Non-Challenge Fic: The Deadly in My Fashion Affair, Ch. 2

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

To read Chapter 1

Chapter 2
"The first Kuryakin original."

Research and Development was at the forefront of modern technology. They could furnish U.N.C.L.E. agents with weapons and gadgets ideal for thwarting the most diabolical plots or escaping the most perilous situations. However, when it came to fashion, it seemed they were at a complete loss.

Faustina looked on in amusement as the harried Development worker swallowed nervously in the face of Illya's indignation. The garments Jeffrey had presented were strewn about the table before them. "Perhaps they don't get out much?" she suggested.


"I assure you," Jeffrey said stubbornly, "the subject was thoroughly researched. These should be completely suitable."

Illya’s eyes blazed and his voice rose with his frustration. "They are suitable for my grandmother. The report said this Michael Leary appears to be searching for new, cutting-edge ideas." He grabbed a fistful of black cloth and shook it at Jeffrey. "This will not do."

Jeffrey drew himself up straight. "I am a chemist, not a couturier. These are the best this department can offer. If you are not satisfied, Dr. Kuryakin, feel free to design something yourself." He spun on his heel and stalked away.

"And I thought Finance people were crabby," Faustina chuckled. She retrieved one of the so-called dresses from the floor and, holding it to her lean frame, struck an Avedon pose. "Givenchy, they are not."

Illya regarded her thoughtfully. "The color is good," he conceded, admiring how the pale gold accented the highlights in her hair. "But the cut is all wrong."

The dress had yet to be fitted to her and was several sizes too large. It slipped easily over her turtleneck and skirt and would have slid completely to the floor if she had not caught it. The huge neckline rested precariously on the tips of her shoulders and across the rise of her chest.

"Don't move a muscle!" Illya commanded. He grabbed the black dress and some marking chalk and began to sketch furiously.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly, afraid of disturbing the dress.

"Just what the man said. I'm designing."

Faustina looked down at the expanse of pale-gold falling to a puddle at her feet. Even from her distorted view, it looked hopeless. "You're going to rescue this mess?"

"Yes." Illya finished his sketch and held it up for her to see.

Clutching the huge dress to her chest, Faustina shuffled closer. Although the chalk lines were fuzzy and the black cloth wrinkled, she could not help but whistle. In the sketch, a sleeveless, floor-length dress draped down from a wide, gravity-defying neckline. The cut was modest, delicately skimming the curves, yet the dress looked as if it might come tumbling down at any moment. As if reading her thoughts, he said, "It's only an illusion. It would be completely secure."

"It's gorgeous," she marveled, reaching to trace the chalk outline with her finger. "But can it be made?"

"We have two whole days. I'm sure if we explain the situation, Mr. Waverly can see that some professional seamstresses are called in. Now, let us see if any of the others can be salvaged."

Faustina looked down in new appreciation at the material swathing her. "I'm wearing the first Kuryakin original."

He glanced at the fuzzy sketch with pride. "The first Vanya original," he corrected, and taking the chalk, he signed that name with a flourish.



Through the window of the Greenwich Village art gallery, while he pretended to consider a rather poor attempt at minimalism, Napoleon Solo observed a young lady who had just pulled into an open space across the street. Even without the small photo nestled in his breast pocket, the shiny red Aston-Martin convertible and Mainbocher ensemble confirmed this was the girl he was looking for—Madeline Colbourne. His report had said she was the daughter of a wealthy Wall Street tycoon and last year had earned a diploma from Vassar. Now she appeared to be pursuing a graduate degree in Self-Indulgence. Recently returned from an extended stay in Europe, she was the only name in his report who had arrived in New York.

As Madeline crossed the street, Napoleon wondered how long it would take before she condescended to speak to him. He did not often throw himself at women, but...

As Miss Colbourne's Italian leather pumps touched the sidewalk, Napoleon flung himself roughly out the door of the gallery. "Uncultured Neanderthals," he shouted before landing at her feet.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed in boarding school French.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," Napoleon apologized. "I guess that’s what you get for trying to bring a little class to such a place. There are several better galleries for my magazine to feature next month."

He was on his feet once more, brushing off his jacket. Slowly, his mouth dropped as if he had only now recognized her. "Are you Madeline Colbourne?" he said in awed tones.

Madeline ran a manicured finger across her pearls and appraised him. Apparently she liked what she saw. "I am. I do not believe we have met, Mr..?"

"Solo. Napoleon Solo. Beau Monde magazine." He flashed his most charming smile.

"Enchanté," she smiled, extending her hand. He bent to kiss it.

"I apologize, Miss Colbourne. I did not mean to obstruct your entrance to the gallery."

"You may call me Madeline." She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. "And I never set foot in that horrid little place," she lied smoothly as she led him down the street, completely abandoning the painting Napoleon knew she was to have viewed. "I am surprised your journal even considered wasting ink on it."

"Well, we are a fairly new publication, focused exclusively on the younger members of international high society. We thought that gallery to be patronized by many of your jet-set.”

"Some think it adequate, I suppose," she said dismissively. They found themselves in front of a coffee house, and Madeline steered them into it as if it had been her destination all along. Once seated, she let Napoleon order her an espresso. She was unfailingly polite to the proprietor, yet something in her manner assured that she was slumming.

"Napoleon." She let the name roll off her tongue. "What a charming name. So imperial. Well, Napoleon, what other sort of things do you write about my friends?" she asked over her cup.

He admired her hands as she sipped her espresso, noting the pale imprint of a ring on her left fourth finger. Was she engaged? Married? His report had not mentioned either. "Our readers are interested in all aspects of your lives. The next issue was to focus on the popularity of that gallery. Now I don't know what I will find before my deadline."

"How fortunate for you, Napoleon, that we chanced to meet. I'm sure I can think of something you can write your little story on."

"That is very generous, Madeline, but I could not let you waste any of your valuable time—“

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "Nonsense. The story I have in mind could be related over dinner.” She leaned forward, her eyes promising more than talk. "How would you like to start with a travel diary of Europe?”

Napoleon took her hand and kissed it. "Madeline, I would like nothing more."



On his return from the Village, Napoleon had not been pleased to learn that Illya and Faustina had spent the entire morning, as well as the previous evening, closeted in Development. It did his heart good, therefore, to hear their voices raised in heated disagreement as he headed down the corridor.

The small room was cluttered with pieces of cloth and sketches of garments. Faustina stood before a mirror propped in the corner, arms akimbo. She was dressed in the remains of a cerulean pantsuit that Illya had sliced ruthlessly across the middle. The upper half was tucked up just under her breasts, but the placement of the bottom half was under contention.

"It should rest high on the hips," Faustina declared, yanking the ragged waist above her navel.

Illya, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie undone, stood behind her shaking his head. "No. Low on the hips." He reached out and, in a manner Napoleon thought quite familiar, tugged the waist back below her navel.

"It's for a lady, not a concubine." She dragged the waist up.

"It should be true to the Turkish influence." He pulled it down again.

The sight of Illya's hands on Faustina's hips had Napoleon rethinking the privileges of seniority. "Children,” he called, “you're not playing nicely."

His voice startled the combatants. Illya frowned at his presence and stepped back, but Faustina addressed him in relief, pulling the pants higher. "Napoleon, help me. Tell us you think the waist should be up like this."

Napoleon tapped a finger to his lips and circled Faustina in consideration. With its long, loose sleeves and legs, the blue outfit covered every inch of skin accept for her midriff. "I tend to agree with Faustina—“

"I'll try and contain my amazement," Illya interjected.

"Yet..." Napoleon was having trouble uttering the words that would consign Faustina's bellybutton to a mere memory. "Can't you compromise?" he suggested finally.

With a frustrated sigh, Illya grabbed some lengths of blue diaphanous material and approached Faustina. Only one piece was necessary to circle her slim waist after he had tugged the pants back down. "There. A compromise," he said stiffly and backed up to observe the results.

The gauzy material both concealed and revealed to pleasing effect. Illya met Faustina's eyes in the mirror. They smiled, his a typical curve of the lips, hers a wide flash of white.

"Hand me that other piece." Faustina gestured to the remaining material in Illya's hand. Pulling the neckline down deep between her breasts, she tucked the sheer blue fabric across her cleavage. "How's that?"

"Perfect." Illya returned to the table and adjusted his sketch. "Once it's secured, you can change."

"Good. It's surprisingly hot in this outfit."

He came forward with a pin cushion, and Faustina held the neckline down. He hesitated with his hand above her chest, however, unsure how he was going to pin the filmy material in place without taking undue liberties.

"You hold, and I'll pin," Faustina offered, and blushing softly, Illya agreed.

Watching Illya’s hands in yet another uncharted territory, Napoleon felt seniority to be a heavy burden indeed.

"What is going on in here?" Mr. Waverly's surprised tones caused the three agents to turn to the doorway. "Mr. Kuryakin, Miss Pemberley, why aren't you two at LaSalle's?”

"Excuse me, sir?" Illya asked, sticking himself on a pin as he quickly pulled his hand from Faustina's neckline.

"The House of LaSalle," Mr. Waverly explained impatiently. "He just called to say you had never arrived at his establishment. Now, I find you playing dress-up with the clothes that were to be delivered to Reykjavik this afternoon."

"Reykjavik, sir?" Illya shook his wounded finger and wondered when he had lost the ability to speak in anything but sentence fragments.

"Yes. The material of these garments you have hacked to pieces has some sort of insulating properties. This batch was for our woman in Reykjavik to test."

"When we reported to Research and Development, they brought these out to us," Faustina explained.

Mr. Waverly's glance carefully avoided her bare midriff. "I suspect it's the influenza. Many of our personnel are performing double-duty to compensate for those who are sick, a situation ripe for confusion. I suggest each of you report for your own flu shot today. We don't need any more bed-ridden."

"Will they be able to replace these in time?" The sweep of Illya's arm encompassed their destruction.

"They will have to, if they cannot pay closer attention to whom they are distributing their creations. But don't concern yourself with that. LaSalle is expecting both of you at his showroom within the hour. He has agreed to donate some designs to your collection." His mood shifted abruptly, and his eyes smiled. "And I suspect his people will be able to assemble a few of your own sketches as well."

"The Kuryakin collection," Napoleon said dryly.

Mr. Waverly turned in his direction. “Mr. Solo, don't you have some people to investigate?"

Napoleon straightened from the table edge he had been leaning on. "Already underway. The only one in town is a young lady who has agreed to tell Solo the journalist all about her trip to Europe."

"Of course it was a young lady. Very good, then. Is there any reason you need to be in this department?"

"Ah, no," Napoleon admitted.

"Well, perhaps you would care to adjourn to Medical for that shot?"

"Of course, sir."

"Now everything is settled." He started to leave. "Oh, I suggest you find out what Research and Development really wanted you two for," he added, turning back. Mr. Waverly looked for a moment at Faustina in her insulating ensemble. "You seem to have a genuine talent for this sort of thing, Mr. Kuryakin. I'll see that this information is added to your dossier."

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Thank you for a great chapter. I love R&D's being so forgivably caught short. Solo's pick up is fun, and the three person design session even more so.

Another good language joke ...in boarding school French. Also - graduate degree in Self-Indulgence

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I hope Napoleon didn't ruin another suit with that move.

The verbal jousting is one of my favorite things about MFU. I enjoy trying to help it live on. And it's a good outlet for all the snarkiness I hold back on a typical day. :)

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, this was good. The clothes designing squabbling was so fun, particularly Napoleon being split between wanting to agree with Faustina and wanting to see skin, and also Napoleon's schmoozing of the socialite was brilliant.

And flu or no flu, I suspect Mr Waverly will be having a few pointed words with R&D.

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Gotta love Napoleon being Napoleon. He's been on the make so many times, it was a challenge imagining a tactic I didn't think I'd seen him try before.

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'd have loved to watch Illya pull the waistline down Faustina's hips. Mr, Waverly walking in on the scene? Priceless.

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I think Waverly would have had a good chuckle about it later, considering his own youthful indiscretions.