SNAPSHOTS ~"Dealing with being down..."

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                                                             

An empty bottle of vodka sat on the floor beneath a certain Russian’s coffee table.  He was asleep on his green sofa, snoring lightly; a glass with just a little bit of drink left in it was held precariously in his hand, balanced on his stomach.

He’d been feeling very down when he’d returned to his little apartment, as an innocent life had been lost during his most recent mission. It happened at the hands of T.H.R.U.S.H. and though not his fault, Illya still felt pain at the loss of someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was beginning to happen more often, something else he found upsetting.

Though T.H.R.U.S.H. had been upping their game as of late, and in a way it was not surprising as their regard for human life was non-existent.

To unknowing eyes the Russian’s apartment seemed cold and cheerless... at the moment, there was nothing really of a personal nature on display as in most homes. This was his first year with the Command and he was kept quite busy on missions out of the country, decorating to him was frivolous, especially when he was hardly ever there.

To Illya Kuryakin, it was simply his momentary place of refuge, it wasn’t really a home; it was a temporary residence where he could hang his hat. He’d lived in many locations since he’d been rescued as a child from the streets of Kyiv so long ago, but none really said ‘home’ to him.

There was one only house that had been truly his home, a little red dacha outside of Kyiv and that, like so many things in his life, was long gone. He felt as though he were merely a transient, with no ties, no family...even the Soviet Union had disowned him once he’d been sent to work for U.N.C.L.E.

There was one thing he did have in life, and that was his partnership with Napoleon Solo, and though he and the American had become fast friends, even that was not enough when Illya came back to his apartment in one of his melancholy moods.

It was a lonely life being a covert agent, he’d accepted it and had become accustomed to it for a long time now.  Still there were periods when his interests and amusements...the science journals, books and jazz music gave him cold comfort.

In his loneliness he would turn to his oldest acquaintance, and that was a bottle of vodka. Illya knew it wasn’t a good habit, but at the moment he didn’t give a damn.  All he wanted was to feel the warmth of the alcohol burning his throat and warming his belly, as it would eventually drive him into a state of numbness and allow him to forget, temporarily.

His life was not of his own choosing, yet he trudged on through it; doing his job and fulfilling his obligations.

At times that was all he felt good for in this world, and that made him just want to curl up into a ball of stupor.  At the moment, he was feeling a bit sorry for himself at not having been able to save the life of that innocent person, and was drowning his sorrow, as usual, in drink.

If he passed out soon enough then he wouldn’t be able to chastise himself for not saving yet another innocent life. He felt it was his responsibility to save them all, though he knew it was an unrealistic belief. That didn't matter...

Since the loss of his family and home during the war, Illya kept a count of so many things that had been taken away from him. The death of the woman during his mission was but another sorrow added to his long list. It wasn’t often that he pitied himself, as he detested receiving it from others, but tonight was an exception.

Napoleon knew of his moods but not always the reasons for them; those were secrets he was not yet willing to share with his partner and friend, though he knew not why.  Illya trusted his the man with his life, but not his past.

He once asked his partner what he was afraid of, and was given an honest answer, yet when Solo put the same question to him, he couldn’t reply truthfully.  The only answer he could give himself was that he was afraid to trust anyone completely.

Illya’s existence had been a life of mistrust and betrayal before coming to New York; he lived life like that in the Soviet Union, and eventually discovered it was the same, working for U.N.C.L.E. in London under Harry Beldon.

Granted he was a covert operative, and trust was something one just expected not to receive as well as give. He was told over and over again to trust no one, as he’d live longer.  He made that his golden rule.

The most precious thing Kuryakin possessed was his life and breaking his personal rule; there was only one man he trusted completely with it and that was Napoleon Solo.

Why he could do that, but not share his past with the man;  his lost hopes and dreams, his sorrows...his Russian soul, as it were; he just didn’t know why. Perhaps Napoleon’s questionin response, wanting to know what it was he feared, rang very true. It was a door the Russian had foolishly opened and he became trapped in his own query. In truth it made him very much aware of his fears, perhaps more than he was willing to admit to himself.

Maybe someday he would open up to Solo, but not until he could answer his own question as to ‘why.' In the meantime his bottle of vodka would help him drown his sorrows, his loneliness…and his fears.

.

There was a knock at the door, one that startled the Russian to consciousness. A familiar coded knock.

Napoleon let himself in with his key, resetting the door alarm. With him he carried a large paper sack; emanating from it was the distinct and familiar scent of Chinese take out that got Illya’s full attention.

“Chicken with cashew nuts?” The blond smiled, slurring his words just a little

“Yes as well as Lo Mein and Egg Foo Yung, dumplings and egg rolls...and yes I got your favorite Wonton Mein soup too.  I figured you’d need a lot to counteract the vodka,” Napoleon said, picking up the bottle from the floor and eyeing the fact that it was three-quarters empty, knowing the Russian had bought it that morning. That was the American’s cue to check up on his partner. “Looks like you started the party without me chum.”

Illya stared up at him with his slightly bloodshot blue eyes, that seemed just a little crossed. “Am I (hic) becoming predic-it-able again?”

Napoleon ignored the question, posing one of his own.

“Please tell me you didn’t drink a whole bottle of this stuff?”

“Nyet, it was only half bottle. The new one I bought is chilling in freezer.”

“So you were thinking on diving into the new one when you were done with this bottle?”

“(Hic) That was plan…”

“And is sure to solve everything, won’t it pal?  Not a good way to deal with your troubles.”

“Yooou have yourrr way and I have mine.” Illya took another swig of vodka.

Solo thought about trying to take it from him, but that might make Illya combative; even in his state of inebriation he could be deadly. Not a smart move to part a Russian from his vodka, especially when he was not in a good mood.

Napoleon set out the plates and utensils. “Come on the buddy, before it gets cold.

Illya took some wobbly steps and made it to the dining room chair, holding onto it with a death grip to steady himself.

“You neverrr give up on me do you?” He slurred, still amazed that one person cared that much about his well being.

“Never will. That’s what friends do,” Solo winked.

As soon as the Russian sat down at the table, he became even more glassy-eyed;  his head fell forward hitting the wood with a thud as he passed out.

“Come on chum,” Napoleon patiently hoisted him up from the chair, dragging his unconscious partner to bed.  He lowered Illya down, pulling off his shoes and drawing a blanket up over him.

Napoleon sat alone, eating his dinner and put the remainder in the fridge, as no doubt Illya would wake up some time during the night, hungry as a Russian bear.

He did the dishes, cleaning up a bit, and checked on his partner before setting the alarm and heading upstairs to his own apartment for the night.

Napoleon snapped his fingers, pulling out his little black book from his pocket, instead deciding to call one of his lady friends for an evening of dancing, drinks and maybe something more intimate....that was how he dealt with things after a mission had gone sour, especially resulting in the death of someone who didn’t deserve to die.

Losing himself in the arms of a woman would make him forget his own regrets, if only for a night.

Yes, Illya had his way of dealing with things, and Napoleon Solo had his own...



*Author's Note: This story is illustrative of a theme I have running through other, previously posted stories.( some of my AU saga-series on Fanfiction.net, as well as others) It was based on a comment that Roselight once made to me, where in Illya deals with the loss of innocents (and other things) by losing himself in a bottle of vodka. Of couse Napoleon has to look out for him as that's what friends and partners are for.

Some other angsty Illya stories (just to name a couple : "I put a Spell on You" published 3/2012 https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7951567/1/I-Put-A-Spell-on-You

 "What troubles the heart" posted 1/2014 https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10043884/1/What-troubles-the-heart

Comments

[reapermum.livejournal.com]

:-)

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! :D

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The chronically melancholic soul...

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

'Tis true, but we do know in my AU world he finally gets over it. "D Thanks for the comment!