Fic: Winner By A Nose Affair, Act 1
Good grief. I appear to be writing multi-chaptered fic. This is a first for me - I've never published in parts before, let alone before the story is done!
For those who came in late: Back on Halloween, I randomly wrote an Illya-in-drag crackfic about the UNCLE Halloween party, The Winner By a Nose Affair (many thanks to lolmac for the title). Lolmac and illyushadarling wanted to know what actually happened at the party, so I started trying to write a "missing scene".
The missing scene is now as long as the original piece, and I still haven't gotten to the party. I've decided to call the original a Prologue and tag (and you really should read that first, if you haven't), so this is now Act 1. Assuming I manage to write the rest, it should hopefully have four Acts like a good little UNCLE fic.
However: I'm stuck. Well and thoroughly bogged down. So I'm posting what I've got and hoping my flist can inspire me - you're all better writers than I, after all. ;-) What might happen at the party? How do I make the necessary OCs interesting and not just stock extras? (I've barely ever written an OC in a fanfic! Though I did start out in original fic.) Am I even the right author for this story, considering that I've never 1) been kissed 2) flirted or been flirted with 3) been involved in "girl talk" 4) danced with a guy 5) had a date 6) been to a "grown-up" party 7) had a workplace?
(Many thanks to illyushadarling for her invaluable sorta-beta help - you know what you did, darlin'.)
Title: Winner By a Nose Affair, Act 1: Mind Games
Summary: In which Miss Moira Rourke is introduced.
Notes: 1400-odd words. Gen. No, really.
While Napoleon drove, Illya disentangled hairpins from his wig and briefed his partner.
“By the time we reach headquarters, I will be Moira Rourke, from the translation department of UNCLE Chicago - specialties, French and Welsh. You met me there three weeks ago, asked me to dinner, and inconsiderately got yourself captured in the middle of it. We were unable to schedule another date before you returned to New York--”
“--thanks to my impatient and unromantic partner Mr Kuryakin--”
“--so when you learned I was in town visiting my ailing Aunt Jeanne, you asked me to the UNCLE Halloween party. And here I am.”
“What time does Aunt Jeanne want you home?”
“I am not staying with Aunt Jeanne. She is a worthy woman, but somewhat... domineering. I am staying at an hotel.”
“Which one?”
“Does it really matter, Napoleon?” Illya stared out the window for a moment, then changed the subject. “By the way, where is that unromantic but punctual person, Mr Kuryakin?”
“Who needs him when you've got me?” Napoleon joked. “Okay... he said he wasn't coming, didn't have a good enough costume. He didn't answer his door when I left, so he's probably out sulking at a jazz club somewhere.”
“Good enough.” Illya fell silent, going over his prepwork again - not the cover story, this time, but the probable “script” for the evening. This was the most important part of his preparation: foreseeing events, determining Moira's reaction to them, learning her personality so that when something unexpected happened, s/he would be able to cope. He'd spent much of his spare time over the past two weeks doing just that, and now felt reasonably confident.
The grand entrance would be the most crucial moment. Every eye in the room would be on Napoleon Solo's date - the men checking her out, the women sizing up the competition - and everyone in the room would also be keeping a careful lookout for Illya Kuryakin. The most important part of his costume at that point would be the short skirt, using Moira's long legs to distract the male employees while disguising Illya's... rear view... from the female ones. (Oh yes, he knew exactly what went on behind his back every time he left the typists' room. He was a spy, after all.)
Once that test was passed, the rest would simply be a matter of catering to expectations: he would avoid doing Illya-esque things like eating all the cookies, and would take care to do Moira-esque things like hanging on Napoleon's arm. He had studied “girl talk” surreptitiously in the cafeteria, practiced dancing in his sitting room, and somehow managed to find sensibly flat-heeled go-go boots, despite the temptation to be taller than Napoleon for once. Anything else, he'd have to make up as he went along.
He was good at that.
….............................................................................
Napoleon kept his eyes on the road all the way to UNCLE HQ. Illya hated to be caught halfway into character.
I haven't had a blind date in a while, he reflected wryly. Walking into the party with a girl I haven't even seen yet... well, it looks like being an interesting evening.
Not that he expected Moira to be unattractive or obviously unfeminine - he had faith in Illya's acting skill, and knew the Russian would not have accepted the dare if he didn't feel he could handle it. Still, it would be tricky.
His own role lay in his area of greatest expertise, and he was confident of his ability to show Moira a good time. He suspected Illya might not appreciate the details quite as much - but after all, if you can't embarrass your own partner, who can you embarrass?
Once he'd parked the car, he shut his eyes for a moment, putting Illya out of his mind. From now on, he was Napoleon Solo the world-famous ladies' man and Moira was - for tonight - the most important woman in his life. Turning his head, he asked, “Are you ready?”
Moira giggled. “I'd better be, hadn't I?” There was no hint of falsetto, but the voice was completely feminine.
Napoleon opened his eyes and took his first look at Moira Rourke.
His jaw did not drop open, nor his eyes pop out of their sockets, because he was Napoleon Solo and he did not react that way to a beautiful woman. Instead, he gave her a glowing smile, the one that said Seeing you is the best thing that's happened to me all day.
Moira was absolutely gorgeous. She looked almost like Audrey Hepburn... no, she looked better than Audrey Hepburn. Wide blue eyes, perfect lips parted in a gleaming smile, slim athletic figure - Napoleon's eyes travelled down her long shapely legs, crossed at the knee, then back up to where her short skirt exposed a distracting amount of thigh.
“Are you just going to sit there staring all evening then?” Moira asked with another little laugh and a coy simper.
Napoleon looked back up at her face. “I'm sorry, Moira,” he purred, melting her coyness with the full directional beam of the Napoleon Solo charm. “I must have been... bewitched.” His smile grew even broader. “Shall we?”
Moira giggled yet again. The part of Napoleon that was still anchored in reality - a very small part, and well-hidden, but it was there - wondered if Illya would laugh more tonight than in the entire rest of his life. Then he remembered the Russian's habit of laughing at a really good explosion and decided, probably not.
…...................................................................................
The UNCLE Halloween party was held in the Masque Club at the end of the complex, that possessing one of the largest rooms not encumbered with a gigantic table. The schedule was always more or less the same - cookies, punch, dancing, conversation, and finally the costume contest.
As they neared the sliding doors, Napoleon felt Moira's hand tighten on his arm. He immediately stopped and turned to her. “You all right?”
Moira shrugged and forced a jittery laugh. “It's just... I mean, it's UNCLE New York.” She was only a translator from a branch office - of course she'd feel out of her depth, meeting the big fish of the eastern seaboard, entering regional HQ on the arm of Number 1 Section 2 North America.
Napoleon took her shoulders in his hands, gazed deep into her blue eyes. “Moira, you look wonderful,” he told her sincerely. “You'll be the most beautiful woman in the room.” Then - not quite able to hide a flicker of amusement - he drew her close and kissed her.
(He did not, despite his survival instinct's warnings, get ready to duck.)
…................................................................................
Illya had expected to be kissed sometime during the evening - Moira was Napoleon Solo's date, after all - but not quite so soon. They weren't even into the club yet!
He caught the devilish glint in Napoleon's eye, but not in time to dodge; he was held fast in Napoleon's arms, Napoleon's lips pressing hard against his own, Napoleon's left hand trapping his head while the other wandered disturbingly low on his back, pulling him in. His shoulders braced as he tried to pull away, reaching for breath to deliver his prepared Moira-esque rebuke, “really, Napoleon, you'll smudge my makeup”.
He heard the doors slide open behind him, and realized instantly that pulling back was not an option. This was his entrance, right now; first impressions would make or break the act, and a girl doesn't pull away from Napoleon Solo.
Illya flung himself into the kiss. His arms went around Napoleon's neck, drawing the brown head closer. He felt his partner hesitate for an instant, then respond passionately, refusing to be outdone.
(Behind them, George Dennell stood awkwardly in the doorway and tried to get their attention with a diffident cough. All he accomplished was holding the door open and attracting the gaze of the entire party to the amorous couple.)
When they finally broke for air, it was with matching goofy grins on their faces. We can do this! We can get through tonight with nobody the wiser. It's all downhill from here.
Turning his grin into a Moira-smile, Illya fluttered his eyelashes. “That was wonderful, Napoleon darling,” Moira cooed, “but you've absolutely ruined my makeup!”
For those who came in late: Back on Halloween, I randomly wrote an Illya-in-drag crackfic about the UNCLE Halloween party, The Winner By a Nose Affair (many thanks to lolmac for the title). Lolmac and illyushadarling wanted to know what actually happened at the party, so I started trying to write a "missing scene".
The missing scene is now as long as the original piece, and I still haven't gotten to the party. I've decided to call the original a Prologue and tag (and you really should read that first, if you haven't), so this is now Act 1. Assuming I manage to write the rest, it should hopefully have four Acts like a good little UNCLE fic.
However: I'm stuck. Well and thoroughly bogged down. So I'm posting what I've got and hoping my flist can inspire me - you're all better writers than I, after all. ;-) What might happen at the party? How do I make the necessary OCs interesting and not just stock extras? (I've barely ever written an OC in a fanfic! Though I did start out in original fic.) Am I even the right author for this story, considering that I've never 1) been kissed 2) flirted or been flirted with 3) been involved in "girl talk" 4) danced with a guy 5) had a date 6) been to a "grown-up" party 7) had a workplace?
(Many thanks to illyushadarling for her invaluable sorta-beta help - you know what you did, darlin'.)
Title: Winner By a Nose Affair, Act 1: Mind Games
Summary: In which Miss Moira Rourke is introduced.
Notes: 1400-odd words. Gen. No, really.
While Napoleon drove, Illya disentangled hairpins from his wig and briefed his partner.
“By the time we reach headquarters, I will be Moira Rourke, from the translation department of UNCLE Chicago - specialties, French and Welsh. You met me there three weeks ago, asked me to dinner, and inconsiderately got yourself captured in the middle of it. We were unable to schedule another date before you returned to New York--”
“--thanks to my impatient and unromantic partner Mr Kuryakin--”
“--so when you learned I was in town visiting my ailing Aunt Jeanne, you asked me to the UNCLE Halloween party. And here I am.”
“What time does Aunt Jeanne want you home?”
“I am not staying with Aunt Jeanne. She is a worthy woman, but somewhat... domineering. I am staying at an hotel.”
“Which one?”
“Does it really matter, Napoleon?” Illya stared out the window for a moment, then changed the subject. “By the way, where is that unromantic but punctual person, Mr Kuryakin?”
“Who needs him when you've got me?” Napoleon joked. “Okay... he said he wasn't coming, didn't have a good enough costume. He didn't answer his door when I left, so he's probably out sulking at a jazz club somewhere.”
“Good enough.” Illya fell silent, going over his prepwork again - not the cover story, this time, but the probable “script” for the evening. This was the most important part of his preparation: foreseeing events, determining Moira's reaction to them, learning her personality so that when something unexpected happened, s/he would be able to cope. He'd spent much of his spare time over the past two weeks doing just that, and now felt reasonably confident.
The grand entrance would be the most crucial moment. Every eye in the room would be on Napoleon Solo's date - the men checking her out, the women sizing up the competition - and everyone in the room would also be keeping a careful lookout for Illya Kuryakin. The most important part of his costume at that point would be the short skirt, using Moira's long legs to distract the male employees while disguising Illya's... rear view... from the female ones. (Oh yes, he knew exactly what went on behind his back every time he left the typists' room. He was a spy, after all.)
Once that test was passed, the rest would simply be a matter of catering to expectations: he would avoid doing Illya-esque things like eating all the cookies, and would take care to do Moira-esque things like hanging on Napoleon's arm. He had studied “girl talk” surreptitiously in the cafeteria, practiced dancing in his sitting room, and somehow managed to find sensibly flat-heeled go-go boots, despite the temptation to be taller than Napoleon for once. Anything else, he'd have to make up as he went along.
He was good at that.
….............................................................................
Napoleon kept his eyes on the road all the way to UNCLE HQ. Illya hated to be caught halfway into character.
I haven't had a blind date in a while, he reflected wryly. Walking into the party with a girl I haven't even seen yet... well, it looks like being an interesting evening.
Not that he expected Moira to be unattractive or obviously unfeminine - he had faith in Illya's acting skill, and knew the Russian would not have accepted the dare if he didn't feel he could handle it. Still, it would be tricky.
His own role lay in his area of greatest expertise, and he was confident of his ability to show Moira a good time. He suspected Illya might not appreciate the details quite as much - but after all, if you can't embarrass your own partner, who can you embarrass?
Once he'd parked the car, he shut his eyes for a moment, putting Illya out of his mind. From now on, he was Napoleon Solo the world-famous ladies' man and Moira was - for tonight - the most important woman in his life. Turning his head, he asked, “Are you ready?”
Moira giggled. “I'd better be, hadn't I?” There was no hint of falsetto, but the voice was completely feminine.
Napoleon opened his eyes and took his first look at Moira Rourke.
His jaw did not drop open, nor his eyes pop out of their sockets, because he was Napoleon Solo and he did not react that way to a beautiful woman. Instead, he gave her a glowing smile, the one that said Seeing you is the best thing that's happened to me all day.
Moira was absolutely gorgeous. She looked almost like Audrey Hepburn... no, she looked better than Audrey Hepburn. Wide blue eyes, perfect lips parted in a gleaming smile, slim athletic figure - Napoleon's eyes travelled down her long shapely legs, crossed at the knee, then back up to where her short skirt exposed a distracting amount of thigh.
“Are you just going to sit there staring all evening then?” Moira asked with another little laugh and a coy simper.
Napoleon looked back up at her face. “I'm sorry, Moira,” he purred, melting her coyness with the full directional beam of the Napoleon Solo charm. “I must have been... bewitched.” His smile grew even broader. “Shall we?”
Moira giggled yet again. The part of Napoleon that was still anchored in reality - a very small part, and well-hidden, but it was there - wondered if Illya would laugh more tonight than in the entire rest of his life. Then he remembered the Russian's habit of laughing at a really good explosion and decided, probably not.
…...................................................................................
The UNCLE Halloween party was held in the Masque Club at the end of the complex, that possessing one of the largest rooms not encumbered with a gigantic table. The schedule was always more or less the same - cookies, punch, dancing, conversation, and finally the costume contest.
As they neared the sliding doors, Napoleon felt Moira's hand tighten on his arm. He immediately stopped and turned to her. “You all right?”
Moira shrugged and forced a jittery laugh. “It's just... I mean, it's UNCLE New York.” She was only a translator from a branch office - of course she'd feel out of her depth, meeting the big fish of the eastern seaboard, entering regional HQ on the arm of Number 1 Section 2 North America.
Napoleon took her shoulders in his hands, gazed deep into her blue eyes. “Moira, you look wonderful,” he told her sincerely. “You'll be the most beautiful woman in the room.” Then - not quite able to hide a flicker of amusement - he drew her close and kissed her.
(He did not, despite his survival instinct's warnings, get ready to duck.)
…................................................................................
Illya had expected to be kissed sometime during the evening - Moira was Napoleon Solo's date, after all - but not quite so soon. They weren't even into the club yet!
He caught the devilish glint in Napoleon's eye, but not in time to dodge; he was held fast in Napoleon's arms, Napoleon's lips pressing hard against his own, Napoleon's left hand trapping his head while the other wandered disturbingly low on his back, pulling him in. His shoulders braced as he tried to pull away, reaching for breath to deliver his prepared Moira-esque rebuke, “really, Napoleon, you'll smudge my makeup”.
He heard the doors slide open behind him, and realized instantly that pulling back was not an option. This was his entrance, right now; first impressions would make or break the act, and a girl doesn't pull away from Napoleon Solo.
Illya flung himself into the kiss. His arms went around Napoleon's neck, drawing the brown head closer. He felt his partner hesitate for an instant, then respond passionately, refusing to be outdone.
(Behind them, George Dennell stood awkwardly in the doorway and tried to get their attention with a diffident cough. All he accomplished was holding the door open and attracting the gaze of the entire party to the amorous couple.)
When they finally broke for air, it was with matching goofy grins on their faces. We can do this! We can get through tonight with nobody the wiser. It's all downhill from here.
Turning his grin into a Moira-smile, Illya fluttered his eyelashes. “That was wonderful, Napoleon darling,” Moira cooed, “but you've absolutely ruined my makeup!”