Fireworks and Home - Non Challenge Fic

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

For Guy Fawkes night. It's been in my head since there have been fireworks for days. Oh, and this is set during Illya's time at Cambridge.


Fireworks and Home

When Illya walked into the shared kitchen he was immediately confronted by a shapeless figure with a burlap sack for a face. Even in his current urgent quest for tea, that was enough to give him pause.

“Do we have a bird problem?” he asked Henry slowly.

Henry didn't look up from where he was clumsily sewing up an old felt coat around the...scarecrow? “Funny. Very funny.”

It hadn't been intended as a witticism, he was simply confused.

“It's Guy Fawkes' night,” James informed him, slightly more helpfully.

Ah. That actually told him something. It had been covered in one of his British Culture briefing packets. “Of course. Celebrating the failed Catholic revolt 1605,” he nodded, mostly just to show that he knew what they were talking about.

“Well, not really celebrating,” James temporised. “Really, it's just an excuse to have a bonfire and set off fireworks, I think.”

Right. Who was he to judge? “Is there tea in the pot?”

“Yes, I just made one,” Henry said distractedly. “On you go.”

He poured himself a cup and then checked his shelf only to find that the pot of jam had been scraped clean and then put back.

“Oh, yes, I finished that this morning. Sorry,” James said, not sounding particularly sorry. “Mine ran out last week.”

“I see,” Illya said evenly.

“This could be your chance to put sugar in your tea like the rest of us,” James suggested, sniggering slightly. “You're lucky to have it, really. Just a few years ago it was still rationed, you know. I was sixteen before I even tasted sugar in my tea.”

He said it like it was a terrible tale of deprivation. Illya stirred sugar into his tea and thought of home.

Strange how little things could make one homesick. Little differences. Perhaps it was entirely his imagination, but acts of unthinking petty theft like this seemed so much more common than they were back home. Oh, he'd had things blatantly taken from him by those in power, but that had been 'them' stealing from 'us'. Here he felt as though his fellows were more likely to take from him, and somehow it felt worse. Was he imagining that loss of solidarity, or had it really been there?

“Are you going to the bonfire tonight?” Henry asked after a moment, apparently content that whatever he was sewing was as good as it was going to get.

“I had not planned on it,” Illya said, taking a sip of tea and scowling at the cup. Even with the jam it would never taste right. It was a poor substitute at best.

“You should,” Henry urged. “You've been like a bear with a sore head lately.”

A....bear? He understood the simile, he just wondered at it's aptness. Although in truth, he had been out of sorts of late. There had been a prominent French physicist Dr Fleury, visiting the college a couple of weeks ago, and he had been ordered to get close to him in order to take copies of his notes. It was a style of operation he particularly detested – he would far rather have simply broken into Fleury's rooms when he wasn't there to get the notes. That would have been simpler and less risky, but he'd had his orders. It did make him wonder whether it was him being tested and the notes were simply a tool. Perhaps someone was afraid he didn't have the stomach for this line of work. Which he did, he'd played his part flawlessly, it was just that it left a bad taste in his mouth. Fleury was no enemy agent, no threat to the Soviet Union. He was simply a lonely old man who had trusted a bright and eager student more than he should. Guile had its place but not like this, and not under his own name, in his own skin. He would far rather steal from a man than betray him. If it were up to him. Which it never was.

“So what do you do normally do on Guy Fawkes night?” he asked politely.

“Oh, you know. There's a big bonfire up on the green, and some of the fellows from Queens challenged everyone to bring a Guy to burn.”

He looked at the dummy. “Is he supposed to resemble Guy Fawkes?” he asked curiously.

“I was going to make a moustache for him, but I don't think I'll bother,” Henry said. “I don't suppose you know how to sew, do you?”

“No,” he said, drinking more of his tea. Perhaps he would yet grow to appreciate it for what it was. “It seems odd that you would celebrate the torture and execution of a man by your monarchy. I thought that you cared more for your democracy these days.”

“God, Kuryakin, you're such an arse. I told you, it's more about fire and fireworks,” James said with a sigh. “There's going to be cider, and some of the girls from Newnham will be there. Do you want to come or not? I'm trying to be nice here.”

He bit his tongue. “I will. Thank you.” After all, he was supposed to be fitting in here, at least a little. Besides. Cider and fireworks and intelligent female company did sound as though it might make for a pleasant evening, whatever the meaning of the celebration. “There are fireworks?”

“Yes, well, there should be,” Henry said with a grimace. “Clive got some, but they were very cheap and they don't look like they'll be up to much.”

Hmmm. “May I see?” he asked.

“Uh, sure?” Henry said, sounding confused, and he pulled a cardboard box out from under the table.

Illya looked through it carefully. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I can work with these. I will need a penknife and some things from the hardware shop.”

They both looked at him incredulously. “You're going to spruce up the fireworks?”

He flashed them a brief smile. “Why not?”

*

The fireworks he'd tampered with exploded in bright colours above and around them. Rather a good job, even if he did say so himself, and it seemed as though everyone agreed – including Genevieve, a very pretty anthropology doctoral student, who preferred to watch the lights while snuggled tight against his arm.

They cooked baked potatoes deep in the bonfire, and drank cider that had seemingly been spiked with something stronger. It was nothing compared to the bite of good vodka, but he wouldn't deny it was warming.

Henry's Guy had been committed to the flames with a loud cheer, along with several others of varying skill. Some of them had seemingly been intended to represent various professors with glasses, caps and at least one coat that he was fairly certain Dr Henessey was going to miss in the morning.

“I have to admit, I'm impressed, Kuryakin,” James said, as he lit a couple of fountains and returned to his place beside Genevieve. “Where did you learn to do that?”

A personal question. He thought about days spent down by the river with Pavel, combining chemicals in bottles and measuring the explosions with all the joy and delight of true scientists. It had been months now, since he'd heard from Pavel. He wouldn't be able to contact him until he was back in the USSR, and that might not be for a long time.

He gave a crooked smile and chose not to answer directly. “Fireworks are very popular back home. We celebrate Great Socialist Revolution Day with them.”

“Oh, of course,” James said uncomfortably.

“Do you have bonfires as well?” Genevieve asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But we don't burn - “

He was interrupted by the sound of whooping as a bunch of students ran up the hill, carrying a dummy that was wrapped in a red flag, the hammer and sickle clearly visible. “Death to. Communists!” one of them yelled. Illya recognised him; Ernest Lowington. He'd been glaring at him across the table in formal hall last week. “Down with the revolution!”

He tensed imperceptibly, knowing as Ernest looked around, that he was looking for him.

“Ah!” Ernest came striding up to him, brave with his friends behind him, their night clearly fueled by something stronger than the cider. “Our own local comrade. Maybe we should burn the commie spy. Better dead than red!”

“Leave him alone,” Genevieve said angrily, but she was already leaning away from him, her discomfort obvious.

“...right,” Henry added, the agreement obviously out of reluctant duty.

They were not his friends. They never had been his friends, and he did not expect them to defend him. He didn't want them to defend him.

He stood up and rolled his shoulders, his stance loose but ready. “I have to ask, where did you get the flag?”

Ernest glared at him. “How do we know you're not a spy?”

Well, that was a rather interesting question. “I would hope if you truly believed I might be a spy you would not confront me like this,” he said with a quirk of his lips. Just the fact that the question was asked was bad for him, even if it was only be a bunch of rowdy drunks. Winning the incipient fight would be even worse.

“Oh yeah?” Ernest growled, looking round at his friends for back up.

“Ah, the epitome of civilised debate,” Illya agreed, and he casually took a step back and dropped a lit firework in front of him.

It exploded immediately in a riot of colour and smoke that nicely covered his sprint away from them to the other side of the bonfire. He carefully dropped a few more, rockets that shot into the sky bursting into blooms of light, and the crowd pushed forwards to watch, surrounding him, loud exclamations of wonder and delight echoing in his ears.

Ernest and his friends were over on the other side, jostled by the other students, seemingly having lost the momentum of their attack. He'd need to move before they spotted him again.

For the moment though, he tilted his head back and watched his explosions in the sky, feeling far from home and utterly alone.

Comments

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Being someplace where many didn't think he should be, he did show that although thinking of home, he could try to blend in.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Yeah, I think his blending in attempts really only go so far though.