FIC: silent mahogany and blues (1/1, MfU)
Oct. 18th, 2003 02:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeTitle: silent mahogany and blues
By Keelywolfe
Series: Man from Uncle
Rated PG
Disclaimer: As always, these characters don't belong to be. I promise to not make any money from them, and to wipe away the scuff marks before I give them back.
Summary: Even in a cemetery, there was never silence.
Notes: I was supposed to be writing something for the handcuff challenge, but that story got too long to qualify, and anyway. this one occured to me last night and demanded to be written. :)
Puffs of clouds dotted the sky in low mounds of white, allowing the sun's warmth to descend on the basking world unchecked, early morning heat that drew coils of mist from the damp grass and slowly warmed the monuments of granite and limestone. Only beneath long-limbed trees did the light not dare tread, cool blankets of shade and faintly rustling leaves. Even in a cemetery, there was never silence.
He could still smell the dirt, fresh earth overturned and layers of sod set aside to wait for the lowering of the casket. Through the soft breeze and the nauseating odor of over-mingled flowers, he could smell the damp soil. He was the only person left standing here.
There were others still in the cemetery, mingling in couples and trios near the vehicles. None of them had dared approach him yet, out of respect or fear he didn't know. Perhaps it was simply easier to remain silent.
Illya had decided he had been silent long enough.
"I should have known your funeral would be on a lovely summer's day," he said softly, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet. He lowered it, speaking to the casket resting silently over the grave. "You would never do anything so ill-mannered as to be buried in the rain."
Stepping around the casket, Illya crouched next to the mound of dirt that was waiting to thrown back into the ground. He took a handful and squeezed it tightly, watching the damp particles cling to each other. "It's actually quite lovely here. Quiet, peaceful." Illya glanced at the oak that was shading the gravesite. "This tree is lovely."
Illya dusted off his hands as he stood, looking back at the flower-draped casket. "I'm sure you'd hate it, but I'm afraid they don't allow burials in New York penthouses." There was a bare patch in the arrangement where ladies with mascara-smeared handkerchiefs had taken a flower to clutch in lieu of the man.
"What fool first decided to bring flowers to a funeral?" he mused, flicking one of the bobbing yellow daisies distastefully. "They are already committing the body to the dirt and worms, why do people feel the need to rush the process by planting this flora over it? I hope they allow me to be cremated."
He plucked a few flowers from the other side of the array, filling in the barest spot. Roses, of course, draped over dark mahogany, nothing less for Napoleon. Illya stepped back and admired his handiwork. The sun was higher in the sky and the warmth was as welcome as the first maiden's kiss of spring after a long winter. Illya closed his eyes, the better to feel it, but when he opened them again the casket was still there.
"I'm woolgathering, I know," he told it. "I meant to say things, here and now, that I hadn't the nerve to tell you before. I was going to tell you all the juicy, scandalous details." Illya patted the satiny wood, startled at first by the coolness. It warmed quickly under his hand so he left it there, grounding him.
"There are so many things I should have told you, my friend," Illya murmured, stroking the fine wood, admiring the grain. "I stood silently for so long, watching you." He smiled faintly and shook his head. "Sometimes not so silently. I stood there waiting, hoping someday you would look over your shoulder and see me there, and just...love me. The way I loved you."
He sighed softly, frowning as he found a blemish on the wood. He pulled up his sleeve and used it as a polish cloth, rubbing the fine shine back into it. "Such foolishness. If one wants an honest answer, then one should ask an honest question. For all your flirtations and obfuscations, my friend, you were always as honest as you possibly could be. Perhaps I should have followed your example."
The flowers were cascading down the sides of the casket, leaving trails of moisture. Patiently, Illya rubbed each one away, until both his sleeves were damp and filthy. His shirttail was spared a similar indignity as his cuff managed to absorb the last dribble. Illya touched one of the betraying flower petals lightly, stroking its velvet softness. "I think a moment of regret must be less painful than a lifetime of it." He smiled thinly and ruthlessly pulled a handful of flowers loose, slowly plucking the petals from each one and letting them drift down to mingle in the grass and oak leaves. "Whatever the length of the lifetime I shall have."
Footsteps were scuffling the gravel of the path behind him; finally, someone had come searching for him. A light touch on his arm, taking away his jacket and letting it trail on the ground like a tired shadow.
"If you're done mourning my loss, do you think we could be leaving?" Napoleon murmured dryly. "I'm sure the THRUSH plants will be delighted to report seeing you pale and bereaved, but this beard itches like the devil."
Illya glanced at his friend and saw a stranger with gray hair and eyes, bespectacled, and leaning on a cane. Mahogany, he noted. Indeed, he could see Napoleon's fingers twitching on the knob of it, surely eager to rip the accursed beard away. It was probably more a fear of removing skin along with it than of THRUSH seeing him that was stopping him.
He dropped the mangled flowers to the ground and followed his partner back to the path, towards the cars. There was a great deal of work that would be need to done in the next few days as word of Napoleon's 'death' circulated. Yes, a great deal of work. And perhaps a few things that had nothing to do with work or UNCLE or caskets. Something that only had to do with not being silent.
"You were certainly there a long time," Napoleon said shrewdly. "What were you doing?"
"Practicing," Illya said succinctly. "When I make a speech, I hate to make mistakes." He rested a hand lightly at the small of Napoleon's back, a subtle, guiding touch that his partner allowed without even a questioning glance.
Napoleon made a noise of distaste, leaning on his cane as though he needed its support. "You're so morbid."
"Perhaps," Illya agreed. He led his friend to their waiting car, never letting him go, away from the sun overhead and the cool soil below, back to their world of concrete and steel, where there was no quiet at all.
But there was never really silence. Not even in a cemetery.
-finis-
By Keelywolfe
Series: Man from Uncle
Rated PG
Disclaimer: As always, these characters don't belong to be. I promise to not make any money from them, and to wipe away the scuff marks before I give them back.
Summary: Even in a cemetery, there was never silence.
Notes: I was supposed to be writing something for the handcuff challenge, but that story got too long to qualify, and anyway. this one occured to me last night and demanded to be written. :)
Puffs of clouds dotted the sky in low mounds of white, allowing the sun's warmth to descend on the basking world unchecked, early morning heat that drew coils of mist from the damp grass and slowly warmed the monuments of granite and limestone. Only beneath long-limbed trees did the light not dare tread, cool blankets of shade and faintly rustling leaves. Even in a cemetery, there was never silence.
He could still smell the dirt, fresh earth overturned and layers of sod set aside to wait for the lowering of the casket. Through the soft breeze and the nauseating odor of over-mingled flowers, he could smell the damp soil. He was the only person left standing here.
There were others still in the cemetery, mingling in couples and trios near the vehicles. None of them had dared approach him yet, out of respect or fear he didn't know. Perhaps it was simply easier to remain silent.
Illya had decided he had been silent long enough.
"I should have known your funeral would be on a lovely summer's day," he said softly, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet. He lowered it, speaking to the casket resting silently over the grave. "You would never do anything so ill-mannered as to be buried in the rain."
Stepping around the casket, Illya crouched next to the mound of dirt that was waiting to thrown back into the ground. He took a handful and squeezed it tightly, watching the damp particles cling to each other. "It's actually quite lovely here. Quiet, peaceful." Illya glanced at the oak that was shading the gravesite. "This tree is lovely."
Illya dusted off his hands as he stood, looking back at the flower-draped casket. "I'm sure you'd hate it, but I'm afraid they don't allow burials in New York penthouses." There was a bare patch in the arrangement where ladies with mascara-smeared handkerchiefs had taken a flower to clutch in lieu of the man.
"What fool first decided to bring flowers to a funeral?" he mused, flicking one of the bobbing yellow daisies distastefully. "They are already committing the body to the dirt and worms, why do people feel the need to rush the process by planting this flora over it? I hope they allow me to be cremated."
He plucked a few flowers from the other side of the array, filling in the barest spot. Roses, of course, draped over dark mahogany, nothing less for Napoleon. Illya stepped back and admired his handiwork. The sun was higher in the sky and the warmth was as welcome as the first maiden's kiss of spring after a long winter. Illya closed his eyes, the better to feel it, but when he opened them again the casket was still there.
"I'm woolgathering, I know," he told it. "I meant to say things, here and now, that I hadn't the nerve to tell you before. I was going to tell you all the juicy, scandalous details." Illya patted the satiny wood, startled at first by the coolness. It warmed quickly under his hand so he left it there, grounding him.
"There are so many things I should have told you, my friend," Illya murmured, stroking the fine wood, admiring the grain. "I stood silently for so long, watching you." He smiled faintly and shook his head. "Sometimes not so silently. I stood there waiting, hoping someday you would look over your shoulder and see me there, and just...love me. The way I loved you."
He sighed softly, frowning as he found a blemish on the wood. He pulled up his sleeve and used it as a polish cloth, rubbing the fine shine back into it. "Such foolishness. If one wants an honest answer, then one should ask an honest question. For all your flirtations and obfuscations, my friend, you were always as honest as you possibly could be. Perhaps I should have followed your example."
The flowers were cascading down the sides of the casket, leaving trails of moisture. Patiently, Illya rubbed each one away, until both his sleeves were damp and filthy. His shirttail was spared a similar indignity as his cuff managed to absorb the last dribble. Illya touched one of the betraying flower petals lightly, stroking its velvet softness. "I think a moment of regret must be less painful than a lifetime of it." He smiled thinly and ruthlessly pulled a handful of flowers loose, slowly plucking the petals from each one and letting them drift down to mingle in the grass and oak leaves. "Whatever the length of the lifetime I shall have."
Footsteps were scuffling the gravel of the path behind him; finally, someone had come searching for him. A light touch on his arm, taking away his jacket and letting it trail on the ground like a tired shadow.
"If you're done mourning my loss, do you think we could be leaving?" Napoleon murmured dryly. "I'm sure the THRUSH plants will be delighted to report seeing you pale and bereaved, but this beard itches like the devil."
Illya glanced at his friend and saw a stranger with gray hair and eyes, bespectacled, and leaning on a cane. Mahogany, he noted. Indeed, he could see Napoleon's fingers twitching on the knob of it, surely eager to rip the accursed beard away. It was probably more a fear of removing skin along with it than of THRUSH seeing him that was stopping him.
He dropped the mangled flowers to the ground and followed his partner back to the path, towards the cars. There was a great deal of work that would be need to done in the next few days as word of Napoleon's 'death' circulated. Yes, a great deal of work. And perhaps a few things that had nothing to do with work or UNCLE or caskets. Something that only had to do with not being silent.
"You were certainly there a long time," Napoleon said shrewdly. "What were you doing?"
"Practicing," Illya said succinctly. "When I make a speech, I hate to make mistakes." He rested a hand lightly at the small of Napoleon's back, a subtle, guiding touch that his partner allowed without even a questioning glance.
Napoleon made a noise of distaste, leaning on his cane as though he needed its support. "You're so morbid."
"Perhaps," Illya agreed. He led his friend to their waiting car, never letting him go, away from the sun overhead and the cool soil below, back to their world of concrete and steel, where there was no quiet at all.
But there was never really silence. Not even in a cemetery.
-finis-
