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svetlanacat6) wrote2011-08-02 01:18 pm
Ghost in White Satin
"I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
Who died before the god of love was born."
John Donne
The Uncle agents were expendable. All of them, especially the field agents. It was Alexander Waverly's motto. Things happened, somewhere. He assigned Section 2 agents. Mostly, they succeeded. Sometimes, they failed. They died.
The Old Man had looked amazingly worried. He had stared at him, keeping silent for awhile.
“I am sorry, Mr Solo.”
Are you? Napoleon Solo had thought, immediately cursing himself. It was unfair. Alexander Waverly was sorry, more than sorry. He had lost many agents. He had mourned them. This time, he had lost more than an agent. Napoleon Solo was Waverly's designed successor. They trusted each other, and they were kind of close. Illya... It was something else. When they defeated Thrush, Waverly smiled with satisfaction. He congratulated them, but but peeped at Illya ... proudly, almost in a fatherly way, in a blink of an eye.
“The Thrush guy told him that the housekeeper was still in the house, and he went back to get her out. But it was too late.”
“And there was no housekeeper...”
“No, Mr Solo, no. But...”
Napoleon Solo had taken his leave, and he was at home, alone. He had lost some fellow agents, he had lost partner, he had lost friends. One more friend? He grabbed his empty glass and threw it against the wall, cursing.
“I know he was a good friend of yours, Mr Solo...”
“I am so sorry for you, Napoleon...”
But he had rejected their compassion. They were wrong. He hadn't lost a good friend. What was “a good friend”, compared to Illya Kuryakin? His Russian partner was a part of his life. A part of himself. Someone who knew him so well. Someone who just said straight out what he meant, pleasant or not. Someone who understood, him, wordlessly. Someone who comforted, who supported, who teased, who scolded him. Someone who trusted him, whatever he did. Someone he couldn't fool. Someone he couldn't lie to.
No. That... That was not the truth. He had fooled his friend. He had lied to him. For years. And it was too late. Napoleon stood up, looking for another drink when he felt a twinge of pain, and winced. Cursing, he remembered the splintered glass. He was about to bend over to pick it up when a chuckling voice gave him a start.
“Tstststs... Napoleon, my friend... you're definitely a careless clumsy person!”
Barefoot, cuddled in his armchair, Illya Kuryakin was looking at him with amusement. Napoleon Solo stood gaping. The blond Russian put his arms around his legs, his blue eyes twinkling.
“You should close your mouth and sit down, Napoleon. You look ridiculous. Take it easy...”
Napoleon Solo replied, just trying to avoid babbling.
“Like I could do that! You... you... We believed you were dead, Illya! What happened? We must call the HQ...”
The Russian shook his head.
“You are right, Napoleon. I am dead. I...”
The blond man stretched his hand.
“I can't even touch you... Sit down, Napoleon. Please... You know... It's unusual for me, too.”
Napoleon Solo took a step back and sat on the couch, staring at his partner. A joke. A stupid, cruel joke. The man he had in front of him looked like to be well alive. A joke, or a Thrush trick? The blond man smiled.
“It is not a joke, nor a Thrush trick, Napoleon. I am here, and...”
Suddenly, lithely, Illya Kuryakin stood up and came up to his friend, moving silently. Looking deeply in Napoleon Solo's eyes, the Russian was waiting. The dark haired man burst into anger, grabbing ruthlessly his partner's wrist.
“Are you kidding? You, block...”
But his hand grabbed nothing, his fingers just brushing the air. Illya Kuryakin shook his head with concern.
“I told you, Napoleon. We can't touch each other.”
There was no more amusement in this voice. Napoleon Solo shivered, cursed and leaned back in the couch, closing his eyes. Okay. The shock, the exhaustion, far too much drinks... He forced himself to calm down, scolding himself bitterly. He had never been able, for years, to express what he felt. The shock, the exhaustion, far too much drinks, and... regrets.
When he looked again, some long minutes later, his living room was deserted, as he had expected it to be, but he didn't feel relieved at all.
Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today."
James Dean
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...”
“No.”
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?
“Yes.”
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.”
“What?”
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.”
“What...”
“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?”
“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.
“Come here.”
The Russian sat on the bed, obviously amazed.
“What...”
“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?”
“Yes.”
And he felt his breath. His warm lips brushing his own...
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And I just noticed that DW did't keep the *** separating the different parts... Grrr...
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Rhank you!