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section7mfuPrompt: approach / green
Word Count: Approx. 1100
A bit belated, but I managed to get it finished before the big day. Merry Christmas, All!
Napoleon Solo’s smile of anticipation faded with each passing story as the cargo elevator slowly approached its destination. Pine needles littered the floor and clung to the soles of his freshly-shined shoes, their woodsy fragrance increasingly accented by notes of popcorn and beer. Lips screwed into a grimace, Napoleon rolled his shoulders, girding himself for what lay ahead. When the ancient lift shuddered to a halt, he pulled the gate aside and stepped into the loft.
With studied nonchalance, he returned the greetings thrown his way and unbuttoned his black trench coat. Conversation ground to a halt, leaving only Lou Rawls singing ‘Merry Christmas, Baby’ on the hifi. Napoleon met his hostess’s surprised gaze and said with a deprecating smile, “Sorry I’m late.”
Faustina grinned broadly. “At least you’re fashionably late.” She finished hanging a pinecone of flocked blue glass and gestured for another ornament.
“Outclassing us all, as usual,” Mark declared. He offered up a striped bell, then placed a steadying hand on Faustina's knee as she reached for a branch. His green eyes twinkled with wry amusement as Napoleon observed her comfortable perch on his shoulders.
“Overdressed, as usual,” Illya commented from the other side of the towering Christmas tree.
Napoleon ran a hand down the lapel of his tuxedo. “I was, ah, under the impression that it was a formal party.”
April peered down from atop a ladder, a garland of cranberries in hand. “I hope it wasn’t something I said, darling,” she called.
“No, not you.” He looked to the sofa, where Sarah and Heather sat stringing popcorn. “It was my mistake.”
The ladies exchanged a sly glance. Sarah rose with feline grace and crossed to Napoleon. He regarded her warily as she straightened his tie with a gratified smile. “Maybe next time, you won’t stand me up,” she purred and kissed his cheek.
“Hiya, Napoleon.” George emerged from behind a screen with a fresh bowl of popcorn, squinting myopically without his glasses. “Got a date, huh? Well, it was nice of you to stop by. Is that for us?” He took a bottle of champagne from Napoleon’s hand. “Bollinger. Hey, thanks. That’ll go great with the pizza.”
Napoleon watched, open-mouthed, as George handed the bowl to Heather and sat down to fiddle with the champagne. Then, thanking Sarah for taking his trench coat, he strolled over to examine the Christmas tree.
“You sure it’s big enough?” he asked, running his eyes up the Scotch pine to where the top branches reached for the exposed piping. “You’ve got a few feet of clearance.”
“Don’t encourage her, mate,” Mark advised. “Or next year there’ll be more casualties.”
Napoleon looked around in alarm. “Casualties?”
“Just one broken pair of glasses and a few bruised egos,” April assured him.
“Oh, I see.” Napoleon took the box of ornaments from Mark and, choosing a glittering yellow ball, placed it on a branch. “How did you even get the tree up here?”
“Excellent question. Alas, I was merely the humble pilot.” Finding his Guinness empty, Mark picked up a glass of red wine from a nearby table and gestured to George and Illya. “Try the boffins. After much fiddling about with a slide rule, they declared it couldn't be done.”
Napoleon looked from the massive tree to the two scientists, who avoided his gaze. “Then how did it…?”
“Female intuition,” Heather said. “We decided it just needed a good shove.”
“And voilà,” Faustina declared with a sweep of her arm, causing Mark to stagger. “And we only lost a few minor branches and George’s glasses.”
Illya snorted resentfully. “It should not have worked.”
Napoleon continued hanging ornaments, earning a frown from Illya when he intruded on his territory. “That looks fun,” he said as he watched the Russian methodically hang tinsel one strand at a time.
“They were throwing it on by the handful.”
“Good thing you’re here to save the day,” Napoleon said, making a minute adjustment to a recently-placed silver strand. “Maybe they’ll write a song about you.”
Illya repositioned the tinsel to its original state and glared icily.
“That doesn’t sound like Christmas cheer,” Faustina said. She prodded Mark with her foot as a signal to move them closer.
Mark choked down his mouthful of wine. “Easy luv,” he sputtered, “I’m not old Dobbin.”
“The tinsel looks beautiful,” April declared.
Faustina nodded approvingly when she was in position to see it. “Though at this rate, you might be here all night.”
Illya ran his eyes over the gigantic, largely-untinseled tree and sighed. “I never leave a project before it is finished.”
“Then I hope Kitt gets back soon with the pizza. You’ll need the sustenance.”
“I can help too,” Napoleon offered, taking a wad of tinsel from Illya’s hand. “I do my best work at night.”
Faustina chuckled and asked Mark to hand up her wine. “You’ve been drinking this,” she accused when she saw the nearly empty glass.
“Portage fees, luv,” Mark replied, then winced as Faustina flicked his ear.
“George, more wine, please, and another Guinness for Mark.”
“How ‘bout champagne? I think I’ve almost got it.” George sat with the bottle between his knees, wrestling with the cork.
“Ah, George,” Napoleon said in concern, heading toward the sofa. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
With a loud pop, the cork exploded from the bottle and shot towards the tree. Mark swung aside sharply to avoid the projectile, forgetting that he had someone on his shoulders. He staggered, fighting to regain his balance, then looked up at April in horror as he slowly toppled.
“Darling,” April cried, torn between amusement and distress. She scrambled down the ladder.
“I’ve got her,” Napoleon shouted, lunging to catch Faustina. She landed heavily in his arms, sending him crashing backwards into an armchair. A rear leg snapped under the sudden assault, and the chair capsized.
“Gee, did I do that?” George asked, squinting at the mayhem. From behind the chair, Faustina hooted with laughter.
April and Illya pulled Mark to his feet. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “Any more casualties?”
Faustina’s tousled head appeared around the side of the chair. “Just one.”
The UNCLE personnel gathered to assess the damage. “Typical,” Illya muttered, seeing that his partner had managed to land with his head cradled in Faustina’s lap. Despite his enviable position, Napoleon plucked mournfully at the large rent in the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket.
Sarah bit back a smile. “Here,” she said, taking the Bollinger from George and handing the bottle down to Napoleon. He shrugged in defeat and took a long swig.
Faustina patted his head consolingly. “Well, look on the bright side. Now we know what to get you for Christmas.”
Word Count: Approx. 1100
A bit belated, but I managed to get it finished before the big day. Merry Christmas, All!
Napoleon Solo’s smile of anticipation faded with each passing story as the cargo elevator slowly approached its destination. Pine needles littered the floor and clung to the soles of his freshly-shined shoes, their woodsy fragrance increasingly accented by notes of popcorn and beer. Lips screwed into a grimace, Napoleon rolled his shoulders, girding himself for what lay ahead. When the ancient lift shuddered to a halt, he pulled the gate aside and stepped into the loft.
With studied nonchalance, he returned the greetings thrown his way and unbuttoned his black trench coat. Conversation ground to a halt, leaving only Lou Rawls singing ‘Merry Christmas, Baby’ on the hifi. Napoleon met his hostess’s surprised gaze and said with a deprecating smile, “Sorry I’m late.”
Faustina grinned broadly. “At least you’re fashionably late.” She finished hanging a pinecone of flocked blue glass and gestured for another ornament.
“Outclassing us all, as usual,” Mark declared. He offered up a striped bell, then placed a steadying hand on Faustina's knee as she reached for a branch. His green eyes twinkled with wry amusement as Napoleon observed her comfortable perch on his shoulders.
“Overdressed, as usual,” Illya commented from the other side of the towering Christmas tree.
Napoleon ran a hand down the lapel of his tuxedo. “I was, ah, under the impression that it was a formal party.”
April peered down from atop a ladder, a garland of cranberries in hand. “I hope it wasn’t something I said, darling,” she called.
“No, not you.” He looked to the sofa, where Sarah and Heather sat stringing popcorn. “It was my mistake.”
The ladies exchanged a sly glance. Sarah rose with feline grace and crossed to Napoleon. He regarded her warily as she straightened his tie with a gratified smile. “Maybe next time, you won’t stand me up,” she purred and kissed his cheek.
“Hiya, Napoleon.” George emerged from behind a screen with a fresh bowl of popcorn, squinting myopically without his glasses. “Got a date, huh? Well, it was nice of you to stop by. Is that for us?” He took a bottle of champagne from Napoleon’s hand. “Bollinger. Hey, thanks. That’ll go great with the pizza.”
Napoleon watched, open-mouthed, as George handed the bowl to Heather and sat down to fiddle with the champagne. Then, thanking Sarah for taking his trench coat, he strolled over to examine the Christmas tree.
“You sure it’s big enough?” he asked, running his eyes up the Scotch pine to where the top branches reached for the exposed piping. “You’ve got a few feet of clearance.”
“Don’t encourage her, mate,” Mark advised. “Or next year there’ll be more casualties.”
Napoleon looked around in alarm. “Casualties?”
“Just one broken pair of glasses and a few bruised egos,” April assured him.
“Oh, I see.” Napoleon took the box of ornaments from Mark and, choosing a glittering yellow ball, placed it on a branch. “How did you even get the tree up here?”
“Excellent question. Alas, I was merely the humble pilot.” Finding his Guinness empty, Mark picked up a glass of red wine from a nearby table and gestured to George and Illya. “Try the boffins. After much fiddling about with a slide rule, they declared it couldn't be done.”
Napoleon looked from the massive tree to the two scientists, who avoided his gaze. “Then how did it…?”
“Female intuition,” Heather said. “We decided it just needed a good shove.”
“And voilà,” Faustina declared with a sweep of her arm, causing Mark to stagger. “And we only lost a few minor branches and George’s glasses.”
Illya snorted resentfully. “It should not have worked.”
Napoleon continued hanging ornaments, earning a frown from Illya when he intruded on his territory. “That looks fun,” he said as he watched the Russian methodically hang tinsel one strand at a time.
“They were throwing it on by the handful.”
“Good thing you’re here to save the day,” Napoleon said, making a minute adjustment to a recently-placed silver strand. “Maybe they’ll write a song about you.”
Illya repositioned the tinsel to its original state and glared icily.
“That doesn’t sound like Christmas cheer,” Faustina said. She prodded Mark with her foot as a signal to move them closer.
Mark choked down his mouthful of wine. “Easy luv,” he sputtered, “I’m not old Dobbin.”
“The tinsel looks beautiful,” April declared.
Faustina nodded approvingly when she was in position to see it. “Though at this rate, you might be here all night.”
Illya ran his eyes over the gigantic, largely-untinseled tree and sighed. “I never leave a project before it is finished.”
“Then I hope Kitt gets back soon with the pizza. You’ll need the sustenance.”
“I can help too,” Napoleon offered, taking a wad of tinsel from Illya’s hand. “I do my best work at night.”
Faustina chuckled and asked Mark to hand up her wine. “You’ve been drinking this,” she accused when she saw the nearly empty glass.
“Portage fees, luv,” Mark replied, then winced as Faustina flicked his ear.
“George, more wine, please, and another Guinness for Mark.”
“How ‘bout champagne? I think I’ve almost got it.” George sat with the bottle between his knees, wrestling with the cork.
“Ah, George,” Napoleon said in concern, heading toward the sofa. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
With a loud pop, the cork exploded from the bottle and shot towards the tree. Mark swung aside sharply to avoid the projectile, forgetting that he had someone on his shoulders. He staggered, fighting to regain his balance, then looked up at April in horror as he slowly toppled.
“Darling,” April cried, torn between amusement and distress. She scrambled down the ladder.
“I’ve got her,” Napoleon shouted, lunging to catch Faustina. She landed heavily in his arms, sending him crashing backwards into an armchair. A rear leg snapped under the sudden assault, and the chair capsized.
“Gee, did I do that?” George asked, squinting at the mayhem. From behind the chair, Faustina hooted with laughter.
April and Illya pulled Mark to his feet. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “Any more casualties?”
Faustina’s tousled head appeared around the side of the chair. “Just one.”
The UNCLE personnel gathered to assess the damage. “Typical,” Illya muttered, seeing that his partner had managed to land with his head cradled in Faustina’s lap. Despite his enviable position, Napoleon plucked mournfully at the large rent in the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket.
Sarah bit back a smile. “Here,” she said, taking the Bollinger from George and handing the bottle down to Napoleon. He shrugged in defeat and took a long swig.
Faustina patted his head consolingly. “Well, look on the bright side. Now we know what to get you for Christmas.”
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Date: 2016-12-25 01:58 pm (UTC)