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section7mfu2015-02-14 09:51 pm
jantojones.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-02-14 09:51 pm
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There's More than One Type of Love
This is a short follow-up from my story, Promises. You need to read that before you read this.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Napoleon Solo found his partner, in the commissary, tucking into an impossibly large lunch. This London version of the room looked identical to its New York counterpart.
“Good news, Tovarisch,” the American announced as he sat opposite Illya. “We don’t have to head home for forty-eight hours, and today is Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m sorry Napoleon, but you’re not my type.”
On the next table, two women giggled at the exchange. Illya flashed them his icy glare, but Napoleon winked at them.
“You should be careful what you say,” Napoleon told his friend. “It is statements like that which start rumours.”
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “Can we get to the point of your pronouncement of the date?”
“Okay Mr Tetchy. I’ve got us dates for tonight. Before you say no, it’s no strings or obligation. Just dinner and dancing with two of the ladies from communications.”
Illya actually welcomed the idea of a date. Being back in London reminded him of times past and he welcomed any distraction. He’d always liked the city; right up until his government had taken the beauty out of it.
“I shall be happy to take a young lady out tonight,” he told Napoleon, who’d been expecting a fight. “There is something I need to this afternoon, however, and would appreciate it if you come with me.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
An hour and a half later, Napoleon found himself following Illya through a cemetery. On the way, they had stopped at a florist, where the Russian had bought a dozen red roses. They were almost at the other side of the cemetery when Illya stopped in front of a small and unassuming headstone. The only words on the stone were ‘Pamela Mary Kuryakina. Любимый (beloved)’.
Napoleon recalled New Year when, much to his astonishment, Illya had told him about Pamela. It had come as a huge shock, and had left Solo wondering why there wasn’t a single word about it in his partner’s files.
“Napoleon, this is my wife Pamela,” Illya told him. To the grave he said, “Pammy, I would like you to meet my closest friend, Napoleon Solo. Don’t laugh, but he’s American. Who would have guessed that would happen?”
Kuryakin knelt down and arranged the roses in the permanent stone vase. He kissed the tips of his fingers before pressing them against his wife’s name. Behind him, Napoleon stood in an awkward silence. Even though he’d been invited by Illya, he felt as though he were intruding. Then it hit him. The Russian trusted very few people, even with the less important aspects of his life. By bringing Napoleon to this place, he was making himself as vulnerable as a new-born. Solo realised he was being given the biggest gift Illya could give. When his partner got back to his feet, Napoleon thanked him.
“There is no need for thanks my friend,” Illya replied, his voice choked with emotion. “There is more than one type of love in this world, and with you, I have the love of a trusted brother. I’m still not quite ready to tell you all about her, but it’s not because I want to keep it hidden from you. It’s because I have spoken to anyone about her since she died.”
Napoleon pulled Illya into a tight embrace, which the other man accepted gratefully.
“Take your time, Tovarisch,” Solo told him. “I know she existed, and I know where she rests. For now, that’s enough.”
“Thank you my friend,” Illya answered. “Now, let me buy you a drink before we have to meet our dates tonight.”
Napoleon glanced at the grave.
“Don’t worry Napoleon. It took me a long time, but Pammy wouldn’t want me to be lonely. Anyway, it’s only dinner.”
The End.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Napoleon Solo found his partner, in the commissary, tucking into an impossibly large lunch. This London version of the room looked identical to its New York counterpart.
“Good news, Tovarisch,” the American announced as he sat opposite Illya. “We don’t have to head home for forty-eight hours, and today is Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m sorry Napoleon, but you’re not my type.”
On the next table, two women giggled at the exchange. Illya flashed them his icy glare, but Napoleon winked at them.
“You should be careful what you say,” Napoleon told his friend. “It is statements like that which start rumours.”
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “Can we get to the point of your pronouncement of the date?”
“Okay Mr Tetchy. I’ve got us dates for tonight. Before you say no, it’s no strings or obligation. Just dinner and dancing with two of the ladies from communications.”
Illya actually welcomed the idea of a date. Being back in London reminded him of times past and he welcomed any distraction. He’d always liked the city; right up until his government had taken the beauty out of it.
“I shall be happy to take a young lady out tonight,” he told Napoleon, who’d been expecting a fight. “There is something I need to this afternoon, however, and would appreciate it if you come with me.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
An hour and a half later, Napoleon found himself following Illya through a cemetery. On the way, they had stopped at a florist, where the Russian had bought a dozen red roses. They were almost at the other side of the cemetery when Illya stopped in front of a small and unassuming headstone. The only words on the stone were ‘Pamela Mary Kuryakina. Любимый (beloved)’.
Napoleon recalled New Year when, much to his astonishment, Illya had told him about Pamela. It had come as a huge shock, and had left Solo wondering why there wasn’t a single word about it in his partner’s files.
“Napoleon, this is my wife Pamela,” Illya told him. To the grave he said, “Pammy, I would like you to meet my closest friend, Napoleon Solo. Don’t laugh, but he’s American. Who would have guessed that would happen?”
Kuryakin knelt down and arranged the roses in the permanent stone vase. He kissed the tips of his fingers before pressing them against his wife’s name. Behind him, Napoleon stood in an awkward silence. Even though he’d been invited by Illya, he felt as though he were intruding. Then it hit him. The Russian trusted very few people, even with the less important aspects of his life. By bringing Napoleon to this place, he was making himself as vulnerable as a new-born. Solo realised he was being given the biggest gift Illya could give. When his partner got back to his feet, Napoleon thanked him.
“There is no need for thanks my friend,” Illya replied, his voice choked with emotion. “There is more than one type of love in this world, and with you, I have the love of a trusted brother. I’m still not quite ready to tell you all about her, but it’s not because I want to keep it hidden from you. It’s because I have spoken to anyone about her since she died.”
Napoleon pulled Illya into a tight embrace, which the other man accepted gratefully.
“Take your time, Tovarisch,” Solo told him. “I know she existed, and I know where she rests. For now, that’s enough.”
“Thank you my friend,” Illya answered. “Now, let me buy you a drink before we have to meet our dates tonight.”
Napoleon glanced at the grave.
“Don’t worry Napoleon. It took me a long time, but Pammy wouldn’t want me to be lonely. Anyway, it’s only dinner.”
The End.
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I was just trying to show that romantic love isn't the only kind there is. I love my best friend deeply, and back when we worked together, our colleagues took our closeness the wrong way. The rumours which flew round that place were certainly interesting, LOL