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section7mfuJust a little Christmas fun...
Napoleon Solo woke with a start, hearing a noise coming from somewhere out in his apartment. The alarm hadn’t been triggered and he wondered if it was Illya, as the Russian was prone to drop in out of the blue, especially if he’d been out drinking or after his other more rare nocturnal activities.
The American slipped his Special from beneath his pillow, just in case, silently throwing back the covers as he tiptoed across the hardwood floor.
He peeked around the door post, but with only a little light coming from the front windows, he could barely see a thing. There was no movement that he could hear or see and pondered he might have dreamt it.
Earlier that evening at an office Christmas party in Section III, he had a little more Scotch than he should have. He had his eye on a girl named Shirley, but waited to long to make his move and watched as she disappeared out the door with Mark Slate. He remembered thinking it was that British accent that did it every time. He was into the Carnaby Street look and that seemed to draw the girls to him like moths to a flame.
The same thing happened to his partner, his accent, boyish good looks, his foppish hair all attracted the ladies, though he didn’t want their attention most of the time, but tonight even the Russian had a brunette, Nadia from translation, clinging to his arm, and Solo watched them disappear out the door as well.
Napoleon looked down at his new double breasted blue suit, and wondered if he wasn’t coming across a bit stodgy, but figured that was probably the Scotch talking. Still, that conclusion didn’t help him hook up with anyone, and he went home alone, something the American was not accustomed to.
His ears perked up as heard it again, a rustle, sounding like it came from near his Christmas tree in the living room. Napoleon reach along the wall, feeling for the light switch and when he found it, he flicked it on, his weapon held on the ready.
There was no one there, everything looked fine until he noticed a wrapped box beneath the tree, one that hadn’t been there before...
“Illya, you little scamp,” he murmured, deciding to go back to bed.
The next morning, Napoleon, nursing a hangover, walked downstairs to his partner’s apartment dressed in his grey silk pajamas and robe, and carrying the unopened package with him. He tapped his coded knock on the door, knowing he wouldn’t disturb anything as Illya never brought a woman home. He always went to her place, feeling women were more relaxed in their own beds.
The door opened slowly, with a bleary-eyed Russian dressed in a raggedy bathrobe, T-shirt and sweatpants looking at him questioningly.
“Rough night?” Napoleon asked as he walked in. That’s when he noticed an identically wrapped package in his partner’s hand.
“Did you leave this under my tree?” He asked, holding up his box,
“Nyet, you leave this one?”
“Not me.”
The two men froze, thinking the same thought. THRUSH had broken through their alarm systems and left them some sort of explosive present. They rushed to the bathroom and Illya filled the tub with water, immersing the packages and completely soaking them.
They waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Illya banished his partner to the living room and taking a chance, withdrew one of the soggy boxes from the tub, carefully pulling the wet paper from it and peeling the soaked cardboard apart.
“Well?” Napoleon called impatiently. “Illya?”
The Russian walked out holding a beige cashmere turtleneck in his hands. “I think this was for you.” He tossed it in Napoleon’s face.
“Funny,” Solo caught it, letting it drop it to the floor. “What about the other box?”
“I am checking it now, stay here just in case.” He walked back into the bathroom.
Minutes later Napoleon heard a loud pop, prompting him to rush in to check on his partner.
Illya stood holding a bottle of Lheraud Vintage Petite Champagne Cognac, from France.
“Sorry my mistake, I think this is yours.” He smiled sheepishly as a good portion of it had spilled onto the floor when the cork exploded from the pressure.
“How did someone get into our apartments without triggering the alarms, if you and I did not deliver these?”
Napoleon stood there scratching his head. “Is there any sort of card?”
Illya looked inside the boxes, finding two small envelopes, he handed one to Napoleon and together they peeled them apart.
“Merry Christmas, from Santa.” Napoleon’s card read.
Illya’s was written in Cyrillic. “С Рождеством от Деда Мороза_ Merry Christmas from Father Frost. The Russian had no Christmas tree and looked about the room in confusion, that was when he spotted an intricately carved wooden staff with a string of sleigh bells attached to the top, leaning in the corner. I was very old and obviously Russian made. He’d seen one in a museum once that had been referenced as the style Father Frost was always shown to carry.
“Nyet,” he said holding it up. “No way.”
Wait a minute,”Napoleon said, heading out the door and back to his apartment. He returned in a few minutes carrying something in his hand; finally holding up a red Santa hat for his partner to see. “I found this stuck to the back of my tree.”
“Now I know it is you pulling my limb,” Illya smiled.
“That’s leg, not limb and no I’m not.” Solo reached inside the hat pulling out a long white hair.
The two agents stared at each other, not saying anything for a few minutes.
“Santa?” Napoleon shrugged, staring at the red hat.
“Jingle bells to us,” the Russian countered, shaking the staff. “Ded Moroz?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Napoleon said out of the side of his mouth, elbowing Illya in the ribs. ”No siree Bob...”
“Tell what?” The Russian agreed. “And who is Bob...?”
Napoleon Solo woke with a start, hearing a noise coming from somewhere out in his apartment. The alarm hadn’t been triggered and he wondered if it was Illya, as the Russian was prone to drop in out of the blue, especially if he’d been out drinking or after his other more rare nocturnal activities.
The American slipped his Special from beneath his pillow, just in case, silently throwing back the covers as he tiptoed across the hardwood floor.
He peeked around the door post, but with only a little light coming from the front windows, he could barely see a thing. There was no movement that he could hear or see and pondered he might have dreamt it.
Earlier that evening at an office Christmas party in Section III, he had a little more Scotch than he should have. He had his eye on a girl named Shirley, but waited to long to make his move and watched as she disappeared out the door with Mark Slate. He remembered thinking it was that British accent that did it every time. He was into the Carnaby Street look and that seemed to draw the girls to him like moths to a flame.
The same thing happened to his partner, his accent, boyish good looks, his foppish hair all attracted the ladies, though he didn’t want their attention most of the time, but tonight even the Russian had a brunette, Nadia from translation, clinging to his arm, and Solo watched them disappear out the door as well.
Napoleon looked down at his new double breasted blue suit, and wondered if he wasn’t coming across a bit stodgy, but figured that was probably the Scotch talking. Still, that conclusion didn’t help him hook up with anyone, and he went home alone, something the American was not accustomed to.
His ears perked up as heard it again, a rustle, sounding like it came from near his Christmas tree in the living room. Napoleon reach along the wall, feeling for the light switch and when he found it, he flicked it on, his weapon held on the ready.
There was no one there, everything looked fine until he noticed a wrapped box beneath the tree, one that hadn’t been there before...
“Illya, you little scamp,” he murmured, deciding to go back to bed.
The next morning, Napoleon, nursing a hangover, walked downstairs to his partner’s apartment dressed in his grey silk pajamas and robe, and carrying the unopened package with him. He tapped his coded knock on the door, knowing he wouldn’t disturb anything as Illya never brought a woman home. He always went to her place, feeling women were more relaxed in their own beds.
The door opened slowly, with a bleary-eyed Russian dressed in a raggedy bathrobe, T-shirt and sweatpants looking at him questioningly.
“Rough night?” Napoleon asked as he walked in. That’s when he noticed an identically wrapped package in his partner’s hand.
“Did you leave this under my tree?” He asked, holding up his box,
“Nyet, you leave this one?”
“Not me.”
The two men froze, thinking the same thought. THRUSH had broken through their alarm systems and left them some sort of explosive present. They rushed to the bathroom and Illya filled the tub with water, immersing the packages and completely soaking them.
They waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Illya banished his partner to the living room and taking a chance, withdrew one of the soggy boxes from the tub, carefully pulling the wet paper from it and peeling the soaked cardboard apart.
“Well?” Napoleon called impatiently. “Illya?”
The Russian walked out holding a beige cashmere turtleneck in his hands. “I think this was for you.” He tossed it in Napoleon’s face.
“Funny,” Solo caught it, letting it drop it to the floor. “What about the other box?”
“I am checking it now, stay here just in case.” He walked back into the bathroom.
Minutes later Napoleon heard a loud pop, prompting him to rush in to check on his partner.
Illya stood holding a bottle of Lheraud Vintage Petite Champagne Cognac, from France.
“Sorry my mistake, I think this is yours.” He smiled sheepishly as a good portion of it had spilled onto the floor when the cork exploded from the pressure.
“How did someone get into our apartments without triggering the alarms, if you and I did not deliver these?”
Napoleon stood there scratching his head. “Is there any sort of card?”
Illya looked inside the boxes, finding two small envelopes, he handed one to Napoleon and together they peeled them apart.
“Merry Christmas, from Santa.” Napoleon’s card read.
Illya’s was written in Cyrillic. “С Рождеством от Деда Мороза_ Merry Christmas from Father Frost. The Russian had no Christmas tree and looked about the room in confusion, that was when he spotted an intricately carved wooden staff with a string of sleigh bells attached to the top, leaning in the corner. I was very old and obviously Russian made. He’d seen one in a museum once that had been referenced as the style Father Frost was always shown to carry.
“Nyet,” he said holding it up. “No way.”
Wait a minute,”Napoleon said, heading out the door and back to his apartment. He returned in a few minutes carrying something in his hand; finally holding up a red Santa hat for his partner to see. “I found this stuck to the back of my tree.”
“Now I know it is you pulling my limb,” Illya smiled.
“That’s leg, not limb and no I’m not.” Solo reached inside the hat pulling out a long white hair.
The two agents stared at each other, not saying anything for a few minutes.
“Santa?” Napoleon shrugged, staring at the red hat.
“Jingle bells to us,” the Russian countered, shaking the staff. “Ded Moroz?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Napoleon said out of the side of his mouth, elbowing Illya in the ribs. ”No siree Bob...”
“Tell what?” The Russian agreed. “And who is Bob...?”
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