A Room With A View To A Kill - PicFic 7/9

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

It was a stunning view of the city beyond, bright lights and a vague outline of the coastline.  The view up close was equally stunning to Napoleon, and as she came closer he realized that her movements were becoming more seductive with each step.

“Napoleon, why must you put me in this situation?  You know I adore you, but this silly business of being an agent for the U.N.C.L.E. has put a damper on my ardor.”

Napoleon considered that, but he gave in only to his amusement at her having spelled out the acronym for his organization.  He always wondered at people doing that.

( The view... )

"Who wants to live forever"~ for the Picfic Tuesday challenge 7/9

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                           


The THRUSH temptress known only as Marlena leaned forward, flashing her milky white cleavage at the Russian.  He couldn't help but stare as her skin was flawless, as was her face, though her breasts drew his attention more...

Surprisingly, she unlocked the handcuffs that held him to a chair in their interrogation room. He had not suffered any beatings at his captors hands, not even being injected with drugs. His questioning had been very brief and rather timid by THRUSH standards...

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A Room With A View To A Kill - PicFic 7/9

[glenmered]

 

It was a stunning view of the city beyond, bright lights and a vague outline of the coastline.  The view up close was equally stunning to Napoleon, and as she came closer he realized that her movements were becoming more seductive with each step.

“Napoleon, why must you put me in this situation?  You know I adore you, but this silly business of being an agent for the U.N.C.L.E. has put a damper on my ardor.”

Napoleon considered that, but he gave in only to his amusement at her having spelled out the acronym for his organization.  He always wondered at people doing that.

“Vanessa my love, why should we be bothered with little details like the people we work for?  I’m quite certain I can make you forget your allegiance to THRUSH if you’ll just give me… oh, say the rest of the evening.”  She sighed, a sound that Napoleon was accustomed to.  He seemed to have that effect on women.

“Seriously, darling … I’m afraid this time we must say goodbye … forever.”   And with that she raised the arm that held her dainty little pistol with the mother of pearl inlay, smiling sweetly as she aimed it at the man of her dreams.  Well, one of her dreams.  Truth be told, she was equally smitten with the Russian, although he had never given her any indication that the attraction was mutual. 

The blond was actually no longer a problem, her trusted henchman Andrews had seen to that.  Now it was simply a matter of doing away with Napoleon, much as it pained the lovely THRUSH vixen.

Vanessa regained her sense of duty and tensed her trigger finger, pulling ever so slightly against the hard metal.  As the noise of her gun firing filled the space on the terrace, Napoleon winced at the probable impact, anticipating it but unable to avoid it.

Instead of the dreaded outcome, Solo looked up to see Vanessa fall to the floor, a pool of blood forming beneath her voluptuous form.  Illya stood in the doorway, his suit ravaged from the near drowning he had endured at the hands of Andrews, late in the employ of THRUSH.

It was impossible to ignore how close it had been, but Napoleon triumphed over the near tragedy of his own death with an expected quip to his Russian partner.

“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

Illya had begun walking towards Solo, who remained tied to one of the pillars that supported a light filled roof on this elegant balcony.  He stopped to examine the body of Vanessa Gilbane.  What a pity.  Napoleon watched as the blond moved, his familiarity with his partner keen enough to note that the man was wounded in some way, beyond having been simply roughed up.

“Hey, you better cut me lose before you pass out, tovarisch.  You don’t look too good.”  It was a glibness peppered with concern; Illya really did look as though he was ready to drop any minute.  The blond managed to walk across the expanse of the large outdoor room, reaching his partner with a wheezing sound as accompaniment.  Illya’s hands were shaking, something he had controlled well enough to shoot Napoleon’s would-be assassin.

“What happened to you, Illya?  Vanessa said you were dead.”  That produced a small smile as he successfully cut the ropes that bound Solo.  When he was done with the task, the Russian sank to his knees, no longer able to support himself by sheer will power.

“Illya!  Illya, don’t quit on me now, partner.”  Napoleon managed to drag his friend to a sofa that was flanked by matching torchiere lamps and a mass of large pillows.  The irony of being surrounded by so much luxury while death was being doled out… Napoleon sighed in resignation to the absurdity of his calling.  No, it wasn’t the calling, it was the people who made it necessary.

Kuryakin was out cold.  His clothing was damp, and Napoleon surmised that he had been in water, possibly survived drowning by the looks of it.  On closer inspection Napoleon found that Illya had also been stabbed; he recalled seeing Andrews with a large blade in his belt.  Now the assumption was made that he had died by it, and by his partner’s hand.

“Oh Illya.  You do manage to get yourself into the deep end, don’t you?”  Satisfied that the Russian wasn’t going to die just yet, Napoleon located a phone and made a call to the number guaranteed to reach Mr. Waverly.

“Mr. Solo?  What is your situation?”

“Well, sir … Vanessa Gilbane is dead, she was shot while attempting to kill me.  I believe her associate, Andrews, is also dead.”

The pause on the other end required Napoleon to wait.

“I see.  And Mr. Kuryakin?  And the microdot?”  Napoleon had almost forgotten about the microdot.  He walked over to the body of Vanessa Gilbane, the phone cord long enough for the effort.

“Yes, I have it.”  He plucked the faux mole from between her ample breasts; it hadn’t been there the night before.

“Very well then.  I expect you and Mr. Kuryakin back here …”

“Sir, Illya has been stabbed and, from the looks of him, nearly drowned.  I believe Andrews was responsible for that.  If you could have the L.A. office send out some medical help … “  Waverly jumped on that immediately, not willing to leave his men to bleed to death.

“Someone is being dispatched as we speak, Mr. Solo.  Take care that your partner doesn’t die before help can arrive, and do try and stay out of trouble for the rest of the evening.”

“Yes sir, I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do, Mr. Solo.  Waverly out.”

Napoleon turned around to see his partner watching him, listening to the conversation as it came to a close.  Illya was sitting up, leaning into the sofa in a way that informed Napoleon of the pain he was in.

“Medical is on the way here.  It seems we’ve eliminated the opposition, so we might as well enjoy the view.’  The agent eyed his partner, took note of the pallid complexion.  “Don’t die on me, okay.”

Illya leaned his head on the back of the sofa, then straightened up a little to prove he was still alert and … not dying.  “I will be fine, Napoleon.  It was just …”

“Oh, just a scratch.  Right. That’s why you passed out.  How did you get back here, and where is Andrews?”

Sometimes Illya Kuryakin really did seem a little scary to his American partner.  Neither man killed indiscriminately, but it seemed to come easier to the Russian.  The women who swooned in his wake would be shocked to discover how easily he did his job, and what that job entailed.

“He tried to drown me in the pool downstairs, a type of gymnasium I think.  When that didn’t work he pulled out the knife and …’  A grunt of pain stopped the narration for a moment. “He managed to gain an advantage, but he made the mistake of thinking his job was done.”

That was all Illya would say.  He never bragged, never gave drawn out explanations or tried to make the deed seem admirable.  He merely did his job and survived.  Napoleon didn’t ask any more about it, but he was glad that Illya had lived to save his own sorry hide.  He wasn’t going to enjoy writing a report that included explaining how Vanessa had gotten the upper hand and … well, he would cross that bridge tomorrow.

It was less than thirty minutes before the medical and clean-up crews arrived.  The police would be notified in time, but first it was necessary to examine everything for whatever THRUSH elements may still be in this penthouse.  The medics bound Illya’s torso up tighter than a corset, causing the Russian to curse in breathy gasps.  He would live to fight another day, and Napoleon would live to help him.

Right now they had a hotel room to occupy and room service to be called.  Rest.  Napoleon wondered once again about the old saying, and as was always the case, couldn’t remember exactly how it went.
No rest for the weary.  Or was it no rest for the wicked?
Either way, he didn’t get nearly enough.

 

 

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Glowing Dim As An Ember For Picfic Tuesday 7/9

[dixiebelle2013.livejournal.com]

Originally posted by dixiebelle2013 at Glowing Dim As An Ember For Picfic Tuesday 7/9

"I knew your father when he was very young," Larissa Kirillovna Romanova told Illya. It was well past dinnertime, and the sun had set long ago. Stars twinkled in the night sky as the UNCLE agent and the aging former Russian aristocrat sat on a balcony overlooking the city.

"He was my father's cousin's stable manager," Larissa continued, leaning back against the balcony rail and letting her hair fall behind her. "We all used to go horseback riding together when I'd visit my cousins. The girls were all older than me. Alexei and I were the same age. I always suspected that there was something wrong with him, but the rest of the family was very tight-lipped about it. It wasn't until many years later that I found out he'd suffered from hemophilia."

"I was only six years old when my father went away to war," Illya told his new acquaintance. "I never saw him again. I always wondered what he was like as a young man."

"He was bold, daring, perhaps a bit impulsive," said Larissa. "He was different from most of the others in the circles in which we moved. He had a great deal of sympathy for the peasants, and often seemed scornful of the excesses of the wealthy." Larissa moved to stand beside Illya, placing her hand on his arm. "I loved him."

Illya felt awkward, unsure of what to say.

"He was the first boy who ever kissed me," Larissa continued. "I was only thirteen when my family escaped to Finland during the October Revolution. I didn't get the chance to say good-bye to my Kolya. I've often wondered what might have happened if things had been different...of Kolya and I had only been a few years older...we might have married, even..."

She turned tear-filled eyes to Illya, who looked at her with deep sympathy.

"You remind me so much of him, Illya. The same hair, the same eyes, the same build, the same mannerisms..." She hesitated, glancing downward. "Tell me about your mother."

"She was a warm, loving woman," said Illya. "My fondest childhood memories are of her. She...didn't survive the war, either. Afterwards I went to live with my Uncle Ivan and my Aunt Katya and my cousins Boris and Sonya in Moscow."

"So you are the only surviving Kuryakin," Larissa said softly.

"Yes." He squinted, trying to imagine what she must have looked like thirty years earlier. He decided that she must have been a real beauty.

"And how did you come to live in America?"

"My partner, Napoleon Solo, and I belong to an organization that fights international crime. I was recently transferred to the headquarters here in New York City."

"Napoleon Solo." Larissa looked thoughtful. "An American."

"Yes. He has become my dearest friend."

"I see." Larissa smiled. "Life is certainly ironic sometimes, isn't it?"

"It is." Illya chuckled lightly. "The last person I expected to meet up with in New York is someone who knew my father as a young man."

Larissa took both his hands into her own and looked earnestly into his eyes. "I am so happy to have met you, Illya. For me, you're a reminder of someone whom I thought was lost to me forever."

"I could say the same about you." Illya put his arm around Larissa, and they walked back inside the house.

Picfic Tuesday: First Kill

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

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