Claws for Alarm? (PicFic Tuesday 2/2)

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

It was Illya’s agent training that alerted him to the fact that something was amiss in his apartment as he returned that night—something had entered here that hadn’t supposed to be here. Slowly, he drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special, creeping in the darkness of his sitting room as he made his way through the apartment.

His sixth sense told him that something was in the kitchenette. Silently, he made it to the kitchenette, suddenly flicking on the light switch.

“Don’t move!” he yelled.

An annoyed meow responded him, and Illya lowered his weapon in stunned surprise as he saw the bright eyes of a cat staring at him from within his kitchen sink. Baffled, the Russian stared back, wondering what to do.

“Illya?”

Illya gave a start as Napoleon’s voice now came from his sitting room.

“Illya, are you alright!? I heard you yelling all the way from my apartment!”

“I’m fine!” the Russian called back.

It was part and parcel of their apartments being right next door; it seemed that for every time that they heard something amiss and investigated, thus saving each other’s lives, there was a false alarm. Nevertheless, they never complained about it, and Napoleon wasn’t about to start now.

“So what was the cause of this…?” he began, but trailed off as he noticed the cat in the sink, staring at him now.

“She is,” Illya said. “This is not my cat.”

He moved to try to remove the cat from the sink; the cat let out a drawn-out yowl of protest, prompting Illya to retreat.

“I have news for you, Tovarisch. She is your cat now,” Napoleon mused, seeing how she was stubbornly sitting in the sink.

“What am I to do? Will Mrs. Thames allow a cat to remain in the apartment?” Illya asked, referring to their landlady.

“I know she doesn’t care for dogs. Cats… Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Napoleon had taken a few steps forward to take a closer look at the cat, and it was at that point that the cat looked back at him—and suddenly leaped from the sink and onto the floor. Napoleon gave a start as the cat then pounced on his foot, batting at his shoelaces.

“Ah… Illya?”

The Russian couldn’t help but smirk.

“Well, she certainly is a clever thing, isn’t she?” he said. “Perhaps there won’t be any harm in keeping her—and not letting Mrs. Thames find out. I shall name her Baba Yaga.”

“That’s great, Tovarisch; now can you please get your new cat off of my shoe?”

“Are you so incapable of dealing with her yourself?” Illya asked, arching an eyebrow.

Napoleon responded by raising his foot; Baba Yaga clung to his shoe, stubbornly.

“What we have here is a battle of wills,” the American said. “But some fish can help sway the battle in my favor.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Illya mused, though he went to retrieve some tuna anyway. “She seems like the intelligent sort and wouldn’t fall for a bribe.”

It transpired that Illya was correct; the cat ignored the tuna, and Napoleon sighed in resignation of the idea that he would probably have to wear loafers from now on whenever he visited Illya’s apartment.

Comments

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

Ha, indeed, I was slightly inspired by those posts!