Three Fold Cords - Short Affair

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Prompts: grace; move; purple

Word count: 889

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The sunset was spectacular, a riot of color that seemed to crescendo with a purple that blended the vivid pinks into the falling night sky.  Illya Kuryakin thought it might be the loveliest sunset he had ever witnessed.  It also occurred to him that it might be his last.

After too many years evading death, tonight it appeared to have finally caught up with the UNCLE agent.  Alone in the approaching darkness, he knew the loss of blood he was experiencing would soon send him into shock, with death following shortly after.  The man who stabbed him was already dead, a victim of the deadly skills of the Russian agent.  Unfortunately for Kuryakin, his expertise had come too late to avoid the attack that, to his current state of mind, must surely be his cause of unavoidable, impending death.

His last look at the fading colors of sunset seemed to settle the matter as the pink became shadowed by the purple hues, soon to be overcome by the deep, velvety darkness of a star lit night sky.  As Illya Kuryakin let himself drift into what his conscious mind assented to as eternity, the faint sound of someone called his name…

“Illya! Answer me Illya, I’m here… I… I’m here.” Napoleon Solo had lost his connection to Illya just as a cry of pain was heard coming through the communicator.  Then it was silent.  The agent knew where his partner was supposed to be.  Hell, it seemed that everyone had known where he would be, and THRUSH made certain to send someone to cancel a meeting that Alexander Waverly himself had set up.  Heads would roll when Napoleon got back to New York, and if Illya … No, he wouldn’t go there.

Illya heard his friend’s voice, resisted the call of the next world as he rallied to try to get enough air to yell.  It was a feeble effort, but he gave it everything he could muster before passing out.

Napoleon heard Illya’s voice, and it was just enough to give him a direction.  Running towards where he was certain the Russian’s voice had come from, Solo practically stumbled over the body of the dead, would-be assassin.  Illya lay crumpled in the middle of a small courtyard, his shirt stained with too much blood. How would he survive?

“Mark, hurry up, I found Illya.”  Mark Slate had been searching the grounds, but now he responded to his superior’s demand for assistance.  They were just twenty minutes outside of the city, close enough to get to a hospital, which was what Slate now assumed was going to be their destination.  He ran to the car and fired up the engine, driving towards where Napoleon was, where Waverly’s meeting was to have been conducted.  What had been deemed a secret, high security event, was now nothing more than a dream.  At least for now.

This advance team of Solo, Kuryakin and Slate, was to have searched and secured the area.  When Illya encountered someone laying in wait, their brief encounter became deadly.  Now it was up to Napoleon and Mark to move their friend to the car and get him to a hospital.

The loss of blood was considerable, but some sort of grace sheltered the blond from serious harm.  Although the wound would take time to heal, nothing vital had been damaged.  After Napoleon reported the updates to Mister Waverly, he and Mark sat bedside and waited for Illya to wake up and start complaining.

“So, how do you think word got around about this meeting? I thought it was top secret.”  Mark knew that there could always be a traitor, although he had to wonder why anyone would succumb to the empty promises of THRUSH.  His own partner, April Dancer, was still at HQ, part of the detail that would have escorted Waverly to the scene.

Napoleon shook his head.  He dreaded to start the investigation, knowing that in due course a discovery would be made that would lead to someone who had been a trusted co-worker at the New York office.

“I don’t know, Mark.  People are funny, some of them will fall for empty promises, hoping to find a magic formula for getting rich, or famous… whatever.  THRUSH is good at delivering  a lie that sounds convincing.”

A deep moaning interrupted their conversation.

“Illya? Hey there, you really took one for the team.” Napoleon’s grin was mixed with concern. 

Kuryakin rolled his eyes, regretting it immediately as pain creased his brow.

“I do not know what that means, but the other man is dead, yes?”  Napoleon nodded his head to the question.

“Yes my friend, he is dead and you will live to fight another day.  Unfortunately, you’ll need to stay here a few days.  No point in moving you just to have you take up space in medical.”

“Fine, I could use the rest.” And with that, Illya turned over onto the side that wasn’t bandaged and was almost immediately asleep.

“How does he do that?”  Mark was envious of such an ability.

“Damned if I know.  You hungry?” Napoleon needed someone to join him for dinner, normally Illya’s role.

“Almost always.  I saw a place that looked interesting…” 

The conversation was genial, like true comrades as they left their friend to sleep, perchance to dream.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Strong writing. The opening describes is indeed a vivid and attractive description both of Illya and what he's seeing.