avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
written for DtC 9 Challenge





SILENT NIGHT



Silent Night

Napoleon dragged his injured partner through the gathering darkness, every sense alert for sounds of pursuit -- the crunch of footsteps in the deep snow or worse, the dreaded snarl of snowmobiles closing in.

Nothing. Silence enveloped them.

Snow continued to fall, fat flakes swirling soundlessly down, covering the Vermont countryside in a thick blanket of white. Ice coated the trees; their glittering branches bent like bowstrings under the weight. Against the unforgiving whiteness, the agents' bright blue parkas stood out like beacons.

A snap!

Napoleon spun around, Walther cocked and ready, but it was only the branch of an elm tree cracking under the weight of snow and ice. It fell to the ground with a hollow thud. He sighed, and replaced his weapon in its holster.

A few yards ahead, the forest ended. From here on, it was open country in every direction, an endless succession of rolling hills and farmland. They were miles from a major city, their communicators gone, at the mercy of the elements and their THRUSH trackers.

Not the best way to spend Christmas Eve.


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WAITING

30/12/12 04:46
avery11: (basset hound)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Slash, also explicit Het
A gift for Svetlanacat, to say thank you for all the lovely photos and gorgeous manips she's given us over the years. This story is inspired by one of her photos. The opening pic is from Lisa' s Screencaps Library.


WAITING



Waiting

He is not coming.

I did not expect him to, not really. It is New Year's Eve after all, and he has his women to amuse him, dozens of them, beautiful and smart and willing. More than enough women to keep him occupied.

Still, I had hoped...

“Bartender, another vodka, if you please.”


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avery11: (white cat)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen


THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS 1



The Night Before Christmas

Christmas Eve, 1963.

   Illya poured the last drop of Stolichnaya into his glass and downed it, grimacing at the bitterness. He tossed the bottle to the floor. It rolled across the carpet, colliding with a litter of empty vodka bottles and dirty dishes. He winced at the sound.

   “Shhh...”    


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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen-ish
For Sparky, who wanted a funny story based on this clever cartoon.




ANOTHER FINE MESS



Another Fine Mess

      Napoleon woke.

     They were in a stone cavern, chained back to back on some sort of platform suspended over water. The chains were wrapped around them so tightly as to make any but the smallest movement impossible. Long, dark shapes lurked, half-submerged, in the water below, watching their prey with cruel fascination.

     Crocodiles, Napoleon thought to himself. Well isn't that just dandy?

     

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avery11: (basset hound)



Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
(The story is posted in two parts due to LJ size constraints. This is Part Two.
To read Part One GO HERE)     





carnival 2



DEATH IN VENICE

Part Two




    Illya woke to find himself on a stone floor. His wrists were encased in thick manacles, attached by chains to spikes hammered into the wall. He had been stripped down to his boxers, and now he shivered in the chill of the room. His partner lay beside him, unconscious.  


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avery11: (basset hound)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
             (The story is posted in two parts due to LJ size constraints. Follow the link at the end of Part One to get to Part Two.)



DEATH IN VENICE



DEATH IN VENICE

Part One

   They stood on the quay outside Marco Polo Airport, their luggage piled about them, waiting for the water taxi that would convey them across the Venetian Lagoon to their hotel. Illya shivered, and raised the collar of his trench coat against the bitter wind blowing in off the Adriatic.

    “It never fails,” he muttered. “Every time we are in Venice, I end up with a head cold.”

    “Quit complaining, tovarisch,” Napoleon replied cheerfully. He shaded his eyes with his hand, hoping to get a better view of the stunning brunette in the chartreuse minidress, just now climbing out of a taxicab.

    “I am not complaining. I am merely stating the facts. Venice is not good for my health. Remember what happened the last time we were here?”


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Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
(Be sure to read Part 1 first)




1960-summer-olympiad




THE ROME OLYMPIAD

(Part 2)

Thursday, August 25th

      The Opening Ceremony began the following afternoon in a kaleidoscope of color and pageantry. Illya marched into the wide, white bowl of the Stadio Olimpico alongside his British teammates, waving the miniature Union Jacks the team had been given. His uniform concealed a veritable arsenal of advanced weaponry.

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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Gen
(Posted in two parts due to LJ format constraints. Just follow the link to Part 2)


the-opening-ceremony-of-the-1960-olympic-games-in-rome



The Rome Olympiad Affair

(Part I)
 

Rome, Italy – Wednesday, August 24, 1960.

     Illya stepped off the BOAC jet, shielding his eyes against the blazing Roman sun. He smiled and waved along with the rest of the British Olympic team, using the opportunity to scan the large and enthusiastic crowd for signs of THRUSH.    


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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre: GenAngst
Apologies for the repost. I wasn't entirely satisfied with the original version of Mayday! so I've revised it by adding a concluding scene that, I hope, makes it feel more complete.
  






MAYDAY!
  

    “Mayday! Mayday! This is Alpha Tango Foxtrot one-one-four.” Napoleon's voice, steady and professional, filled the Communications room of UNCLE's New Delhi HQ. “Losing altitude. Repeat, losing altitude. I am southwest of Ceylon -- bearing six degrees, three minutes North by seventy-seven degrees, forty-five minutes East. Airspeed is dropping; attempting to troubleshoot the problem, but --” A burst of static drowned out the last part.

    “Blast!” Waverly tapped his briar pipe against the communications console in frustration. A dusting of ash fell, unnoticed, upon the sleek chrome counter. “Mr. Solo should know better than to broadcast his position on the public airwaves. Now every THRUSH agent within a hundred miles will be on his scent.”  


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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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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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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:
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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 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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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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