avery11: (Default)
 Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen


samovar


THE SAMOVAR AFFAIR

I

Alexander Waverly tried to light his pipe for the third time in as many minutes. As with both previous attempts, the sacred ritual was interrupted by the annoying beep that signaled an incoming telex.

“Blast. Is it too much to ask for a moment of world peace to allow me to light my pipe?” He blew out the match and began to read, muttering to himself as he scanned the coded message. His eyebrows rose and fell, rose and fell.

Never a good sign, those eyebrows, Napoleon Solo thought to himself. While he waited for the fate of the world to be decided yet again, he rose from the conference table, and poured himself a cup of much-needed coffee, wishing there were a way to jury-rig an intravenous drip. As meetings went, this was going to be a long one.

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avery11: (Default)
 Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

 

Robert Frost- “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening”


Notre Dame de Paris


A SNOWY EVENING


From their room on the fourth floor of the Hotel Saint Honore, Illya Kuryakin observed the snow-covered Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau with equanimity. It had been snowing since early morning, the first significant storm of the season, and although the snow had tapered off by mid-afternoon, the streets of Paris remained buried beneath a thick carpet of white. Traffic was non-existent, and the only sign of life on the street below was a lone man shuffling by on cross-country skis, his rucksack brimming with brightly wrapped presents. Orly-Paris Airport was closed until morning, their flight back to New York cancelled.

Ah well, Illya thought to himself, such are the vagaries of fate.

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avery11: (Default)
 
psychiatrist's office


Mind Games

 
Illya stepped quietly into the darkened room. His eyes, as they became accustomed to the change in the light, took in the richly carved desk in the far corner, the faded photograph of a young man in a burnoose prominently displayed upon its gleaming surface. An oriental vase filled with yellow asters stood guard beside the photograph. A phalanx of bookshelves lined one wall, and an antique persian rug in sun-bleached shades of red and blue brought a wash of color to the dimly lit room. Joshegan, Illya recalled idly. Snowflake pattern.

Please, Mr. Kuryakin.” Dr. Neville gestured toward the couch, a tufted monstrosity in dark green velvet that would have been at home in any Victorian drawing room. “Have a seat.”

Reluctantly, Illya took his place on the couch, pushing aside a pair of antique kilim pillows in the traditional Kazak style. “I wondered when you would get around to me,” he said.

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