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Sep. 21st, 2016
Reminder...
Sep. 21st, 2016 08:22 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
glennagirl.livejournal.comWhat's My Line? has returned and last week's prompt is...
What do you mean it's on the way?
Posting begins tomorrow and runs through Sunday, 9/25
What do you mean it's on the way?
Posting begins tomorrow and runs through Sunday, 9/25
mrua7.livejournal.com
(A double drabble)
“I knew I should not have said anything to you while we were up on the roof yesterday,” Kuryakin moaned.
“Tovarisch, why are you upset? It was a private conversation, and will remain that way. You have my solemn word.”
“Wait, down here Napoleon.” Illya crawled beneath his desk, gesturing for his partner to come down there as well;though there was only room for one of them.
“Duck your head in here, the Russian whispered.
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Everything we spoke about...up there,” Illya pointed.”It is out there for everyone to read. They are at it again.”
“Oh no, you mean they’re back?” Napoleon moaned.
“Yes they are,” Kuryakin snarled. “Why can they just not leave us some privacy once in awhile?”
Napoleon whispered,”Did you ever see that spy spoof television show Get Smart?”
“Yes, it is silly, to say the least.”
“Well there’s a concept they used that was sort of nifty, and makes me wish we had one.”
“One what? What are you now on about my friend?” Napoleon got up off the floor. What was the point...they were probably listening again.
“I’m talking about The Cone Of Silence.”
“Agreed.”
* references to yesterday's PicFic "Landslide" and the call and response story
"The Surprise Party" written with Alynwa for Monday's Short Affair.
Faint Not - A Little Drabble Do Ya
Sep. 21st, 2016 02:03 pmglennagirl.livejournal.comIllya saw blood on Napoleon's shirt and fainted. Napoleon figured it was from whatever his partner had been through at the THRUSH satrapy.
Back at Headquarters a paper cut drew blood, Illya fell out of his chair.
In Medical they drew blood, and… well…
Illya was distraught and confused.
"I do not know what is wrong with me."
"They'll figure it out tovarisch."
"Fast, before I faint."
Napoleon wasn't laughing... much.
The blood tests came back negative, but a timely note provided what the tests could not.
anamaryarmygram.livejournal.comThis is a belated post from last week's drabble switch with colonial_teapot.
Illya lay catatonic, but the doctors said his recovery was assured. As the toxin worked its way out of his system his senses would return to him in a fixed order, beginning with the sense of touch.
The timing, however, was not fixed. Napoleon couldn't know how long he would have to wait. He waited anyway, his eyes on the clock, his hand on Illya's, squeezing it gently two times per minute.
At three fifty-two a.m., Illya returned the pressure.
Hearing would come next. Two times per minute for almost the next hour, Napoleon said something. He wasn't sure what.
A Little Drabble Do Ya: Indirect Deposit
Sep. 21st, 2016 02:57 pmalynwa.livejournal.com“This is so frustrating,” Napoleon muttered as he went through his accumulated mail. He was cooking dinner for himself and his partner after arriving home from the West Coast.
“What is frustrating?”
“I’m expecting a check and I thought it would be here by now. So annoying! Why can’t checks you’re owed be deposited directly into your checking account via a transaction? Then you wouldn’t have to worry that it’s lost in the mail.”
“You are interested in computer programming; maybe you will figure out a way to do that one day.”
“Good idea! I’ll work on that.”
“Do that.”
“What is frustrating?”
“I’m expecting a check and I thought it would be here by now. So annoying! Why can’t checks you’re owed be deposited directly into your checking account via a transaction? Then you wouldn’t have to worry that it’s lost in the mail.”
“You are interested in computer programming; maybe you will figure out a way to do that one day.”
“Good idea! I’ll work on that.”
“Do that.”
colonial-teapot.livejournal.comThis was the result of a drabble switch with Anamary Armygram.
“Illya, please?”
“I said no.”
“But it becomes you, Tovarisch.”
Illya looked at his partner wearily. “My friend, I have come to accept that doing your paperwork is a part of my life. That is because you have managed to neatly edge it out of yours, and I too will receive a reprimand if it is not completed. But this is different, and I am putting my foot down.”
Napoleon assumed a wounded look. “Your motives are so low, Illya. Sure, if this doesn’t get done, no one’ll blame you. No one’ll even glance your way. And that’s all that matters. Not friendship, or loyalty, or sympathy for the human condition...”
The Russian sighed. “Napoleon, you know that you are my dearest friend, and ordinarily I would not hesitate to assist you in your hour of need. But I vividly recall the headache I developed last year offering you the kind of help you are seeking. That is a world of pain I do not wish to revisit.”
“But you did a splendid job, Tovarisch!”
“It is very kind of you to say so, my friend. But I still will not be doing your taxes for you again this year.”
ssclassof56.livejournal.comNapoleon smiled amiably and murmured polite responses as Parker, a Section III agent, expounded on his recent vacation. His twin daughters featured heavily in the interminable pile of snapshots. Frowning in unconcealed boredom, Illya made repeated moves to abandon them. His partner’s discreet grip on his forearm foiled his efforts.
Eventually the stream of photos and anecdotes ran dry. While Parker scanned the commissary for his next quarry, the Enforcement agents withdrew to a table across the room.
Napoleon sat down and sipped his coffee. “Parker’s girls,” he mused, “look remarkably like him.”
“Poor things,” Illya returned sourly as he smoothed the crease in his coat sleeve with exaggerated care.
( Read more... )
Eventually the stream of photos and anecdotes ran dry. While Parker scanned the commissary for his next quarry, the Enforcement agents withdrew to a table across the room.
Napoleon sat down and sipped his coffee. “Parker’s girls,” he mused, “look remarkably like him.”
“Poor things,” Illya returned sourly as he smoothed the crease in his coat sleeve with exaggerated care.
( Read more... )
anamaryarmygram.livejournal.comAnd — on a much lighter note than my previous — here's my response to this week's drabble switch.
By the time they got to the garage, there were only two objects left in it: a pail of hardware fasteners, and a shallow pan of oil. The microdot had to be concealed in one of them.
“You deal with the oil,” said Napoleon. “I'm not dressed for it.”
With a sigh, Illya rolled up the sleeves of his turtleneck. Napoleon, meanwhile, set to work minutely examining every nut, bolt, and washer in the pail.
A short time later, Illya piped up: “I'm done.”
His hands were completely clean.
“You haven't even touched that oil.”
Illya cocked an eyebrow. “If she'd left the dot in the oil, it would be of no use anyway: the dye would have dissolved by now. I've thoroughly checked the outside of the pan. It isn't there. So it's probably somewhere in that bucket.”
“I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a hand?”
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