. I create you. I project my own thoughts onto you. I...”
The dark haired man stopped, suddenly calmed down. The blond apparition kept motionless, just whispering.
“He told me that she was still in the house. That she had two kids. I had to try, Napoleon.”
No. No, no, no and no. He wouldn't let him take advantage of the situation, again. Though, he was unfair. He couldn't make his friend pay for his own cowardice. Napoleon Solo took a deep breath.
“You are not the only coward, my friend.”
Illya Kuryakin came up to him, holding out a useless hand which should have brushed his cheek. Could a ghost look so sad?
“You feel guilty... So do I, Napoleon.”
“Do you know that...”
Illya Kuryakin bit his lips, keeping silent.
“What? Tell me, Illya. What?”
“Do you know that I love you?”
Napoleon Solo couldn't move, he couldn't speak, just look. Look at his friend coming closer. Just feel. Feel his breath. Feel his warm lips brushing his own.
“Ah, Mr Solo! We worried about you, you know.”
Medical? Smells, beep... Medical. Napoleon Solo felt a bit dizzy, and his vision was blurred, but he knew this voice. Alexander Waverly looked at him inquiringly.
“How do you feel, Mr Solo?”
“I'm... I am in great shape, sir
Illya's line... Illya?”
Alexander Waverly frowned but his eyes were twinkling.
“Ah, yes. Mr Kuryakin. He'll be there in a few minutes, I guess. He saved your life, Mr Solo. He took you out of the Thrush lab, just on time, apparently. It was quite stupid, unwise and risky. And, er... brilliant.”
Napoleon Solo was pleasantly dosing, resting happily on his pillow, until he heard a strange rustle. An orange paper bag flew above him.
“Happy Halloween, Napoleon!”
The dark haired man held out his hand and grabbed Illya Kuryakin's wrist. A strong, warm and powerful wrist. A real one.
The Russian sat on the bed, obviously amazed.
“Shhhh... Listen, Illya.”
The two men looked at each other. Napoleon Solo knew better than to hesitate. The hell with what would happen.
“Illya... do you... do you know that ... that I love you?”
And he felt his breath. His warm lips brushing his own...