Promises, Promises - Song Story 9/28
Sep. 28th, 2013 12:14 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuThe prompt is House on Breckenridge Lane
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:
The house stood like a sentry, the grotesque statue on the high stone wall an additional note of warning to any who might deign to enter.
Napoleon Solo needed to gain entry to this somber dwelling; his youthful ardor was on the verge of overcoming a deep seated dread of what might lay in wait for him. The girl, now that was a different story altogether. She was willing him to come inside with her green eyes and flaxen colored hair.
The young man was definitely in love, of that he had no doubt. The girl, Emily Vincent, was the daughter of his town’s most miserable, but also wealthiest citizen. That Napoleon and Emily had become starstruck, impossibly and irrevocably in love, was an unfortunate circumstance in the eyes of her family.
Standing now as he was, looking up at the hideous dragon atop the imposing wall, Napoleon was full of righteous indignation at being so easily dismissed as unsuitable. Emily thought him worthy enough, and when she looked at him and smiled…
“I’m coming for you, Emily. They won’t keep us apart, I promise…”
Napoleon woke up from his dream with the same tremor of regret that it always provoked. He looked around the room, saw the other man asleep on the bed next to his.
‘Illya. We’re in Quebec. It was a dream.’
The dream always ended with those empty words… I promise. That was the last time Napoleon Solo had let a promise slip away unfulfilled. As he remembered once more the girl who inspired the words he had spoken so long ago, Napoleon saw her vividly. For not the last time in his young life, he would have to say goodbye to a girl in the midst of sorrow and unyielding questions.
The blond in the other bed stirred, aware that his partner was not asleep. Although Illya Kuryakin could nap at the drop of a hat, his sleep was easily disturbed when someone else was in the room. He instinctively knew that Napoleon was awake and disturbed about something.
“What is wrong, my friend? If you insist on being awake I fear for my own ability to sleep.” Illya rolled onto his side in order to look at the American he’d been partnered with for the past year. In contrast to Solo’s dark good looks, the Russian was blond and pale, impossibly thin compared to his partner’s sturdier build. If opposites were Alexander Waverly’s intention, he had it in this pair.
Napoleon looked at Kuryakin through sleep deprived eyes; the dream had occupied most of his night, or so it seemed. It had also been a recurring enigma for the past ten years, following him through his last years of college, to Korea and now in his life at UNCLE. He realized that Illya was scrutinizing him in a way peculiar to the intense blue gaze he possessed. It would be difficult to lie about this to him.
“Have you ever been in love, Illya? I mean…’ The blue eyes never changed. “I mean really in love?”
There would be no sleep tonight. Illya decided to just sit up and relegate the rest of this night to helping his friend dismiss the specter of old lovers and what seemed to be a broken heart. He could be wrong, but it wasn’t likely. He nodded his head and wrapped the blanket around his bare torso. Napoleon noted, not for the first time, that his partner’s ribs were on view, not an ounce of fat yet clinging to the spare frame.
“I believe I have been in something like love.’ Illya began, not willing to divulge everything in his heart. “There was a girl in Paris, but I think I was more grateful to her for her kindness than actually in love. It is difficult to know the difference at times.”
Solo wondered at that, tried to imagine the Russian making his way in a city known for its extravagances in both romance and glamour, while still remaining a good Soviet. It didn’t balance out somehow.
“I guess I always just assume this was love. It certainly felt like love… well, to someone who didn’t know anything about love. That’s not what bothers me though…’ Napoleon leaned his head back against the bare wall behind him, trying once again to see Emily.
“Her father was an evil man, mean and stingy. I think more than anything I just wanted to rescue her from his influence, to give her a chance at some kind of freedom from …” Illya heard the catch in his friend’s voice.
“What happened to her?”
Napoleon swallowed the lump that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I promised to help her. I said the words ‘I’m coming for you, Emily. I promise’. Only I didn’t go back in time, and …’ Now Napoleon bowed his head into his chest. Illya wondered what could be so hurtful in this memory that it would cause a reaction such as this.
“Illya, her father beat her to death. He found out about us, and beyond just disapproving of me, he abused her repeatedly until finally… he killed her.”
That shocked even the Russian. He’d seen abuse and cruelty both in his homeland and in his work for the Command. But for a father to kill his own child…
“I am sorry, Napoleon. Was the man punished?” It wasn’t enough, no matter what the punishment, but surely there had been some form of justice for the girl.
“He hanged himself. When the reality of his evil actions finally hit him, he took the coward’s way out.’ Napoleon hated the man still; no amount of charity could make it otherwise.
“I promised Emily that I would come for her, and I failed. I promised…” Never again had Napoleon promised something and not followed through on his word. The lesson had been costly, but the man had a resolve and a sense of honor that could not be questioned. Illya would think back on this conversation in years to come, would understand the real meaning behind the phrase ‘I promise’ when spoken by his friend.
Now the blond found himself in need of some type of reassuring words, something to comfort the sense of loss he saw in Napoleon.
“You were not responsible, my friend. As tragic and unnecessary as her death was, I doubt that you could have prevented it. Even if you had taken her away, the man had the resources to get her back. You must know that, deep down.” It wasn’t enough, but what did Illya know of consolation? He had his own regrets that remained in spite of the years spent trying to outrun them.
Napoleon nodded. Intellectually he knew that what Illya said was right. It was his heart that refused to be reasonable.
“Thanks Illya. You’re right, I guess it’s just going to take a little more time before the sting of it is less hurtful.’ It was cold, and Illya was wrapped up completely in the blanket.
“Why are you sleeping half naked when it’s so cold?” Napoleon almost laughed at the sight of his partner, the blond hair disheveled and strange looking still to the more traditionally coifed brunet.
“You might recall that my suitcase was blown up by that THRUSH goon at the train station. I only have the one suit of clothing.”
Napoleon had forgotten. How was it that he could overlook something so recent? He would have to watch out for the Russian; the younger agent didn’t seem to posses the same element of luck that was beginning to fill the gaps for Solo.
“Tomorrow we’ll buy you some more clothes and some pajamas. You can’t finish this assignment without some back up clothing.”
Illya looked hopeful, but he had heard Mr. Waverly chastise Napoleon about his expense reports.
“Are you certain it will be all right? I do not wish to have any problems with accounting.” He was serious; there were still lingering concerns about things like irregularities and consequences, borne of his Soviet upbringing.
“It’s fine, Illya. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”
And Illya believed Solo’s promise. In the future, he would count on it every time.
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:
The house stood like a sentry, the grotesque statue on the high stone wall an additional note of warning to any who might deign to enter.
Napoleon Solo needed to gain entry to this somber dwelling; his youthful ardor was on the verge of overcoming a deep seated dread of what might lay in wait for him. The girl, now that was a different story altogether. She was willing him to come inside with her green eyes and flaxen colored hair.
The young man was definitely in love, of that he had no doubt. The girl, Emily Vincent, was the daughter of his town’s most miserable, but also wealthiest citizen. That Napoleon and Emily had become starstruck, impossibly and irrevocably in love, was an unfortunate circumstance in the eyes of her family.
Standing now as he was, looking up at the hideous dragon atop the imposing wall, Napoleon was full of righteous indignation at being so easily dismissed as unsuitable. Emily thought him worthy enough, and when she looked at him and smiled…
“I’m coming for you, Emily. They won’t keep us apart, I promise…”
Napoleon woke up from his dream with the same tremor of regret that it always provoked. He looked around the room, saw the other man asleep on the bed next to his.
‘Illya. We’re in Quebec. It was a dream.’
The dream always ended with those empty words… I promise. That was the last time Napoleon Solo had let a promise slip away unfulfilled. As he remembered once more the girl who inspired the words he had spoken so long ago, Napoleon saw her vividly. For not the last time in his young life, he would have to say goodbye to a girl in the midst of sorrow and unyielding questions.
The blond in the other bed stirred, aware that his partner was not asleep. Although Illya Kuryakin could nap at the drop of a hat, his sleep was easily disturbed when someone else was in the room. He instinctively knew that Napoleon was awake and disturbed about something.
“What is wrong, my friend? If you insist on being awake I fear for my own ability to sleep.” Illya rolled onto his side in order to look at the American he’d been partnered with for the past year. In contrast to Solo’s dark good looks, the Russian was blond and pale, impossibly thin compared to his partner’s sturdier build. If opposites were Alexander Waverly’s intention, he had it in this pair.
Napoleon looked at Kuryakin through sleep deprived eyes; the dream had occupied most of his night, or so it seemed. It had also been a recurring enigma for the past ten years, following him through his last years of college, to Korea and now in his life at UNCLE. He realized that Illya was scrutinizing him in a way peculiar to the intense blue gaze he possessed. It would be difficult to lie about this to him.
“Have you ever been in love, Illya? I mean…’ The blue eyes never changed. “I mean really in love?”
There would be no sleep tonight. Illya decided to just sit up and relegate the rest of this night to helping his friend dismiss the specter of old lovers and what seemed to be a broken heart. He could be wrong, but it wasn’t likely. He nodded his head and wrapped the blanket around his bare torso. Napoleon noted, not for the first time, that his partner’s ribs were on view, not an ounce of fat yet clinging to the spare frame.
“I believe I have been in something like love.’ Illya began, not willing to divulge everything in his heart. “There was a girl in Paris, but I think I was more grateful to her for her kindness than actually in love. It is difficult to know the difference at times.”
Solo wondered at that, tried to imagine the Russian making his way in a city known for its extravagances in both romance and glamour, while still remaining a good Soviet. It didn’t balance out somehow.
“I guess I always just assume this was love. It certainly felt like love… well, to someone who didn’t know anything about love. That’s not what bothers me though…’ Napoleon leaned his head back against the bare wall behind him, trying once again to see Emily.
“Her father was an evil man, mean and stingy. I think more than anything I just wanted to rescue her from his influence, to give her a chance at some kind of freedom from …” Illya heard the catch in his friend’s voice.
“What happened to her?”
Napoleon swallowed the lump that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I promised to help her. I said the words ‘I’m coming for you, Emily. I promise’. Only I didn’t go back in time, and …’ Now Napoleon bowed his head into his chest. Illya wondered what could be so hurtful in this memory that it would cause a reaction such as this.
“Illya, her father beat her to death. He found out about us, and beyond just disapproving of me, he abused her repeatedly until finally… he killed her.”
That shocked even the Russian. He’d seen abuse and cruelty both in his homeland and in his work for the Command. But for a father to kill his own child…
“I am sorry, Napoleon. Was the man punished?” It wasn’t enough, no matter what the punishment, but surely there had been some form of justice for the girl.
“He hanged himself. When the reality of his evil actions finally hit him, he took the coward’s way out.’ Napoleon hated the man still; no amount of charity could make it otherwise.
“I promised Emily that I would come for her, and I failed. I promised…” Never again had Napoleon promised something and not followed through on his word. The lesson had been costly, but the man had a resolve and a sense of honor that could not be questioned. Illya would think back on this conversation in years to come, would understand the real meaning behind the phrase ‘I promise’ when spoken by his friend.
Now the blond found himself in need of some type of reassuring words, something to comfort the sense of loss he saw in Napoleon.
“You were not responsible, my friend. As tragic and unnecessary as her death was, I doubt that you could have prevented it. Even if you had taken her away, the man had the resources to get her back. You must know that, deep down.” It wasn’t enough, but what did Illya know of consolation? He had his own regrets that remained in spite of the years spent trying to outrun them.
Napoleon nodded. Intellectually he knew that what Illya said was right. It was his heart that refused to be reasonable.
“Thanks Illya. You’re right, I guess it’s just going to take a little more time before the sting of it is less hurtful.’ It was cold, and Illya was wrapped up completely in the blanket.
“Why are you sleeping half naked when it’s so cold?” Napoleon almost laughed at the sight of his partner, the blond hair disheveled and strange looking still to the more traditionally coifed brunet.
“You might recall that my suitcase was blown up by that THRUSH goon at the train station. I only have the one suit of clothing.”
Napoleon had forgotten. How was it that he could overlook something so recent? He would have to watch out for the Russian; the younger agent didn’t seem to posses the same element of luck that was beginning to fill the gaps for Solo.
“Tomorrow we’ll buy you some more clothes and some pajamas. You can’t finish this assignment without some back up clothing.”
Illya looked hopeful, but he had heard Mr. Waverly chastise Napoleon about his expense reports.
“Are you certain it will be all right? I do not wish to have any problems with accounting.” He was serious; there were still lingering concerns about things like irregularities and consequences, borne of his Soviet upbringing.
“It’s fine, Illya. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”
And Illya believed Solo’s promise. In the future, he would count on it every time.
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Date: 2013-10-01 12:35 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting, I'm glad it spoke to your inner Solo ;)