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section7mfuPrompt: sluggish / purple
Word Count: Approx. 600
Napoleon turned on the tap and stared at himself in the mirror. He pulled down his lower lids, then inspected his tongue. Grimacing at his reflection, he collected a handful of cold water and bent to splash it on his face.
Eyes shut, chin dripping, he felt along the counter for a towel. “Damn,” he whispered, realizing he had forgotten to grab one.
“Here,” said a familiar voice, as a sheet of terry cloth struck the side of his head.
“Thanks.”
While Napoleon patted his face dry, Illya leaned against the adjacent wall, arms crossed. “You overdid it last night, just as I said,” the Russian pronounced in satisfaction.
“Nonsense.” Tossing the towel aside, Napoleon drew a comb from his jacket and ran it through his hair. “I’m merely freshening up after a long meeting.”
Illya snorted. “Your meeting. Yet, rather conspicuously, the rest of us did all of the talking.”
“Something new I’m trying this year.” Napoleon gave the sides of his hair a finishing pat and turned to his partner. “It’s called a delegating leadership style.”
“It is called paying the piper. Taking out three women on New Year’s Eve was too much, even for you.”
Napoleon headed out of the washroom, Illya at his heels. “On the contrary, it was an invigorating way to start the year.”
“Spare me the details, please.”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Napoleon chided gently. “Suffice it to say, if you ever have the opportunity to spend an evening with a trio of beautiful and well-traveled stewardesses, jump on it.” He paused and held up a finger. “Metaphorically speaking.”
Illya rolled his eyes. “Thank you, but I know my limits. I would hate to feel as bad as you look.”
“I haven't heard anyone else complaining.”
Illya waved over a nearby agent. “How does he look to you?” he demanded, gesturing to Napoleon.
Faustina was unfazed by the abrupt question. She ran her eyes over Napoleon consideringly. “Peaked,” she declared, turning to Illya. “Been burning the candle on both ends, has he?”
“Et tu, Brute?” Napoleon frowned and strode away. Illya winked at Faustina, then jogged after him.
“You were sluggish on the racquetball court this morning,” he continued.
“I was letting you win. You know, for luck.”
“You are making less sense than usual.”
“Don’t Russians have a superstition about spending the new year as you meet it? Well, now you’ll spend it as a winner.” He gave a small salute. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“First of all, it is a tradition, not a superstition. Secondly, I did meet the new year as I intend to spend it: on duty.”
They crossed the threshold into their office. Illya pulled a serviceable black lunchbox from a desk drawer. “I presume you have a date for lunch.”
“No, actually, I’m skipping lunch today.” Napoleon patted his waistline. “Staying fit is one of my resolutions.”
Illya raised his brows but did not respond. Uncovering a Tupperware container, he inhaled deeply and sighed in satisfaction.
Napoleon swallowed uncomfortably as the aroma of fish and onions wafted across the desk. “What is that?”
“Shuba salad, otherwise known as ‘herring under a fur coat.’ Another New Year’s tradition.” He held the purple concoction closer to his partner. “Would you like some? It is really quite healthful. It has beets and mayonnaise and pickles and—.”
The office door slid shut behind Napoleon's retreating back. Illya popped a forkful of shuba into his mouth. “I told him he overdid it.”
Word Count: Approx. 600
Napoleon turned on the tap and stared at himself in the mirror. He pulled down his lower lids, then inspected his tongue. Grimacing at his reflection, he collected a handful of cold water and bent to splash it on his face.
Eyes shut, chin dripping, he felt along the counter for a towel. “Damn,” he whispered, realizing he had forgotten to grab one.
“Here,” said a familiar voice, as a sheet of terry cloth struck the side of his head.
“Thanks.”
While Napoleon patted his face dry, Illya leaned against the adjacent wall, arms crossed. “You overdid it last night, just as I said,” the Russian pronounced in satisfaction.
“Nonsense.” Tossing the towel aside, Napoleon drew a comb from his jacket and ran it through his hair. “I’m merely freshening up after a long meeting.”
Illya snorted. “Your meeting. Yet, rather conspicuously, the rest of us did all of the talking.”
“Something new I’m trying this year.” Napoleon gave the sides of his hair a finishing pat and turned to his partner. “It’s called a delegating leadership style.”
“It is called paying the piper. Taking out three women on New Year’s Eve was too much, even for you.”
Napoleon headed out of the washroom, Illya at his heels. “On the contrary, it was an invigorating way to start the year.”
“Spare me the details, please.”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Napoleon chided gently. “Suffice it to say, if you ever have the opportunity to spend an evening with a trio of beautiful and well-traveled stewardesses, jump on it.” He paused and held up a finger. “Metaphorically speaking.”
Illya rolled his eyes. “Thank you, but I know my limits. I would hate to feel as bad as you look.”
“I haven't heard anyone else complaining.”
Illya waved over a nearby agent. “How does he look to you?” he demanded, gesturing to Napoleon.
Faustina was unfazed by the abrupt question. She ran her eyes over Napoleon consideringly. “Peaked,” she declared, turning to Illya. “Been burning the candle on both ends, has he?”
“Et tu, Brute?” Napoleon frowned and strode away. Illya winked at Faustina, then jogged after him.
“You were sluggish on the racquetball court this morning,” he continued.
“I was letting you win. You know, for luck.”
“You are making less sense than usual.”
“Don’t Russians have a superstition about spending the new year as you meet it? Well, now you’ll spend it as a winner.” He gave a small salute. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“First of all, it is a tradition, not a superstition. Secondly, I did meet the new year as I intend to spend it: on duty.”
They crossed the threshold into their office. Illya pulled a serviceable black lunchbox from a desk drawer. “I presume you have a date for lunch.”
“No, actually, I’m skipping lunch today.” Napoleon patted his waistline. “Staying fit is one of my resolutions.”
Illya raised his brows but did not respond. Uncovering a Tupperware container, he inhaled deeply and sighed in satisfaction.
Napoleon swallowed uncomfortably as the aroma of fish and onions wafted across the desk. “What is that?”
“Shuba salad, otherwise known as ‘herring under a fur coat.’ Another New Year’s tradition.” He held the purple concoction closer to his partner. “Would you like some? It is really quite healthful. It has beets and mayonnaise and pickles and—.”
The office door slid shut behind Napoleon's retreating back. Illya popped a forkful of shuba into his mouth. “I told him he overdid it.”
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Date: 2017-01-02 04:23 pm (UTC)Frankly, I'd retreat from such a salad no matter how healthy I was.
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Date: 2017-01-02 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2017-01-03 11:02 pm (UTC)