Jazz At Nine - PicFic 8/4

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The sounds coming through the radio were soothing to the man listening, his head nodding in rhythmic ascent to the music as it swirled through the air.  Illya tried to keep a date with this broadcast whenever he was home; whenever he was in New York.

It was still something of a self-indulgent or guilty pleasure to the Russian agent, listening without any fear of rebuke, or worse.  The radio station played a variety of music but on Saturday nights they had a solid four hours of jazz, some of it new to the man whose love of jazz had begun amidst secret rendezvous and hidden enclaves of music lovers.

Now it was nothing, not so much as a sideways glance when playing Coltrane or Parker on his record player.

Well, perhaps from Napoleon.

Of all the areas of interest they shared, and there were actually a few, the American had no love of jazz, and had in fact derided it rather too much unorganized noise early on; until he realized how much his new partner did in fact love that style of music.  To his credit, Napoleon decided to try and enjoy jazz, at least to the point of not insulting Illya over it.

No one else needed to like the music, not for Illya’s sake.  He didn’t think his American partner could truly grasp what it was about the genre that compelled him to listen, to hear ever nuance of phrasing as the notes slid effortlessly through a prism of aural lights.  Jazz was free, something that he had longed for when his life was little more than a series of forced acquiescence to powers he dared not refuse.  Jazz was part of his escape from that life, the jumping off point in his dreams.

Now it was not something he needed in order to feel free, it was the triumph of freedom over living beneath the thumb of tyranny.  Illya would never suggest that his country did not have the correct vision; he could not deny, however, that the men who controlled the vision were ... flawed.

As the last few songs played into the midnight hour, Illya Kuryakin drifted off to sleep with his head propped up against the pillow on his sofa.  His dreams would be colored with the imagery of a musical escapade, of a silky glissando as it apprehended an escaping quarter note.

The sunrise was accompanied by the trilling of his communicator.  Reaching for it, Illya overshot what should have been the nightstand beside his bed and rolled off of the sofa onto the floor.  A grunt punctuated the fall as he hit hard wood.  The communicator was still sounding...

‘‘Kuryakin here...”  He had left it on top of the radio which was now emitting a soft hum.  The station had yet to resume its schedule, and the silence had helped lull him into a deep sleep.

“Yes sir, I can be there, um... thirty minutes.”  The early morning call caught him with a deeper Russian inflection in his accent.  Alexander Waverly was unmoved, time was moving along and his men needed to join it.

“Yes sir... yes.  Right away, sir.”  The line was empty now.  Illya rushed through a shower and inside of that thirty minutes he was in front of Mr. Waverly, seated next to his partner.  Napoleon took a good look at his friend, recognized the signs of a rushed morning, possibly another night on the sofa.

“Another night in front of the radio?” Illya cut his eyes at the question, looking sideways at his partner.

“You think you know me so well...” That made Napoleon smile, his Russian friend thought himself to be, ahh... oh yeah, inscrutable.

“Yes, I do think I know you rather well, and I’m pretty sure you went to sleep in front of your radio while you were listening to that jazz station.  You, Illya Kuryakin, are a creature of habit where some things are concerned.”

Neither man was concerned about being observed by Alexander Waverly.  He let his men banter for a few minutes, waiting for them to remember why they were sitting in his office.  As he thought, the two suddenly came to attention and faced their Chief, forgetting for now the conversation.

“Gentlemen, we have a situation and it seems Mr. Kuryakin is particularly suited to enter into this, ahh, situation...' Waverly paused and looked up at the blond.

“It seems we are in need of a musician, Mr. Kuryakin.  You are, are you not?”

Illya was taken by surprise but nodded in the affirmative.

“Yes sir, I play... What exactly, may I ask, does this entail?”

He caught Napoleon’s expression, each man wondering what was in store for them.

...sigh... yes, to be continued...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Ahhh so very Glennagirl; the language you use here and how it glides masterfully throughout the piece is very much your trademark style I think. Looking forward the the next musical interlude.

Nice use of the prompt too! "D

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Marian has put it very well. All your characters are top rate, and orchestrate together beautifully. In jazz style, of course.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

I really love this use of the prompt, and all Illya's thoughts on what jazz means to him. And the image of Waverly sitting patiently, waiting for them to finish, for some reason really puts a smile on my face on this dull morning. Thank you!

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

OH tbc, can't wait

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

I hate jazz, but I can appreciate what it could mean to a man like Illya; especially when put so eloquently. I like how Waverly allowed them their little bit of banter, knowing it wouldn't last long. I imagine none of the other teams are afforded such luxury.