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section7mfu2016-05-02 03:55 pm
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"The Measure of a Man" (Short Affair Challenge 5/2)
Short Affair 5/2
Prompt: Edge
Color: Red
Title: The Measure of a Man
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon was in the middle of a conversation with Illya as they emerged from the subway entrance, heading for their apartment building. It had been another week’s work for them, wrapping up another affair.
The two of them were still debating on whether it was worth using their time to catch a movie, or if they were tired enough to only handle crashing in front of the TV with some takeout when they heard a voice calling out.
“Solo? Hey, Solo, is that really you!?”
Illya didn’t recognize the man parking on the street beside them in a flashy, red Porsche, but Napoleon certainly did.
“…Norman?” he asked, disbelief sinking into his voice.
“Ha! I’d know that old strut anywhere!” Norman grinned. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, fine—just fine,” Napoleon said. He glanced at the gleaming Porsche, which looked absolutely pristine. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but I can see you’ve been quite well.”
“Yeah, going to business school right after graduation was the best decision I ever made,” Norman said. “You really should have come with me—you always had a crafty head on your shoulders!”
“I don’t think business was quite where I belonged,” Napoleon said, with an embarrassed chuckle. “And, anyway, the draft board rendered that point moot.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it did,” Norman said, sobering slightly. “Always meant to get in touch with you after you went off to Korea. Wondered what happened to you. Glad you’re okay after staring down those bloodthirsty communists—showed ‘em a thing or two, huh?”
Napoleon cringed and glanced behind him; Illya was still standing there calmly, completely unfazed by the barb.
“Norman, that remark was uncalled for,” he said, a definite edge to his voice as he turned back to face his old acquaintance.
“Oh, that’s just a joke, Solo. Though I’m sure there’s some amount of truth to it,” Norman mused. “Hey, who’s the blond back there?”
“This is Illya Kuryakin; we’re—”
“Kuyra-what!? He’s not from around here, is he…?”
“Very astute,” Illya deadpanned.
“…He’s a Russian,” Norman realized, as he pinpointed the accent and the name. He paled, slightly, as he recalled what he had said only moments ago.
“Only on my father’s side,” Illya intoned. “My mother was Ukrainian. But do not worry, Comrade—I assure you that I am not bloodthirsty… as long as it’s not the full moon.” He bit back a smirk as Norman looked slightly alarmed.
“Oh, that’s just a joke, Norman,” Napoleon said, calmly.
“Y-Yeah, I knew that,” Norman lied. “Well, I, uh… I gotta get back to the little woman. You oughta meet her and the kids someday, Solo; gimmie a call when you’re uh….” He trailed off, glancing at Illya again. “When you’ve got a moment to yourself.”
He handed Napoleon a business card before letting the Porsche peal out of the parking space and down the street.
“I think it is safe to assume that the invitation does not extend to me,” Illya said, wryly. “Friend of yours, was he?”
“Not anymore,” Napoleon stated, tearing the business card and tossing the pieces into the nearest trash can.
“Napoleon, I have been here long enough to get used to this—”
“You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” Napoleon hissed. “And the injustice of it is what gets me. Here we are, working ourselves to the breaking point, laying our lives on the line, and some narrow-minded kid I knew in high school takes it all for granted!”
Illya blinked in surprise as Napoleon continued down the sidewalk; he quickly caught up to him, matching his stride.
“You must have been close.”
“What makes you say that?” Napoleon asked.
“You would not be sounding so upset upon learning his true colors otherwise,” Illya says. “…Or is it because he has the luxury car and the wife and children? A place in the suburbs with a white picket fence?”
Napoleon gave him a look, and Illya just smirked.
“I was paying attention to the Peaceful Havens flyers—I know all about the American Dream, as you call it.”
Napoleon grinned back at him.
“You’ve got a pretty good grasp on the idea. Yeah, there was a time when I used to think that success meant a wife and kids in a house with a white picket fence—and luxury cars in the garage. And even though Norman’s got that, I’m not jealous. Really,” Napoleon added, seeing the look of disbelief on Illya’s face. “You see, I think I have it pretty good myself—a cozy apartment in Manhattan, a job that’s actually gratifying during the moments when I’m not being tortured or locked up, and you.”
“…Me? I hardly think I’m part of the American Dream—or even the Russian or Ukrainian equivalent.”
“Is there one?”
“Hypothetically speaking.”
“Ah. Nevertheless…”
It was Illya’s turn to chuckle in slight embarrassment.
“Well, thank you for that assessment, Napoleon,” he said, at last. “And it would seem that, by your definition, I am, apparently, a success, as well.”
“That’s right; you are,” Napoleon said, nudging Illya’s arm and giving him a wink. “Now that we’ve established our mutual successes, how does a dinner of pad Thai in front of the TV sound?”
“It sounds very enjoyable,” Illya said.
With the decision of how to spend their evening made, the duo headed back to their apartment building. There was an unspoken addition to their list of mutual successes that they had omitted, something not stated, but something that they knew quite well existed between them since the beginning of their partnership—open minds and open hearts, which had allowed them to trust and admire each other, despite their different backgrounds and their night and day personalities.
It was, after all, as Illya had once aptly said it—
“We have each other.”
And Napoleon, fond of good living as he was, wouldn’t trade what he had for all the wealth and riches and social statuses in the world—no more than his partner could.
Prompt: Edge
Color: Red
Title: The Measure of a Man
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon was in the middle of a conversation with Illya as they emerged from the subway entrance, heading for their apartment building. It had been another week’s work for them, wrapping up another affair.
The two of them were still debating on whether it was worth using their time to catch a movie, or if they were tired enough to only handle crashing in front of the TV with some takeout when they heard a voice calling out.
“Solo? Hey, Solo, is that really you!?”
Illya didn’t recognize the man parking on the street beside them in a flashy, red Porsche, but Napoleon certainly did.
“…Norman?” he asked, disbelief sinking into his voice.
“Ha! I’d know that old strut anywhere!” Norman grinned. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, fine—just fine,” Napoleon said. He glanced at the gleaming Porsche, which looked absolutely pristine. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but I can see you’ve been quite well.”
“Yeah, going to business school right after graduation was the best decision I ever made,” Norman said. “You really should have come with me—you always had a crafty head on your shoulders!”
“I don’t think business was quite where I belonged,” Napoleon said, with an embarrassed chuckle. “And, anyway, the draft board rendered that point moot.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it did,” Norman said, sobering slightly. “Always meant to get in touch with you after you went off to Korea. Wondered what happened to you. Glad you’re okay after staring down those bloodthirsty communists—showed ‘em a thing or two, huh?”
Napoleon cringed and glanced behind him; Illya was still standing there calmly, completely unfazed by the barb.
“Norman, that remark was uncalled for,” he said, a definite edge to his voice as he turned back to face his old acquaintance.
“Oh, that’s just a joke, Solo. Though I’m sure there’s some amount of truth to it,” Norman mused. “Hey, who’s the blond back there?”
“This is Illya Kuryakin; we’re—”
“Kuyra-what!? He’s not from around here, is he…?”
“Very astute,” Illya deadpanned.
“…He’s a Russian,” Norman realized, as he pinpointed the accent and the name. He paled, slightly, as he recalled what he had said only moments ago.
“Only on my father’s side,” Illya intoned. “My mother was Ukrainian. But do not worry, Comrade—I assure you that I am not bloodthirsty… as long as it’s not the full moon.” He bit back a smirk as Norman looked slightly alarmed.
“Oh, that’s just a joke, Norman,” Napoleon said, calmly.
“Y-Yeah, I knew that,” Norman lied. “Well, I, uh… I gotta get back to the little woman. You oughta meet her and the kids someday, Solo; gimmie a call when you’re uh….” He trailed off, glancing at Illya again. “When you’ve got a moment to yourself.”
He handed Napoleon a business card before letting the Porsche peal out of the parking space and down the street.
“I think it is safe to assume that the invitation does not extend to me,” Illya said, wryly. “Friend of yours, was he?”
“Not anymore,” Napoleon stated, tearing the business card and tossing the pieces into the nearest trash can.
“Napoleon, I have been here long enough to get used to this—”
“You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” Napoleon hissed. “And the injustice of it is what gets me. Here we are, working ourselves to the breaking point, laying our lives on the line, and some narrow-minded kid I knew in high school takes it all for granted!”
Illya blinked in surprise as Napoleon continued down the sidewalk; he quickly caught up to him, matching his stride.
“You must have been close.”
“What makes you say that?” Napoleon asked.
“You would not be sounding so upset upon learning his true colors otherwise,” Illya says. “…Or is it because he has the luxury car and the wife and children? A place in the suburbs with a white picket fence?”
Napoleon gave him a look, and Illya just smirked.
“I was paying attention to the Peaceful Havens flyers—I know all about the American Dream, as you call it.”
Napoleon grinned back at him.
“You’ve got a pretty good grasp on the idea. Yeah, there was a time when I used to think that success meant a wife and kids in a house with a white picket fence—and luxury cars in the garage. And even though Norman’s got that, I’m not jealous. Really,” Napoleon added, seeing the look of disbelief on Illya’s face. “You see, I think I have it pretty good myself—a cozy apartment in Manhattan, a job that’s actually gratifying during the moments when I’m not being tortured or locked up, and you.”
“…Me? I hardly think I’m part of the American Dream—or even the Russian or Ukrainian equivalent.”
“Is there one?”
“Hypothetically speaking.”
“Ah. Nevertheless…”
It was Illya’s turn to chuckle in slight embarrassment.
“Well, thank you for that assessment, Napoleon,” he said, at last. “And it would seem that, by your definition, I am, apparently, a success, as well.”
“That’s right; you are,” Napoleon said, nudging Illya’s arm and giving him a wink. “Now that we’ve established our mutual successes, how does a dinner of pad Thai in front of the TV sound?”
“It sounds very enjoyable,” Illya said.
With the decision of how to spend their evening made, the duo headed back to their apartment building. There was an unspoken addition to their list of mutual successes that they had omitted, something not stated, but something that they knew quite well existed between them since the beginning of their partnership—open minds and open hearts, which had allowed them to trust and admire each other, despite their different backgrounds and their night and day personalities.
It was, after all, as Illya had once aptly said it—
“We have each other.”
And Napoleon, fond of good living as he was, wouldn’t trade what he had for all the wealth and riches and social statuses in the world—no more than his partner could.
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