solo (soloing) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2019-06-15 21:24:00 |
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Inviting Illya over had been a bit of a spur of the moment. Since meeting both Gaby and Illya (and now he actually had a name for that stubborn wall of Russian spy) Solo felt like he was constantly living on the edge of realisation. There was a lot to wait for, with Ms Teller and Mr Stop a Car with my Bare Hands.
Bt the dreams continued, and Napoleon was getting impatient for either a slap from Gaby for not informing them, or possibly worse from Illya if it came to it -frankly, he was hoping to avoid a bathroom stall brawl if he could, it was highly undignified given he was sure Kuryakin would’ve drowned him in a lav if need be.
What Napoleon had failed to mention about his hotel bar was that it was upstairs, in his suite. Frankly, he wasn’t feeling like sitting around and feeling watched all evening, least of all as he attempted to pry carefully into just what was so dire that Illya was avoiding sleep.
He’d opted to shed the three piece suit by then, his slacks barely holding their press by then, his shirt sleeves rolled up and the collar and top button popped -slightly disheveled as it were. But he was only waiting in the hotel lobby before he could steer Illya upstairs and crack open a few bottles anyway, so appearances were a less important aspect at this moment.
---
Illya was in fact quite disturbed by the dreams haunting his precious hours of sleep especially as some hit far too close to home, reminding him of a past he had hoped was left very much in his rear view mirror. There were some things you never wished to relive and the latest dream he’d had was one of those and he just wished to scrub it from his mind if he could.
He was in dressed quite casually in comparison to how he normally dressed but he still had slacks on but rather than a shirt he had a dark turtleneck which might have seemed like a strange choice of top but it suited him and given it had appeared in his room one afternoon he figured he might as well make use of it.
It hadn’t taken him very long at all to make it to the address provided by one Napoleon Solo who was still very much an enigma and one that apparently Illya felt the need to keep picking at despite his better judgement. Upon arrival he located the bar and as he approached he slipped his jacket off and rested it over his arm as he walked towards Napoleon, hands in the pockets of his slacks.
“Evening,” he greeted.
---
Considering how the dreams could be, and the fact that Illya showed no indication of being to the point of knowing who Napoleon was (the man tailed him for a day and Napoleon shot at him several times, it was an impression for sure), it left Napoleon to assume the dreams were related to things before that. Which, for Soviet Russia and a KGB agent could mean a slew of things.
“Hello there,” if it took an evening of light drinking to pry a little bit of whatever Illya might feel comfortable sharing, be it dream or otherwise, Napoleon was willing to deal with it. Peel back a little more layers laid out. “Don’t get too comfortable here,” and it wasn’t at all meant to be a come on, but hey, it wasn’t like Napoleon could entirely change his personality. “I figured somewhere less exposed might be good?”
Giving a nod towards the elevator, Napoleon let his room key dangle from his finger.
---
Surprised as he may be Illya could see the sense in being away from prying eyes and he appreciated the thought to privacy as he was by his nature a very closed off individual who liked to play his cards close to his chest. “I think that is a good idea.”
He waited for Napoleon and then fell into step beside the other before they slipped into the elevator along with a few other people. Some women, some men, and it would seem Illya was going out of his way to avoid the female occupants of the elevator which just meant he ended up a lot closer to Napoleon than he needed to be.
---
Napoleon could understand an aversion to strangers in personal space, it wasn’t an issue of his own, no, getting close was all part of his bag of tricks, clever fingers making light work of people’s belongings. As Illya stood fairly close, Napoleon watched the numbers flit by, stopping himself from dipping into the pockets of the other occupants. It’d be bad form to do so this close to his own living situation.
As the elevator climbed, stopping here and there, people exiting on their floor, Napoleon was a little more aware of Illya’s closeness, similar and yet different from the brawl in the restroom that was still stuck in Napoleon’s mind.
Thankfully, they reached Napoleon’s floor with only two others remaining on the elevator, Solo giving Illya a tiny nudge in alert to leave with him without being too obvious. Napoleon’s suite was at the end of the hall, large and fairly lavish, because he’d gotten more than a little comfortable with finer things, and given he’d been there for three months now, it was better to at least be comfortable in it.
The main area of the suite was a living accomodation, sitting area, stocked bar and small kitchen with an island, large windows to show off the impressive view over Orange County, the sunny beach and soft blue ocean extending endlessly. “So what would you like to start with? Beer, or something a little stronger?”
---
Illya’s head turned ever so slightly when he felt Napoleon nudging him and it registered relatively quickly that it was time to step out of the elevator which is exactly what he did, glad and relieved in equal parts to be out of that small box and in such close proximity with strangers.
He stepped into the room and swept his gaze across it as a matter of habit as it was always better to know entrance and exit points because you never knew when they might be needed. The jacket he was still holding was draped across a nearby chair and he approached the large windows to cast his gaze out on the view that it offered, exhaling a breath and catching the twitch in his fingers before it developed into something else, the lengths all but curled inwards until the blunt edges of his nails dug into his palm.
“Something stronger.”
---
Stronger it was, and Napoleon could certainly understand the issue with the dreams and needing something to just help settle the mind. Cracking open a bottle of vodka, chilled already and a glass waiting for the pair of them.
There were some mixers available, but given the first drink of the night and Illya seemed to need a little kick start for the night anyway. Although if he didn’t drink regularly, Napoleon would need to keep a little bit of an eye on that.
“Stronger stuff for now then.” Crossing to Illya, holding out the glass, Napoleon tried to gauge just what it was that could’ve been on the Russian’s mind. “Do you want to talk about it?”
---
Illya turned away from the window and accepted the glass as it was offered before he took the first sip and hissed past the burn as the liquid passed down the back of his throat. “Some memories are better left in the past.” Where they belonged. Buried, locked away, never to be seen or heard from again.
Did he want to talk about it? Not really.
“Have you dreamed?” He asked, lifting his gaze to rest on Napoleon.
---
There were a lot of things that were not worth dredging up, pulling the past back to just examine all over again. Napoleon really understood that.
“I have, yes.” But then the dreams didn’t really care for if you wanted to relive certain periods of life or not. Although it did raise some of the questions that were will running through Napoleon’s mind.
Something he was still struggling with was if he should tell Illya and Gaby about their shared dreams, that they’d be running into each other. And working out how much time he had to do that before it was taken out of his hands.
---
Napoleon was not wrong. The dreams forced you to live through things that some said were alternative to their present reality but in the case of Illya the dreamworld and the real world were one and the same it would seem.
He did not think it would be fair to ask Napoleon to divulge what he had dreamed of if he was not willing to do the same so it would seem that in order to learn it might be a necessity to share.
“I dreamed of my mother,” he shared before he took a much larger gulp of alcohol.
---
From the tone, the gulp of vodka and Illya’s general disposition, Napoleon could work out that it probably wasn’t the best topic for the Russian.
Napoleon hadn’t been forced to relive his childhood in dreams, he just had the knowledge and understanding of his upbringing, his mistakes and the consequences of them. But it wasn’t like either of his childhood memories, from here or the dreams, had been especially unfortunate. As much as he wasn’t surprised at the lack of a father once again, his mother being practically the exact same just proved to him, once again, that the woman was a saint and deserved so much more from a son.
“That doesn’t sound like it was terribly easy for you.” But for now, he could commiserate with Illya at the very least.
---
Illya was quiet for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching as he sorted through unwelcome and unwanted emotions from a time he had long since left behind him or so he had thought.
“I am not sure she would agree.”
The Russian exhaled a breath and tipped his head into his hand as he lightly raked his fingers through his hair. “Is there more vodka?”
—-
“Grab a seat, you look like you need it.” Crossing back to the bar, Napoleon picked up the vodka bottle, not bothering to refill his own glass but taking the scotch instead. “Help yourself.” It looked like Illya needed it more than him anyway.
Napoleon took one of the seats himself, filling his own glass with amber liquid, drinking in companionship more than anything else. “Pretty sure your mother doesn’t get a say in how things affect you though.”
---
Illya accepted the bottle of vodka readily and happily as he settled on one end of the couch, pouring a liberal amount into the glass. He didn’t drink often but when he did it was at an impressive volume. It also took a lot to tell the Russian. Probably too much. Some stereotypes were in fact one hundred percent correct.
“My mother was a complicated woman.” Complicated, that was a nice way of putting it.
This was in all honesty the most he’d ever said about his past.
—-
It sounded like there was more there, but there seemed to be something that stopped Illya from really talking about it, and maybe it just required more alcohol, or maybe he wasn’t in the place where he was ready to share, but Napoleon weighed things up before just plunging in.
“Complicated I understand,” not with his mother, oh no, she was a blessing but at least on the opposite side of that parental unit. “I couldn’t have told you who my father even was growing up, and when I could eventually put a face to the term well, I didn’t need a father.”
It was odd how he was still struck by the desire to make the man proud though, like something just bred into a boy. “Still couldn’t tell you much about the man.”
---
Illya turned his head to regard the American as he admitted that he had no idea who his father was and by the time he knew him he no longer needed him. “Your mother must be quite the woman,” he murmured before taking a further sip of vodka. His father had been a tyrant and at first it had been a blessing to be free of him but that blessing very rapidly turned out to be a poisoned apple in the form of his mother, her proclivities and all her male visitors.
“Might be for the better. Sometimes it is better not to know our parents so we are saved from disappointment.”
He regarded the alcohol for a long poignant moment. “My father was a bully but he kept a roof over our head for as long as he was out of jail.”
—-
There was a fond smile on Napoleon’s face for a moment, memories of somewhat easier times, regardless of how little they had, “She’s something else, that’s for sure.” He honestly wasn’t sure what kind of thing he’d done to deserve a mother like his, but there they were -even if she did curse him with a name like Napoleon.
It was quite easy though, to build parents up, without the shine of adulthood to reveal all the flaws. It didn’t seem like Illya really got to indulge in any of that illusion though.
“Sometimes even bully’s have their upsides.” At least there was a roof, even if it wasn’t ideal then. “Were you young?”
---
“I was five when he was arrested.” Illya knocked the vodka back and refilled his glass. “We lost everything.” And his mother would claim she had done what was needed which to some degree Illya could agree with but there had been no need for her to do some of the things she did and others to do. It had only taken ten years for them to take Illya away from her.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Russia is a very unforgiving place.”
—-
Even before he’d dreamed of the Cold War, of the unforgiving nature of that race towards having what the Soviets wanted and what America vied for, Napoleon could imagine that Russia wasn’t a warm and cosy place to grow up.
Even in this day and age, far away from the tight grip of communism, where things weren’t just as harsh, but still restricted, it wasn’t the sort of place that Napoleon would think of first for an easy life. In any circumstance.
“No, it doesn’t sound like it is.” And maybe that was part of what shaped Peril into the type of man to try and stop a car with his bare hands. “But a testament to your character, I’m sure.” Napoleon, for all his bluster, would not do well in Russia.
---
“I am not sure if that is compliment or insult,” Illya remarked as he glanced at Napoleon over the rim of the glass which was very quickly tipped towards his waiting mouth and the alcohol swallowed as if it were nothing more than water.
Regardless Napoleon was not wrong. You did not grow up weak in Russia and you certainly did not give up when things did not go your way. Of course there were some that would argue that Illya had been weak as a child, to have let his father beat him and his mother do the things that she did.
He was not weak now however and never would be again.
—-
“A compliment for sure.” At least without expressing too much about what Napoleon might know; like just how steadfastly determined Illya surely was, Napoleon considered it a compliment. “Lesser men surely couldn’t come through those conditions half as adjusted as you seem.”
Flaws and all, there was certainly a strength under the surface of his Russian drinking partner. Thinly contained at times perhaps, but strength all the same. “Our obstacles are what make us stronger after all.”
---
Adjusted? Is that what they were calling the broken table in his hotel suite? Of course Napoleon did not know about that and Illya felt no need to share. “I agree,” he affirmed with a nod of his head as he contemplated the now empty glass in his hand. “We would not know what we are capable of without struggle.”
He blew out a breath and frowned.
“Is it wrong to say I do not miss her?”
—-
“No,” Napoleon’s reply was instant, because well, why would it be wrong to miss something that turned a man to drink? “You don’t need to miss something that’s bad for you, regardless of what it was.”
As much as Napoleon could understand the battle, if Illya’s mother was part of the reason for his headspace at the moment, well, why should he miss that? Toxic was toxic, even if it did birth you.
“It’s just too bad you’re still battling through that.” How on point were the dreams? A retelling of Illya’s childhood, or worse? Possibly not something that the Russian would be willing to lay all out. Even if Napoleon was a willing ear.
---
“I would prefer not to relive things I have already survived once already in this life.” Even if his dreams were ever so slightly different. Like his being older when his father was arrested and sent to the Gulag and how he hadn’t escaped his mother until he was much older. Foster care and the system was still brutal and harsh but anything was better than the hell his mother had inflicted.
He filled his glass again and knocked it back, a grumbling in Russian accompanying the movement.
“But I have spent far too long burdening you with my troubles for one evening.”
—-
That was the real shit of it, wasn't it. It wasn't that they were having these new experiences, it was that sometimes they were annoyingly familiar. Napoleon felt like he lucked out in both regards, given how his mother was the same attentive if serious woman in each version of his life, although growing up in the post war era seemed to harden her a little, especially as an unwed mother, she was still one of the better parts on his life regardless.
"I believe the point of this was to get your mind off it, yes." Drinking to forget wasn't always the best choice, but sometimes there wasn't anything else for it. "But I'm realising I might not have enough alcohol for that." Which might not be true, Napoleon could always get some more.
The trick was getting Illya's mind off his dreams and childhood, and unfortunately, Napoleon wasn't sure his typical tactics should be employed at this juncture.
---
Illya snorted quietly when Napoleon admitted he might be lacking in the alcohol required to take the Russian’s mind off the dreams. “We are in America, the land of opportunity,” he drawled, his accent a touch thicker. “I think if we were in need we could find somewhere with an endless supply.”
He pulled in a breath and turned his head to rest his blue gaze on Napoleon.
“But if alcohol is not an option, what other choices are there?”
---
There was a little bit extra hint of Russian in Illya’s voice that just reminded Napoleon of the dreams himself -Illya’s distaste for American decadance for example. But this wasn’t just the same, and Napoleon had drunk enough to at least loosen up alongside Illya.
“There’s always food, there is an abundance of that available at any time here. More alcohol could be located, I know a charming place that isn’t horridly sticky.” And if he was spending money on alcohol he’d rather spend it at the Double Tap if he wasn’t looking for something upscale.
“If your accent is going to get thicker the more you drink I’d place money on being able to find some interesting company for the night.” Because frankly, flocking came to mind there.
---
Illya wasn't sure if his being out in public and getting drunk was the wisest of decisions as he was prone to violent outbursts on a good day and today was not a good day, quite the opposite in fact.
"I would be concerned about my propensity for violence," he shared honestly. "I might cause more trouble than it would be worth." He exhaled, reached for the bottle of vodka and tipped what remained into his glass before simply knocking it back.
---
Propensity for violence and Napoleon was choking just a little on his drink, mind flashing to his dream in the bathroom stalls and going through said stalls. Yes, he could see why it might be a terrible idea for Illya to be inebriated and out and about, likely to be startled by something unusual and end up choking someone unconscious. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
Trouble was only fun when you were in control of the trouble. Otherwise it caused massive headaches. “Then I’m afraid you’ll just need to drink all the alcohol and be maudlin. I’m not sure a proposition is best suited for this situation after all.”
---
Illya’s eyebrow arched when Napoleon struggled it seem with swallowing his drink and the Russian lifted a hand to lightly but firmly pat the other man on the back. “Proposition?” He asked, tilting his head curiously.
---
In all honesty, had he not been dreaming of a building partnership of animosity between a coerced CIA agent and a fiery KGB operative then it was entirely possible he’d throw caution to the wind. But he was sure that Illya wasn’t at the stage in things -not when he was going through the fun of childhood again.
The likelihood of Napoleon fucking this up if he didn’t think about things with his upstairs brain was exceptionally high, and frankly he was likely to piss off Gaby at some point with his mouth, no point in doing the same with Illya so early.
“How about we focus on other topics, like how a strapping Russian like you ended up in the States?” Probably a safer bet to divert things.
---
“That my American friend is a story that requires a lot more alcohol than this and something stronger than this,” Illya assured Napoleon as he rose to his feet and went in pursuit of the stronger alcohol he had previously referred to. “And it is good thing that you are sitting down.”
A bottle was grabbed, the top unscrewed, and the contents poured into his waiting glass.
“It all started with a phonecall…”