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section7mfuTitle: An Agent Never Forgets
Author: Supesfan (Eclecticace)
Prompts: Witness, Black
Word Count: 1000
He hadn’t contended with this for a good many years.
Sure, he’d had episodes and literal “bad days”, who hadn’t? But to wake up everyday and not only wonder why, but be angry that you did, to the have the same feeling both follow around and weigh you down, twist your insides until you could barely blink without your eyes burning or breath without feeling like your chest was going to cave with the force of every, almost literally breathtaking, stuttered exhale, to lose literal hours of the day sometimes just by staring into space, to have to fight the urge to second or thrice guess yourself constantly due to the self loathing and doubt that made it near impossible to even recognise yourself at times; to have that colour everything you did, felt, thought or even heard, day in and day out was something different.
And that was exactly what he was contending with right now.
Of course, it was somewhat safe to assume that, with his history, he was due a really good, rough and prolonged bout. He hadn’t had one since the first few weeks of basic training before Korea. Nearly 20 years ago now.
Christ, he thought, making sure the Balvenie splashed on to the ice cube at the bottom of the tumbler before meeting the rest of the Scotch already in the glass, where had the years gone?
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he’d been five or ten years younger he would have been faster. Maybe if he’d been younger he would have both seen and heard the assailant far sooner than he had. Maybe if he had – no, not maybe – definitely, the woman, the only credible witness to a THRUSH funded Ivory poaching ring, would still be alive.
He’d been so preoccupied with checking the UNCLE safe house for bugs, standard protocol no matter where they were, that he hadn’t even heard the wooden boards of the deliberately creaky porch creak as the assailant slipped into the shadow just beyond the window. He’d been too slow to even think about pushing the woman (barely out of her teens), out of the way because he’d been out of place across the room. Hell! He hadn’t even had his weapon drawn yet!
He stood, frozen in place, for a good half second before he moved toward the crumpled form. Three gunshots sounded outside which meant Illya had taken care of what he should have.
The shot had been precise. A kill shot through her back, directly into her heart. It would have been through and through if it hadn’t ricocheted off a rib bone and lodged itself in her kidney.
He’d held her while Illya had called for an unnecessary ambulance.
The coded knock at his door broke him from his reverie. He’d barely opened his mouth before Illya had already stepped into his apartment. The sad smile his friend gave him told him he must have looked almost as good as he felt.
“Must be bad, Tovarisch,” he quipped, not taking his eyes off the amber liquid in his tumbler. “I’ve only been off two days and you’re already checking up on me.”
The uncharacteristic silence allowed him to drift back into the world of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’. Back into a world where she was still alive and he wasn’t five doubles into an incredibly expensive bottle of Scotch just to make sure he slept that night.
A hand to his knee startled him and made him open his eyes; he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them. Illya was staring at him now with concern emanating from every pour of his body.
He returned the sad smile, pursed his lips, shook his head and looked down at the tumbler. He twirled the ice cube around the glass a bit before he looked back up at his friend and asked, “did you know she wanted to be a Zoologist?” the bitter, humourless laugh that followed stung.
Illya nodded, “it’s how she encountered THRUSH. They paid her tuition.”
The bitter laugh returned as the tears that came so easily now, sprang to his eyes, “she wasn’t even old enough to vote yet.”
The hand on his knee squeezed. “you mustn’t take this so hard, Napoleon. It’s not- “
“Don’t you dare,” he bit back before schooling his features again. He put the tumbler on the side table without taking his eyes off Illya. “of course, it was, Illya. Yet again, someone trusted me and I failed.” He leaned forward in a flash, knocking Illya’s hand, “for god sakes man, the same trust almost killed you!”
Illya shook his head defiantly, “you forgot the safety, it’s differe- “
He cut him off quickly, “she was young enough to be my daughter,” a tear finally fell as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “People that- “he paused to swallow hard on the bile in his throat, “that young are dying because I can’t differentiate between pitch black and shadows anymore.”
“Napoleon, I- “
“Why do we get to continue and kids die?”
Illya’s face twisted into one of almost wistful remorse, “if I could answer that, my friend- “
“All the things we’ve done in our lives and kids pay the price.” His fist hit the arm of the chair, and then straightened out a couple tense minutes later, as he laughed humourlessly, and wiped the tears from his cheeks, “they hit me harder every time.”
Illya rose and straightened his jacket, the sad smile returning, “an unfortunate perk of the job, I’m told, and a good sign we’re all getting old.”
He smiled, for real, at that.
“But it also means something good.”
He quirked an eyebrow as Illya smiled a real smile finally.
“It means you haven’t lost sight of one the reasons why we do this job. And that, when the time comes, you shall make an impressive Number One.” He paused and then asked, “now where do you keep the vodka?”
Author: Supesfan (Eclecticace)
Prompts: Witness, Black
Word Count: 1000
He hadn’t contended with this for a good many years.
Sure, he’d had episodes and literal “bad days”, who hadn’t? But to wake up everyday and not only wonder why, but be angry that you did, to the have the same feeling both follow around and weigh you down, twist your insides until you could barely blink without your eyes burning or breath without feeling like your chest was going to cave with the force of every, almost literally breathtaking, stuttered exhale, to lose literal hours of the day sometimes just by staring into space, to have to fight the urge to second or thrice guess yourself constantly due to the self loathing and doubt that made it near impossible to even recognise yourself at times; to have that colour everything you did, felt, thought or even heard, day in and day out was something different.
And that was exactly what he was contending with right now.
Of course, it was somewhat safe to assume that, with his history, he was due a really good, rough and prolonged bout. He hadn’t had one since the first few weeks of basic training before Korea. Nearly 20 years ago now.
Christ, he thought, making sure the Balvenie splashed on to the ice cube at the bottom of the tumbler before meeting the rest of the Scotch already in the glass, where had the years gone?
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he’d been five or ten years younger he would have been faster. Maybe if he’d been younger he would have both seen and heard the assailant far sooner than he had. Maybe if he had – no, not maybe – definitely, the woman, the only credible witness to a THRUSH funded Ivory poaching ring, would still be alive.
He’d been so preoccupied with checking the UNCLE safe house for bugs, standard protocol no matter where they were, that he hadn’t even heard the wooden boards of the deliberately creaky porch creak as the assailant slipped into the shadow just beyond the window. He’d been too slow to even think about pushing the woman (barely out of her teens), out of the way because he’d been out of place across the room. Hell! He hadn’t even had his weapon drawn yet!
He stood, frozen in place, for a good half second before he moved toward the crumpled form. Three gunshots sounded outside which meant Illya had taken care of what he should have.
The shot had been precise. A kill shot through her back, directly into her heart. It would have been through and through if it hadn’t ricocheted off a rib bone and lodged itself in her kidney.
He’d held her while Illya had called for an unnecessary ambulance.
The coded knock at his door broke him from his reverie. He’d barely opened his mouth before Illya had already stepped into his apartment. The sad smile his friend gave him told him he must have looked almost as good as he felt.
“Must be bad, Tovarisch,” he quipped, not taking his eyes off the amber liquid in his tumbler. “I’ve only been off two days and you’re already checking up on me.”
The uncharacteristic silence allowed him to drift back into the world of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’. Back into a world where she was still alive and he wasn’t five doubles into an incredibly expensive bottle of Scotch just to make sure he slept that night.
A hand to his knee startled him and made him open his eyes; he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them. Illya was staring at him now with concern emanating from every pour of his body.
He returned the sad smile, pursed his lips, shook his head and looked down at the tumbler. He twirled the ice cube around the glass a bit before he looked back up at his friend and asked, “did you know she wanted to be a Zoologist?” the bitter, humourless laugh that followed stung.
Illya nodded, “it’s how she encountered THRUSH. They paid her tuition.”
The bitter laugh returned as the tears that came so easily now, sprang to his eyes, “she wasn’t even old enough to vote yet.”
The hand on his knee squeezed. “you mustn’t take this so hard, Napoleon. It’s not- “
“Don’t you dare,” he bit back before schooling his features again. He put the tumbler on the side table without taking his eyes off Illya. “of course, it was, Illya. Yet again, someone trusted me and I failed.” He leaned forward in a flash, knocking Illya’s hand, “for god sakes man, the same trust almost killed you!”
Illya shook his head defiantly, “you forgot the safety, it’s differe- “
He cut him off quickly, “she was young enough to be my daughter,” a tear finally fell as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “People that- “he paused to swallow hard on the bile in his throat, “that young are dying because I can’t differentiate between pitch black and shadows anymore.”
“Napoleon, I- “
“Why do we get to continue and kids die?”
Illya’s face twisted into one of almost wistful remorse, “if I could answer that, my friend- “
“All the things we’ve done in our lives and kids pay the price.” His fist hit the arm of the chair, and then straightened out a couple tense minutes later, as he laughed humourlessly, and wiped the tears from his cheeks, “they hit me harder every time.”
Illya rose and straightened his jacket, the sad smile returning, “an unfortunate perk of the job, I’m told, and a good sign we’re all getting old.”
He smiled, for real, at that.
“But it also means something good.”
He quirked an eyebrow as Illya smiled a real smile finally.
“It means you haven’t lost sight of one the reasons why we do this job. And that, when the time comes, you shall make an impressive Number One.” He paused and then asked, “now where do you keep the vodka?”
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