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section7mfuPrompts: Delight / red
Words: ~900
A continuation of my most recent post.
Napoleon crossed the lobby of the Wollecott Grand Hotel, debonair and disheveled. His partner stood at the front desk, leaning heavily on his forearms, waiting for service.
“Well, that was…interesting,” Napoleon said, as he idly spun a rack of postcards.
“Indeed. Huddlescombe’s one woman Society for the Prevention of Moral Turpitude.”
“And mascot. There should be a souvenir of those two.”
“Why? Just another day at the office for you.”
Napoleon pursed his lips and brushed at the dirt marring his coat sleeves. “Irate relatives are more my line, not complete strangers.”
“Surprising. One would think your résumé had been circulated amongst all their chapters. A Top Ten offender, as it were.”
“When they start picketing in front of Del’s, then I’ll worry.” He smacked at a grimy patch on Illya’s shoulder until his hand was pushed away. “Right now I’m thankful that Mr. Waverly’s letting us fly out tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I could use the break.”
The desk clerk approached. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Her dark, bold eyes roamed over them, taking in yesterday's suits and their general state of disorder. “You must have had quite an evening.”
“Ah, yes. Quite.” Napoleon met her gaze with equal boldness and smiled. “In fact, we're hoping to enjoy your hospitality for another night.”
She reached over the desk and pulled a piece of straw from under his lapel. “Huddlescombe may be small, but we can still show an executive a good time. Room numbers?”
“207 and 209.”
She checked the reservation book in front of her, tapping the straw against her frosted lips. “Misters Solo and Kuryakin. Yes, I can accommodate you.” She returned Napoleon’s smile provocatively. “That is, the Wollecotte Grand can.”
“Thank you—” His gaze dropped to the badge pinned on her blouse. “Leyla. It’s always a pleasure to be accommodated.”
“May we have our keys, please?” Illya asked impatiently.
Her heavily-kohled eyes slid in his direction, encompassing him in their invitation. He returned her regard cooly.
She flipped a mahogany curl from her shoulder. “I'm afraid your floor is being made up at the moment. You might care to visit our television lounge while you wait.”
Napoleon snapped his fingers. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Mr. Kuryakin has been anxious to catch up with his programs.”
Illya rolled his eyes and walked away.
Leyla leaned over the desk, nibbling the end of the straw. “So you must be Mr. Solo.”
“Call me Napoleon. Tell me, Leyla, is there such a thing as One Hour Martinizing in Huddlescombe?” He gestured to the less-than-pristine condition of his clothes.
“You mean to clean your suit?” She ran the straw down his lapel. “I can take care of that for you.”
“Can you?”
“Certainly. It's my pleasure to provide our guests with a full array of services.”
He grinned and leaned in confidentially. “Then you're just the person to help me with another little problem. You see, I didn't pack a second suit. So while this one’s being cleaned, I'll be en dishabille, as they say, trapped in my room, bereft of companionship or occupation.”
She bit back a smile. “You can hire an in-room television for an extra fee.”
“Television gives me a headache.”
“We sell paperbacks in the shop.”
“My grandma said novel reading promotes impure thoughts.”
“And we wouldn't want that. At least not from a paperback.” She ran the straw in a languorous path down the neckline of her blouse. “I'll need more time to think. When I’ve decided how best to divert you, which room do I ring?”
“Two-Oh-Nine. You'd better come in person. I'm completely deaf to bells.”
“A curious disorder. I do hope all your other parts are working properly.”
"My other parts work twice as well to make up for it.”
An elderly man at the far end of the desk cleared his throat loudly. Tucking the straw into Napoleon’s breast pocket, Leyla wiggled her fingers and moved away. Napoleon watched her depart, then headed to the television lounge.
Illya sat on a sofa, chocolate bar in hand.
“Where did you get that?” Napoleon asked.
“From the shop in the lobby.”
“Sixteen hours without food and that's what you eat?”
Illya bit off a large piece, answering as he chewed. “I’m not fit for the restaurant. To get room service, you need a room.”
Napoleon picked up the discarded wrapper from the end table. “Fry’s Turkish Delight.”
“The advertisement was playing when I entered. Apparently I'm highly susceptible to suggestion in my current state.”
“The ad with the harem girl?”
Illya nodded and took another bite.
Napoleon sniffed the wrapper and twisted his lips in distaste. “So this is what that ad claims is ‘full of Eastern promise’? You can have it. Personally, I'll take the girl.”
“From the look of things out there, I'd say you already had.”
“Let's just say I know what I'm doing with my day off.”
“I knew a girl named Leyla once. In Istanbul.” Illya wiped a spot of red jelly from his tie. “The name means ‘dark beauty.’”
Napoleon looked out into the lobby. Leyla stood behind the desk, still attending to the elderly hotel guest. Looking over his stooped head, she met Napoleon’s gaze and gave a slow wink.
Napoleon grinned. “Well, you enjoy your Turkish Delight—”
“Don't say it,” Illya advised.
“And I'll enjoy mine.”
Words: ~900
A continuation of my most recent post.
Napoleon crossed the lobby of the Wollecott Grand Hotel, debonair and disheveled. His partner stood at the front desk, leaning heavily on his forearms, waiting for service.
“Well, that was…interesting,” Napoleon said, as he idly spun a rack of postcards.
“Indeed. Huddlescombe’s one woman Society for the Prevention of Moral Turpitude.”
“And mascot. There should be a souvenir of those two.”
“Why? Just another day at the office for you.”
Napoleon pursed his lips and brushed at the dirt marring his coat sleeves. “Irate relatives are more my line, not complete strangers.”
“Surprising. One would think your résumé had been circulated amongst all their chapters. A Top Ten offender, as it were.”
“When they start picketing in front of Del’s, then I’ll worry.” He smacked at a grimy patch on Illya’s shoulder until his hand was pushed away. “Right now I’m thankful that Mr. Waverly’s letting us fly out tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I could use the break.”
The desk clerk approached. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Her dark, bold eyes roamed over them, taking in yesterday's suits and their general state of disorder. “You must have had quite an evening.”
“Ah, yes. Quite.” Napoleon met her gaze with equal boldness and smiled. “In fact, we're hoping to enjoy your hospitality for another night.”
She reached over the desk and pulled a piece of straw from under his lapel. “Huddlescombe may be small, but we can still show an executive a good time. Room numbers?”
“207 and 209.”
She checked the reservation book in front of her, tapping the straw against her frosted lips. “Misters Solo and Kuryakin. Yes, I can accommodate you.” She returned Napoleon’s smile provocatively. “That is, the Wollecotte Grand can.”
“Thank you—” His gaze dropped to the badge pinned on her blouse. “Leyla. It’s always a pleasure to be accommodated.”
“May we have our keys, please?” Illya asked impatiently.
Her heavily-kohled eyes slid in his direction, encompassing him in their invitation. He returned her regard cooly.
She flipped a mahogany curl from her shoulder. “I'm afraid your floor is being made up at the moment. You might care to visit our television lounge while you wait.”
Napoleon snapped his fingers. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Mr. Kuryakin has been anxious to catch up with his programs.”
Illya rolled his eyes and walked away.
Leyla leaned over the desk, nibbling the end of the straw. “So you must be Mr. Solo.”
“Call me Napoleon. Tell me, Leyla, is there such a thing as One Hour Martinizing in Huddlescombe?” He gestured to the less-than-pristine condition of his clothes.
“You mean to clean your suit?” She ran the straw down his lapel. “I can take care of that for you.”
“Can you?”
“Certainly. It's my pleasure to provide our guests with a full array of services.”
He grinned and leaned in confidentially. “Then you're just the person to help me with another little problem. You see, I didn't pack a second suit. So while this one’s being cleaned, I'll be en dishabille, as they say, trapped in my room, bereft of companionship or occupation.”
She bit back a smile. “You can hire an in-room television for an extra fee.”
“Television gives me a headache.”
“We sell paperbacks in the shop.”
“My grandma said novel reading promotes impure thoughts.”
“And we wouldn't want that. At least not from a paperback.” She ran the straw in a languorous path down the neckline of her blouse. “I'll need more time to think. When I’ve decided how best to divert you, which room do I ring?”
“Two-Oh-Nine. You'd better come in person. I'm completely deaf to bells.”
“A curious disorder. I do hope all your other parts are working properly.”
"My other parts work twice as well to make up for it.”
An elderly man at the far end of the desk cleared his throat loudly. Tucking the straw into Napoleon’s breast pocket, Leyla wiggled her fingers and moved away. Napoleon watched her depart, then headed to the television lounge.
Illya sat on a sofa, chocolate bar in hand.
“Where did you get that?” Napoleon asked.
“From the shop in the lobby.”
“Sixteen hours without food and that's what you eat?”
Illya bit off a large piece, answering as he chewed. “I’m not fit for the restaurant. To get room service, you need a room.”
Napoleon picked up the discarded wrapper from the end table. “Fry’s Turkish Delight.”
“The advertisement was playing when I entered. Apparently I'm highly susceptible to suggestion in my current state.”
“The ad with the harem girl?”
Illya nodded and took another bite.
Napoleon sniffed the wrapper and twisted his lips in distaste. “So this is what that ad claims is ‘full of Eastern promise’? You can have it. Personally, I'll take the girl.”
“From the look of things out there, I'd say you already had.”
“Let's just say I know what I'm doing with my day off.”
“I knew a girl named Leyla once. In Istanbul.” Illya wiped a spot of red jelly from his tie. “The name means ‘dark beauty.’”
Napoleon looked out into the lobby. Leyla stood behind the desk, still attending to the elderly hotel guest. Looking over his stooped head, she met Napoleon’s gaze and gave a slow wink.
Napoleon grinned. “Well, you enjoy your Turkish Delight—”
“Don't say it,” Illya advised.
“And I'll enjoy mine.”
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no subject
Date: 2017-02-28 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-02-28 01:45 am (UTC)You might see Leyla again, if I can work out the next installment.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-01 12:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-01 01:31 am (UTC)I've had regular Turkish delight ages ago, but not a Fry's bar. I do love a Flake cone. Yum!
no subject
Date: 2017-03-01 01:42 am (UTC)