I put a Spell On You Chapter 2
May. 22nd, 2012 09:37 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuLink to chapter 1: http://mrua7.livejournal.com/5250.html
This is a continuation of a stand alone story that I posted February 22nd, as I received a lot of requests for more. So here you are.
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This is a continuation of a stand alone story that I posted February 22nd, as I received a lot of requests for more. So here you are.
______________________________________________________
“Kuryakin here.” His voice was dull, giving away his mood.
“Illya, can you come over to my place?” Napoleon asked.
“Is it an emergency?”
“No, but if you could get here as soon as you can. Out”
He put the communicator down on the coffee table with a sigh and thought there was no rest for the weary. Duty called, or more precisely his friend did and there was no question he’d go.
Just then a twang of pain struck him. Illya rose slowly from his sofa thinking his avoidance of the post-mission checkup had possibly been a mistake. The wounds across his back inflicted upon him as a means to make his partner talk were causing more discomfort than he’d anticipated.
He had dry swallowed a few aspirin tablets once he had arrived home, washing away the bitter taste with a shot of ice cold vodka from the bottle he kept in the refrigerator freezer. Not a good combination but at the moment he didn’t care.
The burning sensation on his back was getting worse, forcing him to go into the bathroom, carefully peeling off his undershirt to reveal some of the welts were redder and swollen. They were most likely becoming infected.
He opened his medicine cabinet, spotting the bottle of ampicillin tablets prescribed to him just over a month ago, and as usual never took. This time he opted to take them, popping one of the pills and washing it down with a glass of water, hoping they would prevent a stint in a hospital bed in medical.
He limped into the shower, and as the hot water poured down his sore back, staring down at the scars that dotted his body, his thoughts drifted to the tragedy that had occurred on their mission.
Illya pictured her pretty face, filling him with sadness. She was a lovely woman, dark-haired with green eyes. A student of the arts. Sylvae Toussant, sweet and virginal in all respects except one. It was rare that he found himself instantly attracted to a woman, and could count the number on one hand. Had he the opportunity, he would have explored that intimacy with her, but the mission came first.
She was delightfully interesting, her laughter charming, like the tinkling of small bells. And now that sound would never be heard again.
Napoleon came up with a brilliant plan and hid the artwork, not even telling his partner but then, both he and Illya were taken captive. The would-be thieves beat Illya in hopes of forcing Solo to reveal where he’d put the paintings. Little did they know, they were all hanging right there in the gallery under the thieves’ noses, covered over by other modernist paintings of much lesser value and of no significant interest.
The U.N.C.L.E. agents managed to escape with Sylvae’s help, but ordered her to leave the gallery and to get away. They thought she had done so, but instead she hid herself in the office, thinking naively she could somehow be of further assistance to them.
The well meaning Sylvae stepped out of her hiding place right into the middle of a gun battle, taking a bullet that was meant for the Russian. She died as Illya held her in his arms.
link to chapter 3:http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/59056.html
“Illya, can you come over to my place?” Napoleon asked.
“Is it an emergency?”
“No, but if you could get here as soon as you can. Out”
He put the communicator down on the coffee table with a sigh and thought there was no rest for the weary. Duty called, or more precisely his friend did and there was no question he’d go.
Just then a twang of pain struck him. Illya rose slowly from his sofa thinking his avoidance of the post-mission checkup had possibly been a mistake. The wounds across his back inflicted upon him as a means to make his partner talk were causing more discomfort than he’d anticipated.
He had dry swallowed a few aspirin tablets once he had arrived home, washing away the bitter taste with a shot of ice cold vodka from the bottle he kept in the refrigerator freezer. Not a good combination but at the moment he didn’t care.
The burning sensation on his back was getting worse, forcing him to go into the bathroom, carefully peeling off his undershirt to reveal some of the welts were redder and swollen. They were most likely becoming infected.
He opened his medicine cabinet, spotting the bottle of ampicillin tablets prescribed to him just over a month ago, and as usual never took. This time he opted to take them, popping one of the pills and washing it down with a glass of water, hoping they would prevent a stint in a hospital bed in medical.
He limped into the shower, and as the hot water poured down his sore back, staring down at the scars that dotted his body, his thoughts drifted to the tragedy that had occurred on their mission.
Illya pictured her pretty face, filling him with sadness. She was a lovely woman, dark-haired with green eyes. A student of the arts. Sylvae Toussant, sweet and virginal in all respects except one. It was rare that he found himself instantly attracted to a woman, and could count the number on one hand. Had he the opportunity, he would have explored that intimacy with her, but the mission came first.
She was delightfully interesting, her laughter charming, like the tinkling of small bells. And now that sound would never be heard again.
She oversaw a gallery in New York that was showing paintings and artwork stolen by the Nazis during the war. They were to be on display for a limited time, loaned by their original owners and the museums from where they had been taken. Priceless paintings by Van Gogh, Johannes Vermeer, Degas, Bartolome Esteban Murillo, Bartolome, Cézanne and even the altarpiece of Veit Stoss and a statue by Michelangelo. These priceless pieces had not been seen in public since before World War II.
U.N.C.L.E. discovered these treasures were to be the target of art thieves, Illya and Napoleon were sent to prevent the theft. It was the more transportable paintings the ring of thieves were after, perhaps for themselves like the Recollectors...
Napoleon came up with a brilliant plan and hid the artwork, not even telling his partner but then, both he and Illya were taken captive. The would-be thieves beat Illya in hopes of forcing Solo to reveal where he’d put the paintings. Little did they know, they were all hanging right there in the gallery under the thieves’ noses, covered over by other modernist paintings of much lesser value and of no significant interest.
The U.N.C.L.E. agents managed to escape with Sylvae’s help, but ordered her to leave the gallery and to get away. They thought she had done so, but instead she hid herself in the office, thinking naively she could somehow be of further assistance to them.
The well meaning Sylvae stepped out of her hiding place right into the middle of a gun battle, taking a bullet that was meant for the Russian. She died as Illya held her in his arms.
link to chapter 3:http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/59056.html
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