A New Story-Chapter 4
Nov. 6th, 2014 09:34 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuWith 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
Link to Chapter 3-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5726660
Chapter 4
Illya woke early to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a roaring headache. He stumbled towards the bathroom; the gauze encircling his hand and shattered mirror above the sink grim reminders of last night’s alcohol-fueled rage at his own reflection.
After taking care of business he pulled a comb through his hair, momentarily startled by multiple reflections of himself in the splintered shards of broken glass. He retreated to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of tattered grey sweatpants to make himself a bit more presentable.
Glancing at his bed; the tangled sheets and missing pillow attested to his restless night’s sleep. He finally wandered toward the source of the aroma and spotted Solo in the living room. He was standing in front of the window; bathed in rays of sunshine while particles of dust sparkled and danced around him.
Illya stopped in his tracks and noticed that his partner was still in the same clothes as the day before; his discarded shoes by the couch.
“You didn’t need to stay.”
Sipping from his mug of coffee, Napoleon turned to scrutinize his friend. He knew Illya had slept fitfully as he heard him tossing and moaning throughout the night.
The Ukrainian was a textbook image of a hangover with dark undereye circles accenting his pale and cheerless face. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused and he was perspiring heavily, bangs plastered to his forehead.
“How goes it this morning, partner mine?”
Feeling more than a little grumpy, Illya interpreted the stare and comment as critical. Solo had that ‘judgemental look’ about him. He’d seen it before, and was well aware of how he looked from the previous night’s binge but he’d seen his friend looking much worse.
“I was raised on vodka Napoleon,” Illya said with an attitude.
As soon as the words left his lips he regretted uttering them. Napoleon deserved better than to be groused at, after all, his partner had stayed the night to watch over him.
Illya poured a mug of coffee for himself and settled in a chair at the dining room table. There was a tremor in his hand as he took a sip; his stomach sent him a stern ‘queasy’ signal and he set down the mug.
Solo eyed him carefully, half-smiling and spoke, “Not what I meant.”
With elbows on the table, Illya rested his ‘two sizes too big’ head in his hands. The headache was worse and he winced as he shut his eyes.
“Sorry,” the Ukrainian said softly.
“There will be no enforcement meeting for you this morning then.”
“No meeting. I’ve been relieved of active duty. Mr.Waverly told me to be in his office at eleven. The ballistic report is due by then.” He glanced up at Napoleon.
Solo rubbed his heavily stubbled chin. “Could have been T.H.R.U.S.H.’s bullet that was responsible.”
Illya shook his head slowly. He needn’t look at a report to know where the bullet had come from. Every instinct he had was pointing to that yet unproven fact. The vise began to squeeze around his heart again and the queasiness suddenly overtook him.
With a look of utter panic he jumped up and made a mad dash to the bathroom.
Napoleon frowned at the sounds of his friend retching.
“Raised on Vodka, indeed.” He contemplated the lukewarm coffee at the bottom of his cup then dumped the remainder down the kitchen sink.
Solo paused outside the bathroom door and rapped. “I have to get going. We can meet for lunch if you’re up for it by then. Give me a call, okay?”
All he heard was a muffled, “Fine.”
Solo left for his apartment. He felt scruffy in his wrinkled clothes and unshaven face.
He shuddered, remembering Illya’s words, "I killed a little girl.” Napoleon knew he was in a well of hurt and it would take time for him to climb out of it.
“There but for the grace of God…” Solo muttered.
He was resolved to help his suffering friend. They were partners, and partners always watched each others backs; no matter what kind of trouble they were in.
How complicated their lives were…
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
Link to Chapter 3-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5726660
Chapter 4
Illya woke early to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a roaring headache. He stumbled towards the bathroom; the gauze encircling his hand and shattered mirror above the sink grim reminders of last night’s alcohol-fueled rage at his own reflection.
After taking care of business he pulled a comb through his hair, momentarily startled by multiple reflections of himself in the splintered shards of broken glass. He retreated to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of tattered grey sweatpants to make himself a bit more presentable.
Glancing at his bed; the tangled sheets and missing pillow attested to his restless night’s sleep. He finally wandered toward the source of the aroma and spotted Solo in the living room. He was standing in front of the window; bathed in rays of sunshine while particles of dust sparkled and danced around him.
Illya stopped in his tracks and noticed that his partner was still in the same clothes as the day before; his discarded shoes by the couch.
“You didn’t need to stay.”
Sipping from his mug of coffee, Napoleon turned to scrutinize his friend. He knew Illya had slept fitfully as he heard him tossing and moaning throughout the night.
The Ukrainian was a textbook image of a hangover with dark undereye circles accenting his pale and cheerless face. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused and he was perspiring heavily, bangs plastered to his forehead.
“How goes it this morning, partner mine?”
Feeling more than a little grumpy, Illya interpreted the stare and comment as critical. Solo had that ‘judgemental look’ about him. He’d seen it before, and was well aware of how he looked from the previous night’s binge but he’d seen his friend looking much worse.
“I was raised on vodka Napoleon,” Illya said with an attitude.
As soon as the words left his lips he regretted uttering them. Napoleon deserved better than to be groused at, after all, his partner had stayed the night to watch over him.
Illya poured a mug of coffee for himself and settled in a chair at the dining room table. There was a tremor in his hand as he took a sip; his stomach sent him a stern ‘queasy’ signal and he set down the mug.
Solo eyed him carefully, half-smiling and spoke, “Not what I meant.”
With elbows on the table, Illya rested his ‘two sizes too big’ head in his hands. The headache was worse and he winced as he shut his eyes.
“Sorry,” the Ukrainian said softly.
“There will be no enforcement meeting for you this morning then.”
“No meeting. I’ve been relieved of active duty. Mr.Waverly told me to be in his office at eleven. The ballistic report is due by then.” He glanced up at Napoleon.
Solo rubbed his heavily stubbled chin. “Could have been T.H.R.U.S.H.’s bullet that was responsible.”
Illya shook his head slowly. He needn’t look at a report to know where the bullet had come from. Every instinct he had was pointing to that yet unproven fact. The vise began to squeeze around his heart again and the queasiness suddenly overtook him.
With a look of utter panic he jumped up and made a mad dash to the bathroom.
Napoleon frowned at the sounds of his friend retching.
“Raised on Vodka, indeed.” He contemplated the lukewarm coffee at the bottom of his cup then dumped the remainder down the kitchen sink.
Solo paused outside the bathroom door and rapped. “I have to get going. We can meet for lunch if you’re up for it by then. Give me a call, okay?”
All he heard was a muffled, “Fine.”
Solo left for his apartment. He felt scruffy in his wrinkled clothes and unshaven face.
He shuddered, remembering Illya’s words, "I killed a little girl.” Napoleon knew he was in a well of hurt and it would take time for him to climb out of it.
“There but for the grace of God…” Solo muttered.
He was resolved to help his suffering friend. They were partners, and partners always watched each others backs; no matter what kind of trouble they were in.
How complicated their lives were…
To Be Continued.
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