Better is late...
Dec. 30th, 2012 08:10 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuThis is the part one... Thanks to Mrua7 for the wonderful prompt...
“It's a watch...”
The amazed tone more than the statement gave him a start. The house was deserted but an evil draft swept across the attic and caused faint crackling sounds. After all, a few days ago, it was a Thrush lair...
“A... watch? You mean... a timer? It's trapped?”
The Russian shook his head. “No. Just a watch. An old pocket watch...”
“This, my boy, this will be yours, some day.” The old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder and pointed at the table.
“I got it from my grand pa, you know. It's very old.” He cracked a smile and patted the boy on the head.
He studied the watch. Yes, it was an old pocket watch with a cracked glass and...
“Five to twelve... No, four...” The Russian's voice sounded strangely amused, given the circumstances. He shook his head with disbelief. “Look... we have... exactly four minutes till midnight...” He peeped at his partner. “... till Christmas...”
“This, young man, this is yours. Merry Christmas, Napoleon Anthony Solo...” The old man considered his grand son with feigned solemnity.
The twelve years old boy stood straight... Young man... and held out his hand towards the sparkling watch.
The Russian brushed carefully the tarnished metal. “Brass... No mark...” He turned to his unexpectedly silent partner. “Napoleon?”
“My grand father gave me a watch like this one... On Christmas Day...” He pursed his lips at his friend's half smile. “And the paper it was wrapped in? Look... it's... a letter?”
The Russian screwed up his eyes. 'Hand written... Yes, a letter... or a page of a private diary... It isn't a Thrush thing...”
“Journal...”
“Mmmm?”
“Journal. Private diary is the British locution...”
Illya Kuryakin didn't even scowl at him. He just peeped at his watch, smiled and whispered “Happy Christmas, Napoleon!”
“Merry Christmas, Illya!”
“It's a watch...”
The amazed tone more than the statement gave him a start. The house was deserted but an evil draft swept across the attic and caused faint crackling sounds. After all, a few days ago, it was a Thrush lair...
“A... watch? You mean... a timer? It's trapped?”
The Russian shook his head. “No. Just a watch. An old pocket watch...”
“This, my boy, this will be yours, some day.” The old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder and pointed at the table.
“I got it from my grand pa, you know. It's very old.” He cracked a smile and patted the boy on the head.
He studied the watch. Yes, it was an old pocket watch with a cracked glass and...
“Five to twelve... No, four...” The Russian's voice sounded strangely amused, given the circumstances. He shook his head with disbelief. “Look... we have... exactly four minutes till midnight...” He peeped at his partner. “... till Christmas...”
“This, young man, this is yours. Merry Christmas, Napoleon Anthony Solo...” The old man considered his grand son with feigned solemnity.
The twelve years old boy stood straight... Young man... and held out his hand towards the sparkling watch.
The Russian brushed carefully the tarnished metal. “Brass... No mark...” He turned to his unexpectedly silent partner. “Napoleon?”
“My grand father gave me a watch like this one... On Christmas Day...” He pursed his lips at his friend's half smile. “And the paper it was wrapped in? Look... it's... a letter?”
The Russian screwed up his eyes. 'Hand written... Yes, a letter... or a page of a private diary... It isn't a Thrush thing...”
“Journal...”
“Mmmm?”
“Journal. Private diary is the British locution...”
Illya Kuryakin didn't even scowl at him. He just peeped at his watch, smiled and whispered “Happy Christmas, Napoleon!”
“Merry Christmas, Illya!”
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Date: 2012-12-30 07:22 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for joining in on Section VII.
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