Fic: A Second Grail Affair
Jun. 18th, 2005 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdTitle: A Second Grail Affair
Author: Angel![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
valarltd
Written for:new_kate
NC-17, femmeslash
Disclaimer: I do not own the 60 year old Indiana Jones, the elderly Marcus Brody, or Grad!Student Ilya Kuryakin. Tupa and Arasy are the common myth-property of Paraguay. Katya belongs solely tonew_kate. Ruth Wickersham and the Illugi Stele are my own.
Note: I have no clue how this turned into a sort of "Man From U.N.C.L.E." crossover. Enjoy.
Paraguay 1959
“This was absolutely brilliant!” Ruth Wickersham hacked her way through another layer of jungle with the machete. “This is the last time I let Jones talk me into an expedition.”
Her companion said nothing, her moody sulk wasted on the bush-khaki-clad amazon. It was a welcome relief from her usual rudeness. “Everything is under control.”
“Yeah, right. Dr. Jones has everything under control there Paraguay. We need you to go get the item and return it to the states.” Ruth paused in her vicious mockery of Marcus Brody to hand Katya up onto a log as tall as the other woman. “Up you go. We get here and he’s holed up with the locals, and we have to go find not only the temple but the Cup of Arasy too.” They hacked through a curtain of vines to look out over a valley of low hills. The sunset was breathtaking. “God knows which of these is Tupa’s Hill.”
“It’s almost dark, can we make camp?”
“Sure. We’ll find Tupa’s Hill and the Temple tomorrow. Tent or fire?”
“Tent please.”
“Yeah, after last night, I expect you want to keep what’s left of your eyebrows.” Ruth smirked at the memory of the singeing. “I’ve got it.”
They slung their packs off, and Katya found two trees at the right distance. As she tied the rope between them, and slung the canvas tarp over it for a tent, she wondered how she had found her way here. From a professorship at the University of Stalingrad to trekking through the jungles of a backwater country with no proper plumbing in the company of a brash American.
While Dr. Wickersham had her orders to get the Cup back to the United States, Katya had her own orders. It would rest in the Stalingrad museum, and become a bargaining token against the day the People’s Army liberated South America.
Dinner was a makeshift affair of C-rations heated over the fire. Ruth had packed them because they were compact, and Katya, who remembered them from the war with no affection, resented every mouthful. They had saved her teen-aged self from starving, but only just. She went to bury the trash, while Katya stared at the moon.
“The Guarani say Tupa lives in the sun, and his wife Arasy lives on the moon. They descended to Earth together at Tupa’s Hill, and there created all things on the earth.”
“Stories of superstitious savages. I give them no credence.”
“But we’re chasing superstition, doctor. As Jones loves to drill into his classes, folklore is both your starting point and your stumbling block.”
“I shall sleep now. In the morning will be time to chase stories.” Katya went into the tent and rolled up in her blanket.
“Moon-lady, Arasy, forgive us our seeking and guide us.” Ruth didn’t believe in the emerging goddess worship that she saw taking hold among certain jaded academics, but she had found over the years a bit of supplication never hurt any endeavor. Nothing had gone in her favor since she’d found the Illugi Stele in Asia Minor. The rock had brought her nothing but trouble. It had been generally regarded as a bad bit of fakery, and she’d been struggling out from that shadow for a decade now.
She spat into the fire, then banked it down to coals for the night. Had her father found it, or Jones, it would be treated as the most significant Viking Age find since Sutton Hoo in 39. Now she was saddled with a commie partner. Her career was effectively over and she was only 40. She’d be damned lucky if they didn’t haul her into Washington in front of McCarthy’s hanging court. She went to bed.
Two days later they staggered through the door of Arasy’s temple to drop to the floor, basking in the coolness of the stone room.
“Trust me, you said,” Katya spat.
“Made it, didn’t we?” Ruth retorted. She rested a moment more then rose to explore.
The pictographs on the walls were frank and to the point. This was no virgin goddess they were seeking. Her rituals, however, seemed to consist solely of female celebrants.
Katya got up and looked them over as well. “Decadent primitives.”
The narrow entrance hall bloomed into an oval chamber with two small side passages at the far end. A triangular altar stood at the far side of the room. The archeologists walked carefully, making sure not to dislodge stones or set off any trap doors that might be lurking about. Ruth went left, Katya went right. They met at a small alcove behind the altar, guarded by a portcullis.
The Cup--black with age and crusted with mold and dust of centuries--sat in the alcove.
“There has to be a lever around here somewhere,” Ruth said and began looking. Katya looked over the portcullis, and searched for signs of its mechanism. It did not seem to be
counterweighted.
“Nothing,” Katya said. She noticed the carving of the portcullis in the nearby pictographs and looked it over. She realized she had found the directions, but did not like what they were telling her. “Do you read this?”
“Whatcha got?” Ruth came over and looked at the pictures. “Holy crap.” She let out a low whistle. She looked at the cup again, and thought of Jones’ face if she came back without it. She stared at the pictographs. Then she thought of Marcus Brody, and his reaction to her not having it. The Cup was her ticket out of the ranks of assistant professor and straight to department chair when Jones stepped down. This would put behind her all the embarrassment of the stele. She stared at the pictographs some more.
She turned to find Katya already stripped out of her clothing and sitting on the altar, unbinding her long black hair.
“Ho-ly crap.” The profanity was longer and slower, betraying her shock at the sight.
“We do what we must to gain the Cup. It means nothing.” She shook out the hair that came almost to her knees, draping it around herself as a cloak. Katya had already come to the conclusion that anything to get the Cup out, into her hands and back home to the Motherland was acceptable. Ruth was not unattractive. She had endured and done worse in service to her country and archeology and doubtless would be called on to do so again.
“It’s all in Sappho,” Ruth muttered, before taking off her own clothes.
“It appears to be a very stylized ritual,” Katya said, staring at the first pictures.
“And if we do it just right, we trip something that will allow us to get the cup for a rite.” Ruth nodded and began kissing Katya in the way the first picture showed. Katya returned the kisses with no fervor.
The kisses weren’t bad, but the large redhead was not the sort Katya liked. She much preferred the charms of a seventeen year old blond graduate student back at the university, and not only because he was male. Ruth had a rough and ready way, the result of years of competing with men in a capitalist country where she was considered inferior, and it translated into her love-making. Like most Americans she was enthusiastic, if inexpert.
Ruth moved on, following the directions, and Katya found the room too warm for comfort. The cool breeze that stroked her back emphasized how warm she was. The big hands that moved on her breasts circled slowly, carefully.
Ruth glanced up and took another look at the pictographs. She moved to the next act depicted and the next. Slowly, each in turn, just as the ritual was transcribed. Katya had warmed up and her noises sounded like pleasure.
Focusing only on gaining the cup--and remembering how much she liked this when Jones had demonstrated to her as part of the “extracurricular homework” during Advanced Human Subcultures–Ruth licked Katya gently. The taste was intense, but not bad, and she repeated the motion, drawing a sigh from her partner.
She wasn’t sure how much it would require to open the portcullis, so set to work in earnest, feeling every fold and crevice of Katya. Orgasm might be required and she hoped she knew enough to help Katya reach one.
Apparently, she did. A grating of metal on stone came from the back wall. The portcullis vanished, and Ruth regained her feet and grabbed the Cup. Katya shook herself clear of the haze of arousal, snatched up their clothes and they made a run for the exit.
They dressed without looking at each other, shouldered their packs and began the trek back to where Jones waited.
When they came to the river, Ruth washed the cup, clearing away the grime. What was left was badly tarnished, but would be absolutely amazing when polished. The fine engraving was not at all typical of Pre-Columbian work.
On the third day, Ruth woke before dawn to a tingling at the back of her neck. Katya was going through her pack, nearly silently. Ruth sat up without warning.
“Are we out of coffee?” she asked.
“No. I looked for breakfast. Everything is under control.” Ruth spent the next couple of nights sleeping with one eye open.
The next day would bring them into the village.
“It’s been nice traveling with you,” Ruth said as they finished dinner. “Once we get back, maybe we can team-teach a class on Paraguay.”
“It would be interesting. But next semester, I teach on the Revolution and Vikings in Russia.”
Two days later, Ruth Wickersham staggered into the village alone, dried blood at one temple.
“Ruth? Ruth, honey, what happened?” Jones caught her as she dropped to her knees in front of the cafe.
“Katya. Lying little commie. ‘Evert’ing is under control.’ Yeah. Right. I’m screwed again, Jones.”
Katya rubbed the last of the silver polish over the Cup of Arasy, and wiped it away. It gleamed mellowly in the cabin light. She glanced down at the dark sea beneath the plane. The single engine that had taken her out of the jungle had left her at the airport, and a private jet was taking her home.
“Comrade Captain, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Big blue eyes above lovely cheekbones and a dimpled chin looked back at her.
“No, thank you, Ilya, I’m fine.”
Author: Angel
valarltdWritten for:
new_kateNC-17, femmeslash
Disclaimer: I do not own the 60 year old Indiana Jones, the elderly Marcus Brody, or Grad!Student Ilya Kuryakin. Tupa and Arasy are the common myth-property of Paraguay. Katya belongs solely to
new_kate. Ruth Wickersham and the Illugi Stele are my own.Note: I have no clue how this turned into a sort of "Man From U.N.C.L.E." crossover. Enjoy.
Paraguay 1959
“This was absolutely brilliant!” Ruth Wickersham hacked her way through another layer of jungle with the machete. “This is the last time I let Jones talk me into an expedition.”
Her companion said nothing, her moody sulk wasted on the bush-khaki-clad amazon. It was a welcome relief from her usual rudeness. “Everything is under control.”
“Yeah, right. Dr. Jones has everything under control there Paraguay. We need you to go get the item and return it to the states.” Ruth paused in her vicious mockery of Marcus Brody to hand Katya up onto a log as tall as the other woman. “Up you go. We get here and he’s holed up with the locals, and we have to go find not only the temple but the Cup of Arasy too.” They hacked through a curtain of vines to look out over a valley of low hills. The sunset was breathtaking. “God knows which of these is Tupa’s Hill.”
“It’s almost dark, can we make camp?”
“Sure. We’ll find Tupa’s Hill and the Temple tomorrow. Tent or fire?”
“Tent please.”
“Yeah, after last night, I expect you want to keep what’s left of your eyebrows.” Ruth smirked at the memory of the singeing. “I’ve got it.”
They slung their packs off, and Katya found two trees at the right distance. As she tied the rope between them, and slung the canvas tarp over it for a tent, she wondered how she had found her way here. From a professorship at the University of Stalingrad to trekking through the jungles of a backwater country with no proper plumbing in the company of a brash American.
While Dr. Wickersham had her orders to get the Cup back to the United States, Katya had her own orders. It would rest in the Stalingrad museum, and become a bargaining token against the day the People’s Army liberated South America.
Dinner was a makeshift affair of C-rations heated over the fire. Ruth had packed them because they were compact, and Katya, who remembered them from the war with no affection, resented every mouthful. They had saved her teen-aged self from starving, but only just. She went to bury the trash, while Katya stared at the moon.
“The Guarani say Tupa lives in the sun, and his wife Arasy lives on the moon. They descended to Earth together at Tupa’s Hill, and there created all things on the earth.”
“Stories of superstitious savages. I give them no credence.”
“But we’re chasing superstition, doctor. As Jones loves to drill into his classes, folklore is both your starting point and your stumbling block.”
“I shall sleep now. In the morning will be time to chase stories.” Katya went into the tent and rolled up in her blanket.
“Moon-lady, Arasy, forgive us our seeking and guide us.” Ruth didn’t believe in the emerging goddess worship that she saw taking hold among certain jaded academics, but she had found over the years a bit of supplication never hurt any endeavor. Nothing had gone in her favor since she’d found the Illugi Stele in Asia Minor. The rock had brought her nothing but trouble. It had been generally regarded as a bad bit of fakery, and she’d been struggling out from that shadow for a decade now.
She spat into the fire, then banked it down to coals for the night. Had her father found it, or Jones, it would be treated as the most significant Viking Age find since Sutton Hoo in 39. Now she was saddled with a commie partner. Her career was effectively over and she was only 40. She’d be damned lucky if they didn’t haul her into Washington in front of McCarthy’s hanging court. She went to bed.
Two days later they staggered through the door of Arasy’s temple to drop to the floor, basking in the coolness of the stone room.
“Trust me, you said,” Katya spat.
“Made it, didn’t we?” Ruth retorted. She rested a moment more then rose to explore.
The pictographs on the walls were frank and to the point. This was no virgin goddess they were seeking. Her rituals, however, seemed to consist solely of female celebrants.
Katya got up and looked them over as well. “Decadent primitives.”
The narrow entrance hall bloomed into an oval chamber with two small side passages at the far end. A triangular altar stood at the far side of the room. The archeologists walked carefully, making sure not to dislodge stones or set off any trap doors that might be lurking about. Ruth went left, Katya went right. They met at a small alcove behind the altar, guarded by a portcullis.
The Cup--black with age and crusted with mold and dust of centuries--sat in the alcove.
“There has to be a lever around here somewhere,” Ruth said and began looking. Katya looked over the portcullis, and searched for signs of its mechanism. It did not seem to be
counterweighted.
“Nothing,” Katya said. She noticed the carving of the portcullis in the nearby pictographs and looked it over. She realized she had found the directions, but did not like what they were telling her. “Do you read this?”
“Whatcha got?” Ruth came over and looked at the pictures. “Holy crap.” She let out a low whistle. She looked at the cup again, and thought of Jones’ face if she came back without it. She stared at the pictographs. Then she thought of Marcus Brody, and his reaction to her not having it. The Cup was her ticket out of the ranks of assistant professor and straight to department chair when Jones stepped down. This would put behind her all the embarrassment of the stele. She stared at the pictographs some more.
She turned to find Katya already stripped out of her clothing and sitting on the altar, unbinding her long black hair.
“Ho-ly crap.” The profanity was longer and slower, betraying her shock at the sight.
“We do what we must to gain the Cup. It means nothing.” She shook out the hair that came almost to her knees, draping it around herself as a cloak. Katya had already come to the conclusion that anything to get the Cup out, into her hands and back home to the Motherland was acceptable. Ruth was not unattractive. She had endured and done worse in service to her country and archeology and doubtless would be called on to do so again.
“It’s all in Sappho,” Ruth muttered, before taking off her own clothes.
“It appears to be a very stylized ritual,” Katya said, staring at the first pictures.
“And if we do it just right, we trip something that will allow us to get the cup for a rite.” Ruth nodded and began kissing Katya in the way the first picture showed. Katya returned the kisses with no fervor.
The kisses weren’t bad, but the large redhead was not the sort Katya liked. She much preferred the charms of a seventeen year old blond graduate student back at the university, and not only because he was male. Ruth had a rough and ready way, the result of years of competing with men in a capitalist country where she was considered inferior, and it translated into her love-making. Like most Americans she was enthusiastic, if inexpert.
Ruth moved on, following the directions, and Katya found the room too warm for comfort. The cool breeze that stroked her back emphasized how warm she was. The big hands that moved on her breasts circled slowly, carefully.
Ruth glanced up and took another look at the pictographs. She moved to the next act depicted and the next. Slowly, each in turn, just as the ritual was transcribed. Katya had warmed up and her noises sounded like pleasure.
Focusing only on gaining the cup--and remembering how much she liked this when Jones had demonstrated to her as part of the “extracurricular homework” during Advanced Human Subcultures–Ruth licked Katya gently. The taste was intense, but not bad, and she repeated the motion, drawing a sigh from her partner.
She wasn’t sure how much it would require to open the portcullis, so set to work in earnest, feeling every fold and crevice of Katya. Orgasm might be required and she hoped she knew enough to help Katya reach one.
Apparently, she did. A grating of metal on stone came from the back wall. The portcullis vanished, and Ruth regained her feet and grabbed the Cup. Katya shook herself clear of the haze of arousal, snatched up their clothes and they made a run for the exit.
They dressed without looking at each other, shouldered their packs and began the trek back to where Jones waited.
When they came to the river, Ruth washed the cup, clearing away the grime. What was left was badly tarnished, but would be absolutely amazing when polished. The fine engraving was not at all typical of Pre-Columbian work.
On the third day, Ruth woke before dawn to a tingling at the back of her neck. Katya was going through her pack, nearly silently. Ruth sat up without warning.
“Are we out of coffee?” she asked.
“No. I looked for breakfast. Everything is under control.” Ruth spent the next couple of nights sleeping with one eye open.
The next day would bring them into the village.
“It’s been nice traveling with you,” Ruth said as they finished dinner. “Once we get back, maybe we can team-teach a class on Paraguay.”
“It would be interesting. But next semester, I teach on the Revolution and Vikings in Russia.”
Two days later, Ruth Wickersham staggered into the village alone, dried blood at one temple.
“Ruth? Ruth, honey, what happened?” Jones caught her as she dropped to her knees in front of the cafe.
“Katya. Lying little commie. ‘Evert’ing is under control.’ Yeah. Right. I’m screwed again, Jones.”
Katya rubbed the last of the silver polish over the Cup of Arasy, and wiped it away. It gleamed mellowly in the cabin light. She glanced down at the dark sea beneath the plane. The single engine that had taken her out of the jungle had left her at the airport, and a private jet was taking her home.
“Comrade Captain, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Big blue eyes above lovely cheekbones and a dimpled chin looked back at her.
“No, thank you, Ilya, I’m fine.”
