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crack_van2004-08-01 11:45 pm
vysila.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2004-08-01 11:45 pm
Entry tags:
Phoenix by Shay Sheridan (NC-17)
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Napoleon/Illya
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shayheyred
Author Website: Not that I know of, but you can find some of her MfU work at The Chrome and Gunmetal Madhouse
Why this must be read: Because you should always lead with your strong suit?
Illya is a rather enigmatic character. We don't know the barest facts about his history, other than he is identified as "Russian". Naturally there's a lot of speculation about the forces that might have shaped him into the man we see on the show.
In Phoenix, Shay has crafted a gorgeous portrait of a man haunted by a traumatic past, and of the partner who cares deeply enough to keep chipping away at the cracks that occasionally surface in an otherwise seamless exterior.
Fabulously complex and rich in detail, this novel-length story offers excellent characterizations, a strong plot, a relationship that evolves and matures, clever dialogue and sex that melted me into my chair. This is a story that made me laugh and cry and go all warm inside.
There were a number of adjectives that Illya Kuryakin might apply to himself, if he were so inclined, but "emotional" was not one of them. "Intelligent," "capable," "dedicated," "relentless" -- all these he would have acknowledged. It bothered him not at all that some of his colleagues found him intractable and obsessive, or that adversaries thought him bloodthirsty and cruel. To his way of thinking, the actions that spurred such conclusions were merely expedient and practical.
He knew himself to be kind, on occasion -- though more often curt than courteous -- and might admit, albeit grudgingly, that he had interludes of being proud, testy or annoyed, depending on the circumstances. THRUSH torture, for example, made him profoundly testy, but his endurance of such torture was a source of pride, as was his ability to make a clean shot at an astounding distance. As for his annoyance, well, mostly it came at the expense of his partner. At least he had the comfort of knowing he annoyed Napoleon right back.
He was vain about his hair, and sensitive about his height. He refused to bristle at insults, however, unless the insult concerned his hair.
Though some people distrusted his Soviet background, his socialistic leanings rarely manifested themselves. He was not political, nor was he particularly patriotic, either to the country of his birth or the one in which he resided. He was a citizen of the world, the passport of his personality stamped by a half-dozen nationalities. He took his tea and spoke English as if he were British, judged wines like the French, ate anything and everything with the gusto of a starving Russian peasant, and valued personal freedom like an American. He had no religion, but imagined that under different circumstances he could have been a Buddhist.
Sometimes he demonstrated a preference for animals over humans, but perhaps that was because fish and cats and horses never shot back at him. Dogs he disliked, as being more disgustingly human than humans.
For someone who spent so much time in dangerous situations with adversaries trying to kill him, he was rarely overtly angry. If asked, he would have shrugged and said that such emotional indulgence left one open to attack. If he was passionate about anything, it was about his work, and about music, piano music in particular. In the relative safety of his own triple-locked apartment, he was free to let the music of Brahms, Beethoven, Rachmaninov or Chopin -- or Scott Joplin, for whom he had a secret fondness -- stir him. As much as he allowed himself to be stirred.
He did not hate easily, though he had a distinct dislike of Tchaikovsky, whom he thought kitschy and overrated. He had disdain for mad scientists, neo-Nazis, fiendish despots and THRUSH agents, particularly one named Angelique, though he refused to explain why to Napoleon, who rather liked her.
As for the more pleasant matters of the heart, well, the less said, the better. Love was a non-issue for Illya Kuryakin, and desire could be sublimated. If people found him a bit chilly -- more than a bit, really -- it didn't disturb him at all to be thought so.
Of course, another thing he was not was introspective, so the entire issue of self-examination was at best moot. He would have snorted derisively at such an exercise. No, Illya Kuryakin was not an emotional man.
This was not an accident of genetics, a random mutation from the raw material of his Slavic forbears, a people with few reservations concerning outward shows of emotion. In fact, he hadn't been born this way. Illya worked at being emotionless, the same way he relentlessly worked at perfecting his aim, or at tinkering obsessively to improve the range of his communicator. He monitored his emotions closely. A long time ago he'd learned the importance of identifying a strong emotion, analyzing, processing and shelving it into the appropriate cubbyhole within him, before it had time to take hold. He prided himself on his success.
Of course, he never reexamined the experiences that had caused him to undertake such an unnatural subversion of his nature; he had placed those wrenching memories out of sight, inside a locked safe with armored walls, and shoved them into the darkest, deepest corner of himself.
I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did.
Phoenix
Pairing: Napoleon/Illya
Author on LJ:
shayheyredAuthor Website: Not that I know of, but you can find some of her MfU work at The Chrome and Gunmetal Madhouse
Why this must be read: Because you should always lead with your strong suit?
Illya is a rather enigmatic character. We don't know the barest facts about his history, other than he is identified as "Russian". Naturally there's a lot of speculation about the forces that might have shaped him into the man we see on the show.
In Phoenix, Shay has crafted a gorgeous portrait of a man haunted by a traumatic past, and of the partner who cares deeply enough to keep chipping away at the cracks that occasionally surface in an otherwise seamless exterior.
Fabulously complex and rich in detail, this novel-length story offers excellent characterizations, a strong plot, a relationship that evolves and matures, clever dialogue and sex that melted me into my chair. This is a story that made me laugh and cry and go all warm inside.
There were a number of adjectives that Illya Kuryakin might apply to himself, if he were so inclined, but "emotional" was not one of them. "Intelligent," "capable," "dedicated," "relentless" -- all these he would have acknowledged. It bothered him not at all that some of his colleagues found him intractable and obsessive, or that adversaries thought him bloodthirsty and cruel. To his way of thinking, the actions that spurred such conclusions were merely expedient and practical.
He knew himself to be kind, on occasion -- though more often curt than courteous -- and might admit, albeit grudgingly, that he had interludes of being proud, testy or annoyed, depending on the circumstances. THRUSH torture, for example, made him profoundly testy, but his endurance of such torture was a source of pride, as was his ability to make a clean shot at an astounding distance. As for his annoyance, well, mostly it came at the expense of his partner. At least he had the comfort of knowing he annoyed Napoleon right back.
He was vain about his hair, and sensitive about his height. He refused to bristle at insults, however, unless the insult concerned his hair.
Though some people distrusted his Soviet background, his socialistic leanings rarely manifested themselves. He was not political, nor was he particularly patriotic, either to the country of his birth or the one in which he resided. He was a citizen of the world, the passport of his personality stamped by a half-dozen nationalities. He took his tea and spoke English as if he were British, judged wines like the French, ate anything and everything with the gusto of a starving Russian peasant, and valued personal freedom like an American. He had no religion, but imagined that under different circumstances he could have been a Buddhist.
Sometimes he demonstrated a preference for animals over humans, but perhaps that was because fish and cats and horses never shot back at him. Dogs he disliked, as being more disgustingly human than humans.
For someone who spent so much time in dangerous situations with adversaries trying to kill him, he was rarely overtly angry. If asked, he would have shrugged and said that such emotional indulgence left one open to attack. If he was passionate about anything, it was about his work, and about music, piano music in particular. In the relative safety of his own triple-locked apartment, he was free to let the music of Brahms, Beethoven, Rachmaninov or Chopin -- or Scott Joplin, for whom he had a secret fondness -- stir him. As much as he allowed himself to be stirred.
He did not hate easily, though he had a distinct dislike of Tchaikovsky, whom he thought kitschy and overrated. He had disdain for mad scientists, neo-Nazis, fiendish despots and THRUSH agents, particularly one named Angelique, though he refused to explain why to Napoleon, who rather liked her.
As for the more pleasant matters of the heart, well, the less said, the better. Love was a non-issue for Illya Kuryakin, and desire could be sublimated. If people found him a bit chilly -- more than a bit, really -- it didn't disturb him at all to be thought so.
Of course, another thing he was not was introspective, so the entire issue of self-examination was at best moot. He would have snorted derisively at such an exercise. No, Illya Kuryakin was not an emotional man.
This was not an accident of genetics, a random mutation from the raw material of his Slavic forbears, a people with few reservations concerning outward shows of emotion. In fact, he hadn't been born this way. Illya worked at being emotionless, the same way he relentlessly worked at perfecting his aim, or at tinkering obsessively to improve the range of his communicator. He monitored his emotions closely. A long time ago he'd learned the importance of identifying a strong emotion, analyzing, processing and shelving it into the appropriate cubbyhole within him, before it had time to take hold. He prided himself on his success.
Of course, he never reexamined the experiences that had caused him to undertake such an unnatural subversion of his nature; he had placed those wrenching memories out of sight, inside a locked safe with armored walls, and shoved them into the darkest, deepest corner of himself.
I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did.
Phoenix
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I'm glad you enjoyed it. Great read, isn't it? It put me in a very happy place.
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::love your icon::
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And I'm glad you're reccing this month! I'm looking forward to reading!