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section7mfu2015-07-25 12:26 pm
glennagirl.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-07-25 12:26 pm
Entry tags:
Writer's Choice - Two Vignettes
JUST A MOMENT
The white shirt was opened nearly to his waist and his blond hair remained vainly defiant against a gentle breeze coming in off of the Atlantic.
It was unlike Kuryakin to strip down like this; he carried his shoes in one hand, the socks stuffed down into one each. Leaning against the railing of a boardwalk relic, he looked abandoned, but somehow content.
As the mission had ended without the bodily damage that was so often present, it had occurred to one or both of them (it was hard to recall now), that the proximity of the beach here in Atlantic City was reason enough to relax, if only for a few minutes.
Napoleon had been hesitant to expose himself to the elements, his dark suit still untouched by the recent scuffle with a low level Thrush courier. Illya, on the other hand, was not concerned about the sand or the salty mist that blew across the unresisting span of beach.
The contrast between them was glaringly evident, and the American took note of passersby and speculated on their accompanying observations.
Napoleon was unscathed by the mission, and equally so by this environment. Except for a few stray hairs, he retained the always suave and well-appointed image that was his stock and trade. Solo never faltered. It was his veil of separation from eyes and intentions that would deign to hover too closely, expecting more than the apparition he allowed them to see.
Illya, although equally determined to remain elusive, yielded to moments like this when, open to all the observers who cared to notice, he would let himself meld into a moment of abandon or some uncharacteristic act of…joy.
That’s what it looked like. Without being raucous or in any way obvious, a silent joy permeated his demeanor and body language. Perhaps only his friend and partner would recognize it, as it was subtle to be sure. The mostly solemn Russian sometimes seemed impenetrable, his face rarely breaking into smiles that charmed and cajoled as did his partners’ always present ones.
But, here he was, in repose rarely indulged; it spoke volumes to his closest friend. One moment of rest and thoughts of…what? Or of whom.
Napoleon would, most likely, never know. He could read the mood, and sometimes he could read his thoughts. Not this time.
This contentment was something he had yet to interpret.
UNDONE
He knew there would be payback at some point, but right now it was worth anything his partner might dish out. Seeing Napoleon like this, fully dressed and soaking wet, in public view; and all of it with a smile on his face.
Illya had roused himself from a moment of reverie and old memories; had seen his friend watching him and, he was certain, wondering. Would Napoleon never stop worrying about him and his state of mind? Russians were born to brood. It was a national birthright, and Napoleon needed to understand it, or at the very least allow it.
Then, in an explosion of brilliance and mischief, the thought had occurred to him that, if Napoleon were occupied with something other than him… well, now it was settled, anyway.
The dark haired American was soaking wet from a quick and unprovoked dunking in the Atlantic Ocean. Illya was wet as well, the thin white shirt now barely clinging to the sturdy body. Napoleon’s suit, having survived a Thrush encounter, was now probably ruined by his own friend and partner.
But, that somber moment of observation had needed to be broken, he supposed. Watching Illya sometimes drove him into his own type of melancholy; they never compared their histories, but the one they shared seemed less full, somehow, because of that lack. It wasn’t trust or honesty at stake. And in the middle of that thought, the Russian had attacked!
At first it was simply an invitation to take off his shoes and walk on the beach for a bit; a benign sort of activity and certainly nothing to provoke anxiety about what the blond might have in mind. But when it came it was explosive and, thinking back, somehow thrilling.
They earned their keep in the world by battling the forces of evil and surviving all that it entailed; but here on this beach, with his partner’s mischievous grin and sparkling blue eyes that reflected the water beyond, his energies had all coalesced in the frigid waters as he was thrown, bodily, into a softly undulating surf, fully clothed.
What was it about fun that could provoke a racing heart and a sense of exhilaration? Napoleon knew how to have fun and work off the stress of his work, but this was something new, and he was glad for his usually stoic partner’s stroke of abandon.
It was good to be undone.
The white shirt was opened nearly to his waist and his blond hair remained vainly defiant against a gentle breeze coming in off of the Atlantic.
It was unlike Kuryakin to strip down like this; he carried his shoes in one hand, the socks stuffed down into one each. Leaning against the railing of a boardwalk relic, he looked abandoned, but somehow content.
As the mission had ended without the bodily damage that was so often present, it had occurred to one or both of them (it was hard to recall now), that the proximity of the beach here in Atlantic City was reason enough to relax, if only for a few minutes.
Napoleon had been hesitant to expose himself to the elements, his dark suit still untouched by the recent scuffle with a low level Thrush courier. Illya, on the other hand, was not concerned about the sand or the salty mist that blew across the unresisting span of beach.
The contrast between them was glaringly evident, and the American took note of passersby and speculated on their accompanying observations.
Napoleon was unscathed by the mission, and equally so by this environment. Except for a few stray hairs, he retained the always suave and well-appointed image that was his stock and trade. Solo never faltered. It was his veil of separation from eyes and intentions that would deign to hover too closely, expecting more than the apparition he allowed them to see.
Illya, although equally determined to remain elusive, yielded to moments like this when, open to all the observers who cared to notice, he would let himself meld into a moment of abandon or some uncharacteristic act of…joy.
That’s what it looked like. Without being raucous or in any way obvious, a silent joy permeated his demeanor and body language. Perhaps only his friend and partner would recognize it, as it was subtle to be sure. The mostly solemn Russian sometimes seemed impenetrable, his face rarely breaking into smiles that charmed and cajoled as did his partners’ always present ones.
But, here he was, in repose rarely indulged; it spoke volumes to his closest friend. One moment of rest and thoughts of…what? Or of whom.
Napoleon would, most likely, never know. He could read the mood, and sometimes he could read his thoughts. Not this time.
This contentment was something he had yet to interpret.
UNDONE
He knew there would be payback at some point, but right now it was worth anything his partner might dish out. Seeing Napoleon like this, fully dressed and soaking wet, in public view; and all of it with a smile on his face.
Illya had roused himself from a moment of reverie and old memories; had seen his friend watching him and, he was certain, wondering. Would Napoleon never stop worrying about him and his state of mind? Russians were born to brood. It was a national birthright, and Napoleon needed to understand it, or at the very least allow it.
Then, in an explosion of brilliance and mischief, the thought had occurred to him that, if Napoleon were occupied with something other than him… well, now it was settled, anyway.
The dark haired American was soaking wet from a quick and unprovoked dunking in the Atlantic Ocean. Illya was wet as well, the thin white shirt now barely clinging to the sturdy body. Napoleon’s suit, having survived a Thrush encounter, was now probably ruined by his own friend and partner.
But, that somber moment of observation had needed to be broken, he supposed. Watching Illya sometimes drove him into his own type of melancholy; they never compared their histories, but the one they shared seemed less full, somehow, because of that lack. It wasn’t trust or honesty at stake. And in the middle of that thought, the Russian had attacked!
At first it was simply an invitation to take off his shoes and walk on the beach for a bit; a benign sort of activity and certainly nothing to provoke anxiety about what the blond might have in mind. But when it came it was explosive and, thinking back, somehow thrilling.
They earned their keep in the world by battling the forces of evil and surviving all that it entailed; but here on this beach, with his partner’s mischievous grin and sparkling blue eyes that reflected the water beyond, his energies had all coalesced in the frigid waters as he was thrown, bodily, into a softly undulating surf, fully clothed.
What was it about fun that could provoke a racing heart and a sense of exhilaration? Napoleon knew how to have fun and work off the stress of his work, but this was something new, and he was glad for his usually stoic partner’s stroke of abandon.
It was good to be undone.
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