tga1

The Gypsy Affair
A PWP. (no plot is contained herein.*grin*) By Ravenschild.
Usual disclaimers apply. Originally titled a moment of madness as this is how it was written in, I suspect there will be more stories. In the meantime however, I have no objection if you wish to continue this tale yourself. Interested?? All you need do is contact me at: tartaris@hotmail.com

              With bored fascination Illya watched as the huge ice sculpture in the middle of the room continued to pour
              out the champagne from it mouth and several other locations. Perplexed he moved forward through the
              throng of daintily dressed debutants and the crème de la crème of New York society. Inspecting the
              obscene creature he realized that the sculpture had sprung a leak under the hot lights and guests milled
              around the table dipping silver cups and crystal glasses into the diluted fluid.

              He heard rather than saw his partner, the deep baritone of the laughter echoing across the packed
              lobby. Turning in the direction of girlish chatter and adoration Napoleon Solo lounged against the wall,
              champagne glass in one hand and pretty blond debutant on the other. Illya pinched the bridge of his nose
              and closed his eyes for a second forcing his mind to recall her name and status.

Oh yes, Cynthia Chalmers, daughter of Richard Chalmers New York's latest inclusion into the world of
national politics.

              The only highlight was the string quartet playing something soft and baroque as the guest's swayed on
              unsteady legs. And the reason for their presence to this ball? Well a tip off from an unimpeachable source
              told them that "Syrenoff" would be in attendance and would need to discuss something of world
              importance with Alexander Waverly. It was their job to find him, escort him to the secret location and then
              be on their way. So far, their sources information had let them down. Always a first time, but never
              a second Illya thought uncharitably.

              "You know tovarishch that if you try harder you could actually be the only man alive not to enjoy an event
              like this." Solo lounged his arm across the slender Russian's shoulders and hugged him briefly. His touch
              conveying the message that he could not in this crowded place, that action was to take place on the grand
              steps that lead down into the ball.

"He has five more minutes to show Napoleon, then I'm going home." Illya headed in the direction Napoleon
was steering him in.

"Our orders old friend, were to find him and bring him to Uncle Alex, no matter what."

              "Our orders told us to waste no more than four hours on this affair, so far old friend we have been here
              six." Illya scanned the room looking for the man they had come to collect and again, catalogued the entire
              population.   After six hours he not only knew who had arrived with whom, but who had left whom for
              whoever else and who would be waking up alone the next day.   American society bored him to distraction
              and after seven weeks of back to back assignments all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed,
              preferably with his partner. But knowing the futility of that situation a bottle of vodka would help him at
              least sleep.

Sleep now there was a thought. "To sleep perchance to dream, aye there's the rub." Illya muttered softly
certain that his words were muffled by the crowd as he walked away.

              Napoleon sipped the cooling champagne and dropped the glass on the nearest waiters tray as he wove his
              way in and out of the guests. The words soft and gentle spoke volumes of his dearest friend. The reticence
              that was the enigma of Illya Kuryakin was well known to him and on a professional level he wanted no
              other by his side. Yet lately Illya withdrew from him as well on a private score. No more were the late
              nights spent playing chess or Illya dragging him into his favorite jazz and blues club down in
              the village. Gone now the evening drinks before they headed home, Napoleon usually to his latest
              conquest and Illya to his books.

              That the Russian was lonely seared him to the soul and still he found that when he doubled his efforts Illya
              forced off his camaraderie, making the day feel shallow and lost. Napoleon watched the lithe figure from
              the distance, cornered now by a pretty brunette Illya finally agreed to dance with the lady.

              Such fluid movement's, each step precise and unrushed, his body melded into the soft sweet music as he
              carried his partner along with his easy grace. A small flourish snapped the lady away from him and back
              into the waiting circle of his arms. Deceptively strong and supple, and able to snap a neck as easily and
              quickly as he was to pet a cat or calm a small and worried child.

              Napoleon Solo had his share of admirers and he sought them with grim determination, but he watched the
              natural charm of his partner and saw the eyes of many people upon him. Mostly woman of all ages and
              amongst the multitude a number of men, envious not of the beauty in his arms but that she should be in his.
              And he felt the first faint stirrings of jealousy overcome him.

              The music built to an intoxicating rhythm and Illya spun the pretty girl into a long low dip just as the music
              ended. Standing her up and escorting her from the dance floor he deftly lifted a silver cup of punch from
              the table along with a napkin and gave it to the blushing beauty. He stood back, formal and correct as he
              bowed, kissed her hand and then in turn her cheek before walking back to his partner.

"I, ah, never knew you could dance so well." Napoleon said quietly, his eyes caressing the form of his
partner whilst Illya was fending off the latest admirer.

"Well, now you do. Napoleon, it is my opinion that Serenoff will not be here tonight or for that matter any
other night."

"We give him till ten Illya and then we go home, agreed?"

Forlornly Illya looked down at his watched and willed the second hand to go faster.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

In what seemed like an eternity the room swayed to the changing beat and then fell silent. All heads and
eyes turned upon the red carpeted grand staircase and to the dainty figure on top.

              Jade green eyes the shape of a large cat peered down amongst the assemblage, long tresses of raven hair
              coiled sinuously into French roll, with many tendrils escaping to caress the ivory skin of her face. That she
              was a beauty was beyond question, her full breasted body clad in dark purple and gold silk. Her smile
              was full and replete as she locked eyes with Napoleon.

              Seeking him out amongst the crowd and seducing him with the soft allure of promise. Her perfume, even
              from the distance tantalized him and where a small fire burned in his heart for his Russian partner, it was
              enflamed,engulfed and claimed him totally. It was as if he had awakened for the first time of his life.

              He shifted and looked over at his partner, Illya smiled. Not the tight cynical smile he kept for THRUSH,
              nor was it the mischievous smile that lit his face when he was able to get his own way. No this was more,
              this smile, if there were to be such a thing, came from home.

"Bozhre Moi, Illyusha!" the woman's dark voice sounded softly in his ear as she reached forward to kiss
Illya three times.

"Nyet." Illya narrowed his eyes. "Illya."

"Still moya dushka, moya leubeyouf, Illyushenka." She smiled again and draped herself across his arm.

For the second time that night, Solo understood the word jealousy.

"Madame." Illya said with a formal bow, "May I present to you Napoleon Solo, my partner."

"Charmed." Solo was at his debonair best as he kissed the woman's hand.

"Napoleon, this is Her Excellency the Contessa de la Morte"

"Such formality darling." She said gently as she moved closer to the young Russian.

"Contessa?" Napoleon inclined his head.

"Illya, it has been such a long time, perhaps we could take the air on the terrace?"

Illya smiled and inclined his head. "As you wish."

              Solo watched as Illya protected his charge, his hand fitting snugly into the small of her back as he escorted
              her to the French doors. He paused for a moment and listened almost turning around and Solo saw the
              invitation with never a word spoken.

On his way to the terrace he purloined a bottle of vintage champagne and three glasses as he felt the slap
and sting of the cold night air on his heated brow.

Never before had he witnessed a fairy tale in the making. He had always attempted to make his ladies feel
like princesses and yet here he watched his Illya and a real princess share a sweet moment.

              The terrace was walled with columns of cared ivory, beyond a formal garden laid out and beyond that the
              fairytale lights of New York lit up the night sky. The Contessa in unrestricted charm leaned against Illya as
              he turned her around and danced with her. His partner's earlier dancing skills nothing compared to what
              Solo was witnessing now. She twirled happily in his arms, clutching at his shoulders as her lifted her high
              from the ground and held her to him before gently settling her down upon the terrace wall.

              The American debated with himself for a heartbeat, he felt like a voyeur as he spied on his friend and the
              enchanting woman. Before he got the chance to turn around and leave them to it, the laughter caught him
              and Illya's voice across the terrace as if it were in his ear.

"Leaving Napoleon?"

"I had no wish to intrude." Napoleon answered with diplomacy. The fact that he found it very
discomforting to watch his Illya with a beautiful woman would not cross his lips.

"You would not have been invited Mr. Solo if you were intruding, be assured." The Contessa answered
softly.

"Would it be impudent to ask where you two met?" Napoleon poured three glasses of the chilled wine.

"Oh it was a long time ago and in Russia. Illyusha came to me just after the Germans took over Kiev."

Solo did a quick calculation and found the numbers did not add up, surely somewhere there was an error,
perhaps the Contessa had been a child as well at the time and that was how Illya knew her.

"I have confused you yes?" The Contessa purred.

Solo laughed, "I must admit a little. You two grew up together?" he looked from one to the other, and Illya
was impassive sipping his champagne, enjoying the look of confusion on his partner's face.

"Nyet. Illya was but a beautiful babe when he came to me, all wide blue eyes and golden hair and I raised
him Mr. Solo. Illya was the child I could never have."

"Forgive my saying so madam, but I find that hard to believe, you could be no more than twenty three,
younger than my partner here."

"Such sweet words Mr. Solo, but I do speak truthfully, Illya was my child, born of the harsh lands and
adopted by the gypsies before it broke my heart to put him in formal education."

"Then you are gypsy?" Solo staggered for a moment, the words making little sense to him as he watched the
woman, and whilst his mind could not reconcile her claims his heart knew that she spoke the truth.

"A Romany Princess." Illya spoke finally. "And the only mother I can remember."

"I don't understand." Napoleon said softly.

"Ah poor love, here." The Countess lead him towards the wide steps and sat him down. "You know of the
gypsy lore?"

Napoleon nodded.

"Then come press a piece of silver into the gypsy hand and your fortunes will be told." Her voice dropped,
thick as molasses and richer than any mulled wine.

              Solo fished for a moment in his pocket and produced a silver dollar which he gave to the woman. He could
              not remember where she produced the deck of cards from nor the arcane words which she spoke as she
              prompted them to do her bidding. Falling against each other and over again until seven only found their
              way to the terrace floor. He looked up, the woman's hair had changed long tresses ran in rivers down her
              back, her clothes of silk multi-colored and faceted as she brushed back her hair. Large golden hoops hung
              from her ears and bracelets adorned her wrists.

              "See here the future Mr. Solo. Seven cards we draw and each a place within the question you ask. See here
              the first card, shows great skill, the next a restless spirit unable to make a commitment. Ah, so now, we
              draw the death card Mr. Solo, a great change recently made has befallen you, your eyes they see the world
              around you and find it dull and lifeless. The magus asks you to use your intuition and your craft, you know
              well the craft that you seek and the heart that lies within it. The golden haired youth waits for you Mr.
              Solo. Ask and you shall receive. Deny what is in your heart and you will fade into the darkness."

Solo felt the heat rising around him as he clutched her arm almost painfully. "Witch." The word was torn
from his throat. "Tell me your true name, and how it is you know this?"

"I am Mistral de la Morte, the wind of death. You find that unsettling? To the gypsy death is but change."

Solo clutched as the last conscious threads left him and felt the cool air on his face again.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

              Illya watched his partner from the just inside the glass doors. The bottle of Champagne long since gone flat
              sat full on the wall. A single glass filled and left untouched and in long dark fingers a white rose. The
              CEA dozed peacefully, his back propped against the banister and he seemed so young and at peace. As if
              a child in sleep, it was with regret that Illya left the room and woke him gently.

Taking care to wake the senior agent so as not to startle him, Illya began talking to him softly as he touched
his hair and then his shoulder.

"Napoleon?" Gentle humor in wide blue eyes met with dark brown as Solo wiped a hand across his face.

"Hmmm. Sorry must have dozed off, where is your lady friend?"

Illya sat down and shook his head. "What lady?"

"Your Countess."

"Napoleon I don't know what you were drinking but I have no Countess either here in America or in
Russia."

"She said she raised you as a child after the German's took Kiev. Dammit Illya she was here." Solo insisted
as he scanned the area.

              "Napoleon, please listen to me. I know no such woman, after I watched my mother killed by the Germans
              in Kiev I was put into an orphanage. Believe me when I say I would have remembered." Illya's words
              were softly delivered but the anguish that lived on in the blue eyes was too much for the American and
              without thinking he reached forward and pulled his partner into a fierce embrace.

"And that was for?" Illya moved back and watched his partner intently.

"For making you sad."

"Napoleon? Are you alright my friend?" Illya frowned and reached forward to feel his partner's forehead.

With a deft twist Napoleon seized the hand and held the palm to his lips. His eyes never leaving the startled
eyes of his partner.

"Do not do this Napoleon." Illya warned softly.

"Do what? Love you, Illya? My God, I have been such a fool."

"Please now is not the time or place to discuss this. It is late, our contact has not arrived and all the good
people are going home. Come." Illya stood and reached down to his partner pulling him to his feet.

Napoleon caressed the hand that lingered in his as he stood and turned the Russian around to stare at him
fully.

"I have had no more than two drinks, I never get drunk on assignment and I don't pretend to understand what
happened here tonight Illya, but I do know you and I need to talk."

"About?" Illya's mouth curved into that smile, that one that was gentle and kind.

"Whether or not you intend to let me love you."

"Oh Napasha, what makes you think I won't."

Solo smiled and pulled his Russian to him. "I love you Illya Kuryakin and as soon as I get you home I
intend to show you just how much."

"For how long?"

"Ever." Solo breathed as he strode through the door.

Illya lingered for a moment and smiled as the cool night air caressed his cheek.

"Thank you." He whispered softly before following his partner.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

              And for those who stayed to listen the gypsy heart rang loud and strong, freedom coursing through every
              vein as she turned the cards over again and deposited the silver dollar in a small pouch hidden near her
              breast. She turned and disappeared amongst the grove of trees in the garden. Her voice drifted across time
              and space.

"We are even now, Illyusha."