FIC: Beggars Would Ride
Jun. 29th, 2004 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeFIC: Beggars Would Ride
by Keelywolfe
Rated PG
Man From Uncle
Written for Challenge #21 on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
muncle -- Write the boys in their middle age, au, whatever. ^_^
~~*~~
"Do you ever wish your life had been different?"
It was such a strange question from Illya that at first, Napoleon didn't really hear it. The paperwork on his desk had risen into epic proportions, rising mountains of white and yellow and pink sheets, waiting for signatures, or perhaps the trash can. He wouldn't know until he read them. This was his other desk, of course. As a field agent he had always wondered how Waverly managed to keep his office pin-neat, had grudgingly admired the old man's tidy nature. Now he knew about the 'other office', the real one where he did all his work, while the outer office stayed neat to impress visitors.
Surrounded by what promised to be hours of work, Napoleon barely glanced at his old partner, saying absently, "Different how?"
It was Illya's silence that finally caught his attention. He had a stack of his own paperwork in front of him since Napoleon had enlisted him as an assistant for the day. Actually, his choices had been limited; very few people had the security clearance to see most of these documents, so his options had been Illya or Illya, not to mention Illya.
But he wasn't looking at the paper in front of him. Instead, Illya was gazing into his cup of coffee as he stirred it, watching it as intently as an old gypsy reading tea leaves. Napoleon resisted the urge to ask what he saw in those murky depths.
Instead, he asked again, with genuine concern. "Different how, Illya?"
Illya blew out an impatient breath. "I'm not really sure." He waved a dismissive hand at Napoleon. "Forget I said anything." His attention returned to his paperwork, immediately absorbed in whatever mission report or intelligence information it contained.
Unfortunately, Napoleon wasn't able to do the same. The printed text blurred in front of his eyes when he tried to focus on it, Illya's question flittering through his concentration and hovering in the back of his mind.
Different how, he wondered. He was the head of UNCLE in North America, the youngest one ever. He'd retired from the field with a distinguished list of accomplishments, and despite the extra work involved in a desk career he still managed to get in the occasional date with any of several young ladies of his acquaintance.
All in all, life was good. He wouldn't have wished for it to be different, not even if wishes were horses.
Illya glanced up and met his eyes, and for one frozen moment, Napoleon almost saw. In the refracted light from those plain blue depths, he could nearly see another version of the world, where maybe he wasn't an agent or maybe he was. He might have been with UNCLE or the CIA, or hell, a dairy farmer in Iowa, but beneath it all, whatever he did, was Illya, standing silently next to him waiting…for what?
For whatever lay beneath his eyes, something that begged, screamed, for Napoleon to look inside and see it. And just at that moment, he almost could, if he really thought about it. Really tried to see whatever it was that kept Illya with him, always, taste the growing desperation of it.
Almost.
Instead, Illya looked back down and the idea slipped from his grasp. Napoleon drew back a little, frowning down at his cold cup of coffee and called his secretary for a fresh cup before starting in on the paperwork.
-finis-
by Keelywolfe
Rated PG
Man From Uncle
Written for Challenge #21 on
muncle -- Write the boys in their middle age, au, whatever. ^_^~~*~~
"Do you ever wish your life had been different?"
It was such a strange question from Illya that at first, Napoleon didn't really hear it. The paperwork on his desk had risen into epic proportions, rising mountains of white and yellow and pink sheets, waiting for signatures, or perhaps the trash can. He wouldn't know until he read them. This was his other desk, of course. As a field agent he had always wondered how Waverly managed to keep his office pin-neat, had grudgingly admired the old man's tidy nature. Now he knew about the 'other office', the real one where he did all his work, while the outer office stayed neat to impress visitors.
Surrounded by what promised to be hours of work, Napoleon barely glanced at his old partner, saying absently, "Different how?"
It was Illya's silence that finally caught his attention. He had a stack of his own paperwork in front of him since Napoleon had enlisted him as an assistant for the day. Actually, his choices had been limited; very few people had the security clearance to see most of these documents, so his options had been Illya or Illya, not to mention Illya.
But he wasn't looking at the paper in front of him. Instead, Illya was gazing into his cup of coffee as he stirred it, watching it as intently as an old gypsy reading tea leaves. Napoleon resisted the urge to ask what he saw in those murky depths.
Instead, he asked again, with genuine concern. "Different how, Illya?"
Illya blew out an impatient breath. "I'm not really sure." He waved a dismissive hand at Napoleon. "Forget I said anything." His attention returned to his paperwork, immediately absorbed in whatever mission report or intelligence information it contained.
Unfortunately, Napoleon wasn't able to do the same. The printed text blurred in front of his eyes when he tried to focus on it, Illya's question flittering through his concentration and hovering in the back of his mind.
Different how, he wondered. He was the head of UNCLE in North America, the youngest one ever. He'd retired from the field with a distinguished list of accomplishments, and despite the extra work involved in a desk career he still managed to get in the occasional date with any of several young ladies of his acquaintance.
All in all, life was good. He wouldn't have wished for it to be different, not even if wishes were horses.
Illya glanced up and met his eyes, and for one frozen moment, Napoleon almost saw. In the refracted light from those plain blue depths, he could nearly see another version of the world, where maybe he wasn't an agent or maybe he was. He might have been with UNCLE or the CIA, or hell, a dairy farmer in Iowa, but beneath it all, whatever he did, was Illya, standing silently next to him waiting…for what?
For whatever lay beneath his eyes, something that begged, screamed, for Napoleon to look inside and see it. And just at that moment, he almost could, if he really thought about it. Really tried to see whatever it was that kept Illya with him, always, taste the growing desperation of it.
Almost.
Instead, Illya looked back down and the idea slipped from his grasp. Napoleon drew back a little, frowning down at his cold cup of coffee and called his secretary for a fresh cup before starting in on the paperwork.
-finis-
