C'est La Vie - chapter 3

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

It began here...
~~~~~:

In Illya’s mind there was a timetable that had to be observed.  His life in the world of couture and runways had helped him to develop a keen sense of how things fit together.  As an agent he had, of course, been able to follow a plan; usually it was Napoleon’s plan.  Kuryakin liked to know where he was going when his foot stepped through an open door, and preferred a well executed plan to the often haphazard solutions that were eventually the mark of the Solo/Kuryakin exploits.

People liked to remark on Solo’s Luck, as though it really existed in place of talent and intellect.  Illya Kuryakin was not proud of being an accomplished architect of mayhem, nor did he relish his daughter ever finding out about his life as an assassin.  UNCLE didn’t like to refer to their agents as such, but in reality Illya often had nightmares as his subconscious recalled the faces of men who had died by his hand.

Standing now in the dark of his apartment, there was no doubt in Illya Kuryakin’s mind that he would kill again if it meant saving the life of his only child.  And what of Napoleon?  Their occasional missions in the past twelve months had not been as harrowing as in the old days; well, perhaps the first one had been close, but Janus was dead and so another threat eliminated.

Was Solo depending on another incarnation of the team that was heralded as UNCLE’s best?  As Chief of UNCLE Northwest, Napoleon would not be required to be in the field.  Illya had no desire to be, not did he relish the thought of returning in any other capacity.

He would do whatever was necessary for the moment, and gladly turn over the daily operation of the House of Vanya to his junior designers and office manager.  His inspiration initially had been the freedom to do something else besides what had consumed him since his youth.  Paris had taught him to be daring, to take opportunities and use them at just the right time.

Illya sensed that the opportunities of Vanya were evaporating as surely as morning dew in the heat of a new day.  His days as a couture designer were suddenly at a standstill, and Illya knew better than to try and coax more out of them than they could provide.  There would be a new face of Vanya.  It was that simple.

In his penthouse apartment, Napoleon Solo also sat in the dark.  His only companion was the bourbon that he continued to swirl in a glass he had inherited along with everything else in sight.  Even though he had enough money to redecorate many times over, the lingering presence of his aunt compelled him to let things remain as they were.

“Oh, Amy.  If only you could see us now.”

Napoleon spoke aloud to what he imagined was the lingering spirit of the woman he had called ‘aunt’, although she was barely five years his senior.  He still mourned her on occasion, in spite of her admonition that he not do so.  Solo noted again the lack of familiarity shown by Illya when told of the inheritance.  He wondered if Illya had kept in touch with her, and fought back any remorse that might have made the wondering point back at him with an accusing finger.

The peculiar sounding beep announced what would soon become a constant companion to the brooding American.

“Solo here.”

The other end of the conversation requested the presence of Mr. Solo back at headquarters.

“Is there anything wrong? Where is Sir John?”

The reply caused Napoleon to drop the glass he had held loosely in his hand.

“Yes, yes I’m fine.  It was nothing … I’ll be right there … No. I’ll find my own way there. Solo out.”

Illya’s words came back to Napoleon and rang in his ears like the old klaxons at headquarters.

Trust no one, Napoleon.

Without regard that his line might be tapped, Solo called his only true friend; the only person he could trust.

“Hello …”

“Illya, how soon can you pick me up at my place?”

“Why, what’s… now?”

“Immediately, if not sooner.  Be careful, Illya.  I think it’s begun.”

Illya hung up the receiver and reached for his jacket.  Before picking up his keys he dialed Marion’s number.  It rang so many times that Illya feared his own head would explode from the agony of waiting.

“Hello…”
“Marion, this is …”
“I know who it is, darling.  No one else has that voice, and what on…”

“Marion!  Is Nicolette there with you?”

That tone made Marion’s blood run cold.

“What is it, Illya?  What’s wrong? Oh my God, no… No, she isn’t here.  She hasn’t come in from work yet.  Illya?”

Illya Kuryakin felt the full weight of all his fears fall so heavily upon him that his breath faltered.  In his mind he cried out to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in.

“Marion… Call the restaurant and see if she’s still there.  If she is, I want you to go there and meet me.  I’ll pick both of you up there.  Do you understand me, Marion?”

The pause made Illya nearly sick to his stomach.

“Yes. Yes, Illya… Yes… all right.  Just …’

All of the years of deceit and denial rose to the top now, not allowing for any more of the pretended optimism that had covered over the reality of Illya’s former life.

“Marion, I will protect her.  And you.  I will take care of you.  Now, just do as I said and call the restaurant, then go there.”

“All right, Illya.  Please, don’t let anything happen to our daughter.”

“I won’t.  Now go, Marion.  We need to move.  I’ll see you at the restaurant.”

He hung up before Marion could say anything more.  Illya was at a breaking point, his reserve of calm long gone in the wake of what he now feared.

No wonder Waverly required his agents to remain free of emotional entanglements.  After more than a decade his past life was still threatening to destroy what he had willingly given up.

Was there truly no justice for his kind?  No rest for the weary nor for the wicked?  At the moment Illya was unsure which he was, but woe to anyone now who tried to plunder his life further.

Napoleon was waiting, Nicolette and Marion were in danger.  The dressmaker’s life was threatening to split at the seams.

chapter 4

Comments

[rosywonder.livejournal.com]

It must be hard to adjust after all these years ... But he will.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Of course he will... they all will. They must.