Feb. 8th, 2017
"I have a headache, a cold and a cramp in my left leg. Please do not even attempt to invite me on a double date with you and your latest conquest."
Napoleon stepped back to allow the tirade to pass. Illya did look a bit peckish, perhaps he actually needed a night off.
"Look Illya, I only invite you to make certain you don't shrivel up and turn into a lonely old man." He delivered that line with a smile, only to be met by an icy blue glare and what he thought was a growl.
“He needs you, old chap.” Mark tried.
“No, not happening.”
“But he needs help.” April reminded him.
“I’m not driving him.”
“He’s your partner Napoleon. He can’t drive there by himself with the cast on his leg,” April tried again.
“The cast will be off in a few weeks then he can go himself.”
“But Waverly said he needed to get it done before he can even do desk work. You’re his partner.”
“Fine, but last time I took Illya to the barber, I had to watch my strong, stubborn partner cry.”
“Tap-tap.Knock. Tap-tap. Knock-knock.”
“What’s that noise,” Napoleon asked.
Illya was driving and cocked his head, listening to the cacophony coming from the engine. He stopped the car alongside the rural road on which they were traveling.
“BOOM!” Steam shot up from beneath the hood.
Kuryakin stormed out, carefully raising the hood to find the antifreeze container had a hole in it.
“The motor pool just gave our car a clean bill of health,” Napoleon sidled up alongside his partner.
“Someone will pay for this,” the Russian growled.
“Had to happen in the middle of nowhere,” Napoleon sighed.
“Don’t worry,” Solo told his date, as he signalled the waiter, and tried not to think of how much it had cost him. “Accidents happen. I’m sure the waiter can get us another bottle of wine.”
After a long hiatus, colonial_teapot and I are back with another drabble switch!
It stood on a little metal cart in the U.N.C.L.E. test kitchen, peeping out of its dish, high and light and delicately browned on top. Napoleon gave a subdued whistle. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s beautiful.” He sniffed the air. “Smells good, too.”
“Yes,” said Illya. “It is a traditional recipe in every way. I have simply included a chemical additive which, as a side effect, causes it to rise higher than usual and temporarily resist deflation.”
“Of course,” Illya continued, “like any dish of that sort, when it has cooled sufficiently it will inevitably fall.” He seized the cart and pushed it through an unobtrusive side door. A few seconds later it, and he, reappeared in the bulletproof-glass observation chamber at the far end of the room. He returned carrying two pairs of dark goggles.
The two agents watched as – brightly, noisily, and messily – the soufflé fell.
And we're off! Here's my half of this week's drabble switch with Anamary Armygram.
August 19, 1927
“...the stakes are quite high, but I’ve been offered certain enticing incentives should I decide to do it. So what do you think, dear?”
There was a dismayed sigh on the other end of the line. “I thought married agents weren’t supposed to take field assignments.”
“They aren’t, but the chief says this is a special case, and he’s willing to pull me out of ‘retirement,’ so to speak, if it will get the job done. However, he’s left the final decision up to me, and I didn’t want to give him my answer until I’d discussed the matter with you.”
There was a long silence.
She sighed again. “Alexander, I know you miss the field. And you know I’d never want to keep you from going back just on my account. But for the sake of your hair, please don’t go.”
Baffled but flattered, Waverly absently ran a hand along his part. “My hair? I always knew you were fond of it, my dear, but…”
“Not your hair, Alexander. Your heir. He’s planning on joining us around Valentine’s Day, and I wouldn’t mind so very much if you were still alive to meet him.”