Man from U.N.C.L.E. Section VII

"Practical shoes," April muttered as she tramped in the snow after Kuryakin. She had her hands jammed into her bright orange faux fur jacket—the warmest part of her, really. She had no hat; snow encrusted her double layer of false eyelashes. Her legs, clad only in sheer lime green hose and a pair of until-recently-cute lemon, open-toed kitten-heeled slingbacks, had turned red from the cold. So had her ears and face. "Practical, practical, practical shoes."

"You should have thought of that when preparing for the assignment," Kuryakin admonished. He glanced at the sky, nodded to himself, and adjusted his course across the seemingly-endless field of snow.

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to be psychic in addition to deadly and attractive."

"Who said anything about attractive?"

"Not you, obviously."

"You should have gone with something warmer."

"Darling, I was supposed to be a go-go dancer. I'm lucky I have this coat!"

"Boots?"

April sighed. "Oh, yes, proper snow boots would have made my ensemble."

Kuryakin stopped, turning to face her. "In the labs, we've come up with this thin insulation material that could be inserted into the lining of go-go boots."

"Get me a pair?"

"Of course."

The faint sound of a chopper approaching caught both their ears. Kuryakin unwound his long wool scarf and wrapped it around April's head quickly. He then snatched her up, heading toward the pick-up point even as she reluctantly wrapped her arms around him.

The helicopter landed; Kuryakin stumbled toward it, trying to get April to it as quickly as possible without losing his balance. Mark Slate jumped out of the 'copter, grabbing his partner from the Russian and carefully settling her in the back. He wrapped her legs in several blankets, tucking in an U.N.C.L.E. –issue hot pack in between layers for good measure.

Kuryakin hopped into the front seat next to the pilot; the helicopter took off. The Russian donned a headset. "How's she looking, Mark?"

"Well, pretty good for what she was exposed to. Did things get sorted at the chalet?" Slate's voice sounded tinny over the headphones.

"If you define 'sorted' as 'blown up real good,' yes. Napoleon's there now, directing the clean-up."

April's wail distracted them both, so loud that it could be heard over the blades' grind. Kuryakin looked over his shoulder; Slate immediately cradled April's head in his hands. Dancer mimed donning a headset. Kuryakin passed one back to Slate, who eased it onto his partner's head. "Now, boys," she said into the microphone. "I appreciate your efforts, but aren't you overreacting? I can take care of myself."

"Pratical shoes," Kuryakin commented.

"Duly noted, sweetie."

"Am I missing something?" Slate wondered.

"Not really, just that Miss Dancer will be getting a special delivery from the labs before her next cold-weather mission."

"Ta very." Confusion permeated Slate's voice. April and Illya exchanged winks before the Russian turned his attention to the scenery below them and the woman snuggled deeper into the provided blankets.

A double-drabble written in memory of Noel Harrison. One of my favorite things about Mark Slate is his obsession with hamburgers. :)

______________________________

Mark winced as his his partner ordered lunch. "Oh, April, no. Absolutely not." He smiled charmingly at the waitress. "Mind coming back in a moment or two, love? "

"Well, since you asked nicely…." She retreated to the lunch counter.

April leaned across the booth, so she didn't make a scene. "What is your problem?" she hissed.

"I am absolutely not going to watch you pick your way through a 'diet plate.' Cottage cheese is dead grotty. I don't even think you like it."

"A girl's got to watch her figure."

Mark rolled his eyes. "You're not a girl, you're an elite U.N.C.L.E. agent. Keep up your strength. Balance proteins, carbohydrates, grains—that will keep you in top form. Not cottage cheese and canned fruit."

"I think you're justifying your hamburger obsession." April tucked a hair behind her ear. "It's sweet, darling, but you're not going to get me to indulge."

"You don't have to eat the fries. Have lettuce on it, it will be like a salad."

She smiled fondly at her partner. "Will you still let me have a Fresca?"

"I don't care what you drink, love, as long as you're sober on duty." He signaled the waitress.

__________

p.s. I hope I got the tags right-- I am rusty at posting on LJ. Squawk if I got it wrong and I will correct.