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section7mfu2015-12-10 01:08 pm
ssclassof56.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-12-10 01:08 pm
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Shenanigans - Christmas Gossip Challenge
Continued from Part 2
Napoleon had been very pleased by how neatly he had roped Illya and Faustina into the Twister Tournament. Now he was having second thoughts.
Since she’d been transferred to New York, Faustina had repeatedly turned down his dinner invitations, claiming a strict policy of non-fraternization with other Section II agents.
It was galling to see how quickly that conviction had been abandoned since he'd teamed her with Illya. Not just abandoned, but rejected, renounced, and thoroughly repudiated.
On her return from Hong Kong, they had spent the day closeted in her office. Illya had been suspiciously casual when asked about it. Even worse, his mood was more cheerful than usual, and he’d begun smiling for no reason.
Yesterday Napoleon had found them on the conference room couch. He frowned at the memory. They were sitting at a respectable distance as he entered the room. Yet he was certain there’d been some hasty scrambling as the doors slid open and an air of suppressed excitement behind their nonchalant greetings. And Illya’s tie had been askew.
Today Illya had declined Napoleon’s lunch invitation, citing a previous commitment. It must have been a six course lunch, for his partner was very late in returning. When Napoleon had pointed out something red at the corner of his mouth, Illya claimed it was raspberry sauce. Napoleon recognized Tahitian Sunset, Faustina’s signature lip color, and refused to contemplate what his partner had really had for dessert.
Unable to resist any longer, Napoleon opened his communicator and called Illya.
"Not now," was his partner’s terse greeting.
“Illya, where are you?”
“At my apartment. What do you want?”
“I knocked a few minutes ago but got no answer.”
“I just got in. Is there an emergency?”
“No.” He heard laughter in the background. Feminine laughter. “Are you alone?”
“Of course. That’s the television.”
The sound that followed Illya's assertion was the pop of a champagne cork, or Napoleon would turn in his Special and ID. “And that?”
“A beer commercial.” Illya yawned extravagantly. “I’m turning in early. Tomorrow is the Christmas party, and I have a tournament to win.” Illya’s voice receded, as if he’d stepped away from his communicator. Or been drawn away.
“Ahhh, all right. Good night.”
As he spoke, Napoleon could hear Illya’s murmur, “Now where were we? Oh, yes, I was right about here…” followed by the squeal of his name in a familiar voice. A voice that by rights and tradition should have been squealing “Napoleon.”
“Hoist by my own petard,” Napoleon concluded sourly, wishing he'd never found the game Twister.
Back at headquarters, Illya closed his communicator. “That should give him something to lose sleep over.”
“I hope so. We want him so off balance, he's questioning his own name.” She finished adding a note to their wall diagram. “We’ve really got to sell this tomorrow. Are you sure you can stomach displaying that much public affection?”
“I'll manage to bear up under the strain,” he said dryly. “We’re going to cause a lot of talk.”
She shrugged. “What people actually remember the next day, we’ll attribute to an excess of holiday spirits and rum punch.”
“And if they attribute it to this?” he asked, indicating the gold band on his left hand.
“You know my thoughts on that. But you’re right, speculation will abound. So you make the call: off or on.”
Illya's ran his communicator down his nose as he thought. “I'll sleep on it.”
Napoleon had been very pleased by how neatly he had roped Illya and Faustina into the Twister Tournament. Now he was having second thoughts.
Since she’d been transferred to New York, Faustina had repeatedly turned down his dinner invitations, claiming a strict policy of non-fraternization with other Section II agents.
It was galling to see how quickly that conviction had been abandoned since he'd teamed her with Illya. Not just abandoned, but rejected, renounced, and thoroughly repudiated.
On her return from Hong Kong, they had spent the day closeted in her office. Illya had been suspiciously casual when asked about it. Even worse, his mood was more cheerful than usual, and he’d begun smiling for no reason.
Yesterday Napoleon had found them on the conference room couch. He frowned at the memory. They were sitting at a respectable distance as he entered the room. Yet he was certain there’d been some hasty scrambling as the doors slid open and an air of suppressed excitement behind their nonchalant greetings. And Illya’s tie had been askew.
Today Illya had declined Napoleon’s lunch invitation, citing a previous commitment. It must have been a six course lunch, for his partner was very late in returning. When Napoleon had pointed out something red at the corner of his mouth, Illya claimed it was raspberry sauce. Napoleon recognized Tahitian Sunset, Faustina’s signature lip color, and refused to contemplate what his partner had really had for dessert.
Unable to resist any longer, Napoleon opened his communicator and called Illya.
"Not now," was his partner’s terse greeting.
“Illya, where are you?”
“At my apartment. What do you want?”
“I knocked a few minutes ago but got no answer.”
“I just got in. Is there an emergency?”
“No.” He heard laughter in the background. Feminine laughter. “Are you alone?”
“Of course. That’s the television.”
The sound that followed Illya's assertion was the pop of a champagne cork, or Napoleon would turn in his Special and ID. “And that?”
“A beer commercial.” Illya yawned extravagantly. “I’m turning in early. Tomorrow is the Christmas party, and I have a tournament to win.” Illya’s voice receded, as if he’d stepped away from his communicator. Or been drawn away.
“Ahhh, all right. Good night.”
As he spoke, Napoleon could hear Illya’s murmur, “Now where were we? Oh, yes, I was right about here…” followed by the squeal of his name in a familiar voice. A voice that by rights and tradition should have been squealing “Napoleon.”
“Hoist by my own petard,” Napoleon concluded sourly, wishing he'd never found the game Twister.
Back at headquarters, Illya closed his communicator. “That should give him something to lose sleep over.”
“I hope so. We want him so off balance, he's questioning his own name.” She finished adding a note to their wall diagram. “We’ve really got to sell this tomorrow. Are you sure you can stomach displaying that much public affection?”
“I'll manage to bear up under the strain,” he said dryly. “We’re going to cause a lot of talk.”
She shrugged. “What people actually remember the next day, we’ll attribute to an excess of holiday spirits and rum punch.”
“And if they attribute it to this?” he asked, indicating the gold band on his left hand.
“You know my thoughts on that. But you’re right, speculation will abound. So you make the call: off or on.”
Illya's ran his communicator down his nose as he thought. “I'll sleep on it.”
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