Fine Print, for the letters challenge
Title: Fine Print
Author: theladyrose
Rating: G
Pairing: NS/IK, if you want to see it that way
Disclaimer: I lay no claim on our spy guys.
Archived: At my personal site, along with everything else I've written so far
Feedback: I'd love to hear what you have to say as I'm not quite satisfied with this piece but don't quite know what to do. If there are any minor beta issues, please let me know as my brain is mildly scrambled at the moment from sleep deprivation. There's nothing like the impetus of numerous other deadlines to get a story written and wrapped up :P
Many thanks for the amnesty challenge!
He traced the outline of the gilt-lettered calligraphy absent-mindedly with his finger, the bruised nail contrasting against the ivory vellum. He was cordially invited to her wedding in the Hudson River Valley this coming August. The idea of her marriage seemed as foreign and distant as the Indonesian jungle from which he had just returned.
Had it really been fifteen years ago since she had salvaged their experiments and his grade in chemistry, gone with him to the drive-in Friday nights, worn his letterman sweater, been crowned with him as king and queen of prom? He had been voted in the senior yearbook poll. The invitation was addressed to Leon Solo and somehow found its way into his mailbox. Napoleon glanced at the date again. He could swear that Mitzi had just penciled in a summit for all of UNCLE’s CEAs the week of the wedding; his mind tended to fudge dates when it was personally convenient. How unfortunate that he’d have to miss out on telling people about the blood, sweat and tears he shed working in international law, which his mother and Aunt Amy (well, the latter less so) believed.
It was easy enough to spin a tale for the innocents who were less concerned about consistency in his tall tales and more open to being entertained by his glamorous trappings, but resurrecting the fiction of his old self was another story. For the old-timers, Napoleon preferred to prevaricate his excuses rather than fabricate an alternate reality for them when his own existence all too often bordered on the absurd. He bore new letters now, discreetly stated on his gold UNCLE identification card, that had branded his character more than that last minute touchdown during the homecoming football game did.
Illya instinctively looked up from the crossword he had been working on in last week’s Sunday Times, hoping to beat his old record of 47 minutes and 28 seconds. He adjusted the glasses on his nose, peering at the decidedly feminine-looking document in Napoleon’s hand.
“John Clayton? Isn’t that the name of Thrush’s new arms supplier to San Monique?” Illya quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were pen pals.”
Despite his sanguine appearance, Napoleon believed only in luck, not coincidence. Miranda had been particularly spiteful about the breakup when he had met the woman who briefly became his wife, but he had hoped that time had worn away the heat behind her pledge of vengeance. Apparently Thrush now knew his unlisted home address. It was a pity how anxious his mother was for him to get back together with the now bride-to-be and settle down for good. Maybe it’d be better for him to stay over at Illya’s until the section 8 guys had a chance to install that new security system prototype they had been wanting to test out.
“His fiancée felt like writing me a poison pen letter,” Napoleon responded with carefully effortful casualness. Suddenly hoping that there wasn’t some chemical in the ink that was going to land him in medical in the next few hours, Napoleon walked over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands as a preventative measure.
As he massaged a generous dollop of soap onto his hands under the tap, Napoleon looked over his shoulder at his partner, bent over the crossword puzzle again. Napoleon was secretly amazed by how Illya could shrug off the regrets he rarely expressed by channeling his excess energy into future-oriented endeavors, whether it be spending an extra hour at the shooting range, brushing up on the English horn just before moonlighting at his favorite jazz club or staying late in the labs to finish rewiring a new communicator prototype. He was gratified that he could count on Illya to keep him from being penned in by Thrush satraps and also by the self-indulgent nostalgia of a life that was no longer his.
“6 across: they might be giants,” Illya muttered aloud. Lately he had been more unconsciously vocal with his idle thoughts, but Napoleon had a fairly sympatico sense of his partner’s internal monologue for some time now. Napoleon dried his hands and walked back to the breakfast nook. He scooted over his chair to be closer to Illya and the crossword.
“Windmills,” Napoleon responded, not quite knowing why it came so readily to mind. Illya looked up at Napoleon and gave him the kind of rare smile to be saved and pulled out of memory when he needed to brace himself for an interrogation.
It was only in recent years that Napoleon could really understand what Don Quixote saw in Dulcinea. Funny, people were surprised by how readily he had taken to Illya when they were first teamed together. His partner’s fictional father had once said that nothing is written. It was his and Illya’s every intention to uphold that legacy and make sure that they would be filling out those boxes together as long as they had world enough and time.
Author: theladyrose
Rating: G
Pairing: NS/IK, if you want to see it that way
Disclaimer: I lay no claim on our spy guys.
Archived: At my personal site, along with everything else I've written so far
Feedback: I'd love to hear what you have to say as I'm not quite satisfied with this piece but don't quite know what to do. If there are any minor beta issues, please let me know as my brain is mildly scrambled at the moment from sleep deprivation. There's nothing like the impetus of numerous other deadlines to get a story written and wrapped up :P
Many thanks for the amnesty challenge!
He traced the outline of the gilt-lettered calligraphy absent-mindedly with his finger, the bruised nail contrasting against the ivory vellum. He was cordially invited to her wedding in the Hudson River Valley this coming August. The idea of her marriage seemed as foreign and distant as the Indonesian jungle from which he had just returned.
Had it really been fifteen years ago since she had salvaged their experiments and his grade in chemistry, gone with him to the drive-in Friday nights, worn his letterman sweater, been crowned with him as king and queen of prom? He had been voted in the senior yearbook poll. The invitation was addressed to Leon Solo and somehow found its way into his mailbox. Napoleon glanced at the date again. He could swear that Mitzi had just penciled in a summit for all of UNCLE’s CEAs the week of the wedding; his mind tended to fudge dates when it was personally convenient. How unfortunate that he’d have to miss out on telling people about the blood, sweat and tears he shed working in international law, which his mother and Aunt Amy (well, the latter less so) believed.
It was easy enough to spin a tale for the innocents who were less concerned about consistency in his tall tales and more open to being entertained by his glamorous trappings, but resurrecting the fiction of his old self was another story. For the old-timers, Napoleon preferred to prevaricate his excuses rather than fabricate an alternate reality for them when his own existence all too often bordered on the absurd. He bore new letters now, discreetly stated on his gold UNCLE identification card, that had branded his character more than that last minute touchdown during the homecoming football game did.
Illya instinctively looked up from the crossword he had been working on in last week’s Sunday Times, hoping to beat his old record of 47 minutes and 28 seconds. He adjusted the glasses on his nose, peering at the decidedly feminine-looking document in Napoleon’s hand.
“John Clayton? Isn’t that the name of Thrush’s new arms supplier to San Monique?” Illya quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were pen pals.”
Despite his sanguine appearance, Napoleon believed only in luck, not coincidence. Miranda had been particularly spiteful about the breakup when he had met the woman who briefly became his wife, but he had hoped that time had worn away the heat behind her pledge of vengeance. Apparently Thrush now knew his unlisted home address. It was a pity how anxious his mother was for him to get back together with the now bride-to-be and settle down for good. Maybe it’d be better for him to stay over at Illya’s until the section 8 guys had a chance to install that new security system prototype they had been wanting to test out.
“His fiancée felt like writing me a poison pen letter,” Napoleon responded with carefully effortful casualness. Suddenly hoping that there wasn’t some chemical in the ink that was going to land him in medical in the next few hours, Napoleon walked over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands as a preventative measure.
As he massaged a generous dollop of soap onto his hands under the tap, Napoleon looked over his shoulder at his partner, bent over the crossword puzzle again. Napoleon was secretly amazed by how Illya could shrug off the regrets he rarely expressed by channeling his excess energy into future-oriented endeavors, whether it be spending an extra hour at the shooting range, brushing up on the English horn just before moonlighting at his favorite jazz club or staying late in the labs to finish rewiring a new communicator prototype. He was gratified that he could count on Illya to keep him from being penned in by Thrush satraps and also by the self-indulgent nostalgia of a life that was no longer his.
“6 across: they might be giants,” Illya muttered aloud. Lately he had been more unconsciously vocal with his idle thoughts, but Napoleon had a fairly sympatico sense of his partner’s internal monologue for some time now. Napoleon dried his hands and walked back to the breakfast nook. He scooted over his chair to be closer to Illya and the crossword.
“Windmills,” Napoleon responded, not quite knowing why it came so readily to mind. Illya looked up at Napoleon and gave him the kind of rare smile to be saved and pulled out of memory when he needed to brace himself for an interrogation.
It was only in recent years that Napoleon could really understand what Don Quixote saw in Dulcinea. Funny, people were surprised by how readily he had taken to Illya when they were first teamed together. His partner’s fictional father had once said that nothing is written. It was his and Illya’s every intention to uphold that legacy and make sure that they would be filling out those boxes together as long as they had world enough and time.