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section7mfu2014-11-05 09:31 am
lindafishes8.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2014-11-05 09:31 am
Entry tags:
A New Story-Chapter 3
With heartfelt thanks to mrua7 for praise, encouragement and beta skills.
Friendly Fire is always a possibility in the career of a Section 2 field agent, when it happens; how they deal with it can either make or break them.
Link to Chapter 1-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5701682
Link to Chapter 2-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5717075
Chapter 3
A spring thunderstorm was still raging when Solo paid a late night visit to his partner, giving his coded knock on Illya’s door. He’d tried earlier to reach him by communicator and then phoned but there was no answer. Now, no response to his knock either.
Napoleon reached for the doorknob and tried it, discovering the door was unlocked.
Suspecting trouble, he drew his weapon, removed the safety, and flattened himself against the wall. Without making a sound, he opened the door just a few inches in one smooth, careful motion and listened cautiously.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Go ‘way Napoleon,” a voice called from within.
Solo blew out a sigh of relief and stepped inside. The room was dark. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and he could barely make out the form of his partner sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
Locking the door, he moved to the kitchen and switched on the gentler light, not wanting to blind Illya with the bright overhead one.
He put on the safety and returned his weapon to it’s holster, then carefully arranged his wet raincoat on a dining room chair to drip dry.
A curtain billowing wildly caught his attention, as did the moan made by the wind vibrating a window screen, sending a shiver up his spine.
The smell of ozone assaulted his nostrils and he crinkled his nose; a dampness hung in the air, giving the evening a heavy, sticky feeling.
“Maids day off is it?” Napoleon commented as he sidestepped discarded articles of clothing to find a seat on the sofa near his partner.
Illya was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, dressed only in his underwear; his blond mop in wild disarray. Like the blinding light of a photographer’s camera flash, lightning briefly illuminated the room and the still form of Kuryakin.
“And you forgot to lock your door,” Solo said firmly, driving home his point.
A loud thunderclap directly overhead rattled the windows, startling the Ukrainian.
Napoleon noted the raw nerves of his partner as well as the bottle in his hands. He snatched it away before the man could react.
“Embalming ourselves tonight tovarich?” He asked, holding it up to the light to see how much vodka remained.
“Tell me this wasn’t full before you started?”
No answer.
Solo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on Illya?”
Kuryakin found his voice this time. “Leave me alone Napoleon. Jus’ go home. I’m fine. Jus’ fine.”
Solo could make out his friend’s lack of expression. As usual his face was unreadable.
“Well you don’t look jus’ fine! And what happened to your hand?”
There was dried blood covering the knuckles of Illya’s right hand and he looked surprised as if noticing the lacerations for the first time.
“Hadda fight with the bathroom mirror,” he mumbled; his glossy blue eyes dilated to the point of being black, staring straight ahead, unfocused.
“Who won?” Napoleon muttered as he hopped up to retrieve some first aid supplies from the medicine cabinet and stopped in his tracks as he noticed his partner’s empty black shoulder holster lying on the floor.
He looked around quickly for the weapon, not finding it.
“Illya where’s your gun?” Napoleon asked calmly and succinctly. His question was punctuated by the long rumble of rolling thunder.
“Waverly has it,” Illya responded flatly.
“And why does he have your Walther?”
“Evidently I can’t be trusted with it.”
First aid supplies in hand, Solo sat on the floor beside his partner and set about cleaning and bandaging his injuries. Kuryakin’s head dropped back to rest against the couch.
Seeing his partner like this was distressing for Napoleon. Something was terribly wrong. He wondered what the hell Illya had meant by that last remark but hesitated to ask him to clarify it. Instead he changed the subject.
“We’ve got an 8 a.m. meeting tomorrow. What are you doing drinking so heavily on a Monday night?”
‘Suspended from active duty’ meant no meeting for the blond, but he kept that news to himself for now. He lifted his head and sighed; feeling the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders.
Again there was no answer. Illya was avoiding eye contact and that was never a good sign. Solo knew from experience that large quantities of alcohol exacerbated his friend’s already dark moods.
Napoleon was finally able to see that his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Almost afraid to say the words, he gently asked his next question.
“Have you been crying?”
Kuryakin lifted his eyes to finally meet his partners and found them full of concern.
“Talk to me,” Solo whispered.
“Some water first?”
Napoleon eagerly complied as his usually taciturn friend seemed willing to answer his questions now. Getting him to open up was akin to cracking a complicated safe. Many different methods might be needed to discover the secrets hidden within; if one combination didn’t work, another would be tried. It was always worth the effort.
The Russian’s hands trembled as he accepted the glass, and Solo sat back down close by. The glass was emptied quickly and he met Napoleon’s gaze once again.
Concentrating hard on enunciating his words without slurring, Kuryakin began to speak.
“I killed...a little girl.”
Solo was caught off guard and his eyes widened. He started to say something but Illya countered.
“Please Napoleon! Don’t interrupt me, I won’t be able to continue if you do.”
He chose his words carefully.
“Mr.Waverly showed me a report from the Montville Police Department. Their investigation concluded a bullet from an U.N.C.L.E. Walther P38 struck a family’s car as it travelled the highway in Montville this past Friday.”
Illya paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths before he began to speak again.
“The highway was beyond that barn where we had the shootout.”
Solo opened his mouth to speak but Illya’s hand gesture stopped him.
“Please Napoleon! I can’t...let me finish. A bullet struck the car at around 11:02 a.m. That’s the time we were at the barn and we were firing in the direction of the highway.”
“Between us we fired three rounds. You fired once, hitting one THRUSH agent and I fired twice hitting the other, but one of my shots...missed.”
His voice waivered on the last word and he paused again trying to maintain his composure. Illya’s whole body began to tremble as he closed his eyes.
“The child was traveling with her parents…my stray bullet hit her and she died instantly.”
He swallowed hard, taking another deep breath.
“Mr. Waverly confiscated my Walther to have the ballistics checked to corroborate what they already knew. So Napoleon, while you and I were out having our little celebration that girl’s parents were…”
His voice broke into a muffled sob and he turned his head away, covering his face with his unbandaged hand.
Napoleon reached out, clasping his partner’s shoulders reassuringly.
After many long and silent minutes, Illya regained his composure. He wiped his face with his hands, and turned facing forward, a far away look in his eyes.
Solo spoke again, his voice soothing.
“Do you recall that time in Switzerland when those boys from the T.H.R.U.S.H. school fired at us?”
Illya responded to that voice and slowly tilted his head sideways toward Napoleon. Seeing kindness in those brown eyes, the Ukrainian nodded.
“École Figliano. They were being trained as assassins,” Illya remembered with a shudder. He’d been tortured for information at that school.*
“Yes and we both blindly fired our guns,” Solo went on. “I’ve lost hours of sleep over what could’ve happened.”
“You know Illya, any time we fire a weapon there’s a chance an innocent could be hurt or killed. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know and it’s not my intention to make light of what happened. I’m only saying it’s a risk that every enforcement agent takes.”
Kuryakin brushed his hair from his eyes with his good hand. Napoleon’s words were comforting and he was glad his friend was here but now he needed to disconnect himself from his feelings. Sharing this personal ‘dishonor’ left him thoroughly exhausted and his mattress was calling him.
“You should g’home and I need t’ get some sleep.”
They helped each other up and staggering, Illya grasped Napoleon’s arm for support, steadying himself but suddenly pulled away. Determined to stand on his own; he turned, heading to the bathroom.
“Careful of the glass on the floor in there,” Solo called as his partner made his way to relieve himself.
“I’ll just want to tidy up a bit,” he added.
Napoleon stood by patiently, watching to make sure his partner made it safely to his bed.
“Thank you,” Illya called to him a minute later, his voice muffled by a pillow.
Solo closed and locked the window; seeing the storm had finally passed.
He set about sweeping the broken glass from the bathroom floor and sink, making a mental note to have maintenance replace the mirror, most of which still hung on the wall. When he finished his chores, he kicked off his shoes, heading for the couch; resolved to spend the night.
* “The Children’s Day Affair”
To Be Continued.
Friendly Fire is always a possibility in the career of a Section 2 field agent, when it happens; how they deal with it can either make or break them.
Link to Chapter 1-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5701682
Link to Chapter 2-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5717075
Chapter 3
A spring thunderstorm was still raging when Solo paid a late night visit to his partner, giving his coded knock on Illya’s door. He’d tried earlier to reach him by communicator and then phoned but there was no answer. Now, no response to his knock either.
Napoleon reached for the doorknob and tried it, discovering the door was unlocked.
Suspecting trouble, he drew his weapon, removed the safety, and flattened himself against the wall. Without making a sound, he opened the door just a few inches in one smooth, careful motion and listened cautiously.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Go ‘way Napoleon,” a voice called from within.
Solo blew out a sigh of relief and stepped inside. The room was dark. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and he could barely make out the form of his partner sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
Locking the door, he moved to the kitchen and switched on the gentler light, not wanting to blind Illya with the bright overhead one.
He put on the safety and returned his weapon to it’s holster, then carefully arranged his wet raincoat on a dining room chair to drip dry.
A curtain billowing wildly caught his attention, as did the moan made by the wind vibrating a window screen, sending a shiver up his spine.
The smell of ozone assaulted his nostrils and he crinkled his nose; a dampness hung in the air, giving the evening a heavy, sticky feeling.
“Maids day off is it?” Napoleon commented as he sidestepped discarded articles of clothing to find a seat on the sofa near his partner.
Illya was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, dressed only in his underwear; his blond mop in wild disarray. Like the blinding light of a photographer’s camera flash, lightning briefly illuminated the room and the still form of Kuryakin.
“And you forgot to lock your door,” Solo said firmly, driving home his point.
A loud thunderclap directly overhead rattled the windows, startling the Ukrainian.
Napoleon noted the raw nerves of his partner as well as the bottle in his hands. He snatched it away before the man could react.
“Embalming ourselves tonight tovarich?” He asked, holding it up to the light to see how much vodka remained.
“Tell me this wasn’t full before you started?”
No answer.
Solo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on Illya?”
Kuryakin found his voice this time. “Leave me alone Napoleon. Jus’ go home. I’m fine. Jus’ fine.”
Solo could make out his friend’s lack of expression. As usual his face was unreadable.
“Well you don’t look jus’ fine! And what happened to your hand?”
There was dried blood covering the knuckles of Illya’s right hand and he looked surprised as if noticing the lacerations for the first time.
“Hadda fight with the bathroom mirror,” he mumbled; his glossy blue eyes dilated to the point of being black, staring straight ahead, unfocused.
“Who won?” Napoleon muttered as he hopped up to retrieve some first aid supplies from the medicine cabinet and stopped in his tracks as he noticed his partner’s empty black shoulder holster lying on the floor.
He looked around quickly for the weapon, not finding it.
“Illya where’s your gun?” Napoleon asked calmly and succinctly. His question was punctuated by the long rumble of rolling thunder.
“Waverly has it,” Illya responded flatly.
“And why does he have your Walther?”
“Evidently I can’t be trusted with it.”
First aid supplies in hand, Solo sat on the floor beside his partner and set about cleaning and bandaging his injuries. Kuryakin’s head dropped back to rest against the couch.
Seeing his partner like this was distressing for Napoleon. Something was terribly wrong. He wondered what the hell Illya had meant by that last remark but hesitated to ask him to clarify it. Instead he changed the subject.
“We’ve got an 8 a.m. meeting tomorrow. What are you doing drinking so heavily on a Monday night?”
‘Suspended from active duty’ meant no meeting for the blond, but he kept that news to himself for now. He lifted his head and sighed; feeling the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders.
Again there was no answer. Illya was avoiding eye contact and that was never a good sign. Solo knew from experience that large quantities of alcohol exacerbated his friend’s already dark moods.
Napoleon was finally able to see that his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Almost afraid to say the words, he gently asked his next question.
“Have you been crying?”
Kuryakin lifted his eyes to finally meet his partners and found them full of concern.
“Talk to me,” Solo whispered.
“Some water first?”
Napoleon eagerly complied as his usually taciturn friend seemed willing to answer his questions now. Getting him to open up was akin to cracking a complicated safe. Many different methods might be needed to discover the secrets hidden within; if one combination didn’t work, another would be tried. It was always worth the effort.
The Russian’s hands trembled as he accepted the glass, and Solo sat back down close by. The glass was emptied quickly and he met Napoleon’s gaze once again.
Concentrating hard on enunciating his words without slurring, Kuryakin began to speak.
“I killed...a little girl.”
Solo was caught off guard and his eyes widened. He started to say something but Illya countered.
“Please Napoleon! Don’t interrupt me, I won’t be able to continue if you do.”
He chose his words carefully.
“Mr.Waverly showed me a report from the Montville Police Department. Their investigation concluded a bullet from an U.N.C.L.E. Walther P38 struck a family’s car as it travelled the highway in Montville this past Friday.”
Illya paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths before he began to speak again.
“The highway was beyond that barn where we had the shootout.”
Solo opened his mouth to speak but Illya’s hand gesture stopped him.
“Please Napoleon! I can’t...let me finish. A bullet struck the car at around 11:02 a.m. That’s the time we were at the barn and we were firing in the direction of the highway.”
“Between us we fired three rounds. You fired once, hitting one THRUSH agent and I fired twice hitting the other, but one of my shots...missed.”
His voice waivered on the last word and he paused again trying to maintain his composure. Illya’s whole body began to tremble as he closed his eyes.
“The child was traveling with her parents…my stray bullet hit her and she died instantly.”
He swallowed hard, taking another deep breath.
“Mr. Waverly confiscated my Walther to have the ballistics checked to corroborate what they already knew. So Napoleon, while you and I were out having our little celebration that girl’s parents were…”
His voice broke into a muffled sob and he turned his head away, covering his face with his unbandaged hand.
Napoleon reached out, clasping his partner’s shoulders reassuringly.
After many long and silent minutes, Illya regained his composure. He wiped his face with his hands, and turned facing forward, a far away look in his eyes.
Solo spoke again, his voice soothing.
“Do you recall that time in Switzerland when those boys from the T.H.R.U.S.H. school fired at us?”
Illya responded to that voice and slowly tilted his head sideways toward Napoleon. Seeing kindness in those brown eyes, the Ukrainian nodded.
“École Figliano. They were being trained as assassins,” Illya remembered with a shudder. He’d been tortured for information at that school.*
“Yes and we both blindly fired our guns,” Solo went on. “I’ve lost hours of sleep over what could’ve happened.”
“You know Illya, any time we fire a weapon there’s a chance an innocent could be hurt or killed. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know and it’s not my intention to make light of what happened. I’m only saying it’s a risk that every enforcement agent takes.”
Kuryakin brushed his hair from his eyes with his good hand. Napoleon’s words were comforting and he was glad his friend was here but now he needed to disconnect himself from his feelings. Sharing this personal ‘dishonor’ left him thoroughly exhausted and his mattress was calling him.
“You should g’home and I need t’ get some sleep.”
They helped each other up and staggering, Illya grasped Napoleon’s arm for support, steadying himself but suddenly pulled away. Determined to stand on his own; he turned, heading to the bathroom.
“Careful of the glass on the floor in there,” Solo called as his partner made his way to relieve himself.
“I’ll just want to tidy up a bit,” he added.
Napoleon stood by patiently, watching to make sure his partner made it safely to his bed.
“Thank you,” Illya called to him a minute later, his voice muffled by a pillow.
Solo closed and locked the window; seeing the storm had finally passed.
He set about sweeping the broken glass from the bathroom floor and sink, making a mental note to have maintenance replace the mirror, most of which still hung on the wall. When he finished his chores, he kicked off his shoes, heading for the couch; resolved to spend the night.
* “The Children’s Day Affair”
To Be Continued.
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Wow! You've complimented me on a story you haven't even read yet. That's a first.
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