"Freezer Burn" for the Picfic Tuesday prompt 10/1

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                   

He was shivering uncontrollably, though he was a person accustomed to the cold, but being trapped inside a walk-in freezer with the temperature slowly dropping was something no human being could tolerate for very long, not even one stubborn Russian.

Illya Kuryakin was barely dressed in a baggy white, sleeveless tee shirt; it was so large on him that he was able draw his arms inside and keep them crossed against his chest; that helped a little to combat the cold air.  His legs and feet were covered by a pair of equally large grey sweatpants, with the legs so long as to give his bare feet much needed protection.

He kept moving, pacing  and rubbing his arms with his hands as he tried to keep his body warm, and watched as his breath became  white puffs of vapor right in front of his eyes.  This had been going on for quite a while, and Illya knew it was only a matter of time before he sat down, fell asleep, and of course, froze to death.

The last he’d seen of his partner had been Napoleons lifeless body being dragged and thrown into a garbage truck outside in the alleyway beside the restaurant whose freezer in which he was now pacing.

The owner of the establishment, Antonio Vacarella, a member of T.H.R.U.S.H., was preparing to use his facilities to manufacture a newly devised toxin to send to their field operations.  It was purported this formula would replace the sleep darts they currently used, with Central now opting to simply poison their victims as a new method of choice when it came to killing their enemies.  It would be cheaper than bullets and more effective.

Napoleon was made their guinea pig, as they used their only sample on him. Illya had watched as a gun was aimed at Solo, and within seconds of the dart hitting the Americans neck, he was gone. The Russian still couldn’t believe it, but at the moment he had to put aside his feelings regarding the passing of his friend.

Illya was alive for the moment, as he’d disposed of the formula...having memorized it before he tossed the small piece of paper into a bunsen burner in retaliation for it being used on his partner.

Now T.H.R.U.S.H. were making him suffer for not giving up the ingredients and the quantities used.

Vacarellas attitude was one of indifference though; the Russian wouldn’t give him what he wanted, so he decided to let the U.N.C.L.E. agent die with the knowledge, making Kuryakins actions all for naught.

Their scientists would eventually rediscover the correct compound and begin production, but still, one more effort to get the blond agent to talk was worth a try...

“One last chance Kuryakin. Give me the formula and I will let you live, and go free,” Vacarella’s voice came over a small speaker near the freezer door.

“Gggo to hell,” Illya’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

“I think you will be there before me.” Vacarella laughed heartily. “Say hello to your partner for me.”

Illya Kuryakin had reached his limits, and sat down in a corner against stack of boxes...frozen peas; resigning himself to death as he simply closed his eyes, welcoming it in his sleep.

As he drifted off, he thought he felt warmer, imagining it was his subconscious invading his stupor.  He envisioned the wall behind the family dacha back in Kyiv...the golden weeds flowing back and forth in the warm breeze.  The sun was shining and in the distance near the woods he saw his family waving to him.

“lllya...Illyusha?” His mother called to him. “ILLYA!”

“Da, mama!” He awoke with a start. Instead of his mother, he stared at the dirty face of Napoleon Solo.

“Hey buddy, don’t leave me now. We still have a lot of work to do.” He wrapped his partner in a heavy blanket, pulling him to his feet, and briskly rubbing his arms and shoulders.”

“I...I ttthought yyyou were dddead,” Illya mumbled, his teeth chattering."And you smell terrible."

“Apparently another of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s formulas failed to meet quality control standards, lucky for me, that and the fact that Mark and April saw me thrown into the garbage truck didn’t hurt. Keep your olfactory remarks to yourself if you please...this is another ruined suit I'll have to explain to accounting. Now,come on chum, lets get you out of here.”

Napoleon helped his partner slowly hobble out of the freezer; Illya’s eyes widening as he saw Mark Slate and April Dancer waiting in the kitchen.

“Hello guv, glad to see you’re still alive,” Mark smiled, along with his partner. “Napoleon we’ve gotten Vacarella and his men rounded up.”

Solo sat the Russian down in a chair, continuing to maintain the warming friction by vigorously rubbing his partners back, arms and legs.

“Once the team has gone through his records in his office, I think we’ll be done here,” April added. She turned her attention to Illya. “Oh poor thing, look what they’ve done to you.”

“Lads,”Mark chimed in.”There’s a pot of chicken soup on the stove, want I should ladle you a bowl Illya?”

The Russian nodded wordlessly, still shivering.

“How about soup all around Mark,” Napoleon answered, “An impromptu celebration for a successful mission without any injuries.”

“Excccept to my ppride and my zzhopa,” Illya finally spoke up. “I think my bum is ffrozen.”

“Would you like me to rub it for you darling?”  April giggled.

“Perhaps later,” Illya grinned, “but first some nice hot soup.”

“Why Illya Kuryakin...aren’t you the fresh one!”

“Well you offered…” Illya answered her without batting an eye. “And I think at the moment I would be classified as frozen, not fresh.”

“Amazing what a bit of chicken soup can do mate,” Mark looked at Napoleon with a rather mischievous grin.

“Tell me about it,” Solo winced at his partner’s attempt at humor.

A Soupcon of Comfort (When The Soup's On) PicFic 10/1

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The aroma of something cooking greeted Napoleon as he walked into the apartment of his friend.  Illya’s invitation to dinner was a last minute affair, and from the sound of his voice there had been no time to waste.  The locks were replaced by the time the dinner guest removed his coat, the Russian’s actions taking just seconds to accomplish their task.  He was smiling like a child at a candy store; at least that was the first thing that came to Napoleon’s mind.

( Read more... )

Aunt Amy's Recipe for picfic Tuesday 9/24

[dixiebelle2013.livejournal.com]

Originally posted by dixiebelle2013 at Aunt Amy's Recipe for picfic Tuesday 9/24

Illya shivered as he lay underneath a pile of blankets on his bed. This horrible case of the flu had turned even the stoic Russian into a quivering mass of misery. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this sick. His head felt as if it were about to explode, and his throat felt as if it had been scratched by sandpaper. He recalled numerous bouts of tonsillitis as a child in which his throat had hurt so badly that he could hardly swallow, and this seemed even worse by comparison.

Suddenly he heard the doorbell. The last thing in the world he felt like doing right now was getting out of bed, but it might be an important visitor, so he grabbed his warmest robe and, with difficulty, shoved his feet into a pair of threadbare slippers and made his way to the door, grabbing his special and slipping it into the waistband of his pajamas in back just in case there was trouble.

As soon as he opened the door, he saw Napoleon holding a big pot from which a delicious aroma wafted and felt his mouth water in anticipation.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside so that his friend could enter the small apartment.

"Waverly told me you called in sick this morning, so I brought over a little something to make you feel better." Napoleon carried the pot to the stove and sat it on one of the front eyes. "It's Aunt Amy's special recipe. I hope you like it."

"Spasibo," said Illya. "It was very kind of you to think of me."

He'd already begun to feel terribly dizzy, so he hastily pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Napoleon served up the soup, which was a tasty combination of boiled chicken, noodles, sliced carrots, and celery, with garlic and spices added.

Illya savored the taste as he sampled the first spoonful, and the warmth of the soft food sliding down his throat soothed the scratchiness. "It is delicious," he told his friend.

"When I was a child and got sick, my mother used to always make this soup for me," Napoleon said. "Aunt Amy gave her the recipe, and then she in turn gave it to me."

Illya smiled, picturing Napoleon as a scruffy little boy with unruly brown hair and a smudged face. "It is the best soup I have ever tasted," he replied.

Napoleon stayed and visited for awhile and then had to leave. Illya felt much better after eating Aunt Amy's soup. He went back to bed and slept for most of the rest of the day.

Several days later, he felt well enough to return to work.

"Good to see you back," Napoleon remarked as the two passed in the hallway.

"Spasibo," Illya replied. "It is good to be back."

"Any of that soup left?"

Illya grinned. "Nyet."

Napoleon laughed. "I didn't think there would be."

"You know me too well," Illya replied.

Picfic Tuesday Sept. 23, 2013: Chicken Soup for the Russian

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

( The story... )

Picfic Tuesday - 9/24 - The Kindness Of Others

[avrovulcan.livejournal.com]

Napoleon and Illya slipped quietly through the streets of a rural German hamlet. They needed somewhere safe to hide until they could be retrieved at the pre-arranged rendezvous the following morning.

Solo and Kuryakin were having to avoid the local German police; the members of which were affiliated with THRUSH and currently seeking both agents in connection with the destruction of their area satrapy.

They had been sent to capture the two UNCLE men before they could get back to UNCLE's Berlin HQ and reveal the state of the law enforcement in that region.

Napoleon and Illya knew if they were caught, the likelihood of escaping intact was slim, but they were struggling to find a suitable place to hide amongst the winding streets of the village.

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