MFU Fanfic: Blue Diamonds
Apr. 3rd, 2010 01:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101The first part of this story is the second Egg I posted at MFU Writers Survival School. Charismaz requested a N/I preslash story, a rocky road egg, of pondering thoughts and dance for her Easter surprise.
Once started, the story grew well beyond the word limit for the Easter Eggs, so here is the first part (Egg, originally posted on MFUWSS) and the rest of the story. (Also posted on MUNCLE.)
Rating: Between PG-13 and NC-17
Word Count: 2790
Disclaimer: MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Excerpt:
Illya had paused near the bottom of the steps for a moment before entering the room. It had been long enough to draw the appraising gazes of several sets of eyes, despite the gloom of the club. The dazzling white of his open-necked shirt had helped to attract attention, the shimmer of his long, blond hair in the light from the top of the stairs had helped even more, but for those close enough to see in the low light, it was the very snug cut of his black trousers that had helped most of all. Discreetly, Illya scanned the tables near him and as much of the dance floor as was visible from where he stood, then he descended the final two steps and made his way towards the dance floor for a more thorough reconnaissance.
Illya had paused near the bottom of the steps for a moment before entering the room. It had been long enough to draw the appraising gazes of several sets of eyes, despite the gloom of the club. The dazzling white of his open-necked shirt had helped to attract attention, the shimmer of his long, blond hair in the light from the top of the stairs had helped even more, but for those close enough to see in the low light, it was the very snug cut of his black trousers that had helped most of all. Discreetly, Illya scanned the tables near him and as much of the dance floor as was visible from where he stood, then he descended the final two steps and made his way towards the dance floor for a more thorough reconnaissance.
“Oh, honey, come sit with us,” a smoky voice said. A brief caress to his right buttock accompanied the remark as he passed a table of three women in their forties.
A tall man rose from a table and blocked his path. “Care to dance?” he asked. Illya glanced up. He was the right height, but leaner and had the wrong colour hair for the arms dealer he’d been sent to find.
Illya tilted his head and smiled slightly. “Maybe later,” he replied, lowering his lashes for an instant. “I have a friend to find.”
“Lucky him,” the man replied and slipped back into his seat. “I’ll be here,” he added as Illya moved away.
After making a circuit of the dance floor, Illya checked the men’s room. The man washing his hands looked him over before his apparent companion turned from the urinal and caught his arm. He gave Illya a dark look as he ushered his friend out the door. Illya snorted. “Not my type,” he muttered under his breath. He drew a comb from his back pocket and positioned himself in front of the mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the closed stall door behind him which had two pairs of shoes showing beneath it. The comb snagged the back of the stud earring in his right ear. “Damn,” he hissed. The light blue stone twinkled in the fluorescent light. Illya smiled. Haywood from Section Three had suggested it, and supplied it from the wardrobe room before he’d left London HQ. Visually it was a nice touch, but a potential liability in a fight.
The sound from the stall, although not loud, was unmistakable. A minute later the two occupants emerged, one going straight out the door without a backwards glance. A bald man with a good body. Not the arms dealer he was searching for. The other, very slender, possibly still in his teens, stopped by the basins, turned on a tap and bent to rinse his mouth. In the mirror, he caught Illya’s eye and shrugged. Illya nodded almost imperceptibly, pocketed his comb and left.
He’d been watching the dancers sway through a slow number, when he spotted a tall man with dark hair dancing with a sandy-haired fellow. Illya made his way onto the dance floor. “May I cut in?” he asked. The fair-haired man turned an annoyed face to him, gave Illya the once over and smiled.
“If you promise to dance with me, later,” he replied, letting go of his partner‘s waist.
Illya smiled back. “Later, then,” he said and the man headed off in the direction of the bar.
Napoleon’s arms closed around Illya and they began to sway. “What are you doing here?” Illya asked. “I thought you were in Brussels.”
“I followed the THRUSH dancing with the redhead over there,” Napoleon whispered in Illya’s ear as he turned them around, moving in time to the music, so Illya could see them. “And London nightlife is so much more interesting.”
“What are you doing?” Illya asked as Napoleon dipped him backwards and insinuated his thigh between Illya’s legs.
“Making us look convincing, partner,” Napoleon replied softly, nibbling on Illya’s earlobe. “When did you get pierced ears?”
“Just one. Tonight. And it’s still tender, be careful what you’re doing,” Illya warned.
“Always,” Napoleon murmured.
“May I cut in?” a voice enquired.
The arms dealer was taller than Napoleon, his build heavier, his dark hair longer. His eyes were on Illya. All over Illya. Illya glanced at Napoleon. “If you wish,” Napoleon said peevishly, releasing him and taking a step back. “You know where my table is.”
The other man took Illya into his arms. Illya rested his head against his silk-clad shoulder. The man sighed and held Illya closer. “You are the most desirable creature in this room,” he said. “How could he let you go?”
Illya pulled his head back, which pressed their hips more firmly together, and looked the man in the eye. “I go where I please,” he said coolly. “And with whom.”
His dancing partner swallowed and nodded. One hand reached up and brushed Illya’s hair behind his ear. “A pretty ornament,” he observed, lightly outlining the ear with a fingertip. “I could give you sapphires,” he said.
“They’re too dark,” Illya replied, allowing his lips to curve up slightly as though pleased at the turn of the conversation.
“Blue diamonds, then,” the man countered.
“Possibly,” Illya replied. “Depends on the shade.”
The man leaned forward, kissed Illya’s forehead and murmured, “I’ll find ones that match your eyes.”
*************
Napoleon kept the THRUSH agent, the arms dealer and Illya in view. I am peeved. I didn’t want to let you go, he thought.
****************
Illya went straight from the arms dealer’s apartment in Mayfair to headquarters and the Section One office. Illya entered, open file in hand. Two men looked up; one was Napoleon. “Section Eight developed these just now,” Illya said, passing the file to Mr Hawthorne. “I think we’ve got everything we need to catch them red-handed at the next exchange.”
Illya helped himself to a cup of tea and a scone from the refreshments on the sideboard as Mr Hawthorne scanned the report on top of the photographs.
“Late afternoon, day after tomorrow,” Mr Hawthorne noted. “Do you think Mr Agincourt suspects you?”
“I don’t think so,” Illya replied. “Although I’ll have to see him again to keep it that way,” he added, bringing his cup and plate to the conference table.
“Even if he’s not onto you,” Mr Hawthorne said as he watched Illya walk across the room and seat himself. “THRUSH may be and warn him,” Mr Hawthorne considered. “We’ll wire you and Mr Solo can monitor in case you need backup.”
Illya glanced at Napoleon who was busy shuffling papers in the file in front of him.
************
Once he had parked, Napoleon turned off the radio speakers and moved from the driver’s seat into the back of the van. He settled in front of the console and put on the headphones.
“You feel it's inconsistent with my appreciation of music and poetry?” he heard Illya ask. Napoleon glanced up at the left monitor, then adjusted the contrast.
Inside the apartment across the street, Anton looked over from the liquor cabinet where he was busying himself with pouring drinks, one amber, one clear, both without ice. “From a scientist, I would expect a more cut and dried approach to life.”
In the van, Napoleon tensed. Had the information they had planted about Illya having worked on a government project in the Physics Department at Columbia backfired?
Illya folded the newspaper he had been perusing. “I take a very scientific approach to life,” he said, each word clipped.
Napoleon knew that tone of voice. Is he bluffing Anton or signalling me that the amorous atmosphere between them has just changed? Napoleon asked himself. He heard the rustle of paper and on the camera monitor he saw Anton turn to face Illya.
“Music, poetry and physics all have mathematics at their core,” Illya continued.
Anton took a sip of his drink, then picked up both glasses and walked toward the camera in the tip of the pen Illya had been using.
“Physicists face the fundamental questions of the universe and their hypotheses read like science fiction: time travel, parallel universes, dark matter, black holes. We are,” Illya reached out and took the glass from Anton, “the most mystical of scientists. You are, perhaps, confusing us with accountants.”
“Oh, they can get pretty creative, too,” Anton replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. Napoleon’s shoulder muscles relaxed fractionally. The camera was pointed across the room at the grand piano Illya had been playing earlier. Clair de Lune, then Moonlight Sonata. Napoleon had checked; it was a new moon. If they cut the power to the apartment building and the nearby street lights it would be totally dark. Was Illya signalling that he should get ready to do that? Napoleon’s hand moved towards the two switches in the vehicle that would interrupt the power. The camera swung around and Napoleon saw Anton’s arm stretching behind the couch to put his glass down on a table there.
“You don’t seem surprised that I’ve checked up on you,” he said.
“A reasonable precaution,” Illya replied. “Our meeting place didn’t provide a sterling reference for either of us.”
“So you have, as well?” Anton asked.
“A little,” Illya replied and took a sip of his drink. “I didn’t think it was that relevant…”
Anton’s shoulder got closer. Napoleon’s muscles tightened again. “I did. From the moment I set eyes on you, I was attracted, but when you cautioned me in that cold tone that you went where you pleased and with whom, I wanted you to be very relevant to me.”
“Because of one line?” Illya asked archly.
“I had the background check done the next morning,” he said.
We barely got that information in place in time, Napoleon realised.
“I called the jeweller’s first,” he said.
Thank heavens for that, Napoleon thought and his muscles got tenser. He’d seen the blue diamond earring Illya had come back to HQ with after it had been tested. No gimmicks, just a two-carat diamond of the first water set in platinum. He’d held it up near Illya’s eyes and told him it did match. Perfectly. Illya had snorted and batted his hand away from his face. He took you right out of my arms. Napoleon recalled the firmness that had registered against his upper thigh just before Anton had cut in. His fingers curled into a fist.
“So you liked what you found?” Illya asked and took another sip of what Napoleon assumed must be vodka.
“You knew that I liked what I’d found by the time you left me the first morning,” Anton answered and his hand reached out towards Illya.
Napoleon could only see Anton’s face from the nose down. He had shaved recently and his lips were full. Napoleon had read Illya’s initial report. He’d teased him about its catalogue of erotic details and Illya had replied that the frequency with which Anton had initiated sexual activity, as well as the ratio between the number of times he had brought Illya to climax and the number of times he had sought his own satisfaction were relevant to his state of mind and therefore the chances of the mission being successful.
“Impressed to the point of intimidation would be more accurate,” Anton finished.
“I’ll let that pass,” Illya said drily.
Are you nuts or are you Oscar material? Napoleon thought. Do you really think that he’s exaggerating?
“Were you satisfied with what you learned about what I do?” Anton asked and reached for his glass.
“I didn’t probe deeply. A cursory enquiry yielded more information about how successfully you’ve done it than details about what exactly it is that you’ve done,” Illya replied.
“My wealth, you mean?”
“Exactly. And I already had reliable first-hand evidence about that,” Illya said, sipping again.
“Did you have it appraised?”
“I had it checked,” Illya said.
“And?”
“I considered it more noteworthy that you secured such a stone so rapidly, than that you could pay for it,” Illya answered.
Napoleon could see the bottom of Anton’s hand where he’d brought it up to his brow, covering part of his face.
“Who are you, Illya?” he said and his voice held a hint of despair.
“Who are you, Anton?” Illya replied and sipped more vodka. “Who are we?” he added more quietly.
The glass Napoleon heard being set down clattered. The voice that responded had dropped to a deeper register and quavered slightly. “I know that I don’t really know, not even about myself, anymore, but…” Napoleon saw Anton’s jaw move forward, then his monitor showed only the white of a shirt front, “I know what I feel.” His voice was a hoarse whisper now. “What do you feel, Illya?”
Napoleon heard the rustle of fabric on fabric and the moist sound of lips upon lips, then Illya moaned and Napoleon’s blood ran cold.
*******************
The next afternoon it was Napoleon who joined Illya in Mr Hawthorne’s office. Both looked up and raised their eyebrows in similar enquiry as he entered.
“We got everyone and everything, cash, weapons, personnel, one or two of whom seem like they might be tempted to be talkative, and a code book which we should be able to use for at least a few hours before THRUSH realises they’ve been compromised,” Napoleon said as he walked to the table and sat down.
Illya finished writing something at the bottom of a page, closed the folder in front of him and handed it to Mr Hawthorne. “Were we able to trace the person in Agincourt’s past of whom I remind him?” Illya asked.
“We followed up that avenue as much as we could, but without success,” Mr Hawthorne replied. “Agincourt has done an admirable job of keeping his life hidden. He has talents we could use.”
Napoleon glanced at Illya who didn’t look his way. His expression was neutral. “What makes you so sure there was someone?”
“Such an intense response requires a history,” Illya answered. “Fortunately, the affair has ended successfully without the information. Who’s questioning him?”
“Mr Slate, at the moment, although I plan to join him,” Mr Hawthorne explained as he flipped through the file Illya had given him. “We’ll continue trying to find that link to his past; it would give us an advantage during the interrogation.” He looked across at Illya. “I would’ve preferred to keep you here a while longer to help with that, but Alexander is anxious to have you both back in New York.” Mr Hawthorne shifted his gaze to Napoleon. “Mr Solo, could you have your report written up before you leave this evening?”
“Of course, sir,” Napoleon replied and stood.
Mr Hawthorne toggled a switch on his desk. “Miss Fitzroy, could you join us for a moment? We need a copy of Mr Kuryakin’s report for Mr Solo,” he said.
“Thank you for your report, Mr Kuryakin. The idea of donating the jewel to the Natural History Museum is a good one, but I think we’ll keep it a while longer. We may use it to manipulate Mr Agincourt a bit.” Illya raised an eyebrow. “Oh, let him think we have you in custody and that he might be able to protect you if he cooperates, something along those lines. I would have preferred to have you to use in that manner, but I’ll have to make do,” he remarked, taking the blue diamond out of his pocket.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it, my dear?” he said to Miss Fitzroy as she reached his side. Mr Hawthorne moved the jewel so that it caught the light.
Miss Fitzroy paused a moment to admire it. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Just one copy?” she asked. Mr Hawthorne tapped the file on the desk and nodded. Miss Fitzroy whisked the file and herself out of the room. Napoleon watched her leave.
Mr Hawthorne cleared his throat and Napoleon returned his attention to him. Hawthorne looked over at Illya. “Now go to your hotel and get some sleep, Mr Kuryakin,” he ordered. Illya nodded and rose. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr Hawthorne concluded and picked up another file to read.
The office door opened silently before them and closed as silently when they stepped out.
Napoleon seated himself on the corner of the secretary’s empty desk to wait for his copy. Illya took a couple brisk steps down the corridor before Napoleon spoke. “I think your premise is flawed,” he said. Illya stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Sometimes one dance is all it takes.”
Illya shook his head and resumed walking. “You’re a romantic, Napoleon,” he said and turned the corner towards the elevators.
*************
The sequel, "Black Sapphires" may be found here.
Once started, the story grew well beyond the word limit for the Easter Eggs, so here is the first part (Egg, originally posted on MFUWSS) and the rest of the story. (Also posted on MUNCLE.)
Rating: Between PG-13 and NC-17
Word Count: 2790
Disclaimer: MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Excerpt:
Illya had paused near the bottom of the steps for a moment before entering the room. It had been long enough to draw the appraising gazes of several sets of eyes, despite the gloom of the club. The dazzling white of his open-necked shirt had helped to attract attention, the shimmer of his long, blond hair in the light from the top of the stairs had helped even more, but for those close enough to see in the low light, it was the very snug cut of his black trousers that had helped most of all. Discreetly, Illya scanned the tables near him and as much of the dance floor as was visible from where he stood, then he descended the final two steps and made his way towards the dance floor for a more thorough reconnaissance.
Illya had paused near the bottom of the steps for a moment before entering the room. It had been long enough to draw the appraising gazes of several sets of eyes, despite the gloom of the club. The dazzling white of his open-necked shirt had helped to attract attention, the shimmer of his long, blond hair in the light from the top of the stairs had helped even more, but for those close enough to see in the low light, it was the very snug cut of his black trousers that had helped most of all. Discreetly, Illya scanned the tables near him and as much of the dance floor as was visible from where he stood, then he descended the final two steps and made his way towards the dance floor for a more thorough reconnaissance.
“Oh, honey, come sit with us,” a smoky voice said. A brief caress to his right buttock accompanied the remark as he passed a table of three women in their forties.
A tall man rose from a table and blocked his path. “Care to dance?” he asked. Illya glanced up. He was the right height, but leaner and had the wrong colour hair for the arms dealer he’d been sent to find.
Illya tilted his head and smiled slightly. “Maybe later,” he replied, lowering his lashes for an instant. “I have a friend to find.”
“Lucky him,” the man replied and slipped back into his seat. “I’ll be here,” he added as Illya moved away.
After making a circuit of the dance floor, Illya checked the men’s room. The man washing his hands looked him over before his apparent companion turned from the urinal and caught his arm. He gave Illya a dark look as he ushered his friend out the door. Illya snorted. “Not my type,” he muttered under his breath. He drew a comb from his back pocket and positioned himself in front of the mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the closed stall door behind him which had two pairs of shoes showing beneath it. The comb snagged the back of the stud earring in his right ear. “Damn,” he hissed. The light blue stone twinkled in the fluorescent light. Illya smiled. Haywood from Section Three had suggested it, and supplied it from the wardrobe room before he’d left London HQ. Visually it was a nice touch, but a potential liability in a fight.
The sound from the stall, although not loud, was unmistakable. A minute later the two occupants emerged, one going straight out the door without a backwards glance. A bald man with a good body. Not the arms dealer he was searching for. The other, very slender, possibly still in his teens, stopped by the basins, turned on a tap and bent to rinse his mouth. In the mirror, he caught Illya’s eye and shrugged. Illya nodded almost imperceptibly, pocketed his comb and left.
He’d been watching the dancers sway through a slow number, when he spotted a tall man with dark hair dancing with a sandy-haired fellow. Illya made his way onto the dance floor. “May I cut in?” he asked. The fair-haired man turned an annoyed face to him, gave Illya the once over and smiled.
“If you promise to dance with me, later,” he replied, letting go of his partner‘s waist.
Illya smiled back. “Later, then,” he said and the man headed off in the direction of the bar.
Napoleon’s arms closed around Illya and they began to sway. “What are you doing here?” Illya asked. “I thought you were in Brussels.”
“I followed the THRUSH dancing with the redhead over there,” Napoleon whispered in Illya’s ear as he turned them around, moving in time to the music, so Illya could see them. “And London nightlife is so much more interesting.”
“What are you doing?” Illya asked as Napoleon dipped him backwards and insinuated his thigh between Illya’s legs.
“Making us look convincing, partner,” Napoleon replied softly, nibbling on Illya’s earlobe. “When did you get pierced ears?”
“Just one. Tonight. And it’s still tender, be careful what you’re doing,” Illya warned.
“Always,” Napoleon murmured.
“May I cut in?” a voice enquired.
The arms dealer was taller than Napoleon, his build heavier, his dark hair longer. His eyes were on Illya. All over Illya. Illya glanced at Napoleon. “If you wish,” Napoleon said peevishly, releasing him and taking a step back. “You know where my table is.”
The other man took Illya into his arms. Illya rested his head against his silk-clad shoulder. The man sighed and held Illya closer. “You are the most desirable creature in this room,” he said. “How could he let you go?”
Illya pulled his head back, which pressed their hips more firmly together, and looked the man in the eye. “I go where I please,” he said coolly. “And with whom.”
His dancing partner swallowed and nodded. One hand reached up and brushed Illya’s hair behind his ear. “A pretty ornament,” he observed, lightly outlining the ear with a fingertip. “I could give you sapphires,” he said.
“They’re too dark,” Illya replied, allowing his lips to curve up slightly as though pleased at the turn of the conversation.
“Blue diamonds, then,” the man countered.
“Possibly,” Illya replied. “Depends on the shade.”
The man leaned forward, kissed Illya’s forehead and murmured, “I’ll find ones that match your eyes.”
*************
Napoleon kept the THRUSH agent, the arms dealer and Illya in view. I am peeved. I didn’t want to let you go, he thought.
****************
Illya went straight from the arms dealer’s apartment in Mayfair to headquarters and the Section One office. Illya entered, open file in hand. Two men looked up; one was Napoleon. “Section Eight developed these just now,” Illya said, passing the file to Mr Hawthorne. “I think we’ve got everything we need to catch them red-handed at the next exchange.”
Illya helped himself to a cup of tea and a scone from the refreshments on the sideboard as Mr Hawthorne scanned the report on top of the photographs.
“Late afternoon, day after tomorrow,” Mr Hawthorne noted. “Do you think Mr Agincourt suspects you?”
“I don’t think so,” Illya replied. “Although I’ll have to see him again to keep it that way,” he added, bringing his cup and plate to the conference table.
“Even if he’s not onto you,” Mr Hawthorne said as he watched Illya walk across the room and seat himself. “THRUSH may be and warn him,” Mr Hawthorne considered. “We’ll wire you and Mr Solo can monitor in case you need backup.”
Illya glanced at Napoleon who was busy shuffling papers in the file in front of him.
************
Once he had parked, Napoleon turned off the radio speakers and moved from the driver’s seat into the back of the van. He settled in front of the console and put on the headphones.
“You feel it's inconsistent with my appreciation of music and poetry?” he heard Illya ask. Napoleon glanced up at the left monitor, then adjusted the contrast.
Inside the apartment across the street, Anton looked over from the liquor cabinet where he was busying himself with pouring drinks, one amber, one clear, both without ice. “From a scientist, I would expect a more cut and dried approach to life.”
In the van, Napoleon tensed. Had the information they had planted about Illya having worked on a government project in the Physics Department at Columbia backfired?
Illya folded the newspaper he had been perusing. “I take a very scientific approach to life,” he said, each word clipped.
Napoleon knew that tone of voice. Is he bluffing Anton or signalling me that the amorous atmosphere between them has just changed? Napoleon asked himself. He heard the rustle of paper and on the camera monitor he saw Anton turn to face Illya.
“Music, poetry and physics all have mathematics at their core,” Illya continued.
Anton took a sip of his drink, then picked up both glasses and walked toward the camera in the tip of the pen Illya had been using.
“Physicists face the fundamental questions of the universe and their hypotheses read like science fiction: time travel, parallel universes, dark matter, black holes. We are,” Illya reached out and took the glass from Anton, “the most mystical of scientists. You are, perhaps, confusing us with accountants.”
“Oh, they can get pretty creative, too,” Anton replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. Napoleon’s shoulder muscles relaxed fractionally. The camera was pointed across the room at the grand piano Illya had been playing earlier. Clair de Lune, then Moonlight Sonata. Napoleon had checked; it was a new moon. If they cut the power to the apartment building and the nearby street lights it would be totally dark. Was Illya signalling that he should get ready to do that? Napoleon’s hand moved towards the two switches in the vehicle that would interrupt the power. The camera swung around and Napoleon saw Anton’s arm stretching behind the couch to put his glass down on a table there.
“You don’t seem surprised that I’ve checked up on you,” he said.
“A reasonable precaution,” Illya replied. “Our meeting place didn’t provide a sterling reference for either of us.”
“So you have, as well?” Anton asked.
“A little,” Illya replied and took a sip of his drink. “I didn’t think it was that relevant…”
Anton’s shoulder got closer. Napoleon’s muscles tightened again. “I did. From the moment I set eyes on you, I was attracted, but when you cautioned me in that cold tone that you went where you pleased and with whom, I wanted you to be very relevant to me.”
“Because of one line?” Illya asked archly.
“I had the background check done the next morning,” he said.
We barely got that information in place in time, Napoleon realised.
“I called the jeweller’s first,” he said.
Thank heavens for that, Napoleon thought and his muscles got tenser. He’d seen the blue diamond earring Illya had come back to HQ with after it had been tested. No gimmicks, just a two-carat diamond of the first water set in platinum. He’d held it up near Illya’s eyes and told him it did match. Perfectly. Illya had snorted and batted his hand away from his face. He took you right out of my arms. Napoleon recalled the firmness that had registered against his upper thigh just before Anton had cut in. His fingers curled into a fist.
“So you liked what you found?” Illya asked and took another sip of what Napoleon assumed must be vodka.
“You knew that I liked what I’d found by the time you left me the first morning,” Anton answered and his hand reached out towards Illya.
Napoleon could only see Anton’s face from the nose down. He had shaved recently and his lips were full. Napoleon had read Illya’s initial report. He’d teased him about its catalogue of erotic details and Illya had replied that the frequency with which Anton had initiated sexual activity, as well as the ratio between the number of times he had brought Illya to climax and the number of times he had sought his own satisfaction were relevant to his state of mind and therefore the chances of the mission being successful.
“Impressed to the point of intimidation would be more accurate,” Anton finished.
“I’ll let that pass,” Illya said drily.
Are you nuts or are you Oscar material? Napoleon thought. Do you really think that he’s exaggerating?
“Were you satisfied with what you learned about what I do?” Anton asked and reached for his glass.
“I didn’t probe deeply. A cursory enquiry yielded more information about how successfully you’ve done it than details about what exactly it is that you’ve done,” Illya replied.
“My wealth, you mean?”
“Exactly. And I already had reliable first-hand evidence about that,” Illya said, sipping again.
“Did you have it appraised?”
“I had it checked,” Illya said.
“And?”
“I considered it more noteworthy that you secured such a stone so rapidly, than that you could pay for it,” Illya answered.
Napoleon could see the bottom of Anton’s hand where he’d brought it up to his brow, covering part of his face.
“Who are you, Illya?” he said and his voice held a hint of despair.
“Who are you, Anton?” Illya replied and sipped more vodka. “Who are we?” he added more quietly.
The glass Napoleon heard being set down clattered. The voice that responded had dropped to a deeper register and quavered slightly. “I know that I don’t really know, not even about myself, anymore, but…” Napoleon saw Anton’s jaw move forward, then his monitor showed only the white of a shirt front, “I know what I feel.” His voice was a hoarse whisper now. “What do you feel, Illya?”
Napoleon heard the rustle of fabric on fabric and the moist sound of lips upon lips, then Illya moaned and Napoleon’s blood ran cold.
*******************
The next afternoon it was Napoleon who joined Illya in Mr Hawthorne’s office. Both looked up and raised their eyebrows in similar enquiry as he entered.
“We got everyone and everything, cash, weapons, personnel, one or two of whom seem like they might be tempted to be talkative, and a code book which we should be able to use for at least a few hours before THRUSH realises they’ve been compromised,” Napoleon said as he walked to the table and sat down.
Illya finished writing something at the bottom of a page, closed the folder in front of him and handed it to Mr Hawthorne. “Were we able to trace the person in Agincourt’s past of whom I remind him?” Illya asked.
“We followed up that avenue as much as we could, but without success,” Mr Hawthorne replied. “Agincourt has done an admirable job of keeping his life hidden. He has talents we could use.”
Napoleon glanced at Illya who didn’t look his way. His expression was neutral. “What makes you so sure there was someone?”
“Such an intense response requires a history,” Illya answered. “Fortunately, the affair has ended successfully without the information. Who’s questioning him?”
“Mr Slate, at the moment, although I plan to join him,” Mr Hawthorne explained as he flipped through the file Illya had given him. “We’ll continue trying to find that link to his past; it would give us an advantage during the interrogation.” He looked across at Illya. “I would’ve preferred to keep you here a while longer to help with that, but Alexander is anxious to have you both back in New York.” Mr Hawthorne shifted his gaze to Napoleon. “Mr Solo, could you have your report written up before you leave this evening?”
“Of course, sir,” Napoleon replied and stood.
Mr Hawthorne toggled a switch on his desk. “Miss Fitzroy, could you join us for a moment? We need a copy of Mr Kuryakin’s report for Mr Solo,” he said.
“Thank you for your report, Mr Kuryakin. The idea of donating the jewel to the Natural History Museum is a good one, but I think we’ll keep it a while longer. We may use it to manipulate Mr Agincourt a bit.” Illya raised an eyebrow. “Oh, let him think we have you in custody and that he might be able to protect you if he cooperates, something along those lines. I would have preferred to have you to use in that manner, but I’ll have to make do,” he remarked, taking the blue diamond out of his pocket.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it, my dear?” he said to Miss Fitzroy as she reached his side. Mr Hawthorne moved the jewel so that it caught the light.
Miss Fitzroy paused a moment to admire it. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Just one copy?” she asked. Mr Hawthorne tapped the file on the desk and nodded. Miss Fitzroy whisked the file and herself out of the room. Napoleon watched her leave.
Mr Hawthorne cleared his throat and Napoleon returned his attention to him. Hawthorne looked over at Illya. “Now go to your hotel and get some sleep, Mr Kuryakin,” he ordered. Illya nodded and rose. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr Hawthorne concluded and picked up another file to read.
The office door opened silently before them and closed as silently when they stepped out.
Napoleon seated himself on the corner of the secretary’s empty desk to wait for his copy. Illya took a couple brisk steps down the corridor before Napoleon spoke. “I think your premise is flawed,” he said. Illya stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Sometimes one dance is all it takes.”
Illya shook his head and resumed walking. “You’re a romantic, Napoleon,” he said and turned the corner towards the elevators.
*************
The sequel, "Black Sapphires" may be found here.
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Date: 2010-04-03 02:55 pm (UTC)That was utterly delicious *g*
So many lovely lingering details, and yet you say so much more in the spaces between the words, if that makes sense? I'm glad you let it expand - the first part is great on its own, but the whole thing together is wonderful.
Thank you ♥
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Date: 2010-04-05 12:29 am (UTC)