At The End Of Things - Song Story 8/25
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section7mfuA few notes before the story begins.
The first three (and a half) stories in this little series are listed here so that, if you're interested in the history and haven't read them, you can do so. I recommend it, because otherwise this story today is remarkably less than it should be.
Once In Love With Amy
Relatively Speaking
To Dance With The Stars
Amy is, in my mind, a double for Ann Margret. That's just the way she turned out.
The prompt, just so you can get in the mood (after you read the first three stories ;)
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:
The day was glorious, one of those perfect Autumn extravaganzas of color and chill air that made a person glad to be alive. Amy Trudeau, widow of Napoleon’s uncle Aubrey, was wrapped up in a mink coat and little else. Such was the luxury of wealth.
As Amy gazed over the scene beyond her balcony she was thinking of the Russian. They had launched into a passionate love affair that was leading … hmm… nowhere really. She kept reassuring him that it was fine for them to be lovers without any plans for the future, but deep down the young widow longed again for the stability of marriage. Illya was adamant that he could not marry while in service to UNCLE, and was equally determined that he could not leave that organization. His duties were vast, spread between the USSR and UNCLE, and not something he could drop out of on the whims of a romance.
Amy hadn’t heard from Illya for more than two weeks; she assumed he was still out of the country. She hadn’t heard from Napoleon either, so that probably meant they were on some secret mission far away from New York. Amy smiled at a memory, of that exotic northern rendezvous she had arranged for Valentine’s Day. That had been perfect in every way, isolated and without any of that ridiculous beeping contraption that her two favorite men both carried.
“Ah, Illyusha my love. Where are you, dearest?”
Amy’s question seemed destined to remain unanswered, and the ringing of her telephone interrupted the poise of her reverie.
“Hello…” Amy’s voice lilted in her inimitable tone, another quality that had attracted Kuryakin to her.
“Amy, this is Napoleon…” Amy started to laugh. Well, of course it was Napoleon, he needn’t identify himself as though…
“What’s wrong? Is it Illya?” It took her a moment to recognize the strain, but then she knew. Her heart lurched in her chest as breathing suddenly became difficult with the dread of hearing bad news again.
“He’s … it isn’t good, Amy. He’s here in New York at the UNCLE medical facility within our headquarters. I … I knew you’d want to know.’ The pause was undefined. Napoleon wasn’t sure if she was still on the line.
“Amy? Are you there?” She took a breath, willing herself to not be consumed with grief before she knew the outcome. “Yes, yes Napoleon I’m still on the line. I want to see Illya. I’m going to get dressed and call for a cab…”
This was going to be harder than Napoleon had realized. “No. I’m sorry, Amy… uh, no you can’t come right now. The doctors aren’t allowing any visitors.”
“Oh my God, Napoleon! How bad is it? What happened to him?” Amy sat down on the end of her sofa, all of her strength gone as she replayed another scene at a hospital in London where Aubrey had succumbed to a heart attack. The starkness of Napoleon’s intention caused Amy to gasp. Her husband’s nephew was the grandson of a diplomat, it was no wonder he wasn’t telling everything.
“Is he…?” Napoleon realized instantly what Amy was thinking. He was attempting to dissuade her from jumping in that taxi cab, not scare her with visions of Illya … dead.
“No, no… Amy darling, he’s alive. He’s just in bad shape, and from something I can’t even talk about. I’ll let you know everything as it happens, if you like.’ Napoleon was searching for the right way to speak to his favorite relative. Amy was almost like a sister to him, so close in age, regardless of her having been married to Napoleon’s uncle. He knew how much she cared for his Russian partner, and that the feelings were mutual. He also knew that this was the life that Illya had always tried to spare her, as they both tried to do for anyone in their lives. Everything was so damned irregular.
“I won’t be leaving here tonight, Amy, but I will stop in tomorrow sometime. We can talk then, all right?” He could see her nodding on the other end of the line, her delicate features troubled and, most probably with tear stained cheeks. “Yes, please do that Napoleon. I won’t sleep tonight for worry, but… tell Illya … tell him …’ And then she broke down. Tell him what? That she loved him, that she couldn’t bear it if he died and left her the way Aubrey had left her, alone and afraid?
Amy looked wistfully at a photograph of Illya that she kept on the end table. He had the beginnings of a smile, one that she knew had grown into a full fledged laugh, complete with that crinkle in his nose that he wouldn’t admit to. Amy adored that about her Russian, the sweetness of a child when no one was looking.
With a catch in her throat that she couldn’t disguise, Amy told Napoleon what he could pass on to his friend, whether he was awake to hear it or not.
Napoleon said goodbye to his Aunt Amy and put down the phone with a heavy heart. He knew this was a terrifying ordeal for her to endure, especially after having lost Uncle Aubrey so suddenly. Her heart had finally recovered enough to let in someone new, Illya, and now it seemed that tragedy was poised to repeat.
It was a long walk for the exhausted CEA as he headed towards his partner’s room, thinking back on the mission that had led them here. Illya had infiltrated a THRUSH satrapy, posing as a scientist from one of the labs scattered around the globe. His job was supposed to be relatively easy, considering it was Illya and he really was a scientist.
Napoleon reached Illya’s room, hesitated as he said a silent prayer to the God he hoped was listening… and watching. Illya had found the object of his mission the second week. He also was found out, and the substance the Russian had been sent in to destroy was injected into him as he struggled and cursed, to no avail.
“He’s still unconscious, Napoleon.’ Amanda Keller, head nurse tonight, came up beside him. “He’s resting comfortably, though. The poison seems to be mostly out of his system, but it’s taken a toll on everything. That was one wicked concoction.”
Napoleon nodded, remembering how he had found his friend at the site, crumpled in a heap. People had died in the wake of Solo’s assault on the lab, and the concoction, as Amanda put it, was thoroughly destroyed. But Illya was nearly dead.
“Thanks Amanda. I know being here is the best thing for him, especially with angels like you and rest of the nursing staff to take care of him.” Napoleon turned the handle and entered Illya’s room, not expecting what he saw.
Instead of being unconscious, Illya was sitting up. He still looked really awful, and Napoleon had to take a deep breath before speaking so that his anxiety didn’t show up in an unsteady voice.
“I’m glad to see you awake, Illya. How do you feel?” Just twenty minutes ago the blond had been out cold. It was surprising to see this kind of recovery, if one could call it that. Illya managed a half smile; it was just about all of the strength he had for physical movement.
“I am much better, although …’ A deep breath was necessary before he could continue. “I seem to be a little worse for wear.” An obvious understatement.
Napoleon thought back to his conversation with Amy and wondered at the effect it might have on his friend. He was opening his mouth to speak when Illya resumed.
“I was dreaming about Amy just now, before I awoke. I have a picture of her in my mind…’ Illya thought about her smile, of the times they had been together.
“I think it would be better if she doesn’t see me … like this.” Napoleon was a little surprised at that, and thought again of her message.
“I spoke with Amy, just a little while ago. She wanted me to tell you something.” Illya shook his head. “No, please… no. I would rather not know …’ He took a big breath, another ache in his lungs with the effort. “I mean to end the … I will not be seeing her again. She is an extraordinary woman, Napoleon, and has already suffered a great deal of loss in her life. I do not wish to be the cause of even more suffering for her.”
Illya laid his head back on the pillows, closing his eyes as he saw again the photograph in his memory. She would always be that for him, a perfect memory.
Napoleon nodded, realizing now that Illya and Amy had always known this day would come, that her message might have been a good-bye of sorts.
“Are you sure, Illya?” Illya opened his eyes and set a penetrating gaze on his friend. “We talked about certain … eventualities. I told her that one day …’ He paused, thinking back to that conversation. Amy had cried when he suggested that one day she would know that it was over between them, that the probability of his death might one day force her to choose.
“She knew when to end it, as do I. Thank you Napoleon.” Illya looked sad in addition to how ill he appeared. The poison in that THRUSH drug had done its work, but not quite to completion. Napoleon raised an eyebrow, wondering what Illya was referring to.
“I didn’t do anything, tovarisch. Just the regular rescue.” He winked at the Russian, hoping to get another smile.
“I mean, thank you for not interfering between Amy and me. I know it was a difficult situation for you.” It had been awkward, at least for the first few weeks. Napoleon had adjusted, however, admitting that the attraction between Amy and his partner seemed potent and unavoidable.
“Illya… Amy wanted you to know that …’ Napoleon braved the glare that he knew was coming. “She told me she was looking at a photo of you, that she would always remember you like that.” Now Illya smiled, remembering exactly what picture Amy referred to. It seemed that each of them would be holding a particular moment in their recollections of the affair.
“Just the way you look tonight…’ The words escaped without any attempt to stop them. Illya looked up once more at his friend, the man who had introduced him to the fabulous Amy Trudeau. Napoleon looked a little lost, not something Illya saw very often.
“Would you like to hum a few bars? I think I might know that song.’ Napoleon chided his friend, but he knew there was a well of emotion behind the lyric. Illya leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. He was very tired, on the verge of feeling sick again. Perhaps the room would not spin if he refused to look at it.
“I better get going, Illya. I’m very relieved, you know. That you’re alive and planning on staying that way.’ A wisp of a smile graced the lips of Illya Kuryakin as he drifted back into a sleep that featured a woman he once knew.
“Good night, Illya.”
In his dreams, Illya said his goodbyes to someone else.
The first three (and a half) stories in this little series are listed here so that, if you're interested in the history and haven't read them, you can do so. I recommend it, because otherwise this story today is remarkably less than it should be.
Once In Love With Amy
Relatively Speaking
To Dance With The Stars
Amy is, in my mind, a double for Ann Margret. That's just the way she turned out.
The prompt, just so you can get in the mood (after you read the first three stories ;)
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:
The day was glorious, one of those perfect Autumn extravaganzas of color and chill air that made a person glad to be alive. Amy Trudeau, widow of Napoleon’s uncle Aubrey, was wrapped up in a mink coat and little else. Such was the luxury of wealth.
As Amy gazed over the scene beyond her balcony she was thinking of the Russian. They had launched into a passionate love affair that was leading … hmm… nowhere really. She kept reassuring him that it was fine for them to be lovers without any plans for the future, but deep down the young widow longed again for the stability of marriage. Illya was adamant that he could not marry while in service to UNCLE, and was equally determined that he could not leave that organization. His duties were vast, spread between the USSR and UNCLE, and not something he could drop out of on the whims of a romance.
Amy hadn’t heard from Illya for more than two weeks; she assumed he was still out of the country. She hadn’t heard from Napoleon either, so that probably meant they were on some secret mission far away from New York. Amy smiled at a memory, of that exotic northern rendezvous she had arranged for Valentine’s Day. That had been perfect in every way, isolated and without any of that ridiculous beeping contraption that her two favorite men both carried.
“Ah, Illyusha my love. Where are you, dearest?”
Amy’s question seemed destined to remain unanswered, and the ringing of her telephone interrupted the poise of her reverie.
“Hello…” Amy’s voice lilted in her inimitable tone, another quality that had attracted Kuryakin to her.
“Amy, this is Napoleon…” Amy started to laugh. Well, of course it was Napoleon, he needn’t identify himself as though…
“What’s wrong? Is it Illya?” It took her a moment to recognize the strain, but then she knew. Her heart lurched in her chest as breathing suddenly became difficult with the dread of hearing bad news again.
“He’s … it isn’t good, Amy. He’s here in New York at the UNCLE medical facility within our headquarters. I … I knew you’d want to know.’ The pause was undefined. Napoleon wasn’t sure if she was still on the line.
“Amy? Are you there?” She took a breath, willing herself to not be consumed with grief before she knew the outcome. “Yes, yes Napoleon I’m still on the line. I want to see Illya. I’m going to get dressed and call for a cab…”
This was going to be harder than Napoleon had realized. “No. I’m sorry, Amy… uh, no you can’t come right now. The doctors aren’t allowing any visitors.”
“Oh my God, Napoleon! How bad is it? What happened to him?” Amy sat down on the end of her sofa, all of her strength gone as she replayed another scene at a hospital in London where Aubrey had succumbed to a heart attack. The starkness of Napoleon’s intention caused Amy to gasp. Her husband’s nephew was the grandson of a diplomat, it was no wonder he wasn’t telling everything.
“Is he…?” Napoleon realized instantly what Amy was thinking. He was attempting to dissuade her from jumping in that taxi cab, not scare her with visions of Illya … dead.
“No, no… Amy darling, he’s alive. He’s just in bad shape, and from something I can’t even talk about. I’ll let you know everything as it happens, if you like.’ Napoleon was searching for the right way to speak to his favorite relative. Amy was almost like a sister to him, so close in age, regardless of her having been married to Napoleon’s uncle. He knew how much she cared for his Russian partner, and that the feelings were mutual. He also knew that this was the life that Illya had always tried to spare her, as they both tried to do for anyone in their lives. Everything was so damned irregular.
“I won’t be leaving here tonight, Amy, but I will stop in tomorrow sometime. We can talk then, all right?” He could see her nodding on the other end of the line, her delicate features troubled and, most probably with tear stained cheeks. “Yes, please do that Napoleon. I won’t sleep tonight for worry, but… tell Illya … tell him …’ And then she broke down. Tell him what? That she loved him, that she couldn’t bear it if he died and left her the way Aubrey had left her, alone and afraid?
Amy looked wistfully at a photograph of Illya that she kept on the end table. He had the beginnings of a smile, one that she knew had grown into a full fledged laugh, complete with that crinkle in his nose that he wouldn’t admit to. Amy adored that about her Russian, the sweetness of a child when no one was looking.
With a catch in her throat that she couldn’t disguise, Amy told Napoleon what he could pass on to his friend, whether he was awake to hear it or not.
Napoleon said goodbye to his Aunt Amy and put down the phone with a heavy heart. He knew this was a terrifying ordeal for her to endure, especially after having lost Uncle Aubrey so suddenly. Her heart had finally recovered enough to let in someone new, Illya, and now it seemed that tragedy was poised to repeat.
It was a long walk for the exhausted CEA as he headed towards his partner’s room, thinking back on the mission that had led them here. Illya had infiltrated a THRUSH satrapy, posing as a scientist from one of the labs scattered around the globe. His job was supposed to be relatively easy, considering it was Illya and he really was a scientist.
Napoleon reached Illya’s room, hesitated as he said a silent prayer to the God he hoped was listening… and watching. Illya had found the object of his mission the second week. He also was found out, and the substance the Russian had been sent in to destroy was injected into him as he struggled and cursed, to no avail.
“He’s still unconscious, Napoleon.’ Amanda Keller, head nurse tonight, came up beside him. “He’s resting comfortably, though. The poison seems to be mostly out of his system, but it’s taken a toll on everything. That was one wicked concoction.”
Napoleon nodded, remembering how he had found his friend at the site, crumpled in a heap. People had died in the wake of Solo’s assault on the lab, and the concoction, as Amanda put it, was thoroughly destroyed. But Illya was nearly dead.
“Thanks Amanda. I know being here is the best thing for him, especially with angels like you and rest of the nursing staff to take care of him.” Napoleon turned the handle and entered Illya’s room, not expecting what he saw.
Instead of being unconscious, Illya was sitting up. He still looked really awful, and Napoleon had to take a deep breath before speaking so that his anxiety didn’t show up in an unsteady voice.
“I’m glad to see you awake, Illya. How do you feel?” Just twenty minutes ago the blond had been out cold. It was surprising to see this kind of recovery, if one could call it that. Illya managed a half smile; it was just about all of the strength he had for physical movement.
“I am much better, although …’ A deep breath was necessary before he could continue. “I seem to be a little worse for wear.” An obvious understatement.
Napoleon thought back to his conversation with Amy and wondered at the effect it might have on his friend. He was opening his mouth to speak when Illya resumed.
“I was dreaming about Amy just now, before I awoke. I have a picture of her in my mind…’ Illya thought about her smile, of the times they had been together.
“I think it would be better if she doesn’t see me … like this.” Napoleon was a little surprised at that, and thought again of her message.
“I spoke with Amy, just a little while ago. She wanted me to tell you something.” Illya shook his head. “No, please… no. I would rather not know …’ He took a big breath, another ache in his lungs with the effort. “I mean to end the … I will not be seeing her again. She is an extraordinary woman, Napoleon, and has already suffered a great deal of loss in her life. I do not wish to be the cause of even more suffering for her.”
Illya laid his head back on the pillows, closing his eyes as he saw again the photograph in his memory. She would always be that for him, a perfect memory.
Napoleon nodded, realizing now that Illya and Amy had always known this day would come, that her message might have been a good-bye of sorts.
“Are you sure, Illya?” Illya opened his eyes and set a penetrating gaze on his friend. “We talked about certain … eventualities. I told her that one day …’ He paused, thinking back to that conversation. Amy had cried when he suggested that one day she would know that it was over between them, that the probability of his death might one day force her to choose.
“She knew when to end it, as do I. Thank you Napoleon.” Illya looked sad in addition to how ill he appeared. The poison in that THRUSH drug had done its work, but not quite to completion. Napoleon raised an eyebrow, wondering what Illya was referring to.
“I didn’t do anything, tovarisch. Just the regular rescue.” He winked at the Russian, hoping to get another smile.
“I mean, thank you for not interfering between Amy and me. I know it was a difficult situation for you.” It had been awkward, at least for the first few weeks. Napoleon had adjusted, however, admitting that the attraction between Amy and his partner seemed potent and unavoidable.
“Illya… Amy wanted you to know that …’ Napoleon braved the glare that he knew was coming. “She told me she was looking at a photo of you, that she would always remember you like that.” Now Illya smiled, remembering exactly what picture Amy referred to. It seemed that each of them would be holding a particular moment in their recollections of the affair.
“Just the way you look tonight…’ The words escaped without any attempt to stop them. Illya looked up once more at his friend, the man who had introduced him to the fabulous Amy Trudeau. Napoleon looked a little lost, not something Illya saw very often.
“Would you like to hum a few bars? I think I might know that song.’ Napoleon chided his friend, but he knew there was a well of emotion behind the lyric. Illya leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. He was very tired, on the verge of feeling sick again. Perhaps the room would not spin if he refused to look at it.
“I better get going, Illya. I’m very relieved, you know. That you’re alive and planning on staying that way.’ A wisp of a smile graced the lips of Illya Kuryakin as he drifted back into a sleep that featured a woman he once knew.
“Good night, Illya.”
In his dreams, Illya said his goodbyes to someone else.
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Date: 2013-08-25 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-26 05:57 pm (UTC)