A Slow Day's Hunting - Picfic, 6th October

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

It's well after midnight and I have work in the morning. Finishing this was not my most sensible use of time. Ah, well.
Oh, and this is a continuation of The Office Cat which I wrote for an earlier Short Affair.

It was a slow day which for once Napoleon was relishing. Ordinarily he craved action, but following a series of overseas assignments that had taken them away from New York for close to two months he was enjoying the chance to get some breathing space and catch up on the changes around the office.

In particular he was enjoying meeting some of the personnel, particularly Christie, the very blonde and very leggy new secretary who was proving very friendly and delightfully available. Bumping into her for a genuinely coincidental third time, he obligingly held the door open for her as she struggled with a stack of files. “Are you coming or going?”

She wrinkled her nose. “With all this racket I'm not so sure myself?” she said, looking to where new walls were being put up to create additional office space. If they carried on expanding like this, they would end up needing to build another sub-basement level.

“It must be annoying,” he agreed, wincing as the whine of the electric drill started up again.

“You have no idea,” Christie started to say, but she was interrupted by Josephine and Daphne sprinting towards them in a state of panic.

“Quick, stop him!” Josephine cried.

“Close the door!” Daphne shouted.

Reacting to the urgency in their voices, Napoleon reached for his gun, looking round sharply for the intruder, which was why he all-but-missed the small, grey, cat-like blur as it sped past him and out the door. “What.....?”

“Oh, no,” Josephine exclaimed, shooting Napoleon a dirty look as she ran out into the corridor. “Shpion! Here, kitty, kitty.”

Napoleon took a step after her and peered down the corridor, but it was noticeably empty of cat. “What's going on?” he asked, reasonably enough in the circumstances, he thought.

Judging by the speed with which they turned on him, Josephine and Daphne disagreed. “You let the cat escape,” Daphne said with a toss of her hair.

“Oh, dear,” Christie said, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

Daphne patted her arm comfortingly. “That's alright, dear, you weren't to know. It's not your fault.”

Yes, but Napoleon hardly saw that it was his. “Well, I'm sorry too,” he began, all conciliatory.

They weren't having it. “The poor thing is terrified of that drill,” Josephine said relentlessly. “We've been keeping him in communications well away from the noise, but he came wandering down here and we thought it would be safe because that door is never supposed to be left open. For security. Albie said so.”

“Isn't he a Section head?” Christie squeaked.

Yes, the head of Section III. But more to the point.... “So am I,” he pointed out to her.

“So you should definitely know better,” Josephine said in triumph.

He sighed. “Look. The cat wears a badge the same as the rest of us. So it's perfectly possible to track him down through that.”

Daphne looked at him disappointedly, her lips thinned. “He wasn't wearing the collar. He keeps taking it off.”

“He....takes it off?” Napoleon blinked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Using the large pencil sharpener.”

“Huh.” He frowned slowly. “Maybe we should send him to Survival School.”

“This isn't funny, Napoleon,” Daphne snapped, and he remembered her sharp temper. “We need to find him. Do you know how dangerous this building could be for a cat?”

“I seem to remember making that point myself a time or two,” he said mildly.

“Well, rather than stand there and say 'I told you so', don't you think you should go and find the cat?” Christie demanded.

There was quite the little crowd gathered around them now. Why did he have the feeling it could easily turn into a lynch mob? He gave his most charming smile. “Now, you know I'd love to help, but I really am very busy today.”

Daphne opened her mouth angrily, but Josephine laid a restraining hand on her arm. “That's alright, Daphne, after all Napoleon is a very busy. Far too busy to take care of his responsibilities.”

“The cat is not my - “ he began exasperated.

She kept talking right over them, still ostensibly addressing Daphne. “ - and of course, it's also Napoleon's responsibility to break the news to Mr Kuryakin. But since Napoleon is so busy, maybe we should go ahead and do that for him too.”

He froze. Ah...

Daphne smiled sweetly. “Oh, of course. Mr Kuryakin is very fond of that cat, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Josephine nodded. “But I'm sure when Napoleon explains he'll understand. After all, they still need to work together, share an office together, share a hotel room while they're on assignments...”

Napoleon was fairly certain he heard someone at the back muttering 'I'll take his place' at that last one.

“And it's not like Mr Kuryakin is known for holding a grudge, is it?” Daphne added, wide-eyed and innocent. “Now, when is he due back in the office again?”

He sighed, “Alright,” he said, knowing when he was defeated. “I'll go find the blasted cat.”

“Good,” Josephine beamed. “So glad you decided to take responsibility.

Illya was due back from teaching that class on demolitions at four. Looked like Napoleon was spending the afternoon cat hunting.

*

Napoleon had never exactly seen eye to eye with the office cat. Even leaving aside – grudgingly – the incident where it had tripped him and broken his leg, the annoying creature seemed to have an uncanny ability to know exactly when he was about to ask one of its chosen favourites out on a date, and would saunter up and twine itself around her legs until she inevitably succumbed to its demands for affection and picked it up. Whereupon it would turn and look at Napoleon with what he would swear was an expression of malevolent smugness. He had the unnerving feeling that the cat regarded him as competition. Illya said he was delusional. Mind you, the last time he'd been about to suggest to Illya that they should have dinner together in had come the cat, right on cue, and seized his partner's attention in an instant.

It was somewhat disturbing. And very annoying.

That didn't mean he wanted any harm to come to the little beast though, quite apart from his worry about what Illya would say, and he checked the building assiduously, first of all looking in all the logical places that a scared cat might have thought to find a welcoming friend – communications, their office, the coffee lounge, the filing library – without any success. He was going to need to go about this more carefully. He tried the surveillance centre in security, but apparently the cameras didn't have a low enough view of the corridor to catch sight of the cat. Which had him raising an eyebrow; that was an oversight, surely? Okay, he didn't think THRUSH was that likely to attack them with an army of cats, but they had used remote control drones before.

Alright. So he had to do this the old fashioned way. He tried the commissary next, and no one there had seen the cat, but Ethel in the kitchen giggled good naturedly and gave him an open can of pilchards to try and attract the cat. They certainly smelled strongly enough that any passing cats should sit up and take notice.

It was amazing how difficult it was to appear properly suave and sophisticated when walking through headquarters with a can of fish. Napoleon somehow managed it regardless.

The lab was his next stop and Dr Franklin looked at him quizzically and said they didn't have any cats, but they did still have the mutated rats he and Illya had brought back from the Pied Piper Affair, if he was interested.

He decided to pass.

Eventually, following a tip from a botanist on the fifth floor, he made his way up to the roof and found the cat sitting on top of the laser gun, daintily licking its paws.

He held up the can of fish enticingly. “Look at this, Shpion. I've got some tasty fish for you. Now, why don't you just wait there a moment, and I'll grab you, and we can both go back downstairs.”

The cat looked at him curiously, his head tilted to one side. Then, with a dismissive little yawn that somehow put him in mind of Illya, he deliberately turned his back on Napoleon and started rubbing his paw over his ears.

“I'm going to take that as enthusiastic agreement,” Napoleon said with an unwarranted degree of optimism. “Mostly because I really would rather you get off that very expensive and deadly gun.” He edged closer like he was treading through a minefield and just as he was within ten feet, Shpion yawned widely, jumped down off the gun, and, with a challenging look at Napoleon, leapt up onto the low wall on the edge of the roof.

Hmmm. “That's really not the best plan,” he told the cat, keeping his voice calm and soothing. “Why don't you come back here like a good cat?”

Really, he could probably get out of being blamed for letting the cat out in the first place. But the cat falling off the building? There wasn't any way of explaining that. With all the speed and reflexes of a highly trained professional with over a decade of field experience, he lunged forwards and grabbed thin air where a cat had just been.

Shpion darted madly off the roof and down the empty flag pole until he was hanging out over the edge of the city, staring back at Napoleon.

“Oh, this is much worse,” he said wryly, his mouth a little dry. “I hope you know I'm not following you out there.” But as he cautiously moved forwards, he looked at the metal pole consideringly. It was sturdy. It should bear his weight, if absolutely necessary. “I really don't want to follow you out there,” he said with feeling. “Wouldn't you rather be back downstairs? Where it's nice and warm and there are people to fuss over you and no sudden, deadly drops?”

Shpion looked unconvinced and sat back on his haunches.

Napoleon knelt down on the ground so he was at eye level and held out his hand. “I'll let you have a free go at Illya's fish,” he offered. “Or if you really want to be outside, I could take you out for dinner. Chilled caviar, a roaring fire...”

Shpion's ears pricked up and, to his relief, the cat skipped quickly back along the flag pole.

“There, you see,” he said, holding out his arms expectantly. “I'm glad we've reached an agreement and - “

The cat jumped from the wall to his back and used him as a launch pad to jump up and away.

“I think your negotiating skills leave a lot to be desired,” Illya said from behind him.

Napoleon stood up slowly, brushing off his knees with as much dignity as he could muster. When he turned round, Illya was standing there with Shpion perched comfortably on his shoulder. “You're back early,” he said. “Don't tell me you finally managed to intimidate your students so much that they decided they'd be better off blowing themselves up than taking the final exam?”

“No, but not for lack of trying,” he said darkly as he scratched Shpion's ears. “There are a couple I do not wish to see on any missions.”

He smiled. “Feel free to explain that to Mr Waverly.”

“I would prefer not.” Illya tilted his head and looked at him. “So I understand that you spent the afternoon hunting down this poor, defenceless animal. You must be very proud.”

He sighed. “You make it sound like I enjoyed it,” he complained.

“You've always had it in for poor Shpion,” Illya said. “I remember the time you kicked him.”

“I didn't kick him, he deliberately got between my feet to trip me up,” Napoleon said through gritted teeth. “And I'm the one who ended up with a broken leg.”

“I recall it differently,” Illya told him.

Napoleon stared. “You weren't even there.”

“I heard all about it,” Illya said infuriatingly. “From a reputable source.”

“Oh, let me guess, the cat told you,” he said sarcastically.

“He tells me everything,” Illya said without a trace of whimsy. “He is my spy within headquarters. And I believe you owe us both dinner with caviar.”

“Ah, I don't think I agreed to that,” he protested mildly.

He would swear that Illya and the cat wore an expression of identical smugness.

Comments

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Good, good, glad you enjoyed it thanks. In my head, Illya was lying about the cat talking to him, but who knows?