[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
A huge man towered over Illya in a threatening manner. The Russian had accidently spilled the man’s drink, and he had taken exception. He had tried smooth things over by offering to replace the drink, but the man was intent on retribution. Unfortunately, he made the mistake many people did when faced with the short, slightly built agent.

The thug was drawing his arm back to punch Illya, when he unexpectedly found himself lying on his back, with a heavily bleeding nose. Illya glared down at him.

“Next time, I suggest you accept the replacement drink when it is offered.”

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
“Sit down, gentleman,” Mr Waverly instructed, without looking up from the file he was reading.

Napoleon and Illya sat in silence as they waited for their boss. Eventually, the old man gave them his attention.

“I am informed that the Section 7 secretarial pool are not filing your reports when they should be,” he told them. “Why would this be?”

“I honestly couldn’t say Sir,” Napoleon replied, with a shrug.

“I believe there are varying reasons,” Illya stated. “Many have recently had a lot more to do, some are having health issues, while others seem to be a little unmotivated. These are all things which happen in an office from time to time but, this time, it all appears to have occurred simultaneously.”

“How would either of you suggest we resolve this issue?”

A grin appeared on Napoleon’s face.

“I’m sure that, between us, Illya and I can provide inspiration.”

[identity profile] lilidelafield.livejournal.com

(sorry about this one. It wrote itself. I couldn't resist)

          “Are you sure about this Napoleon?”

Illya was clearly unsure. Napoleon grinned impishly.

           “Absolutely, nothing to worry about. I come here all the time. It’s a great way to relax after a heavy workout.”

           “Napoleon, I’d sooner shower. What is so great about a sauna? I dislike hot temperatures.”

Napoleon opened a door and shoved his partner through.

           “Through that other door there. Trust me, Illya. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

           “Frequently!” Illya stepped through the door. He was met with a bevy of elderly ladies with easels. The teacher steered him to a chair.

           “Welcome to our life-drawing class!”

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
Napoleon smiled with amusement as he entered the U.N.C.L.E. car pool. Not knowing he was being observed, Illya was caressing the hood of one of the vehicles, while looking longingly at another. He suddenly turned and strode over to a third, before going back to the first one. Napoleon stepped out into the open.

“Have you decided which one to take yet? He asked.

Illya managed not to show that his partner had startled him.

“It matters not which vehicle we use, as long as it serves its purpose.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Tovarisch,” Napoleon replied, with a knowing grin.

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
For a secret agent, Napoleon Solo was extremely adept at being noticed. He could enter a room and have every person present watching his every move immediately. He could be loud and gregarious while throwing money around in an ostentatious manner. All of this served to allow Illya to do what he was expert at.

Kuryakin could practically make himself invisible in an empty room. In a crowd, in which Napoleon was holding court, he could go absolutely unnoticed; an ideal situation for planting listening devices or trackers.

This was one of the things which made them the perfect partners.

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
Illya entered Napoleon’s apartment, and called out his presence. The American had ‘done a Kuryakin’ and escaped from medical earlier than he should. Illya asked how it was okay for Solo, and not him.

“My doctor allowed me to leave on the proviso I agree to having people check on me three times a day.”

“And who will be doing that?”

“Well, today, Harriet is coming at ten, Marie at three, and Joan at eight. Tomorrow it will be . . .”

Illya held up his hand to stop him and wondered just how many women would be visiting Napoleon.

[identity profile] mrua7.livejournal.com
A double drabble:

It was a sultry, firefly filled evening as Solo and Kuryakin sat out in the backyard of the safehouse in which they’d taken up residence. Their car was in need of repair and since there was no urgency in returning to New York, Waverly approved their stay.

Rather than a hotel, the unoccupied house would be more cost effective, much to the approval of Accounting.

After taking a taxi to a small grocery store for some supplies, the partners headed home and settled in, barbecuing burgers and kabobs outside on the grill.

Laying in a pair chaise lounges, they sipped beer to the sounds of chirping crickets.

“Isn’t this the life tovarish?” Napoleon blew a smoke ring from the large cigar he was smoking.

“If you call perspiring while being bitten by mosquitos the life, then your standards have been lowered.”

Napoleon clicked his tongue.”I meant the peace and quiet, as well as the fact that no one is trying to kill us.”

“Oh, then in that case I do agree...this is the life,” Illya swallowed the last of his beer. “In the meantime I am going inside to escape the blood sucking bugs.”

“Suit yourself tovarisch.”

[identity profile] lilidelafield.livejournal.com

Illya barely glanced up as his partner entered their office.

           “There’s a letter for you on the cabinet.” He said, threading a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter and winding it on. He heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced up. Napoleon was staring at the open letter in his hand as though hypnotized, a look of shock on his face. Alarm bells rang.

           “Are you alright, my friend? Can I do anything?”

Wordlessly, Napoleon shook his head and left the room. Illya watched him go, full of concern. Whatever was wrong with Napoleon? What could have happened?

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
It felt like a betrayal. In fact, it was a betrayal, of his home and of his heritage. There were few things which Illya Kuryakin considered sacred, but this was a symbol of home. Although he had no immediate wish to go back, he missed his homeland on occasion. The action he was about to commit was the closest he would ever come to his own version of blasphemy.

With a heavy sigh, Illya stuffed a rag into the neck of the vodka bottle and, after setting it alight, he threw the Molotov cocktail at the gates of the compound.

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
Napoleon and Illya stared, in a state of confusion, as Mark’s informant spoke.

“I ‘eard a dicky bird that the geezer you want will be in the rub-a-dub across the frog and toad tonight.

“Are you sure?” Mark asked.

“I don’t tell no porkies. Now, I ain’t got time to rabbit, I need a Jimmy.”

“What on Earth did he just say?” asked Napoleon, as the man wandered away.

“He said he’s heard the man we want will be in the pub across the street tonight. He then said he hasn’t got time to talk because he needs to urinate.”

Cockney Rhyming Slang

Adam and Eve – Believe
Dicky bird – Word
Rub-a-dub – Pub
Frog and Toad - Road
Porkies – (Pork pies) Lies
Rabbit – (Rabbit and Pork) Talk
Jimmy – (Jimmy Riddle) Piddle

[identity profile] lilidelafield.livejournal.com

Illya Kuryakin glared balefully at the tall pile of paperwork sitting on his desk. Napoleon’s paperwork. Now he was stuck with his partner’s job until Solo got back from his refresher course with Cutter on Survival Island. He silently cursed Napoleon Solo for getting him into this.

He grinned suddenly to himself. Napoleon had been planning to take Lovely Lucy to the theatre Saturday evening. The tickets and dinner reservations had been paid for. Solo had implored him to take her out in his stead.

           “Enjoy your holiday with Cutter, Napoleon!” he smiled to himself, picking up his pen.

[identity profile] mrua7.livejournal.com

Napoleon moaned. Picking himself up from the ground; he did so gingerly, mind you.

“You all right mate?” Mark Slate asked.

“Bruised but nothing’s broken. I must have hit a bit of ice.”

“Ice? Are you daft Napoleon? It’s 90˚ and sweltering.”

Solo checked his noggin, feeling a sizeable lump on the top of his head.

“How’d I hit myself there,” he winced.

“Napoleon, you were in an accident; we’re taking you back to headquarters to be checked.”

“Oh? I don’t remember that Illya.”

“It’s Mark, Napoleon.”

“Oh hi, what are you doing here?”

“Taking you to...oh never mind mate.”

[identity profile] jantojones.livejournal.com
As soon as the elevator doors opened, onto the floor which housed Section 7, Napoleon could hear the sounds of illness. From behind every door he passed he heard coughing, sneezing, and nose blowing. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose. Before he reached the room he was headed for, Amanda Serrell opened the door and waved him back.

“I need a cover story arranging for an assignment,” Napoleon told her.

“If I were you, I’d call from your office,” she replied. “You don’t want to spend too much time around here.”

“Illya’s in our office, in a similar state of health,” he complained.

“Typhoid Mary you mean.”


“That partner of yours gave his cold to at least three of the women in this department,” Amanda explained.

Napoleon headed back up to his office wondering how many dates Illya had been on recently.

*Lurgy -A British Term meaning an illness or disease, especially one that is not serious:

He's got the dreaded lurgy.
[identity profile] mrua7.livejournal.com

“What is that?” Napoleon asked.”That music’s not right is it?”

Kuryakin cocked an eyebrow as he turned his head to one side, carefully listening.

“They are doing something different from the sound of it. Not our usually jazzy accompaniment.”

“True, it’s but not ‘our’ theme music...it belongs to someone else,”Solo was now annoyed. He groaned, “Now I recognize it. It belongs to that bumbling idiot.”

“And which bumbling idiot is that, there are quite a few out there in the world of espionage are there not?”

“It’s that Smart guy’s.”

“Napoleon you just said he was an idiot...”

glenmered: (Default)
[personal profile] glenmered

Napoleon Solo looked cool and collected, his usual state of being.  He shot a look in his partner's direction.

"Illya, you're sweating.  Are you sick, feverish perhaps?" He wasn't serious, just bored. 

"It happens to be nearly ninety degrees, so of course I am sweating.  You would as well if you were a normal human being." 

"Ouch… Aren't you afraid of hurting my feelings comrade?"  Illya wished fervently that he had a bucket of cold water.  Of course he'd be forced to choose between dunking his partner or reveling in the refreshing downpour.

"What? You look devious." 

Dunking. Definitely dunking.

mlaw: The Man from UNCLE artwork- my user (Yellow MFU art)
[personal profile] mlaw

Kuryakin walked along the grey corridors of headquarters, his nose  buried in folder. Wearing his tinted glasses, they kept slipping down his nose; without thinking about it, he pushed them back in place every few minutes.

“Psssst,” It came from a nearby utility closet.

Napoleon peeked out, pulling Illya inside.

“What is going on?”

They’re back,” Napoleon whispered.

“They as in…?”


“Oh bother, what are they going to do to us now? Torture, romance, death or some bit of silliness?” Illya moaned.


section7mfu: (Default)
Section VII Propaganda and Public Relations

September 2017

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