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section7mfuShort Affair 3/28
Prompt: Vice
Color: Yellow
Title: Acquired Taste
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 900
(This is an "early days" fic, taking place very early in the partnership)
Illya learned very quickly that he and his new partner, though agreeing on many things, had a few areas where they did not see eye-to-eye. A lot of these areas dealt with the usual subjects where differences in opinions often resided, but there was one area that they never expected to see such discussions and ended up having them; additionally, it was something they had to deal with multiple times daily—food.
Illya first found out about their differing culinary opinions the hard way when he visited Napoleon’s apartment for the first time after arriving in New York. Napoleon, who had been in the middle of trying to find a tie to wear, had let him in and had then proceeded to continue his search for a tie to go with his impossibly impeccable suit, leaving Illya in the living room alone for a while.
Not sure how long Napoleon was going to take, Illya sat down on the couch, glancing at a stack of maps on the coffee table that his partner had been studying. Beside them was a half-filled dish of yellow corn chips surrounding a small bowl that was filled with a deep red condiment that appeared to have a base of tomatoes.
Curious and always hungry, Illya picked up one of the corn chips and dipped it in the condiment so that a sizeable amount was on the chip, and then popped it into his mouth. He had a split-second taste of the juicy tomatoes and crunchy onions—right before he felt his mouth go up in flames.
He hurriedly chewed and swallowed the chip, but even after that, the fire still raged on his tongue. Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he looked around for something to drink; he was still contemplating how badly barging into a senior agent’s kitchen would look when Napoleon returned.
“Are you alright?” he asked in concern, seeing Illya’s face turning red as beads of sweat still fell from his forehead.
The Russian stared back at him, gazing briefly at the chips on the table before meeting his eyes again, and Napoleon quickly realized what had happened. The American retrieved a glass of milk from the kitchen and handed it to his partner, who drank it down with as much dignity as he could salvage.
“What was that?” he asked, calmly, once the fire was out.
“Extra-hot salsa. Sure clears out the sinuses, doesn’t it?”
Illya could only stare as Napoleon dipped a chip in the salsa and ate it without so much as a flinch.
“…You have a stomach of cast iron,” the Russian declared.
Napoleon chuckled in amusement and then turned the subject to their work. And though it was the end of that particular incident, more examples of Napoleon’s bizarre choice of tastes soon manifested themselves in the following days—soups and salads with outlandish garnishes and dressings, sandwiches with hot peppers and pickles that were slathered in ketchup and mustard, and pizza piled with a mix of toppings and covered with enough garlic salt to wipe out an army of vampires. Illya could only stare as he partook in simple borscht, cheese sandwiches, and plain cheese pizza. Not even dessert was spared; Napoleon would take an unsuspecting dish of ice cream and drown it in chocolate syrup.
“It’s hardly a vice,” Napoleon said, taking note of Illya’s stares.
“I never claimed it was,” Illya said.
And they said no more about it; it was such a trivial matter, anyway, and they had other things to worry about. And though they would both continue to arch an eyebrow at each other’s meals, that was the end of it.
Days turned to weeks, and their partnership grew. Their different food preferences didn’t even enter the picture as they found themselves to be incredibly in tune with each other while out in the field.
But it was on one such occasion, when Illya had been staking out a THRUSH hideout for hours while Napoleon mingled with witnesses and contacts, that brought the situation back to their take on foods.
Napoleon had caught up with Illya in the afternoon.
“Anything to report?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Illya sighed. “Are you my relief?”
“Sorry, Tovarisch; I have a few more contacts I need to check out,” Napoleon replied, apologetically.
Illya just groaned and nodded. Napoleon gave him a sympathetic look before reaching into his jacket pocket and handing Illya one of his sandwiches. Even through the wax paper wrapping, Illya could smell the condiments.
Still, the Russian bit his tongue, knowing that this was Napoleon’s own food he was offering just so that he wouldn’t go hungry.
“Thank you,” he said. Even if you do put ketchup and mustard on everything.
Napoleon smiled, not missing the silent chiding.
“That’ll hopefully tide you over until dinner,” he said. “We’ll rendezvous at eight PM back at the hotel.”
“Da. Good luck,” Illya offered.
“You, too.”
Napoleon gave his shoulder a squeeze and left, and Illya unwrapped the sandwich, staring at it for a moment before tearing into it.
The sandwich was everything Illya had expected it to be—good and bad. Napoleon had simply acquired a taste that Illya was certain he would never be able to acquire. But that was unimportant compared to the knowledge that he had a partner who cared enough to ensure that he wouldn’t go hungry.
Prompt: Vice
Color: Yellow
Title: Acquired Taste
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 900
(This is an "early days" fic, taking place very early in the partnership)
Illya learned very quickly that he and his new partner, though agreeing on many things, had a few areas where they did not see eye-to-eye. A lot of these areas dealt with the usual subjects where differences in opinions often resided, but there was one area that they never expected to see such discussions and ended up having them; additionally, it was something they had to deal with multiple times daily—food.
Illya first found out about their differing culinary opinions the hard way when he visited Napoleon’s apartment for the first time after arriving in New York. Napoleon, who had been in the middle of trying to find a tie to wear, had let him in and had then proceeded to continue his search for a tie to go with his impossibly impeccable suit, leaving Illya in the living room alone for a while.
Not sure how long Napoleon was going to take, Illya sat down on the couch, glancing at a stack of maps on the coffee table that his partner had been studying. Beside them was a half-filled dish of yellow corn chips surrounding a small bowl that was filled with a deep red condiment that appeared to have a base of tomatoes.
Curious and always hungry, Illya picked up one of the corn chips and dipped it in the condiment so that a sizeable amount was on the chip, and then popped it into his mouth. He had a split-second taste of the juicy tomatoes and crunchy onions—right before he felt his mouth go up in flames.
He hurriedly chewed and swallowed the chip, but even after that, the fire still raged on his tongue. Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he looked around for something to drink; he was still contemplating how badly barging into a senior agent’s kitchen would look when Napoleon returned.
“Are you alright?” he asked in concern, seeing Illya’s face turning red as beads of sweat still fell from his forehead.
The Russian stared back at him, gazing briefly at the chips on the table before meeting his eyes again, and Napoleon quickly realized what had happened. The American retrieved a glass of milk from the kitchen and handed it to his partner, who drank it down with as much dignity as he could salvage.
“What was that?” he asked, calmly, once the fire was out.
“Extra-hot salsa. Sure clears out the sinuses, doesn’t it?”
Illya could only stare as Napoleon dipped a chip in the salsa and ate it without so much as a flinch.
“…You have a stomach of cast iron,” the Russian declared.
Napoleon chuckled in amusement and then turned the subject to their work. And though it was the end of that particular incident, more examples of Napoleon’s bizarre choice of tastes soon manifested themselves in the following days—soups and salads with outlandish garnishes and dressings, sandwiches with hot peppers and pickles that were slathered in ketchup and mustard, and pizza piled with a mix of toppings and covered with enough garlic salt to wipe out an army of vampires. Illya could only stare as he partook in simple borscht, cheese sandwiches, and plain cheese pizza. Not even dessert was spared; Napoleon would take an unsuspecting dish of ice cream and drown it in chocolate syrup.
“It’s hardly a vice,” Napoleon said, taking note of Illya’s stares.
“I never claimed it was,” Illya said.
And they said no more about it; it was such a trivial matter, anyway, and they had other things to worry about. And though they would both continue to arch an eyebrow at each other’s meals, that was the end of it.
Days turned to weeks, and their partnership grew. Their different food preferences didn’t even enter the picture as they found themselves to be incredibly in tune with each other while out in the field.
But it was on one such occasion, when Illya had been staking out a THRUSH hideout for hours while Napoleon mingled with witnesses and contacts, that brought the situation back to their take on foods.
Napoleon had caught up with Illya in the afternoon.
“Anything to report?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Illya sighed. “Are you my relief?”
“Sorry, Tovarisch; I have a few more contacts I need to check out,” Napoleon replied, apologetically.
Illya just groaned and nodded. Napoleon gave him a sympathetic look before reaching into his jacket pocket and handing Illya one of his sandwiches. Even through the wax paper wrapping, Illya could smell the condiments.
Still, the Russian bit his tongue, knowing that this was Napoleon’s own food he was offering just so that he wouldn’t go hungry.
“Thank you,” he said. Even if you do put ketchup and mustard on everything.
Napoleon smiled, not missing the silent chiding.
“That’ll hopefully tide you over until dinner,” he said. “We’ll rendezvous at eight PM back at the hotel.”
“Da. Good luck,” Illya offered.
“You, too.”
Napoleon gave his shoulder a squeeze and left, and Illya unwrapped the sandwich, staring at it for a moment before tearing into it.
The sandwich was everything Illya had expected it to be—good and bad. Napoleon had simply acquired a taste that Illya was certain he would never be able to acquire. But that was unimportant compared to the knowledge that he had a partner who cared enough to ensure that he wouldn’t go hungry.
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Date: 2016-03-28 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-28 10:41 pm (UTC)