Song Fic 7/31 - The Scent of Patchouli

[avirra.livejournal.com]

The Moroccan street that Illya was walking down reminded him of a scene from the movie that took its name from the city. In fact, except for being in color, it seemed as if it could have been lifted from that Bogart classic. He heard a noise and turned, temporarily blinded by the sun in his eyes.

As his vision cleared, he saw a woman running toward him in a dress that, while it might have been made from Moroccan silk, was of a style more suited to American or Europe than this country - a short layered dress of peach with thick lines of vibrant purple, orange and green striping at the bottom of the skirt. Her loose blonde hair and sandaled feet completed a picture that would have looked far more natural among the throngs of hippies in San Francisco.

Then he saw that it wasn't so much that the woman was running toward him as she was running from a man - a man Illya recognized as a THRUSH agent from a file he had viewed prior to this mission. Seeing the man pull his weapon, Illya made his choice. Breaking into a run, he put himself between the woman and the THRUSH man, drawing and firing. While he was on target, unfortunately, the THRUSH agent was as well. With a curse, Illya pulled the dart that had hit him from his shoulder, but it was too late. Whatever the contents were had already been injected into his system and he was already feeling disoriented.

The woman grabbed his arm and began to tug him along. Illya opened his mouth, but she softly shushed him, not saying a word but encouraging him to move faster. He was beginning to stumble as if he were drunk, but managed to obey even as part of his brain wondered if obeying her was a good or bad idea.

She might not have been a native, but she guided him through the market stalls like someone who had spent their childhood running between them. Between the frequent turns and his increasing dizziness, Illya lost all sense of place and time. She had only been guiding him or a few seconds - or perhaps it was a few hours when she brought him to a sudden stop by a wall of well-weathered blue tiles. He had no idea what she was doing until a door he hadn't even noticed was there opened at her touch. She gave a desperate glance around then dragged him inside, shutting the concealed door firmly behind them.

The cool of the shadows in the room felt like a gift to Illya as his balance gave way and he dropped to his knees. The woman was by his side in an instant and eased him down to the floor. Her words didn't make a lot of sense until his foggy brain supplied that she was speaking Afrikaan.

"Thank you for saving me."

She went quiet then, looking at him carefully with cool eyes. Pale grey eyes that caught the light and, for some reason, made Illya think of the reflection of the full moon on still waters. She seemed to come to a decision and moved to a sink to wet a cloth before coming to kneel by his side to bathe his forehead. Without the overpowering smells of the market competing, he could now smell traces of scents coming from her that also reminded him of his times in San Francisco - the smoky tones of incense. Sandalwood and patchouli.

Bathing his sweaty forehead, she leaned down further and whispered.

"I feel my life just like a river running through."

Illya didn't have the strength to move far, but her words did startle him. He had been told his contact was a man, but she had the phrase he had been told to listen for. Licking his dry lips, he gave the countersign.

"The river runs deep in the year of the cat."

She closed her eyes as if in prayer - or as if a prayer had been answered.

"I am Katsi Quimby. It was my husband you were supposed to have met, but THRUSH caught up with us. He's . . ."

Her voice caught in her throat and, for a moment, Illya thought she was going to start weeping. But instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Peter would be disappointed in me, showing such weakness. Forgive me. And forgive me as well for practically dragging you in here, but that man was not alone. He was simply the best runner."

Voice slightly slurred, Illya struggled to speak clearly.

"Illya Kuryakin.  And you have already returned the favor for my saving you. Apologies are unnecessary."

Her smile swam in his vision as she wiped his forehead again.

"Try to give one more effort for me and I will help you into the bed. It will take several hours for their drugs to wear off and you will be far more comfortable there."

How she managed to get him to his feet, he couldn't imagine, but it seemed only a second later that his head was sinking into a pillow and he heard her voice without understanding her words as his body gave up the fight.

The dreams that filled the Russian's mind were like fever dreams, but undoubtedly the best fever dreams he had ever known. The dreams were all soft kisses, tender flesh and a warmth that had nothing to do with fever. When Illya sensibilities returned to him, he woke to a light smell of patchouli and the feel of a woman in his arms.

Illya was immediately horrified about what he might have done, but his movements woke her and she shushed him again.

"I owe you an apology. You didn't know what you were doing, but I did and I encouraged it. And I still owe you an apology, because I shouldn't have done that, but I'm not sorry I did."

Since what was already done was done and Illya found his only regret was not remembering, he took her back into his arms.

When dawn came, Illya eased himself from her slowly in the attempt not to wake her and contacted headquarters, ending up talking to Mister Waverly directly.

"Doctor Quimby's death is a great loss, but at least his wife is safe. Unfortunately, when the two of you escaped their grasp, it rather stirred a hornet's nest of THRUSH. Providing safe extradition from the area for you both will take about three days to arrange. Do you still have your original ticket?"

"I am afraid not, sir. I lost it somewhere in the marketplace while we were dodging THRUSH."

"Just as well. That flight would not have been safe now since they know what Mrs. Quimby looks like. Are the two of you in a safe location, Mister Kuryakin?"

"Yes, Mister Waverly. It's seems to be well hidden."

"Excellent. Keep a close eye on Mrs. Quimby and I will contact you with the travel details once they have been confirmed."

"Yes, sir."

As he put away his communicator, he turned to find her watching him with eyes green as a cat.

"Are we leaving soon?"

"Eventually, but for now we must stay here. Is there food and water available?"

"There is a covered access to a well, so water isn't a problem. I just went to the market yesterday, so there is enough food for four, maybe five days if we eat lightly. Will that be enough?"

"It should be more than enough."

The silence held for several minutes after that as Katsi began to toy with the multi-hued bed spread.

"I knew when I laid with you last night that this. . . that we couldn't last. With the life you must lead, you are bound to leave."

He remained still for a moment watching Katsi, then settled back down beside her.

"Someday yes, but not today."

"Carpe diem?"

A smile formed as he leaned forward to capture her mouth.

"A most excellent suggestion."

Comments

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

Clever use of the song lyrics! Nicely done!

[avirra.livejournal.com]

Thank you - this is admittedly me writing out what's always sort of been in my head when listening to this song. Definitely a story song *nod*.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

What a beautiful piece, and so evocative of the lyrics. If I may say so, a longer version of this would be very welcome.

[avirra.livejournal.com]

Many thanks - hmm. this one I could actually see going longer. I'll see what the muse says about that after some thought.