Response to another of Svetlana's Amazing Manips
Buckets of gratitude to Svetlanacat for her succession of marvellous composite pictures that are a constant source of joy and inspiration. (She writes lovely drabbles, too!) She was also responsible for my brand new, beautiful user pic.
Living Memory
“Hi. I’ll have a dog with just ketchup and onions.” Napoleon Solo smiled at the hot dog vendor as the young man handed over his lunch. Since taking over Alexander Waverly’s position as Chief of U.N.C.L.E., New York, it was a rare occasion for him to see the sun, and he was taking full advantage. It was July, and Central Park was filled with people; also enjoying the mild, sunny day. Napoleon found an empty corner on a park bench, where he sat down and began unwrapping his treasure. A hot dog was a guilty pleasure these days, and he was looking forward to that first delicious bite.
Even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was being watched by, at least, a dozen pairs of eyes. He couldn’t say he had gotten used to always being surrounded, if surreptitiously, by U.N.C.L.E. security; but he had accepted it. ‘Funny’, he thought to himself with a smile, ‘I used to be told, on a regular basis, that I was expendable. Now, every year, millions of dollars are spent to keep me alive’.
His musings were interrupted by - what? Did someone make a threatening move? Had he heard a gunshot or a scream? Had he seen the flash of a knife? No, it was something more inerrant; something he had learned, long ago, not to ignore. Although he hadn’t experienced it in years, it was still unrecognizable; that zing across his nerves that told him something out of the ordinary had occurred.
Forgetting his food, he began to unobtrusively scan the surrounding area. Children were crawling on the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, young people were picnicking on the ground, and senior citizens were dozing or talking in pairs on the benches; but nothing looked suspicious. Not knowing whether or not he was a sitting duck, he decided that the best course of action was to be on the move, so he stood and began to walk; paying no attention to the pigeon that immediately attacked the abandoned hot dog.
Napoleon’s years of operative training took over, and he slipped easily into the old role of the urbane man-about-the-city that he had always hidden behind. Each person he passed was immediately charmed by his infectious smile and sparkling brown eyes, but they had no idea that every one of them was suspect in Napoleon’s mind.
There hadn’t been many people in Napoleon’s adult life that he trusted. His army sergeant, Alexander Waverly, April Dancer, and…
He was brought up short. There, just a few yards to the right, staring up at the statue of King Jagiello*, stood a figure that seemed familiar, somehow. The stature, the stance, the tilt of the head; all stirred a ghost of a memory that lingered at the very edge of his mind, but refused to fully form. The brown trousers; nondescript trench coat; and khaki-colored, broad-brimmed hat should have set off alarm klaxons in Napoleon’s head. Everything about the guy, from a visual standpoint, shouted ‘DANGER’. However, as Napoleon observed the man, recollected feelings of safety, comfort, and joy washed over him. This was no enemy, either past or present; but who…
At that instant, the stranger turned his head to watch a squirrel scurry by, and smiled softly at the furry creature’s antics. The floppy hat and wire-rimmed glasses had no hope of hiding the exquisite eyes, now more steel gray than cerulean; the silken hair, gone a darker blond; or that full, pouty lower lip that had been the instigator of Napoleon’s most interesting - and arousing - dreams for years, before he had buried that part of him under work and responsibility. Now, unexpectedly, it had resurfaced.
“Illya,” Napoleon whispered hoarsely, surprised to feel a scalding drop of a tear trace a line from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He brushed it away ruthlessly, while desperately trying to figure out what one says to the person who has, unwittingly, held one’s soul for the past thirty-some years. Terrified that Illya would walk out of his life again if he hesitated much longer, Napoleon decided to rely upon the bond they had once shared as partners to bridge the gap of time, and took a step toward the, still beautiful, desire of his heart.
He was abruptly intersected by a tall, thin, rather good looking gentleman; who looked to be about fifteen years younger than himself. “Jethro,” Illya exclaimed, as the man approached him and laid a proprietary hand on his arm, causing Napoleon to cease his forward motion.
Napoleon used every spy trick he had ever learned to make himself inconspicuous, as he watched the two heads lean infuriatingly close to each other, and the stranger whisper something into Illya’s ear. Illya smiled and nodded in a cursory manner, but he watched ‘Jethro’ walk away with hunger in his eyes.
There was now no doubt in Napoleon’s mind that he needed to grab the Russian by the horns, so to speak; so he moved once again, like a heat-seeking missile, toward the beloved body. After what seemed like an eternity, and a split second, he was a mere step from his objective. He spared a moment to bask in the close proximity, and then raised his hand to touch the oh-so-familiar shoulder that, countless times, had supported him when he was unable to support himself.
What would Illya do when he felt the touch? Illya, the lethal U.N.C.L.E. agent, would have whirled on the ball of his foot and, at the least, broken the arm that was attached to the offending hand before he had time to realize what he was doing. Who knew about this Illya, though? Who was he, really? Who had wandered into, and out of, his life in the past thirty years? Who was this Jethro, who had access to Illya’s carefully guarded personal space, and just what did he mean to Illya? All these questions, and a multitude of others, careened through Napoleon’s mind in the blink of an eye, and his hand dropped listlessly to his side. Illya knew where he was, and would have contacted him if he had wanted remain a part of his life. Would it be fair, now, to force open the door that Illya had tightly closed?
For a moment, he entertained the selfish idea of grabbing Illya, whirling him around, and taking one sweet kiss for himself; one that would have to last him for the rest of his life. Instead, he inched a smidgen closer, taking his bottom lip between his teeth to keep himself in check, and inhaled the, never quite forgotten, scent of his tovarisch - his dushka - his lyubov.
Illya turned at the sound of someone’s whistle, and in the process his shoulder brushed against Napoleon’s arm. His lips curled up in another smile and he hurried away without bothering to see who he had bumped into; something the Illya of Napoleon’s bygone days would know could be a fatal error. It seemed that, now that the floodgates were open, all Napoleon could think about was the past. What was that saying? Old spies never die, they just live on memories?
*The sculpture was chosen for the 1939 World's Fair in New York. Later that year, the Nazis invaded Poland, preventing the sculpture's return to its homeland. In 1945, it was placed in Central Park by the Polish government as a symbol of the proud and courageous Polish people.