when stories go awry
So this is my 3000th journal entry, my 120th mission_insane story, and the first time I had to scrap more than a page of writing to finish a damn story. I started out last week with the idea to write a prompt table worth of drabbles, only as we all know by now, I cannot write short. And this story went somewhere I hadn't planned or expected (instead of a nice piece of plot-free smut it went all plot and dark on me with a possible THRUSH mole in an undefined UNCLE headquarters in either Reno or Salt Lake and What the Fuck Beevis?! so I cut the hell out of it and scrapped the WTF bits. I saved them so maybe that will become a story later. I mean, honestly, it was nearing 3000 words and I hadn't even gotten them home again and Waverly was telling them to stay put and sending Baker and Smithsen in to investigate with our boys, and I just didn't feel like dealing with unruly characters so... yeah.) So I ended up with this, and still not nearly enough smut. But then, there is never enough smut for me, really. But Hey! 80 stories to go to finish the challenge. Yay!
**120/200**
YTD WordCount: 21,183
Title: just your type
Author: Maggie
'Verse: Man from UNCLE
Claim/Characters/Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: Mature for innuendo, slash don't ya know
Warnings: none, it isn't even graphic, maybe a bad word or two
Disclaimer: YO! I don't own them! I wish I did.
Summary: Just a moment in a mission where Illya is tired and Napoleon is wondering why.
Table/Prompt: Unthemed 7 Table Prompt: working
Word Count: 1847
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Illya looked around the well appointed sitting room then crossed to the French windows and looked out, one hand on the door handle. The balcony was small and yet oddly uncluttered by the white painted cast iron table and chairs arranged in the center. If the weather were better he could imagine it would be a pleasant option to have dinner there. It was not pleasant however, it was in fact pouring rain and cold with a touch of fog obscuring the view he had come over to the windows to check. Movement behind him caused him to turn, finding his host approaching.
“Dinner will be twenty minutes. Drink?”
“Please.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Whatever you’re pouring.”
“So accommodating,” the accompanying smile was perhaps a bit sly.
“Not at all.” Illya’s smile was brief.
His companion poured and stirred and poured again, turning with a pair of stemmed glasses in hand. Illya moved away from the doors, accepted the proffered glass and held it up as his host gave a toast.
“Pleasurable endeavors.”
“Successful ones,” Illya replied and sipped the cocktail, never taking his eyes off the other man.
Downing his drink the other advanced and Illya retreated, but slowly, maneuvering his companion between himself and the French doors. He lifted his glass again to sip, the tip of his tongue brushing the rim of the glass as he took the smallest amount of liquid he could, watching the other man’s lips part unconsciously with a sharp intake of breath. Illya gave another small smile.
Illya’s host pitched forward and Illya managed to catch him without spilling the drink in his hand, letting the empty glass the other held fall to the carpet. He looked up at the open French doors with a frown. “Timing is everything.”
Napoleon stepped out of the wet darkness and shrugged. “You seemed to be enjoying the moment, I didn’t want to spoil it.”
Illya rolled his eyes and sat his glass on the coffee table, then hefted the unconscious man into a fireman’s carry and turned toward the short hall. “Make it look good,” he threw over his shoulder as he took their mark toward the bedroom.
“I always do.”
Illya let his burden fall on the bed like a sack of potatoes, started undressing the man and let the clothing fall on the floor haphazardly. He reached under the man and tugged the bedding down, rolling him naked under the covers. Illya punched the pillow next to the man’s head, leaving a believable dent. He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. It certainly looked like a satisfying tryst had happened in the room. He turned off the light without looking back.
Illya joined Napoleon in the living room again. “Those new darts work fast. I wonder if they work on insomnia.”
“If you want a side of amnesia with it, sure,” Napoleon said as he continued to snap pictures of documents he had spread over the coffee table.
“Huh, maybe not.”
The timer went off on the stove in the kitchen and both Illya and Napoleon turned, drawing weapons.
“Dinner.” Illya tucked the snubbed special back into his ankle holster and headed for the kitchen. Napoleon relaxed and went back to flipping papers and snapping pictures.
Illya returned and Napoleon looked up, “Decided against making dinner disappear for authenticity’s sake?”
“I turned the stove off and left dinner in it, if I wanted warmed over take out I would eat at home.”
“There’s never any leftovers at your house.”
Illya shrugged. “Then I’d go to your house.”
“Ah, so that’s where last Friday’s pizza ended up.”
“Cold pizza: breakfast of champions and hung over spies.” Illya leaned over Napoleon’s shoulder to look at the diagrams on the coffee table as Napoleon flipped the last document and tucked the camera into his pocket.
“Hung over, you?” Napoleon gathered the pages then slid the diagram Illya was studying on top and shut the folder.
“You had plans for that pizza, I suppose.”
“You can make it up to me, midnight snack at my place next Friday.” Napoleon took the folder back to the desk and returned it to the bottom of the drawer.
“Hid that sensitive information well, did he?”
“He didn’t expect us to come looking, perhaps.” Napoleon picked the empty glass up from the floor, sitting it beside the full one Illya hadn’t been drinking earlier. “Since neither of you got dinner, you should at least have finished your drinks.” Napoleon walked to the high table in the corner, picking up the pitcher then wincing. “Too much vermouth.”
“I prefer vodka to gin,” Illya frowned as Napoleon turned toward him with a smirk, “and he stirred a bit much.”
“Bruised the gin, did he?” Napoleon laughed and walked back to the coffee table, poured the offending drink back into the pitcher and then went into the kitchen and poured it all down the drain. He clicked the light off as he returned to the living room. Illya was waiting for him at the French doors. Napoleon left the empty pitcher and glasses on the coffee table, mussed the couch pillows a bit more on his way by and joined his partner at their exit. “Can you lock those from the outside?”
Illya’s look was all the reply Napoleon needed to grin again.
“And why are you so disgruntled, you got to spend most of the evening in a nice warm apartment.”
“I spent most of the evening,” Illya shut the French doors and crouched down in front of them to study the latch from the outside, “drinking second rate whiskey and fielding intrusive questions in a dark lounge in a questionable area of the city. My reluctance to accompany him to a hotel was not feigned. Getting him to come up with the idea to take me to his home was one of the most difficult tasks I have performed this month, and considering this is our third mission in two weeks, that is saying something.” The latch clicked and the small tools Illya used disappeared again into his jacket cuff and lapel. He stood and faced Napoleon who was standing close, watching. They were nearly nose to nose when Illya turned; Napoleon did not give ground. “Next time you can lure and I will burgle.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Wilson preferred blonds, partner. I tried,” he sounded sincere and in the dim night Illya could see that his partner’s expression had turned somber. Napoleon wasn’t lying, he had tried. As had three other agents, two women and another man, and not one of them could catch the eye of their mark. Illya had walked into the lounge and had the man eating out of his hand in a matter of minutes.
Napoleon turned and caught the rope ladder he’d shimmied down as it swayed in the cold wind, held it steady and gestured for Illya to go first. Illya secured the belt of his overcoat and turned the collar up to keep as much rain out as possible, then started climbing the flimsy looking rungs. Napoleon watched as Illya’s dark form slipped over the lip of the roof, then began his own climb, fighting the increasing wind. Illya grabbed his shoulders and helped him over the edge when the wind gave a substantial gust. They landed in a heap.
“Thanks, that wind is fierce tonight.”
“You have the camera.”
Napoleon laughed. “Of course, you only ever save me for the good of the mission.”
“Too much work to train a new partner.” Illya picked himself up and offered a hand to Napoleon, who took it. They pulled the rope ladder up and Napoleon stashed it in the carryall he’d stuffed in the corner then put the strap over his shoulder and led Illya to the escape route.
Several days later Napoleon sought Illya out in the laboratory he preferred to spend time in when he could. He knocked on the open door and leaned on the jamb, watching Illya do something arcane with equipment he wasn’t quite sure was wholly safe. Illya finished whatever he was doing and looked over at Napoleon.
“Thought I’d let you know that we did it. Our men just successfully replaced THRUSH’s diagrams with our own and the courier never suspected a thing.”
“Which means that Wilson never suspected a thing.”
“That’s right.” Napoleon looked satisfied and smiled at Illya. “Would you like to join me for a bit of a celebration?”
Illya looked at the equipment on his counter and then back to Napoleon. “I’m sorry, this is a time sensitive procedure, I’ll likely be here late.”
“Well, it is a school night, I’d have to be home in bed early anyway.”
“As if work has ever been a detriment to pleasure.” Illya might have been smirking, but he turned back to his table before Napoleon could tell.
“Don’t blow up the basement, partner.”
“I never have.”
“Not this one,” Napoleon said as he turned to go.
Late that evening there was a coded knock on Napoleon’s door. Napoleon didn’t even look up from his book as Illya let himself in and joined him in the livingroom. Napoleon put the bookmark in the novel and sat it aside, folding his hands and watched Illya as he sat on the couch and leaned his head back, eyes closed.
“Were your laboratory efforts a success?”
Illya shrugged. “Sort of.”
“Congratulations?”
“Not yet, perhaps soon.”
“Is this what has been giving you insomnia?”
“Some.”
“Perhaps a drink would relax you.” Napoleon got up and went into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. When he returned to the living room Illya hadn’t moved, but did open his eyes when Napoleon joined him on the couch, then took the glass offered. “Vodka, unbruised.” Napoleon raised his own glass to Illya and they both drank.
“Better, thank you.”
“Anytime, partner.”
“I thought I’d stop in and make amends for eating all your pizza.”
“It’s not even Friday.”
“And I forgot to bring pizza.”
“I’m sure you can improvise.”
“Did it bother you?”
“That you ate the leftovers? Not really.”
“Watching me with Wilson.”
Napoleon nearly laughed, but the serious look on his partner’s face stopped him. He put his drink down on the coffee table and turned to face Illya. “No. He was hardly your type anyway.” Illya gave Napoleon a look. “Illya, the man was smug, full of himself, and THRUSH besides. And he can’t hide a file worth a damn. Of course that did work to our advantage.”
Illya relaxed, finished his drink in one swallow and sat the glass next to Napoleon’s. “Let me make it up to you anyway.”
Napoleon leaned close and whispered in Illya’s ear, “Will it make you feel better to know that I took a great deal of satisfaction in shooting the bastard in the back?”
“Now who’s smug?”
“But hopefully soon to be full of you, partner mine. And never ever will I be THRUSH.”
They left the couch with pillows mussed and a trail of clothing leading toward the bedroom.
**120/200**
YTD WordCount: 21,183
Title: just your type
Author: Maggie
'Verse: Man from UNCLE
Claim/Characters/Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: Mature for innuendo, slash don't ya know
Warnings: none, it isn't even graphic, maybe a bad word or two
Disclaimer: YO! I don't own them! I wish I did.
Summary: Just a moment in a mission where Illya is tired and Napoleon is wondering why.
Table/Prompt: Unthemed 7 Table Prompt: working
Word Count: 1847
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Illya looked around the well appointed sitting room then crossed to the French windows and looked out, one hand on the door handle. The balcony was small and yet oddly uncluttered by the white painted cast iron table and chairs arranged in the center. If the weather were better he could imagine it would be a pleasant option to have dinner there. It was not pleasant however, it was in fact pouring rain and cold with a touch of fog obscuring the view he had come over to the windows to check. Movement behind him caused him to turn, finding his host approaching.
“Dinner will be twenty minutes. Drink?”
“Please.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Whatever you’re pouring.”
“So accommodating,” the accompanying smile was perhaps a bit sly.
“Not at all.” Illya’s smile was brief.
His companion poured and stirred and poured again, turning with a pair of stemmed glasses in hand. Illya moved away from the doors, accepted the proffered glass and held it up as his host gave a toast.
“Pleasurable endeavors.”
“Successful ones,” Illya replied and sipped the cocktail, never taking his eyes off the other man.
Downing his drink the other advanced and Illya retreated, but slowly, maneuvering his companion between himself and the French doors. He lifted his glass again to sip, the tip of his tongue brushing the rim of the glass as he took the smallest amount of liquid he could, watching the other man’s lips part unconsciously with a sharp intake of breath. Illya gave another small smile.
Illya’s host pitched forward and Illya managed to catch him without spilling the drink in his hand, letting the empty glass the other held fall to the carpet. He looked up at the open French doors with a frown. “Timing is everything.”
Napoleon stepped out of the wet darkness and shrugged. “You seemed to be enjoying the moment, I didn’t want to spoil it.”
Illya rolled his eyes and sat his glass on the coffee table, then hefted the unconscious man into a fireman’s carry and turned toward the short hall. “Make it look good,” he threw over his shoulder as he took their mark toward the bedroom.
“I always do.”
Illya let his burden fall on the bed like a sack of potatoes, started undressing the man and let the clothing fall on the floor haphazardly. He reached under the man and tugged the bedding down, rolling him naked under the covers. Illya punched the pillow next to the man’s head, leaving a believable dent. He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. It certainly looked like a satisfying tryst had happened in the room. He turned off the light without looking back.
Illya joined Napoleon in the living room again. “Those new darts work fast. I wonder if they work on insomnia.”
“If you want a side of amnesia with it, sure,” Napoleon said as he continued to snap pictures of documents he had spread over the coffee table.
“Huh, maybe not.”
The timer went off on the stove in the kitchen and both Illya and Napoleon turned, drawing weapons.
“Dinner.” Illya tucked the snubbed special back into his ankle holster and headed for the kitchen. Napoleon relaxed and went back to flipping papers and snapping pictures.
Illya returned and Napoleon looked up, “Decided against making dinner disappear for authenticity’s sake?”
“I turned the stove off and left dinner in it, if I wanted warmed over take out I would eat at home.”
“There’s never any leftovers at your house.”
Illya shrugged. “Then I’d go to your house.”
“Ah, so that’s where last Friday’s pizza ended up.”
“Cold pizza: breakfast of champions and hung over spies.” Illya leaned over Napoleon’s shoulder to look at the diagrams on the coffee table as Napoleon flipped the last document and tucked the camera into his pocket.
“Hung over, you?” Napoleon gathered the pages then slid the diagram Illya was studying on top and shut the folder.
“You had plans for that pizza, I suppose.”
“You can make it up to me, midnight snack at my place next Friday.” Napoleon took the folder back to the desk and returned it to the bottom of the drawer.
“Hid that sensitive information well, did he?”
“He didn’t expect us to come looking, perhaps.” Napoleon picked the empty glass up from the floor, sitting it beside the full one Illya hadn’t been drinking earlier. “Since neither of you got dinner, you should at least have finished your drinks.” Napoleon walked to the high table in the corner, picking up the pitcher then wincing. “Too much vermouth.”
“I prefer vodka to gin,” Illya frowned as Napoleon turned toward him with a smirk, “and he stirred a bit much.”
“Bruised the gin, did he?” Napoleon laughed and walked back to the coffee table, poured the offending drink back into the pitcher and then went into the kitchen and poured it all down the drain. He clicked the light off as he returned to the living room. Illya was waiting for him at the French doors. Napoleon left the empty pitcher and glasses on the coffee table, mussed the couch pillows a bit more on his way by and joined his partner at their exit. “Can you lock those from the outside?”
Illya’s look was all the reply Napoleon needed to grin again.
“And why are you so disgruntled, you got to spend most of the evening in a nice warm apartment.”
“I spent most of the evening,” Illya shut the French doors and crouched down in front of them to study the latch from the outside, “drinking second rate whiskey and fielding intrusive questions in a dark lounge in a questionable area of the city. My reluctance to accompany him to a hotel was not feigned. Getting him to come up with the idea to take me to his home was one of the most difficult tasks I have performed this month, and considering this is our third mission in two weeks, that is saying something.” The latch clicked and the small tools Illya used disappeared again into his jacket cuff and lapel. He stood and faced Napoleon who was standing close, watching. They were nearly nose to nose when Illya turned; Napoleon did not give ground. “Next time you can lure and I will burgle.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Wilson preferred blonds, partner. I tried,” he sounded sincere and in the dim night Illya could see that his partner’s expression had turned somber. Napoleon wasn’t lying, he had tried. As had three other agents, two women and another man, and not one of them could catch the eye of their mark. Illya had walked into the lounge and had the man eating out of his hand in a matter of minutes.
Napoleon turned and caught the rope ladder he’d shimmied down as it swayed in the cold wind, held it steady and gestured for Illya to go first. Illya secured the belt of his overcoat and turned the collar up to keep as much rain out as possible, then started climbing the flimsy looking rungs. Napoleon watched as Illya’s dark form slipped over the lip of the roof, then began his own climb, fighting the increasing wind. Illya grabbed his shoulders and helped him over the edge when the wind gave a substantial gust. They landed in a heap.
“Thanks, that wind is fierce tonight.”
“You have the camera.”
Napoleon laughed. “Of course, you only ever save me for the good of the mission.”
“Too much work to train a new partner.” Illya picked himself up and offered a hand to Napoleon, who took it. They pulled the rope ladder up and Napoleon stashed it in the carryall he’d stuffed in the corner then put the strap over his shoulder and led Illya to the escape route.
Several days later Napoleon sought Illya out in the laboratory he preferred to spend time in when he could. He knocked on the open door and leaned on the jamb, watching Illya do something arcane with equipment he wasn’t quite sure was wholly safe. Illya finished whatever he was doing and looked over at Napoleon.
“Thought I’d let you know that we did it. Our men just successfully replaced THRUSH’s diagrams with our own and the courier never suspected a thing.”
“Which means that Wilson never suspected a thing.”
“That’s right.” Napoleon looked satisfied and smiled at Illya. “Would you like to join me for a bit of a celebration?”
Illya looked at the equipment on his counter and then back to Napoleon. “I’m sorry, this is a time sensitive procedure, I’ll likely be here late.”
“Well, it is a school night, I’d have to be home in bed early anyway.”
“As if work has ever been a detriment to pleasure.” Illya might have been smirking, but he turned back to his table before Napoleon could tell.
“Don’t blow up the basement, partner.”
“I never have.”
“Not this one,” Napoleon said as he turned to go.
Late that evening there was a coded knock on Napoleon’s door. Napoleon didn’t even look up from his book as Illya let himself in and joined him in the livingroom. Napoleon put the bookmark in the novel and sat it aside, folding his hands and watched Illya as he sat on the couch and leaned his head back, eyes closed.
“Were your laboratory efforts a success?”
Illya shrugged. “Sort of.”
“Congratulations?”
“Not yet, perhaps soon.”
“Is this what has been giving you insomnia?”
“Some.”
“Perhaps a drink would relax you.” Napoleon got up and went into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. When he returned to the living room Illya hadn’t moved, but did open his eyes when Napoleon joined him on the couch, then took the glass offered. “Vodka, unbruised.” Napoleon raised his own glass to Illya and they both drank.
“Better, thank you.”
“Anytime, partner.”
“I thought I’d stop in and make amends for eating all your pizza.”
“It’s not even Friday.”
“And I forgot to bring pizza.”
“I’m sure you can improvise.”
“Did it bother you?”
“That you ate the leftovers? Not really.”
“Watching me with Wilson.”
Napoleon nearly laughed, but the serious look on his partner’s face stopped him. He put his drink down on the coffee table and turned to face Illya. “No. He was hardly your type anyway.” Illya gave Napoleon a look. “Illya, the man was smug, full of himself, and THRUSH besides. And he can’t hide a file worth a damn. Of course that did work to our advantage.”
Illya relaxed, finished his drink in one swallow and sat the glass next to Napoleon’s. “Let me make it up to you anyway.”
Napoleon leaned close and whispered in Illya’s ear, “Will it make you feel better to know that I took a great deal of satisfaction in shooting the bastard in the back?”
“Now who’s smug?”
“But hopefully soon to be full of you, partner mine. And never ever will I be THRUSH.”
They left the couch with pillows mussed and a trail of clothing leading toward the bedroom.