Call Me Ishmael - PicFic Tuesday, 11/24

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Closing time was approaching. A few stragglers were all that remained of the customers that had filled the aisles, jostling and maneuvering, haggling for the best deals. The calls of the retailers, hawking their wares in various accents, had dwindled to near silence. Several booths were packing up for the day.

On a stand toward the rear of the market stood a large glass tank, alive with dark, alien forms, crawling and tumbling over each other. Illya crouched at its base and stared into it with fixed intensity. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and work pants, both too large. Napoleon leaned against a nearby pillar, finishing a sandwich and watching his partner in bemusement.


“I think the proprietor wants to close up shop.”

“He will give me a few more minutes.” Illya looked up at the fishmonger, who swallowed and nodded.

Napoleon crumpled his wrapper and tossed it into a waste bin. Though it was not what he expected when he drove up the coast, the day had not been completely wasted. He had bought a new hat and a pair of sunglasses. He had acquired a few phone numbers and had a date set for next week. But with the market closing, his options for amusement were drying up.

"Are you almost ready to call it a day?”

“You’re free to go. I can finish this myself.”

“Oh, no, I’ll stick it out. I came to offer my support. Of course, when you said you had a score to settle, I didn't realize you were referring to a crustacean.”

“You didn't ask.” Illya scooted to other end of the tank. “Being hauled out of the Sound by a lobster boat was a rather ignominious conclusion to what can only described as a fiasco. I am determined to snatch one small victory.”

“This is quite a fuss over a bruised finger, don't you think?”

“It's my trigger finger.”

“You're ambidextrous.”

“That's irrelevant.”

Napoleon pushed back the brim of his fisherman’s cap. “This is the third tank you've searched. It was probably purchased hours ago. I bet at this moment it's lying on a platter garnished with Italian parsley and lemon wedges.”

“He's here. I can feel it.”

The proprietor watched Illya with increasing trepidation. Napoleon crouched down next to the Russian. “You wanna watch that, Captain Ahab? You're making our friend over there nervous.” Illya only frowned at him and returned to his scrutinization.

Napoleon followed his gaze. “I don’t know how you expect to find it. They all look alike to me.”

“Several seconds with my finger in his vice grip was sufficient to commit him to memory.”

“Really?” Napoleon looked dubious.

Illya sighed. “Male. Length approximately 32 centimeters. Weight one kilogram. Olive green in color, black speckled, with blue articulations. Red accents on the claws.” He looked at Napoleon and finished pointedly, “Right-handed.”

Napoleon’s expression went from doubtful to incredulous. Illya held his gaze coolly, and eventually Napoleon shrugged and turned back to the tank. He stood up to consider the occupants from a different angle.

“I think I got him. Over there.” Napoleon’s gestured for the fishmonger to retrieve his find.

Illya stood and examined the wriggling crustacean held out in front of him. “Similar but no,” he pronounced. “Mine had a particularly sinister glint in his beady eyes.”

The fishmonger gently dropped the shellfish into the tank and backed away. Napoleon wondered how long it would be before he alerted the authorities. He was beginning to worry about Illya himself. His partner had insisted he was unhurt, at least physically. There was no question his pride had taken a beating. Napoleon now wished he'd been more insistent about checking his pupils and examining his head for lumps.

“I need to see the other side,” Illya declared, a note of desperation in his voice.

Assuming his most ingratiating smile, Napoleon casually approached the proprietor. “Could my friend come around the back? He's very particular about his seafood.” He flourished a few bills.

The fishmonger looked from Illya to the bills and nodded. “He's got 5 minutes,” he said, pocketing the money.

Illya crossed though an opening in the counter and accessed the tank from behind. Rolling up his sleeves, he plunged his arms into the water and began sifting through the occupants. Napoleon gently restrained the outraged fishmonger by placing the back of his hand on the man’s chest. “Don't worry. He's trained for these things.”

“Ah-ha!” Illya shouted. “Got you at last.” He pulled an olive-green, black-speckled, evil-eyed crustacean from the tank and brandished it above his head.

Napoleon dropped his arm. “Wrap up the man’s lobster.” The proprietor looked relieved to comply.

“And while you're at it, he'll take two more.” Napoleon moved around to the front of the tank. “That one, the non-evil twin, and this one over here.”

“Why am I buying three lobsters?” Illya asked, joining Napoleon.

“One for me, of course, in appreciation of my rushing to your aid and comfort. The other to appease Mr. Waverly, who will be expecting an explanation for this day’s work when we return to headquarters.”

"I hope you selected a large one."

Soon after, packed lobsters in hand, the agents exited the market and headed for the car.

“You know, they say the more painful the catch, the better it tastes,” Napoleon said.

“I'm not planning on cooking him.” Illya pulled a book from his waistband and handed it to Napoleon.

“Taxidermy Made Easy. Where did you get this?”

“Between the first and second tanks. You were at the produce stand at the time, thumping melons with that redhead. I passed a bookseller and saw this on display. Lobsters are on page 174.”

Napoleon returned the book, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Where are you going to put this masterpiece when it's finished?”

Illya smiled. “Where do you think?”



A few months later

Napoleon had yet to make his peace with the stuffed lobster. He grudgingly acknowledged the quality of Illya’s workmanship, which was very lifelike. Usually it sat atop the filing cabinet, poised to skitter away at any moment. With some strategic positioning of his chair, Napoleon could manage to avoid its glassy-eyed stare.

Today he had found it perched on the credenza next to his desk, a tiny felt Pilgrim hat inexplicably fastened to its head.

Illya lowered the report he'd been reading. “It’s for Thanksgiving. She thought it would make you warm up to him.”

“It's not working.”

A little while later, Faustina poked her head in the door. “Did he like it?”

“No,” Illya replied.

She shook her head at Napoleon and picked up the lobster. “Come on, Moby. Let's go visit some people who will appreciate you.” She waved an articulated claw and made the lobster blow Napoleon a kiss.

Napoleon watched her departure in open-mouthed bewilderment. “Am I the only sane one here?”

“You know as well as I how her most recent mission ended. If she wants to make a hat for a stuffed lobster, who am I to say no?”

Illya returned to his report. Napoleon sipped his coffee, pondering the strange methods agents used to cope with the realities of Section II. "Maybe you should give it to her?” he suggested finally.

“She doesn't want a lobster. Not now that our rabbit died.”

Napoleon choked on his coffee. “Is that any way to break the news?” He pointed a finger at Illya. “I knew something happened with you two in Honduras.”

Illya looked at him in consternation. Presently his cheeks reddened, and his lips thinned. “Don't be ridiculous. We were being chased through Prospect Park by a man on horseback. Fortunately for us, a rabbit spooked the horse. However, it was not so fortunate for the rabbit.” Illya removed his black-rimmed glasses and rubbed his nose. “We tried to nurse it back to health, but it was a futile effort. She’s asked me to mount it for her, a sort of commemoration to its heroism.”

Napoleon held Illya's gaze for a long moment. He thought of his own mementos: the hats, the phone numbers in his little black book. Relics, trophies, spoils of war; they all had them in varying forms. He supposed he could learn to live with glassy-eyed stares around every corner if it helped his colleagues sleep easier at night.

Napoleon smiled at his partner. “Lunch?”

Illya returned the smile. “Certainly. The commissary has finally acknowledged the autumn weather and is providing some heartier options. Today they’ve a burgoo.”

The agents left the office and headed down the corridor. “Sounds interesting. What's in it?”

“Rabbit traditionally. Otherwise there’s a seafood chowder.”

Napoleon turned and walked the other way. Illya called after him, “Napoleon? What about lunch? What did I say?”

Comments

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Pleased you're enjoying Faustina. As a long time oc, she does tend to show up and make herself at home in my stories, even when I least expect her. :)