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section7mfuShort Affair 8/8
Prompt: Carry
Color: Yellow
Title: Be Our Guest
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Illya should have guessed that with Napoleon being as good a cook as he was, his parents would have been equally blessed in their culinary talents. He found this out firsthand when, after months of prodding from Napoleon, he finally accepted the American’s offer to spend a week at his parents’ house in Buffalo.
Illya was standing aimlessly in the middle of the Solos’ kitchen, watching them carry dish after dish laden with food that made his stomach growl with hunger--roasted yellow sweet corn, potatoes au gratin, garlic bread, and a roasted turkey. An apple pie now sat in the oven, promising to be dessert.
“Plenty enough here, even for you,” Napoleon teased, sitting on a barstool by the kitchen counter.
Illya went slightly red.
“Leopold!” Mrs. Solo suddenly called to her husband, who was moving to retrieve the china from the cabinet. “Not that old stuff, Leopold! Where’s the good china?”
Illya’s blush deepened.
“You needn’t bother--” he began, but Mrs. Solo shushed him.
“Leopold?” she asked again.
“I think the good china is in the cellar,” Mr. Solo said, with a shrug. “Well, we hardly use it…”
“The regular china will be more than sufficient,” Illya insisted.
“It’s not sufficient enough for me,” she insisted.
“Don’t worry, Cora; I’ll go look for it,” Mr. Solo said. “I think we have some vintage wine down there, too; I’ll bring a bottle up.”
“Oh, that’ll be perfect!” Mrs. Solo exclaimed. “Napoleon, go help your father find the china and the wine.”
“Aw, Ma--!”
“Napoleon,” she said, sternly, and Illya saw his partner bolt from his barstool for the cellar like a THRUSHie was after him, dashing past his father, who shrugged and followed him into the cellar.
“Oh, those two…” Mrs. Solo sighed and shook her head. “It’s a miracle anything can be found in this house. Napoleon is even worse than his father; his room was a disaster zone when he was a child. I hope he’s better at keeping things in order now.”
“Da, he is…” Illya said. He suddenly winced at slipping into his native tongue. “Ah… I am not sure how much Napoleon has told you about me--”
“Oh, Illya, he can’t stop talking about you,” Mrs. Solo said, fondly.
“Then, you know…?”
“…About what?”
“Well…” Illya said. “He has told you that I… I was of the Soviet Navy? That I still have my Soviet citizenship?”
“Well, of course we know. …In fact, I wasn’t at all surprised when Napoleon brought it up.”
“…You’re not…?”
“Well, if you’d known him when he was a child, you would understand…” she began. She snapped her fingers and then darted from the kitchen; she returned with an old photo album, opened to one of the old pages. One of the pictures on the page was of two boys playing together in the snow—one was clearly a young Napoleon. A caption beneath the photograph read “Napoleon and Takeshi, January, 1942.”
“Takeshi…” Illya repeated.
“Yes. His family lived down the street from us; Napoleon and Takeshi went to the same school,” Mrs. Solo said.
“Wait a moment…” Illya said, the significance of the date sinking in at last. “January of ’42? That would have been…”
“…Just over a month after Pearl Harbor,” Mrs. Solo finished. “Even at that young age, Napoleon knew to separate the actions of some horrible people from those who were innocent. The other children, not so much—it seemed to be getting worse by the day. And it wasn’t just the children, I’m sorry to say; even the faculty were… noticeably cold towards him.” She shuddered. “Takeshi was an innocent child. And my son—a child himself—could see the injustice in it. I still remember him storming home one afternoon and just ranting about it. ‘Takeshi isn’t one of the bad guys!’ And I told him that it was good that he knew that—because the real villains wanted to turn people against each other, and make them fight each other. …And I think that was the day Napoleon decided that he wanted to one day stop the villains and protect the innocents.”
“He’s been doing a marvelous job of it,” Illya said. “You’ve raised him well.”
“While I thank you for that, I can’t take credit for it. Napoleon has always had a good heart, without any added help from me.”
“But you allowed his heart to grow further,” Illya insisted. “I only wish I’d had someone…” He trailed off. The same war that had opened Napoleon’s eyes to the injustices of the world and allowed him to find his calling had been the same war that had taken Illya’s family from him, casting him to a cynical, solitary existence that only truly ended when he had allowed Napoleon to coax him—a Soviet that some of Napoleon’s more short-sighted countrymen would have encouraged him not to associate with—out of his shell. It was the war that had shaped both of them, and had ultimately set them both on paths towards each other.
“Illya?” Mrs. Solo asked, softly, jarring him from his thoughts.
“It’s nothing,” Illya said. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t convinced, but any further discussion was halted by Napoleon and his father returning from the cellar with the good china and a bottle of wine.
Illya helped him, taking some of the plates that his partner was carrying.
“Hey, thanks,” he said, with a grin.
“Actually, Napoleon…” Illya said, quietly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Illya couldn’t put it into words; he merely shook his head.
“Just… thank you.”
Napoleon was puzzled for a moment, but the answer came to him as he saw the photo album turned to the picture of Takeshi and his younger self.
“Thank you, too, Illya,” he said, softly.
He carried his share of the plates into the dining room, eager for a good meal with his family—a family that, as far as he was concerned, Illya was now a part of.
Prompt: Carry
Color: Yellow
Title: Be Our Guest
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Illya should have guessed that with Napoleon being as good a cook as he was, his parents would have been equally blessed in their culinary talents. He found this out firsthand when, after months of prodding from Napoleon, he finally accepted the American’s offer to spend a week at his parents’ house in Buffalo.
Illya was standing aimlessly in the middle of the Solos’ kitchen, watching them carry dish after dish laden with food that made his stomach growl with hunger--roasted yellow sweet corn, potatoes au gratin, garlic bread, and a roasted turkey. An apple pie now sat in the oven, promising to be dessert.
“Plenty enough here, even for you,” Napoleon teased, sitting on a barstool by the kitchen counter.
Illya went slightly red.
“Leopold!” Mrs. Solo suddenly called to her husband, who was moving to retrieve the china from the cabinet. “Not that old stuff, Leopold! Where’s the good china?”
Illya’s blush deepened.
“You needn’t bother--” he began, but Mrs. Solo shushed him.
“Leopold?” she asked again.
“I think the good china is in the cellar,” Mr. Solo said, with a shrug. “Well, we hardly use it…”
“The regular china will be more than sufficient,” Illya insisted.
“It’s not sufficient enough for me,” she insisted.
“Don’t worry, Cora; I’ll go look for it,” Mr. Solo said. “I think we have some vintage wine down there, too; I’ll bring a bottle up.”
“Oh, that’ll be perfect!” Mrs. Solo exclaimed. “Napoleon, go help your father find the china and the wine.”
“Aw, Ma--!”
“Napoleon,” she said, sternly, and Illya saw his partner bolt from his barstool for the cellar like a THRUSHie was after him, dashing past his father, who shrugged and followed him into the cellar.
“Oh, those two…” Mrs. Solo sighed and shook her head. “It’s a miracle anything can be found in this house. Napoleon is even worse than his father; his room was a disaster zone when he was a child. I hope he’s better at keeping things in order now.”
“Da, he is…” Illya said. He suddenly winced at slipping into his native tongue. “Ah… I am not sure how much Napoleon has told you about me--”
“Oh, Illya, he can’t stop talking about you,” Mrs. Solo said, fondly.
“Then, you know…?”
“…About what?”
“Well…” Illya said. “He has told you that I… I was of the Soviet Navy? That I still have my Soviet citizenship?”
“Well, of course we know. …In fact, I wasn’t at all surprised when Napoleon brought it up.”
“…You’re not…?”
“Well, if you’d known him when he was a child, you would understand…” she began. She snapped her fingers and then darted from the kitchen; she returned with an old photo album, opened to one of the old pages. One of the pictures on the page was of two boys playing together in the snow—one was clearly a young Napoleon. A caption beneath the photograph read “Napoleon and Takeshi, January, 1942.”
“Takeshi…” Illya repeated.
“Yes. His family lived down the street from us; Napoleon and Takeshi went to the same school,” Mrs. Solo said.
“Wait a moment…” Illya said, the significance of the date sinking in at last. “January of ’42? That would have been…”
“…Just over a month after Pearl Harbor,” Mrs. Solo finished. “Even at that young age, Napoleon knew to separate the actions of some horrible people from those who were innocent. The other children, not so much—it seemed to be getting worse by the day. And it wasn’t just the children, I’m sorry to say; even the faculty were… noticeably cold towards him.” She shuddered. “Takeshi was an innocent child. And my son—a child himself—could see the injustice in it. I still remember him storming home one afternoon and just ranting about it. ‘Takeshi isn’t one of the bad guys!’ And I told him that it was good that he knew that—because the real villains wanted to turn people against each other, and make them fight each other. …And I think that was the day Napoleon decided that he wanted to one day stop the villains and protect the innocents.”
“He’s been doing a marvelous job of it,” Illya said. “You’ve raised him well.”
“While I thank you for that, I can’t take credit for it. Napoleon has always had a good heart, without any added help from me.”
“But you allowed his heart to grow further,” Illya insisted. “I only wish I’d had someone…” He trailed off. The same war that had opened Napoleon’s eyes to the injustices of the world and allowed him to find his calling had been the same war that had taken Illya’s family from him, casting him to a cynical, solitary existence that only truly ended when he had allowed Napoleon to coax him—a Soviet that some of Napoleon’s more short-sighted countrymen would have encouraged him not to associate with—out of his shell. It was the war that had shaped both of them, and had ultimately set them both on paths towards each other.
“Illya?” Mrs. Solo asked, softly, jarring him from his thoughts.
“It’s nothing,” Illya said. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t convinced, but any further discussion was halted by Napoleon and his father returning from the cellar with the good china and a bottle of wine.
Illya helped him, taking some of the plates that his partner was carrying.
“Hey, thanks,” he said, with a grin.
“Actually, Napoleon…” Illya said, quietly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Illya couldn’t put it into words; he merely shook his head.
“Just… thank you.”
Napoleon was puzzled for a moment, but the answer came to him as he saw the photo album turned to the picture of Takeshi and his younger self.
“Thank you, too, Illya,” he said, softly.
He carried his share of the plates into the dining room, eager for a good meal with his family—a family that, as far as he was concerned, Illya was now a part of.
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Date: 2016-08-08 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2016-08-09 09:41 am (UTC)Also, I think that Napoleon said he grew up in Kansas, so I love too that you've moved his parents to New York State now. So much closer for visiting!
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Date: 2016-08-09 09:51 pm (UTC)Oops, I missed the mention of Kansas; but yes, them being closer is a good thing!
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Date: 2016-08-10 04:07 am (UTC)Actually, ooops, I think it was Nebraska; it was a throwaway thing in one of the early B&W episodes.
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Date: 2016-08-12 01:19 am (UTC)Ah, oops. Yeah, I need to rewatch the S1 eps...
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Date: 2016-08-10 07:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-12 01:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-15 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-15 10:05 pm (UTC)And yes, I hope to expand this piece in the future. :)