Word count: ~2100
Author: Rose of Pollux
Notes: Mandy’s comment about the field agents’ personnel files having false information in the event of THRUSH stealing them is my way of explaining the absolutely unbelievable heights on THRUSH’s info cards on Napoleon and Illya in “The THRUSH Roulette Affair.” And the case about the THRUSH submersible that Napoleon reminisces about is from a fic I haven’t yet written…
If you prefer reading there, cross-posted to ff.net and AO3.
( Act VI: Don't Give Up )
Illya didn’t even take time to respond before he rushed out of the room. As for Baitman, despite his mantra that ghosts weren’t real, he was close on Illya’s heels. He wasn’t about to be left behind in case Mother Fear (or whatever that thing was) made another appearance.
Meanwhile, back at the Waverly home, Mrs. Waverly woke with a start, much more clear headed than she had been when Napoleon’s call had pulled her from sleep. The slight headache plus the fact that she was normally a light sleeper made her suspicious. It only took a quick glance to tell her that Napoleon had lied to her.
Alexander Waverly was, as his wife knew full well after many years of marriage, a creature of habit, at least inside the walls of their own home. His slippers were still beside the bed and his robe, like her own, was draped on his side of the cedar blanket chest that was at the foot of their bed.
Not far away was Alexander’s valet chair – a lovely piece of sturdy oak furniture with a dark leather padded seat. His suit for the day was still there with his shoes tucked neatly underneath. She pulled on her own robe and quickly opened the drawer that was underneath the seat and felt her heart sink even more. Alexander’s wallet, favorite pen, and pipe pouch were all still neatly in their places inside the drawer.
Her first thought, to call Napoleon back, was quickly dismissed. Illya was also dismissed as he was bound to already be with Napoleon and quite busy. Her fingers rapidly dialed up the next in line – April Dancer.
April was soundly asleep, hugging her pillow tightly. She and Mark had finished up an overseas assignment and flown back the morning before. Mister Waverly had been kind enough to say that, since their mission had been a resounding success, their paperwork could stand to wait a day and that they should get some sleep. As sleep had been in very short supply, neither she or Mark argued. Between exhaustion and jet lag, by the time the jangling of her phone penetrated her brain, April had been sleeping like the dead for nearly fourteen hours.
“This is Mrs. Waverly, Miss Dancer. I suspect Mister Solo is already aware and thinks he is being kind by not alarming me, but Mister Waverly is missing and I suspect he was taken from our bedroom while we slept.”
That brought April to full alertness faster than a cold shower could have.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
“A bit of a headache, but nothing worse for myself. There is a scent I don’t recognize in the air, so I would venture to say a gas of some sort was used to keep us asleep. By the way, dear? If you would be so kind, I want you to verify the names of the agents that were assigned to us tonight. If they are still alive and not incapacitated, we will be having a lengthy chat with them once Alexander has returned.”
April winced in sympathy for whoever those agents were. She remembered Mark’s reaction to being on the wrong end of Mrs. Waverly’s protectiveness over her husband. Deciding to jump off the deep end, she cleared her throat.
“If you’ll pardon my asking, why do you think Mister Solo already knows?”
“Because he lied to me, my dear. And unless you believe that I’ve gone dotty enough in my old age to believe that Alexander would leave to take an emergency conference call – one that, might I add, he could have taken over the secured lines here – in his pajamas without even his robe or his slippers?”
April didn’t hesitate.
“No, ma’am. I see what you mean. I will send a team out immediately to see how the kidnappers got past your home’s security. Mister Slate and I will contact Mister Solo to see where he needs us to find Mister Waverly.”
Satisfied that the top agents would be looking for her husband, Mrs. Waverly nodded to herself.
“Excellent, Miss Dancer. I shall expect either my husband or a progress report by lunchtime. Now, I will get dressed to get ready for the investigation team’s arrival and allow you to take care of rousing Mister Slate.”
As soon as the dial-tone returned, April dialed Mark, finding her partner had already been awake for about an hour. He promised to pick her up shortly and to have a stout cup of coffee waiting for her in the passenger’s cup holder. They decided to wait until they were together to contact Napoleon so that they could hear the details of the hunt for Mister Waverly at the same time and be ready to go wherever Napoleon needed them to be.
Prompts - Loose/Grey
Word Count (Approx.) - 453
April Dancer was sure she wouldn’t be able to endure another day. Her torment had gone on for three days already, and if her contact didn’t show up soon, she knew she would end up scratching half of her skin off.
( Read more... )
Title: Sneaky Russian
Word Count: 1522
References This Series: April and Illya
Napoleon Solo was walking briskly through the corridors of the U.N.C.L.E., his goal to get to his office before anyone could stop him and ask about his day. For some reason he woke up in a foul mood, not his usual by any stretch. As he walked past the Map Room he heard some giggling and then …
Prompts – Stem/Navy Blue
Word Count (approx.) – 457
Glancing nonchalantly around the restaurant, April Dancer asked her partner how they were supposed to recognize their contact. There were at least fifty diners, a dozen wait staff and the Maitre d’. The contact, who was to give them a micro-film, could be anyone of them.
“No idea, love,” Mark Slate replied, as he thanked their waiter for the starters he’d brought to them. “All Napoleon would say was that we’d know them.”
( Read more... )
“So at last we meet darling.”
“Yes...darling. I think this has been long overdue,” the platinum blonde smiled at the auburn-haired woman seated at her restaurant dinner table.
Angelique Le Chien sat opposite April Dancer, moving as though she poured herself into the chair.
( Read more... )
“You’re a cruel man, Kuryakin.”
“It is not cruelty, Napoleon,” Illya asserted. “It is supplementary survival training. Besides, I’m also going.”
“You grew up in the cold,” Solo reminded him. “Apparently, the overnight lows are expected to be around twenty-six.”
Illya smiled. “Why are you so worried, my friend? You will be somewhere nice and warm.”
( Read more... )
So... what do you think?