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Prompts: package, pink
Word Count: 985

 

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"Sir, can you please tell me where I can find leotards for little girls?"

The woman might as well have been asking Illya for directions to the moon, although he might have fared slightly better on that one.

"I am new here madame, and not quite sure where to direct you in order to locate a, um… leotard."  The young woman looked disappointed as she juggled the package in her arms and tried to keep hold of the little hand she  had in hers.

"Oh dear… well… Does anyone know where I might find a pair of pink tights and a leotard?"  Illya felt bad as he watched her look around for someone else to help her.  Working undercover in a department store had been tailor made for Napoleon, but instead it was Kuryakin who was sent in to play the part of a sales associate while his partner hunted for a THRUSH presence upstairs in the accounting department.  The roles should have been reversed, and Illya would stand by that opinion against all odds.

At the moment, the odds were not in his favor.  He truly did not have a clue as to where one might find a pink leotard with tights to match.  His position behind the men's accessories bar was dicey enough, never mind ballet accoutrement.

Illya's supervisor was another young woman named Sylvia Drew. She was watching the new man in men's accessories and recognized the look of someone searching for an answer.  She found him attractive, and his frustration was completely charming to her as she let him squirm for a few minutes before swooping in to rescue him from his dilemma.

"May I be of some help here?" Sylvia smiled at the mother and child, and then at Illya.  She knew him as Ian Whitley, something slightly less intimidating than a Russian had been the thinking for this one.

"Yes, thank you.  This customer is looking for girl's dance apparel, and I fear I do not know where that is in the store."  Illya raised his eyebrows just enough to give an air of complete and utter helplessness, something he had perfected over the years.  Both women held back a sigh; he really was very cute.

Sylvia took over, directing the woman to the escalator and giving directions to the girls department.  When she was finished she turned her attention back to the blond man with the intense blue eyes.

"Mr. Whitley, you will learn where all of the departments are soon enough.  It's a big store, and there's a lot to take in.  Give it some time."  Her smile was warm, and Illya nodded and thanked her.  He thought Miss Drew was young to be in a supervisory position.  It would be inappropriate to remark on it, but it impressed him.

"Thank you for rescuing me.  I felt utterly lost until you walked up to take over."  Butterflies overwhelmed her stomach and she thought it possible that she was blushing.  Sylvia Drew needed to keep it professional, but it wasn't going to be easy.

Upstairs, Napoleon was playing the part of a Personnel manager from the corporate offices.  The plea for help from the President of the company had come to Alexander Waverly along with a suspicion that someone was corrupting their finances in an attempt to buy out controlling interest.  When it appeared that THRUSH might be involved, UNCLE was more than willing to investigate and, if necessary, intervene.

Why would THRUSH want a department store?  That had been the question asked b everyone involved.  What had emerged was the probability that it would simply be a front for laundering money in a large venue with multiple locations.  Catching them at their criminal activities was now the goal.

Napoleon approached the man behind a desk in the accounting area, which was a row of desks behind what served as the personnel office.  It didn't take long to spot a known THRUSH agent whose expertise was in banking and finance.  If he was here then it was a sure thing that he was doing something to the books that would damage the store's economy.  Napoleon perused the room as though looking for someone and then left.  He was on his communicator to Mr. Waverly within minutes.

Illya received a message by way of Sylvia Drew, who took the call from personnel that Mr. Whitley was wanted upstairs.  He thanked her and made his way up the escalator as she watched him, wondering again what the parameters of professionalism were regarding dating employees.

Once Illya reached the top floor he was met by Napoleon who filled him in on who he had seen in the office.

"And are we to take action now?"  Illya wondered if it might lead to something violent.

"Not action, exactly.' Napoleon winked and withdrew his Walther from the neatly concealed shoulder holster.  He inserted sleep darts and motioned for Illya to lead the way back inside the office area.  Once there he walked into a spot where he was partially concealed and lined up a shot.  The THRUSH never knew what was coming, and Illya was close by so that when he collapsed it was as though he were saving the day when he caught him and called for someone to ring for an ambulance.

A team of medics arrived, dispatched from UNCLE Headquarters and ready to transport the patient back there for interrogation.  Solo and Kuryakin looked like heroes and were able to leave the store with some well intentioned comments in their wake.  

Sylvia Drew would be disappointed in the coming days when her blond employee failed to return to his position in men's accessories.  It would be months before she spotted him again as he escorted a visiting dignitary from behind the Iron Curtain, along with that management exec from corporate.

Strange was the only word she could come up with.

 

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Vitameatavegamen, and you'll be healthy too!

Napoleon could hear the television from out in the hall.  I Love Lucy?  Even Napoleon Solo knew  Lucille Ball and her crazy antics on the television show from the 50's.  But Illya?

He knocked on the door and noted the sudden silence within.  Illya had been laughing out loud at the comedy, and now Napoleon felt a little guilty for interrupting such obvious enjoyment.  He wondered how often the Russian guffawed like he'd just heard him doing from inside the apartment.

When Illya opened the door he was not laughing anymore, and the television was turned off.  

"Napoleon, what brings you here tonight?  Are we being sent away again into the night?"  He was trying to maintain an appearance of cool reserve, but Napoleon recognized something slightly off.  He wondered what would happen if he …

"Vitameatavegamin!" Illya looked shocked, and then his face erupted into  smile that was followed by a shriek of laughter.  Nope, he wasn't done with it, and like anyone else struck by a laugh attack, Illya was on the edge, just willing himself to not break into a laughing fit.

"I don't know what…coughing back a laugh… to what you are referringggg… " And then he was done for.  Illya laughed until his sides hurt, and the sight of it made Napoleon succumb to that clever trick that draws other people into someone's hysterics.

"We do not have such humor in Russia, no one is funny in the Soviet Union."   Napoleon's quip brought on more laughter.

"I don't know, Kruschev is sort of a clown."  That made Illya stop momentarily until he remembered the great man thumping the podium with his shoe, and he laughed even harder.

The two of them stood in the door way howling with laughter until tears streamed down their faces and they were leaning on each other for support.  The two top agents in the U.N.C.L.E., toppled by Lucy.

A few of the neighbors heard the laughter, but most of them were likewise occupied as they watched the show that had torn apart at least  one iron curtain.


 
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"Shiloh Jones is a dangerous adversary, gentlemen. Please, do not let her gender fool you into believing otherwise, should you happen to encounter her in the course of a mission. THRUSH let her go several years ago, and now she became an independent agent, available to the highest bidder."

Napoleon smiled with a condescending curl at the corner of his mouth. He had heard this type of thing before from men like Rodney Jameson. Men who hadn't been in the field and who only taught about the enemy without having ever confronted him. Or her.

"She was most recently observed acting as the courier for a Chinese warlord named..."

"Excuse me, um... Mr. Jameson." Napoleon Solo was a smart ass, something everyone on Survival Island knew and accepted. They also knew this would not end well... for Rodney Jameson.

Read more... )robert vaughn
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Reinvigorate your minds, your bodies and your spirits.  Come up into the atmosphere where everything is clear.

 

The mantra kept repeating as the room full of devotees chanted the refrain over and over again.  Illya rolled his eyes at the redundancy of it all, and the mindlessness of the people he was infiltrating.

 

The Russian looked the part, dressed in linen pants and a strange fitting, gauzy shirt of a thing.  He hadn't quite figured it out, but all of the men wore them, while the women were covered completely in another version of the linen clothing.  For some reason he felt oddly exposed in the outfit, and the women seemed to be leering at him from behind the layers of veils that they wore.  

 

Napoleon would have loved it.

 

Read more... )
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 I forgot this one... A Drabble.
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Innocence is the starting point.

Not everyone can claim innocence when seen from the vantage point of justice.

Illya Kuryakin had trouble believing in the concept of innocence, he had seen too much.

Napoleon, on the other hand, often had a more generous outlook.. It didn't hurt if the view was of a beautiful woman.  In spite of the treachery he had encountered, it was still difficult to assign guilt while making love to someone, even if she intended to kill you afterwards.

Illya saw it, saw her and recognized the treachery.  If he didn't intervene…

He shot her first.

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"Quigly, where's that file?"  The stressed out assistant was flustered at the current mood her boss was in.  He was tossing things around, his eyes seemed bloodshot and, if she looked again she thought maybe he was starting to foam at the mouth.  As she recoiled from the sight of it, the man began to bleed from his eyes and a piercing shriek preceded a total collapse.

Shelly Quigly shrieked as well as she ran from the office and out into the hallway of the big firm in which she worked.  Staten, Staten and Berg was one of the largest law firms in Manhattan, and now one of the Statens was dead.

Alexander Waverly shuffled some papers on his desk in search of the pipe he had only moments before held in his hand.  Blast it all, where was his secretary?

"Miss Quigly, please come in here and help me sort through these, um… papers."  The summons was met with immediate action; the pneumatic doors open with a whisper and the newly acquired secretary, Marlene Quigly, hurried into the office of the head of UNCLE Northwest.

"Mr. Waverly sir, what can I do to help?"  She was solicitous and came highly recommended from one of the top law firms in the city.  Poor girl had been through a terrible ordeal it seemed, but she was on the spot as secretary to the Old Man.

"Yes, well… um, I seem to have misplaced…' his hands were still searching and like magic, the pipe was where it had last been seen.

"Oh, well I'll be… well, never mind.  Just the same, please help me clear this desk and perhaps you can file some of these away for me."  He felt strange, a little bit of a headache was coming on.

"Mr. Waverly, you look tired.  Perhaps a nap or …"

"No, no naps.  I don't have time for naps."  He snapped at her, an uncharacteristic response to her kindness.  Marlene thought back to the horrible scene with Mr. Staten, remembered how he had reacted after his morning coffee.  She looked at Waverly's half full cup of tea.  

"Sir, perhaps if you finish your tea you'll feel better."  Her tone made him feel comforted somehow, in spite of the splitting headache.  

"Yes, tea… a spot of tea…" Was he seeing double?   Something was off, and the old spymaster was suddenly alert to the signs of trouble that seemed to be mounting.  He touched the intercom, the direct line to Mr. Solo's office.  

A buzzing sound alerted Napoleon to something he both dreaded and responded to with a swiftness borne of training and loyalty.  Waverly was down, in his own office.  The intercom system had been added to Waverly's arsenal of buttons after the Brain Killer Affair.  The Old Man was to be as well protected as possible.

"Illya!  Waverly's office, something's wrong up there."  

The two men ran to Waverly's office, grabbing two other agents as they sped past them.  No amount of training ever prepared them for the eventuality of Waverly's demise, and if possible they were going to prevent it at all costs.  They reached the doors in record time, rushed inside to find Alexander Waverly seated, his devoted new secretary hovering over him as she tried to force tea down his throat.

"Stop what you're doing!  Stand back or …"  Marlene made a sudden move and Illya shot her with a sleep dart.  There was no point in being generous in his estimation of the situation.  She had the cup and Waverly looked stricken.

"Call for a medical team" Napoleon barked out the orders as the other agents complied.  Within a few minutes Waverly was heading to Medical on a gurney, his ramblings turning to shouts and whimpers of agony.

Illya smelled the tea, his acute senses picking up the faint odor of a poison he knew from his Soviet training.

"I think we may have a serial killer on our hands, Napoleon.  Her former employer died in a manner that was suspicious, and I believe Mr. Waverly would have met a similar fate had he not triggered that alarm.  We made it, quite literally, in the nick of time."  Illya's expression was stern, and as Marlene came back to consciousness a few hours later, her fate was virtually sealed by the stream of evidence quickly compiled against her.

Alexander Waverly recovered, but his stay in Medical lasted a few days longer than his patience for it.  Napoleon handled the day to day in his absence, but when the  Old Man was once again in his seat of power, UNCLE felt once again like the bastion of reason and order for which it was created.

Another round of danger and near misses would not hinder the mission of the U.N.C.L.E., or the vision of Alexander Waverly.

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"Penelope…" Napoleon smiled at the memory of a girl he once knew.  Illya raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner as he put down his book and yielded to the curiosity provoked by such a wistful tone in his friend's voice.

"And who is Penelope?" He had to ask, if for no other reason to be accommodating to Napoleon's apparent desire to speak of the woman.

"Oh, well… ', he sighed at the image of a young girl dressed in a yellow dress, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders in soft curls.

"She was the Autumn Apple Blossom Queen of 1951.  I was getting ready to ship out for Korea and the last thing I did was attend the Apple Festival and ask Miss Penelope Dugan out on a date with a man who might never return."  Illya smiled at the obvious ploy, one played out across nations by men waiting to deploy to some foreign war.

"And did she oblige the condemned's last wish?" Napoleon laughed out loud at the memory.

"No, no she did not.  Penelope had turned down more than one love struck sailor or soldier.  The girl was a class act and she knew it.  Her future wasn't with some grunt in the military."  It had stung a little at the time, but now Napoleon could see how a young woman of that era had to look out for her future, and that usually meant marrying well.

"So, did Penelope find her man?" Illya couldn't help but be a little curious.

"She did indeed.  Penelope married the son of a senator, and today is the wife of one.  She did well for herself, and, to his credit, the man she married fulfilled her vision of a bright future."  

Napoleon had encountered Penelope on a trip to Washington the previous week, and was surprised when she hailed him from the steps of the Capitol.  

 

"Napoleon Solo? Is that really you?"  Napoleon had turned at the sound of his name, and was unable to hide his surprise and pleasure when he recognized Penelope Dugan from fifteen years ago.

 

"Penelope?  What are you doing on the steps of the Nation's Capitol?"  It was a bemused tone in his voice, the easy cadence of his natural charm not hindered by the sight of an old, almost flame.

 

"I'm here with my husband, Senator Lambert.  I don't suppose you've kept up with my life.' Her smile made Napoleon tingle just a little; she was still beautiful.

 

"And what about you?  What brings you to Washington, D.C.?" Time for the cover story, something he always regretted when it concerned people from his past.

 

"I am here on business, just a few meetings.  You know how it is."  That was simple, not a complete lie at least.

 

Illya listened to the replay of Napoleon's encounter with Penelope, not daring to ask if anything else had transpired between them.  Napoleon knew instinctively that his friend was thinking of the possible scenarios, all of it based on his usual proclivity to seduction and sex.

"She's a married woman, Illya.  I do have a few principles you know."

"Sorry.  You read my mind, did you?"

"Sometimes it's just a reflection of my own.' Napoleon sighed before continuing.

"She really is a beautiful woman, even more beautiful than when she was nineteen."

Illya considered that little confession, the lapse in a barrier they both often kept in place against the divulging of personal desires, or fears.

"And she is happy?  In her marriage, did she seem happy?"  Illya needed his partner to be fully present, they were going out on a mission in twenty-four hours.  It wouldn't do for Solo to be dreaming of a woman he couldn't have.

"Yes, she seemed… I believe she is very happy.  I saw nothing to indicate otherwise."

"Good."  That made Napoleon take a closer look at the Russian.

"Why do you ask?"

"Why shouldn't I? If she is happy then you are less likely to try and seduce her.  I think that is best.  Do you not agree?"  The challenge was to make Napoleon aware of any hesitation or emotional hindrance that might be lingering after his encounter with this woman.

"I'm fine Illya.  I am just fine and dandy.  Penelope is happy and I am… fine." 

Illya patted his partner on the back, the only kind of solace he could offer.  Napoleon was not fine, and his heart was now officially smitten with a woman from his past whose own future was a barrier to any kind of romance between them.  

Napoleon would have twelve hours of flying to get over Penelope. At least that's what he and Illya were hoping would happen.  Principles and morals… Napoleon wondered if it was all worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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"Jack of all trades, that's how they describe me."  The fellow speaking was a big guy, with a mane of red hair and a smile the width of his broad face.

Napoleon Solo felt dwarfed as he looked up at Jake Jones, and had a sudden realization of how it must feel to be Illya Kuryakin.  He hadn't worked with him yet but seeing him around Headquarters Solo had thought the Russian agent must surely be underweight for the job.

"So Jake, if I may call you that…' The big guy nodded, prompting Napoleon to continue.

"So, I have heard some things about a couple of men who paid you a visit.  What exactly did they ask you to do?  I mean, you're the jack of all trades guy, right?  So, they must have wanted you to do something for them."  

Jake's eyebrows drew close together as he considered the line of questioning about those fellas from, um… he couldn't remember where they were from.

"They just wanted me to build 'em somethin."  No details forthcoming… yet.

"Uh huh, and what exactly, if you don't mind my asking, did they ask you to build?"  Napoleon knew this couldn't go on much longer.  If Jake were truly 'in' with THRUSH, then he would surely turn on the UNCLE agent and try to take him down.  Napoleon imagined Jake using the term 'whomp'; it just suited him somehow.

Nah, I don't mind none.  I already told that little blond feller all about it.  He had a fair amount of know how hisself, and helped me finish putting this engine together."

So that was the Russian's game, eh? Come in and take Napoleon's mission right out from under him.

"Jake, you say you talked to the, um… blond fellow.  What did you tell him?"  Napoleon was looking as earnest as possible while his blood roiled at the thought of being bested by the new agent.

"Why don't you just ask me, I shall be more than happy to share what I have learned here."  That accent, that infuriating tone of someone who has what someone else wants.

"Mr. Kuryakin, how interesting to find you here.  Did I miss a memo back at the office?"  Illya Kuryakin smiled at the apparent annoyance he had become.  Oh well, it was not the first time.

"Mr. Waverly sent me down here, he thought you might need some help with the, um… situation."  

Jake was watching the two men, aware that he was the topic at hand but slightly amused to be causing such a hubbub.  He'd have to tell his granny about this, she'd get a hoot out of it.

Napoleon looked the Russian over from top to bottom.  He wasn't wearing a suit, he was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt; there was grease all over the front and the obvious tactic of blending in with the locals, as much as one could blend in when saddled with an accent like his.

"I see, and have you…?"

"Yes.  We have what we need and can return to Headquarters just as soon as I finish with Jake's little project.  You are most welcome to wait and, hmmm… watch."  There it was again, the little half smile that hid something that Napoleon was determined to ferret out.  He'd finagle a mission with the upstart and figure out all of his secrets.

But not before Illya and Jake rebuilt the transmission and convinced Napoleon to take off his silk shirt and help them.  Stripped down to a tee shirt like the other two men, it was only a matter of time before he relaxed and began to reveal a few characteristics to the cagey Russian; characteristics that would come in very handy someday.

Illya knew how to get secrets out of people too.

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"Holy Cow Napoleon!  That's a centrimetrical atmospheric diodal manipulator.  Where did you get it?"  Brandon Lightner was from the labs at UNCLE New York..  He was very excited about the gadget brought to him by the CEA, Napoleon Solo.

"I mean, I expect stuff like this from your partner, Mr. Kuryakin.  I mean, he's the scientist and sort of the brainiac… ' Brandon talked fast and sometimes he overshot himself.

"I mean, you are a smart man, Mr. Solo, um.. Napoleon.  I just mean that,well, with his degrees and all, well… I mean, Mr. Kuryakin is, um… well, Doctor Kuryakin.  Right?"  The hold wasn't quite as deep as Brandon feared, but he was in danger of falling into something.

"Look Brandon, I know Illya is a doctor of physics.  But sometimes I get to bring home the goodies, you know what I mean?"  He smiled, that charming Solo smile intended to put people at ease and, in some cases, make them stop talking.

"Illya will be down in a bit, but I wanted to find out what this thing does.  We recovered it at a THRUSH agent's apartment, and it seemed like an odd thing for him to be carrying around on his own.  What does it do?"  Brandon was taking it all in, his eyes glued to the 'gadget' in question.  

"Didn't doctor, um… Mr. Kuryakin explain it to you?"  Surely Illya knew what this thing is.

"Illya was a little out of commission, he ran into something big and very solid." In truth, the THRUSH whose apartment they had broken into had arrived back at the scene, taking out the Russian with one punch as Napoleon shot him with a sleep dart.  Both of them were now in Medical, one in the agent's section, the other in  restraints.

"Oh… Okay.  Well, let me explain it to you then."  And so he did, a long and meandering speech about weather and pulses and something totally incomprehensible to the otherwise 'smart' Mr. Solo.

"That's great Brandon.  You hold onto that, investigate it and write a report.  I'll let Mr. Kuryakin know it's in good hands."  Napoleon was relieved to leave the lab behind him as he headed towards Medical to check on his partner.

Illya was awake, his face turning blue from the  punch and the ice pack on his cheek.  He groaned a greeting to Napoleon.

"So, did Brandon fill you in on the device?"  Illya could tell from the look on Napoleon's face that most of it had been like a vapor to the disinterested man.  Napoleon liked to know the gist of things, but he didn't insist on understanding all of the science behind it.

"Brandon is a good kid, but I was glad to get out of there.  You can go down and check on things when your head clears."  

What Illya wanted was a stiff drink and a long nap.  That guy had delivered a wicked left hook.

"Fine by me.  For now, I'd like to go home.  Get me out of here and I'll buy dinner."  Napoleon feigned a shocked expression.  He intended to take advantage of the moment however, and quickly arranged to take his partner home.  Dinner was a nice end to an otherwise hectic day, including the science talk from Brandon.

"Thank for dinner Illya, it's always good when it's from Luigi's.  Now, take some aspirin and get some rest.  You'll need it to spend a day in the labs with Brandon."  Illya had to smile at that.  He had once had that kind of enthusiasm for science, although it had waned slightly with his involvement in enforcement.  Perhaps a day with someone whose intensity ran with the same curiosity and enthusiasm as he had once possessed would be good for him.

"I shall make the best of it, my friend."  The two friends said their good nights and mentally prepared for another day.

Illya got into his bed and fell asleep almost instantly.  In his dreams, he was once again a young man with a dream of exploring the secrets of the universe, or even the multiverse.

He slept very well indeed.

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Gone.  Everything was gone and no one or nothing could bring it back.

Illya Kuryakin stood in the middle of what had been a house, a home.  He knew the people who lived there and were now… gone.

"Hey Illya, I think I found something."  Napoleon was there, searching through the rubble of a fire ravaged structure that had once been a family home.  He knew Illya was acquainted with them, immigrants from Russia whose family had once known Kuryakin's, before the war.

"I don't see that it matters.  At least it seems that no one was here when the fire started, but why did it start…' His voice trailed off before his question was complete.  Illya stooped down and looked more closely at something beneath a pile of charred books.

"Napoleon, over here.  I think there's something of importance."  Napoleon stopped what he was doing, still holding the medallion he had found.

"Look at this."  Illya was pointing with a blackened piece of cutlery, poking at something.  Napoleon knelt down to get a better look.

"Well, what do you know."  With gloves on and his shirt sleeves already rolled up, Napoleon pushed aside some burnt fabric and pulled up on the object Illya had found.

"What is this?"  Napoleon could see what looked like cyrillic writing on the front of some type of notebook.  He looked at Illya, whose face had turned ashen.  Something was definitely not right.

Illya took the notebook, his heart sinking as his memories of service in the Soviet Navy brought back images of similar bound texts and assignment ledgers.  Only this one wasn't GRU, it was KGB.

"They were spies."  Napoleon looked confused at hearing those words.

"Spies?  You mean, they were Soviet spies?  I thought you knew these people."

"So did I."  Illya's response was icy, his mind racing with scenarios and memories that now skewed with a new revelation.  He wondered if one or the other of this couple had been responsible for his father's imprisonment.  They had known his family before the war, before his musician father was taken as part of the great purge of the Russian creative communities.  His mother had died because of betrayal, and now he had to wonder if these people had been part of that misery.

"Meeting them here was purely chance Napoleon.  They must have reported it and been instructed to … disappear.  We will never find them, they're gone."

Napoleon knew there would be repercussions to this, both from Mr. Waverly and from the Soviets.  Of course the KGB couldn't admit that they had spies or that those spies weren't really victims of this fire.  But they would be watching Kuryakin to monitor his actions now.

"You're not going to go looking for them are you?  I mean, what would be the point?"  Napoleon could only hope his partner, his friend, would just let it go.  No matter what the past was in regard to these people, it wasn't worth risking the Russian's future.

"I'm fine Napoleon.  I am not intending some rash action.  I know what is at stake, so rest assured I will not rock this boat.  At least not now, not while everyone is watching me."

It would do for now. This family of spies was gone, but Illya's past would always color his present.

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Frantically searching for his partner, Napoleon Solo knew there were only a few minutes left on the clock before the bomb would take out half a city block and everyone on it.  He had last seen Illya Kuryakin in a cell, but that was before a round of drugs and several beatings.  For some reason the guy in charge of this hell hole had separated them, by several floors it now seemed.

"Illya!  Illya Kuryakin!"  Napoleon was yelling at the top of his lungs, no longer fearful of the enemy.  Most of them were gone now, fleeing to get distance between them and the potential disaster planned by the the chief lunatic, Lester Pinchot.  The Frenchman was a madman of THRUSH proportions, and his plan to blow up a section of Brooklyn was on track at the moment.

A rattling noise caught Solo's attention.  It was just a few yards away and it had to be Illya.  He hoped it was.  Running now as fast as his weary legs could manage, Napoleon came to the spot and, sure enough, Illya was inside banging a chain against the iron rods that separated him from safety.

"Illya, just hold on, I'm gonna get you out of there.  Napoleon had been searched, beaten and otherwise thoroughly interrogated.  But the THRUSH goons hadn't found the one thing that would change everything.  He pulled a button off of his shirt and motioned for Illya to stand back, as did Solo; aiming for the lock he tossed the first button with precision accuracy, causing a small explosion.  The cell door swung wide with the impact of it, allowing Napoleon to enter and set about freeing Illya from the shackle he had used to summon his partner.

"Okay my friend, this is going to hurt a little."  Napoleon placed the button on the wall where the chain was secured.  Hopefully the length of it would allow him and Illya to avoid any serious damage.  He threw another length of chain towards the wall, intending to hit something as he did so.  

Bam!  Smoke and bits of old brick spewed out from the explosion, pelting the two agents with bits of it, and successfully separating Illya from the wall.  He would have to drag the remnant of the chain until they got back to Headquarters or found a key, but for now they had to get to the bomb and disarm it.  Napoleon knew he would have to explain to his friend why he hadn't disarmed it first before rescuing Illya, but the reprimand would be minor compared to the grief he would have endured had he failed at both.

The bomb was located in the basement of the old building.  Illya quickly disarmed it while Napoleon called Headquarters from a telephone handily located on a desk in the room; it had served as an office of some sort by all appearances.  The bomb squad would finish up here, and a ride was coming to take Solo and Kuryakin back to give their report to Mr. Waverly.

As they were riding back towards Headquarters, Illya finally asked the question.

"So, why didn't you just disarm that bomb before you came to find me?  You risked doing what should have been your primary objective."  Illya wasn't mad, or disappointed.  He was grateful, as he always was when his partner came through for him.  

"You know why.  Tell me you wouldn't have done the same."  Napoleon looked straight into Illya's 

eyes, searching for any kind of disapproval or recriminatory attitude.  He was relieved to find neither.

Illya nodded his head.  His throbbing head.  THRUSH drugs were the bane of his life.

"Of course I would have done exactly the same thing.  But, you knew I would ask."

Napoleon had to smile.  Yes, of course his  partner had to ask.  They would always save each other, and save the day.

Solo and Kuryakin, best team on the planet.

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[personal profile] glenmered

Euphoria is something rare and wonderful, and not the usual state of mind for an agent of the United Network Command for Law Enforcement.  It is most certainly not the usual for the Russian among the ranks of that organization, and yet on this day it was euphoria that permeated his entire being.

Read more... )

 

 

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[personal profile] glenmered
 Dawn came too quickly.  The sun was a fierce combination of reds and oranges, with a white rim that blinded the man watching it fill the sky.  Illya Kuryakin was in trouble, his left leg throbbing as blood seeped through the shirt he had used as a tourniquet.  That meant he was shirtless, vulnerable to the effects of the coming day; the probability of a sunburn was a minor concern in the face of his current predicament.

"Oh Napoleon, where have you gone?" Illya hadn't seen his partner since they parted ways in an attempt to throw off the chase by several THRUSH, each of them hoping the diversion would work in spite of the determination on the part of their pursuers.  Napoleon had jumped a fence behind an ancient cottage, much to the surprise of the old woman who was hanging her wash to dry.  Illya's own escape plans were thwarted as he dodged to avoid crashing into a young woman and her two little girls.  They had appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed as their paths intersected in a narrow alley.  Illya had no choice but to let them pass, allowing his pursuers to gain ground and, when the obstruction had passed, take aim at their prey.

Illya felt the bruising sting of a bullet as it passed through his thigh, missing bone but boring a hole that hadn't stopped providing a sieve for the blood he was losing.  He was still slightly disbelieving at having lost the two men, but somehow he had managed it.  Now he had temporary refuge among spent shocks of corn, yellowed with the passing of time and abandoned by a farmer who thought the field not worth clearing.  Illya blended into the forest of stalks and weeds, his hair the color of cornsilk, a pair of tan corduroy jeans like the dirt on which he sat.  It was dumb luck that he had found this spot, but so far luck was oozing away along with his supply of blood.  He didn't have the strength to move on, and so he leaned against a  pile of the dried up corn shocks and, like a scarecrow stripped of purpose, Illya gave in to the sun and his eventual demise.

Napoleon Solo lost the THRUSH who were chasing him, resting for the night in a barn conveniently empty and perfect for hiding out from one's enemies.  In the morning he awoke and went in search of his partner.

When next Illya Kuryakin awoke, he saw not a blazing sun, but rather the face of his friend and partner. That was all he needed to see, and so he closed his eyes again, confident that all was well.  
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[personal profile] glenmered
 "Ciao baby, and don't come back!"

Illya winced slightly as he heard the rude remark being shouted out by his partner.  It was unlike Napoleon to use that tone with a woman, and yet it was happening now, in public.

"Don't you worry baby, you'll not see my face again until it's time to watch your sorry self lowered into a grave. Adios and good riddance! And that goes for the Old Man too!"

The volatile rebuff was equally rude, equally vitriolic.  These two were putting on a good show.  Napoleon turned to his partner and tried to maintain his angry demeanor.  In truth he could never be that angry with Agent Dancer.

"What do you think, was I adequately brutish?" Napoleon seemed pleased with himself, he didn't often get to play someone so ... unlikable.

"I assure you, the scene I just witnessed will convince anyone watching that the two of you are quite done.  I believe she is going to be welcomed into the Wilmington satrapy with open arms and less suspicion; probably a lot of questions though."

Napoleon was thoughtful as he watched April drive away.  The mission was not without its dangers, in spite of what could now be considered her departure from UNCLE.  Thankfully, Mark was already in place within the complex and posing as one of the maintenance crew on the grounds of the big estate.  Solo and Kuryakin would be close by, ready to step into place when the time came.

For now, it was business as usual.  Which, by the very nature of things, was always quite unusual.
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[personal profile] glenmered
Bwaahaahahahaa...

"Did you hear that?"  Napoleon looked around suspiciously as he prodded his partner for a positive response to his question.  Illya was standing as still as a statue, his pale complexion a few shades lighter than normal.


Read more... )
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[personal profile] glenmered

"I'm starving."

 

"You're always starving."

 

"This time I truly am famished.  We haven't had anything to eat for hours."

 

"Illya, we ate six hours ago, before we got on the train."

 

"I'm going to the dining car."

 

"We can't leave.  There are THRUSH out there looking for us, and so far they haven't checked in here."

 

Illya glared in the darkness.  It was true they seemed to have eluded their enemies, at least for the time being.

 

"Fine, but when this train stops and we know they're off the train…"

 

"You can eat all the way to New York City."

ABC Affair

Jun. 7th, 2017 09:19 pm
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[personal profile] glenmered
A Is For Amaretto

"Acrimonious? You think my reply was... acrimonious?"  Illya nodded in that way he had of barely moving his head, a mere hint of assent to the other man's heated question.


Read more... )
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[personal profile] glenmered

Holoholo for Writer's Choice

This story was written as an Easter Egg for avery11 several years ago.  I like the idea of the guys getting some time off, and the ever present unexpected that they are bound to encounter.
Holoholo on AO3
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[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.

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[personal profile] glenmered

Prompts: Patient,Pale Yellow

Word count: 1226 (oops, slightly over)

 

………………………………

Napoleon Solo had a throbbing sensation in his skull that made him want to throw up.  That usually meant only one thing.

"THRUSH." 

Read more... )

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