



"Good morning, darlings. Today, I'm the one passing out the packages. Or baskets, to be precise."




"Good morning, darlings. Today, I'm the one passing out the packages. Or baskets, to be precise."
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
It felt good to spend the day at headquarters. After the misadventures of Nova Scotia and the freezing, rushed trip down to Oklahoma, the placid grey walls of UNCLE New York were calming for Illya and Napoleon. Sometimes, it was very good to be home.
Now that each man had a good night’s rest and could focus, Napoleon decided to re-visit their challenge from a few days ago.
“So, are we still on target for a Christmas present throw down?”
Illya lifted his head from the report he was typing, a question mark easily readable in his expression.
“If we throw the presents, it is possible they could break, is it not?”
Napoleon had a ready smile for his slang challenged partner.
“I guess you’re unfamiliar with that term.’
Illya peered over the top of his glasses, indicating curiosity.
“A throw down is a challenge. Much like throwing the gauntlet. I’m sure you know about that.”
“Oh, yes. A throw down… hmmm…”
~~~~~:
( Day 8... )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.
( Read more... ) 
Napoleon loaded up the supplies, and turned to head back to the front of the store and as soon as he heard the words being bellowed he knew there was trouble. He put down his shopping basket, undid his coat, quickly drawing his gun from it’s holster. At the same time he ducked down, creeping along the aisle until the would-be robber was in sight.
The old man saw him coming, and though he tried to hide his surprise, his eyes widened at the sight of the dark-haired man with a gun in his hand.
Solo moved carefully but as bad luck would have it, he took one more step and the floorboard just had to creak.

“The Light of a star.”
It felt like snow. Illya Kuryakin was always good at predicting that and for a moment he shivered from the chill in the air as he hopped up the stairs to the door of the darkened brownstone; identical to the other such buildings that lined this quiet city street. A paper sack was tucked under his arm as he inserted a key into the lock, and stepping inside; he cautiously drew his gun from its holster.