avery11: (white cat)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen-ish
(The story takes place a few days after Solo/The Vulcan Affair)
Spikesgirl, this one's for you and the kitties.

 



BUILDING BRIDGES  

    Napoleon was feeling uncommonly cheerful as he strolled down the long corridor to his apartment, his jacket slung jauntily over one shoulder. He and Illya had been granted an unprecedented three days off, their reward for thwarting a plot to destabilize the newly independent African nation of Western Natumba. Three days -- in a row! It was an unheard of luxury, the more remarkable because Waverly had actually offered it. To celebrate, he'd bought Chinese takeout from Panda Palace, including double portions of the Kung Pao Chicken he loved. The spicy aroma of chile powder and peanut oil wafted up from the paper bag he carried; his mouth watered in anticipation of the feast.  

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avery11: (white cat)

(Author's note: This is a Gen version of the Slash story I did for last year's Solstice Challenge.)
Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen





GRADUATION DAY
(Gen version)
 

    Illya passed through the ancient stone portal of Trinity College, his black doctoral robes flapping rather comically in the stiff breeze. Under his arm, he carried his mortarboard, gratefully redundant now, and the folder holding his PhD in Quantum Mechanics, primi ordinis -- the youngest candidate in the history of the College to achieve the distinction. He strode on, past the statue of Henry VIII with its missing, pilfered leg,and the rooms of Isaac Newton, preserved from the days when he had been a student there.

   As he crossed the Great Court, the carillon in the Clock Tower tolled the hour. A few undergraduates lounged outside, soaking up the warm May sunshine; they waved to him from their benches beside the Fountain. He returned their greetings with a brisk nod and moved on. The door to the Chapel was ajar and, as he hurried past, he caught snatches of the choir rehearsing a motet by Palestrina, Tui Sunt Coeli. There would be a concert this evening, a celebration for the graduates and their families. Illya had considered attending, but decided instead to spend the evening -- and quite possibly the entire weekend -- in a cheap flat somewhere, nursing a bottle of vodka.


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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen


SPRING THAW 

Prague
April, 1968
 

     They wandered up Dlouhá Street, basking in the warm Spring sunshine -- just a couple of workers out for a Sunday stroll. Illya adjusted the collar of his sports coat, twisting his body slightly as he did so, the better to monitor their surroundings for signs of the Státní Bezpe─Źnost, Czechoslovakia's despised Secret Police apparatus. Beside him, Napoleon angled the brim of his hat and did the same.

     “I'm not picking up any tails,” Napoleon said quietly. “How about you?”

     “No, but that is no guarantee where the StB are concerned. We should remain on guard.”

     “Agreed.”

     “That is a ridiculous hat, by the way.”

     “I think it looks jaunty. Besides, you said we should try to blend in.”

     Illya snorted. “Blend in, yes. Just not with the Von Trapp family.”      

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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen

POISSON D'AVRIL

 

   Napoleon Solo slunk through the door at DelFloria's, his body sore and bruised from his narrow escape the previous evening. The bell above the door tinkled cheerfully as he entered; he winced at the sound. His empty stomach roiled ominously, and his head felt as though someone had set up a mining operation inside his cranium -- lingering effects of the knockout drug Angelique had slipped into his post-coital brandy. He removed his dark glasses, and groaned. Why did it have to be morning? And sunny?  

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LOST IN TRANSLATION 

     Napoleon Solo steered their rental car around another blind curve, praying that they wouldn't collide with another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. A cloud of dust rose in the little Trident's wake. Beside him in the passenger seat, Illya scowled at the tall, thorny hedgerows looming on either side of the narrow dirt road.

     “Between the dust and the hedgerows, I cannot see a thing,” he grumbled. “I think we may be lost.”

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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen

Start from the beginning with Part 1: The Trouble With Amphibians
here:
http://avery11.livejournal.com/4267.html

 

A Tale of Two Friendships
Part 2 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR

(Acts III and IV)

 

Act III: These Are Dangerous Times... 

   They set out for Manorville the next morning, following the Long Island Expressway eastward, down the length of the Island. Illya had wanted to take the DeLorean, but Napoleon insisted on a more nondescript vehicle for the occasion. In the end, they both compromised, and settled on a sleek Pontiac Grand Prix.

   “Everyone has a Pontiac these days,” was Illya's reasoning. “We will blend right in.”

   “Not in Matador Red, we won't.”

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avery11: (Default)

THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR is a three-part series.

Start from the beginning with: Part One: The Trouble With Amphibians

here:
http://avery11.livejournal.com/4267.html

 A Tale Of Two Friendships

(Part 2 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)
Acts I and II
 

It Was the Best of Times... 

     It was, for Illya and Napoleon, that rarest of occasions: an ordinary Sunday morning. Outside the brick walls of Napoleon's apartment building, pedestrians strolled, flowers bloomed in window boxes, and the morning sun shone brightly, a rare and welcome sight after the miserable, sodden Spring they had endured. But more importantly, the agents had managed to secure a few precious hours of downtime away from HQ, their thoughts momentarily freed from the ever-present threat of THRUSH and plagues and Waverly's escalating ire.    


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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen, friendship, angst
Be sure to read Acts I and II first
.


DIES IRAE
The Conclusion of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR

(Acts III and IV)

 Act III:   Day of Disaster

Alexander Waverly sat beside his elegant, silver-haired wife, patting her hand absently as he spoke. He seemed to have aged overnight.

“Irene was on the way to her weekly ballet class. The perpetrators killed the chauffeur and a female bodyguard to get to her. Both were highly trained agents.” He handed Napoleon an envelope. “They left this behind, taped to the steering column.”

 Napoleon slid the single sheet of stationery from the envelope:  
   
“'Vengeance is mine. Yet one more plague will I bring upon you. I will go forth, and all the firstborn shall die, from the firstborn of the man who sits upon the throne to the firstborn of the servant. And there shall be a great cry throughout the land, such as there never has been, nor will be again.'”

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THE END

   


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avery11: (Default)

Here, finally, is the conclusion of “The Ten Plagues Affair.” Many thanks for your patience. In order to understand what's going on, you really need to read the earlier installments.

Start from the beginning with Part One: The Trouble With Amphibians
here: 
http://avery11.livejournal.com/4267.html 
 

 Dies Irae

Part 3 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR
(Acts I and II)
  

Act I:  A Cold Day In Hell

    Napoleon stared at the depressing pile of paperwork covering his desk, wondering, not for the first time, whether file folders procreated at night when the lights were out. The necessity of reading each and every report that crossed his desk was one of his least favorite duties as CEA. At least it's Friday, he thought, rubbing his weary eyes. Not that that provided any sort of absolution where UNCLE was concerned.

     The door slid open.

     “Ah, there you are,” Illya declared grumpily. “I was about to send Mr. Waverly's Saint Bernard out to look for you.”

     “Illya!” Napoleon's face lit with pleasure. “When did you get back from Athens? The mission was a success, I trust?”

     “Never mind that, Napoleon. Have you looked outside your door recently?”    


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 Forgetting

 He wanders the halls,

Picking insistently at the edges of the pale pink wallpaper,

Looking in vain for shiny gray metal and flashing lights.

They were there a minute ago.

 

He stands before the door,

Waiting for the whooshing sound,

Waiting for the magic to happen, for the door to slide open.

This door has a knob. He waits a long time.

 

He has a visitor,

A dark-haired man with warm brown eyes.

They sit in the garden, longing for springtime, bundled against winter's chill.

The man tells fine stories.

 

Alexander knows there is something he should remember.


 

 

avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre:
Slash

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK

 

Eight Days a Week 

     They carried the last of the boxes down the icy steps of Illya's Village brownstone and packed them, along with the rest of his meager possessions, in the trunk of Napoleon's car. Illya returned the house keys to his landlady, a dear old thing who cried endless tears at the thought of her favorite tenant leaving.

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avery11: (basset hound)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Slash
           
 

Graduation Day  

  Illya passed through the ancient stone portal of Trinity College, his black doctoral robes flapping rather comically in the stiff breeze. Under his arm, he carried his mortarboard, gratefully redundant now, and the folder holding his PhD in Quantum Mechanics, primi ordinis -- the youngest candidate in the history of the College to achieve the distinction. He strode on, past the statue of Henry VIII with its missing, pilfered leg, and the rooms of Isaac Newton, preserved from the days when he had been a student there.

   As he crossed the Great Court, the carillon in the Clock Tower tolled the hour. A few undergraduates lounged outside, soaking up the warm May sunshine; they waved to him from their benches beside the Fountain. He returned their greetings with a brisk nod and moved on. The door to the Chapel was ajar and, as he hurried past, he caught snatches of the choir rehearsing a motet by Palestrina, Tui Sunt Coeli. There would be a concert this evening, a celebration for the graduates and their families. Illya had considered attending, but decided instead to spend the evening -- and quite possibly the entire weekend -- in a cheap flat somewhere, nursing a bottle of vodka.



   

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HAUNTED

4/11/11 23:21
avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
Author's Note: In a way, this story resolves certain themes I introduced in an earlier story, "Once Upon A Time." If you're interested, you can find it on my LJ page, or use this link:
http://network-command.livejournal.com/307633.html#cutid1 

 

Haunted 

     It was a chill night for October, misty and moonless, a watercolor wash of a night, stripped of definable edges. Shapes blended into one another, rocks and roots disappearing into the thick mist rising from the forest floor. Illya wished he had thought to bring a bottle of vodka along, to ward off the chill. And to ward off other things, as well.

     A fool's errand, he mentally chastised himself. That's what this is.

     To his credit, Napoleon had not laughed when Illya told him where he was going, and why. “I understand,” he had replied quietly, his warm brown eyes seeing far more than Illya had intended to show. “I'll wait for you in Helsinki.”

     He did not deserve such a friend.


   
  

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avery11: (Default)

 Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen

The Wild Hunt 

  
     Napoleon crested the arête, breathless from the long trek across the Faha Ridge and up the rugged east slope of Cnoc Bréanainn. Groaning, he dropped to the ground beside an ancient, lichen-crusted stone wall, and took a sip of water from his canteen.

     “Tell me,” he inquired of an equally exhausted Illya, "is there a mountain left in Ireland that we haven't climbed in the past two weeks?”

     “If there is, please do not mention it to Mr. Waverly.” He sank down beside his friend, and dug into his backpack for the bag of trail mix. “Still, if our efforts can help to pinpoint Doctor Dabree's whereabouts --”     

      “Dabree is dead, Illya. She died four years ago. You were there.”


   

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avery11: (Default)
Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

(being a comedy of tragic proportions)


 
     The forest was pleasantly cool and quiet, an intimate, sacred place. The man felt safe there. Gentle breezes, rich with the scent of heliotrope and moonflower, rippled the soft, grassy bower upon which he slept. They stirred his soft, silken hair, kissed his ripe lips, and raised tiny goosebumps of pleasure upon his naked skin. Above him, the full moon shone brightly, evening stars sang their songs, and the leaves of the hawthorn trees whispered, the sound of their rustling like words, like a language, a sibilance teasing at the drowsy corners of his mind.

     The man sighed, and opened his eyes.

 
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DESSERT

25/4/11 09:37
avery11: (Default)
Genre: Slash

DESSERT


     Napoleon sat back with a sigh, savoring the last of the 1959 Haut Brion Graves with its rich ruby color and magnificent topnotes of roasted chestnut and sweet black cherry. The rare vintage had provided the perfect accompaniment to his thick T-bone steak, a specialty of the house at Incognito, Manhattan's trendy new restaurant on the Upper West Side. Across the table Illya, sipping his Hermitage LaChapelle '62, ordered at Napoleon's insistence, dolefully regarded the remains of the three pound lobster he had systematically demolished.

     “Don't tell me you're still hungry?” Napoleon inquired with a fond smile. “Honestly, I don't know where you put it all.”

     Illya shrugged. “I am always hungry when I get out of Medical. The food is terrible there.”

     “You're always hungry. Period.”

     “I must keep up my strength. Who knows when I may be called upon to rescue you from the dastardly clutches of THRUSH.”

     Napoleon nearly choked on his wine. “Excuse me, tovarisch but, as I recall, I was the one saving your butt on our last mission. You were the one hanging from the rafters in your underwear.”

     “True, but only because you were late.” Illya paused to suck a morsel of meat from one of the tiny walking claws. It was a highly erotic gesture.

     Napoleon stared. The man has no idea how beautiful he is. And to think that he nearly died -- “The traffic was terrible getting out of Istanbul, tovarisch. However, it was considerate of you to still be alive when I got there.”

     “I do what I can.”
    
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avery11: (Default)




THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

She kept to the shadows, her thin frame pressed against the filthy brick wall of the building as she edged her way down the alley. Dead leaves and odd bits of trash skittered about her feet, buffeted by the icy November wind as it blew in off the bay. It had snowed earlier in the day, and more was predicted for the evening rush hour. Shivering, the girl clutched the grimy edges of her cotton jacket closer for warmth, wishing for the thousandth time that she'd thought to bring a heavier coat. And hat. Gloves. Money.

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