http://ssclassof56.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
ssclassof56.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
section7mfu2017-03-14 11:00 am
ssclassof56.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2017-03-14 11:00 am
Entry tags:
In Psittacus Veritas Pt.1 - PicFic Tuesday, 3/14/17
Napoleon Solo sat with chin in hand, a small smiling curving his lips, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. Illya Kuryakin followed his gaze across the commissary to the stool at the end of the counter. A woman perched there, engrossed in a journal. Her figure was soft and deeply curved. As she read she twisted her waist, swiveling the seat ever-so-slightly left and right.
“Your soup is getting cold,” Illya said.
“Hmm? Oh.” Napoleon tore his gaze from the mesmerizing movements of the rounded derrière.
“She is not on the menu.”
“Maybe not, but she would be a charming armful on the dance floor. And I happen to be free for dinner.”
“Shouldn’t you find out her name first?”
Napoleon grabbed a passing sleeve. “George, you have a minute?”
“Sure, Napoleon. Illya.” He took a seat at their table, smiling genially. “You fellas in another tight spot?”
Napoleon avoided Illya’s amused gaze. “Not like that, but I would like some information. Do you know who the, ah, Pocket Venus at the counter is?”
“The what?”
“The new member of personnel,” Illya interpreted. “Female and petite.”
George peered across the commissary. “Oh, her? That’s Verity Charles. She’s my new computer engineer.”
“That's a computer engineer?” Napoleon asked, re-examining his chosen dinner date.
George leaned back in the chair and tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Yes, indeed-y. And let me tell ya, were we lucky to get her. Top of her class at YIT. Degrees in Electrical Engineering and Applied Mathematics.”
“Impressive,” Illya agreed.
Napoleon returned his chin to his hand. “Let's not forget Titian hair, trim ankles, and a lovely pair of eyes behind those glasses, I bet. You’re right, George. We were very lucky to get her.”
George's brown eyes lost their satisfied sparkle. “I assure you that Miss Charles’ appearance, as nice as it is, had nothing to do with our choice.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Mr. Waverly brought her in specially to work on the new computer array. He had to fight Bell Labs, IBM, all the big boys, but in the end, we got her.”
“Fascinating,” Napoleon said absently. “Good conversationalist?”
“Well, she and I had a very stimulating discussion about the practical applications of artificial intelligence.” George turned to Illya. “You know, to automate many of the routine decision-making functions here at UNCLE. In fact, I was thinking of asking her to dinner tonight to continue the exchange.”
“Napoleon had same thought, though likely he has different exchanges in mind.”
All three men looked on as Verity recrossed her legs and tugged her skirt over her knees. Napoleon grinned.
George chewed on his thumb and frowned. “Well, I guess that nixes that,” he said quietly. “With Babe Ruth at bat, it doesn’t matter who else is in the line-up. See ya later, Illya. Napoleon.”
As he walked away, Napoleon gave a small wave. “Bye, George.” He turned to Illya. “Did he say something about baseball?”
“In a way. I think you may have a rival there.”
“George?” He twisted his lips dismissively. “I mean, I like him, but he’s no Don Juan. Besides, he’s been mourning Carla’s treachery for months.”
“If you say so. Just try not to step on any toes.”
He held up three fingers. “I’ll be as nimble as Fred Astaire. In fact, if it looks like the wind is blowing in that direction, I’ll even put in a good word for ol’ George.”
“Your generosity is unbounded.”
Napoleon gave him a salute and strolled to the counter. “Coffee, Fred,” he said to the counterman, taking the stool next to Verity’s. He adjusted his cuffs and watched her surreptitiously. She remained focused on her reading, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
He was about to ask her to pass the sugar when she giggled breathlessly. He smiled at the sound, which matched neither her womanly figure nor her job description. “Can anyone be in on the joke?”
Verity darted a glance at him, giving Napoleon a glimpse of startled green eyes behind her browline glasses. He reached over and lifted the journal’s cover. “I didn’t know the IEEE Spectrum included funny pages.”
She closed the periodical and stared at it, chewing on her lip. Napoleon anticipated their dinner date with increasing eagerness.
When she spoke, her voice was high-pitched, almost girlish. “There’s an article by a former colleague. The research is sound, but his conclusions are all wrong. They usually are.”
“At least he can be relied on for amusement. I’m Napoleon Solo.”
She considered his extended hand for a moment before taking it. Her handshake was firm but brief. “Verity Charles.”
“I know. I was just speaking with your Section Head. He was very complimentary of you.”
She scanned the commissary. “Mr. Dennell?” Her gaze returned to Napoleon, fixing on the knot in his tie. “How nice of him, considering I’ve been here such a short time.”
“Well, you’ve managed to make quite an impression.” He ducked his head to catch her eyes. “On more than one person.”
Fred reappeared. “Here’s your coffee, Mr. Solo. And your sandwich, miss.” He handed Verity a wax paper parcel.
“Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Solo.” A shy smile flitted across her lips, denting her cheek with the ghost of a dimple. She hopped off the stool and hurried away.
Napoleon turned to find Fred watching him in unconcealed amusement. “Anything else, Mr. Solo?”
“Yes, actually. What kind of sandwich did Miss Charles order? It smelled delicious.”
Fred grinned. “Liverwurst on rye. Want one?”
He wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Is it a date?” Illya asked when Napoleon returned to their table.
“Not yet.” He sipped a spoonful of soup and finding it cold, pushed the cup away. “She seemed skittish.”
“Probably heeding the advice of her mother. ‘Stay away from office Lotharios, my child. They are only after one thing.’”
“Thanks very much.”
Illya chuckled. “Or, more likely, she has an extremely introverted personality. It is very typical in her field.”
“Well, as one introvert speaking for another, what advice do you have?”
“To leave us be. We prefer it that way.”
“Thanks again.”
“Any time.”
Napoleon stood in the corridor, confusion wrinkling his brow. A series of identical chrome doors stretched to either side of him.
“Hiya, Napoleon. What brings you down here?”
“Oh, hello there, George,” Napoleon said. “Ah, which one of these is Miss Charles’ office?”
George’s smile faded. “Let me see. That would be two doors to your right.” He tapped his fingers together at his waist. “Any particular reason you need to see my star engineer?”
Napoleon held up a bag. “Just a little ‘Welcome to the team’ offering. Engineers do eat, right?”
“Sure, sure, we eat. That’s real thoughtful of you.” His brows lowered, and his eyes grew uncertain. “Well, see ya,” he said finally. He waved his hand with a jerk and walked away.
Napoleon approached the doorway two to the right and knocked. “Come in,” Verity responded. As the door slid open, the invitation was repeated. “Come in, come in.”
“Hello-hello-hello.” Assuming his most charming smile, Napoleon stepped into the office.
“Oh, Mr. Solo.” Verity jumped up from her desk, a pen flying from her hand. It clattered across the surface and fell at Napoleon’s feet. “Thank you,” she stammered as he retrieved it for her.
“Thank you. Thank you.” A voice with the same high pitch came from his right. A large cage sat against the wall, a silver parrot pacing along the top. Napoleon cocked his head. The bird did the same. Then it wolf-whistled at him.
Verity’s cheeks reddened. “Lovelace, hush,” she commanded in a tone of fond exasperation. She moved to the cage and held out her hand. The parrot climbed onto her finger. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Solo. She’s incorrigible. Always has been.”
He crossed to her side. “That’s alright. What kind of parrot is she?”
“A Congo African Grey.” She kept her eyes on the parrot, gently stroking her back. “Give us a kiss,” Verity cooed quietly. Lovelace extended her neck and received a peck on her black beak.
Napoleon admired the picture they presented. Bands of red piping traced the seams of Verity's dress, accentuating her deep curves. The color was echoed in the parrot’s tail feathers. “She’s a very pretty girl,” he said. “Just like her owner.”
Verity’s blush deepened. “Pretty girl,” Lovelace said. The voice was masculine and vaguely familiar.
“Does Mr. Waverly know that she’s here? He can be particular about things like this.”
She nodded, smiling shyly. “Lovelace isn't used to being alone everyday. She’d get so nervous, she’d pluck half her feathers out. We were a package deal.”
“Tell me, does she let you get away for dinner dates or is that a package deal too?”
“Dates?” she squeaked with a start. The parrot shook her head, and Verity let her step back onto the cage. “Um, no. I mean, she’s fine on her own for reasonable periods.”
“So if, say, an admirer took you out for dinner and dancing, you wouldn’t return to a bald bird?”
Verity giggled breathlessly. “I hope not. I haven't put it to the test very often though. My research has kept me too busy.” Her green eyes held his squarely for the first time, and her wide jaw jutted stubbornly. “I’m working on my Ph.D.”
“Very commendable. But surely it’s good to give the brain a rest now and then.”
Her eyes fell away in confusion. Before Napoleon could speak again, the phone sounded. Lovelace echoed its two-tone ring.
Verity moved to the desk and answered it. “Miss Charles speaking. Yes, G—Mr. Dennell.”
“George Dennell.” Lovelace did a credible imitation of the Section Head’s voice.
Verity listened for a moment. “Yes, certainly. I’ll be right there. Goodbye.” She hung up the receiver. “Mr. Waverly’s called a meeting.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could eat lunch together.” He held up the bag. “Liverwurst on rye.”
“Mmm-mmm. My favorite,” Lovelace announced.
Verity’s smile dimpled her cheek. Napoleon grinned back. “That was very nice of you,” she said. “Perhaps another time.”
“How about dinner tonight? If Lovelace needs a birdsitter, I know the perfect candidate. He’ll teach her Russian.”
“Tonight?” She picked up the pen from her desk and twisted the cap. “Oh, um, I’m afraid I have to work late. We have a proposal due soon, and it seems like Mr. Waverly is about to make more demands for the system.”
“What about tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Dennell said the team would eat, sleep and breath the project for the foreseeable future.”
“The project. Very important.” Lovelace channeled George again.
Napoleon frowned. “Surely he’d let you have one night off, if you asked?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking him that. I mean, after all, I just started here.”
“Then I’ll ask him. I’m sure if I explain, he’d—”
“Please, don’t do that,” Verity squeaked. She blushed and took a deep breath. “This project is at a critical stage. We're on the verge of breakthroughs I thought were years away.” She lifted her chin. “To be distracted at this point would be disastrous. And you, Mr. Solo, are as distracting as they come.”
He spread his arms in capitulation. “As you wish. We’ll call it a date, but mark the night as first available.” Napoleon placed the bag of sandwiches on her desk and headed for the door. “I hope those breakthroughs don't keep us waiting long.”
Her smile returned. “Me either. I may sound like Snow White, but I've never been good at waiting.”
“How goes the wooing?” Illya asked.
“At the moment, it’s a no-go.” Napoleon collapsed into the chair and slapped a file on the desk. “I never pictured George as a slave driver, but he’s got that team putting in twelve-, sometimes fourteen-hour days. They’re even working through meals.”
“As I hear it, what began as an overhaul has become a complete systems upgrade. Things will look different around here by the time they are finished.”
“At this pace, they should be finished next week. I’ve considered protesting the situation to Mr. Waverly.”
“That sounds like toe-stepping to me, my friend. I thought you were Fred Astaire.”
“What's Fred without Ginger?”
“Fred with Eleanor or Rita or Leslie.” At Napoleon’s curious look, he shrugged. “There was a marathon at the Palladium. The point is, there are other fish in the sea. It is not as if you are in love with this girl.”
“Of course, not. But I would like the chance to know her better.”
Illya gazed at him over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. “You are being thwarted in your efforts, and it is galling you.”
“Smart Russian. For all my attempts, I've managed ten minutes with Verity this week at best. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ isn't helping my cause.”
“So you're going to wallpaper her office with your photograph?”
Napoleon frowned. “Let me finish. She keeps a pet parrot there.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about it. Lovelace, the African Grey. Remarkable birds. Highly intelligent.”
“I noticed. It’s already got George’s voice down pat.”
“Really? Very interesting. Mimicry usually requires some degree of repeated exposure.”
Napoleon leaned forward conspiratorially. “Verity is at YIT today for a conference, and I offered to check in on Lovelace. While she's gone, I'm going to teach that bird to mimic me.”
“For what purpose?”
“To keep me in her thoughts. The way to Verity’s heart may be through her bird.”
When Napoleon entered Verity's office, Lovelace was in her cage, whistling and chirping as a radio played softly. “Hello,” Napoleon said, nearing her.
The parrot turned her head. “Hello,” she said. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Talking to a bird.” Napoleon laughed at himself. “Can you say ‘Verity’?”
“Verity Charles,” she said in her owner’s distinctive voice.
“OK, so you can. How about ‘Pretty Verity’? Can you say ‘Pretty Verity’?”
“Verity.” The voice was George Dennell’s.
“Ah, no. Try ‘Pretty Verity.’”
“Verity. Verity.” George’s voice continued from the parrot’s throat in a ragged murmur.
Napoleon eyed the bird in concern. “Are you alright?”
“Give us a kiss,” Lovelace said brightly, speaking as her owner.
“I've been hoping to hear that, but not from you.” He rubbed his chin. “Let’s try ‘Napoleon.’ Will you say that?”
Lovelace cocked her head and fixed her black eyes on him. Napoleon repeated his name several times coaxingly, but the parrot remained silent. He sighed in frustration. “You're perfectly willing to say ‘George.’”
“Oh, George,” Verity's voice called out from the parrot.
Napoleon looked around uncomfortably. “What?”
“Oh, George,” Lovelace breathed passionately.
Napoleon squinted at the parrot. “You're kidding me. Verity and George?”
Lovelace spoke again. “Verity,” George murmured, followed by Verity's impassioned, “Oh, George.”
Napoleon backed away. “I get it, thanks.” He paused at the door. “Napoleon?” he ventured forlornly.
“Oh, George.”
He grimaced and nodded. “I guess a good word would be unnecessary at this point.”
In the corridor, he blew out a relieved breath as the door slid closed behind him.
“Hiya, Napoleon.”
He jumped and thrust a hand into his jacket.
“Gee, did I startle you?” George asked.
“Ah, yes, a little bit.” Napoleon tried to look him in the eyes, but failed.
“Imagine that. Hey, I gotta question, and you're just the guy to help me.” He swung his gaze up and down the empty corridor, then asked, “What's the best way to get lipstick out of a shirt collar?”
Napoleon wiped his hand down his face. He slanted his eyes at George, who smiled back guilelessly. “Del has a special formula. I'll have him mix you a bottle.”
“Thanks, Napoleon. You're a pal.” He hooked his thumbs in his vest. “And thanks for visiting Lovelace. Verity really appreciated the offer.”
Napoleon sneezed loudly. “You know, George, I think I might be allergic to parrots.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose.
“Is that so? Wow, that's too bad. I guess you won't be coming down here as often, then.”
Concern marked George’s tone, but Napoleon thought he detected a sparkle lurking in his eyes.
A wry smile curved Napoleon's lips. “I guess I won't. See ya later, George.”
“Bye, Napoleon.”
“Your soup is getting cold,” Illya said.
“Hmm? Oh.” Napoleon tore his gaze from the mesmerizing movements of the rounded derrière.
“She is not on the menu.”
“Maybe not, but she would be a charming armful on the dance floor. And I happen to be free for dinner.”
“Shouldn’t you find out her name first?”
Napoleon grabbed a passing sleeve. “George, you have a minute?”
“Sure, Napoleon. Illya.” He took a seat at their table, smiling genially. “You fellas in another tight spot?”
Napoleon avoided Illya’s amused gaze. “Not like that, but I would like some information. Do you know who the, ah, Pocket Venus at the counter is?”
“The what?”
“The new member of personnel,” Illya interpreted. “Female and petite.”
George peered across the commissary. “Oh, her? That’s Verity Charles. She’s my new computer engineer.”
“That's a computer engineer?” Napoleon asked, re-examining his chosen dinner date.
George leaned back in the chair and tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Yes, indeed-y. And let me tell ya, were we lucky to get her. Top of her class at YIT. Degrees in Electrical Engineering and Applied Mathematics.”
“Impressive,” Illya agreed.
Napoleon returned his chin to his hand. “Let's not forget Titian hair, trim ankles, and a lovely pair of eyes behind those glasses, I bet. You’re right, George. We were very lucky to get her.”
George's brown eyes lost their satisfied sparkle. “I assure you that Miss Charles’ appearance, as nice as it is, had nothing to do with our choice.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Mr. Waverly brought her in specially to work on the new computer array. He had to fight Bell Labs, IBM, all the big boys, but in the end, we got her.”
“Fascinating,” Napoleon said absently. “Good conversationalist?”
“Well, she and I had a very stimulating discussion about the practical applications of artificial intelligence.” George turned to Illya. “You know, to automate many of the routine decision-making functions here at UNCLE. In fact, I was thinking of asking her to dinner tonight to continue the exchange.”
“Napoleon had same thought, though likely he has different exchanges in mind.”
All three men looked on as Verity recrossed her legs and tugged her skirt over her knees. Napoleon grinned.
George chewed on his thumb and frowned. “Well, I guess that nixes that,” he said quietly. “With Babe Ruth at bat, it doesn’t matter who else is in the line-up. See ya later, Illya. Napoleon.”
As he walked away, Napoleon gave a small wave. “Bye, George.” He turned to Illya. “Did he say something about baseball?”
“In a way. I think you may have a rival there.”
“George?” He twisted his lips dismissively. “I mean, I like him, but he’s no Don Juan. Besides, he’s been mourning Carla’s treachery for months.”
“If you say so. Just try not to step on any toes.”
He held up three fingers. “I’ll be as nimble as Fred Astaire. In fact, if it looks like the wind is blowing in that direction, I’ll even put in a good word for ol’ George.”
“Your generosity is unbounded.”
Napoleon gave him a salute and strolled to the counter. “Coffee, Fred,” he said to the counterman, taking the stool next to Verity’s. He adjusted his cuffs and watched her surreptitiously. She remained focused on her reading, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
He was about to ask her to pass the sugar when she giggled breathlessly. He smiled at the sound, which matched neither her womanly figure nor her job description. “Can anyone be in on the joke?”
Verity darted a glance at him, giving Napoleon a glimpse of startled green eyes behind her browline glasses. He reached over and lifted the journal’s cover. “I didn’t know the IEEE Spectrum included funny pages.”
She closed the periodical and stared at it, chewing on her lip. Napoleon anticipated their dinner date with increasing eagerness.
When she spoke, her voice was high-pitched, almost girlish. “There’s an article by a former colleague. The research is sound, but his conclusions are all wrong. They usually are.”
“At least he can be relied on for amusement. I’m Napoleon Solo.”
She considered his extended hand for a moment before taking it. Her handshake was firm but brief. “Verity Charles.”
“I know. I was just speaking with your Section Head. He was very complimentary of you.”
She scanned the commissary. “Mr. Dennell?” Her gaze returned to Napoleon, fixing on the knot in his tie. “How nice of him, considering I’ve been here such a short time.”
“Well, you’ve managed to make quite an impression.” He ducked his head to catch her eyes. “On more than one person.”
Fred reappeared. “Here’s your coffee, Mr. Solo. And your sandwich, miss.” He handed Verity a wax paper parcel.
“Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Solo.” A shy smile flitted across her lips, denting her cheek with the ghost of a dimple. She hopped off the stool and hurried away.
Napoleon turned to find Fred watching him in unconcealed amusement. “Anything else, Mr. Solo?”
“Yes, actually. What kind of sandwich did Miss Charles order? It smelled delicious.”
Fred grinned. “Liverwurst on rye. Want one?”
He wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Is it a date?” Illya asked when Napoleon returned to their table.
“Not yet.” He sipped a spoonful of soup and finding it cold, pushed the cup away. “She seemed skittish.”
“Probably heeding the advice of her mother. ‘Stay away from office Lotharios, my child. They are only after one thing.’”
“Thanks very much.”
Illya chuckled. “Or, more likely, she has an extremely introverted personality. It is very typical in her field.”
“Well, as one introvert speaking for another, what advice do you have?”
“To leave us be. We prefer it that way.”
“Thanks again.”
“Any time.”
Napoleon stood in the corridor, confusion wrinkling his brow. A series of identical chrome doors stretched to either side of him.
“Hiya, Napoleon. What brings you down here?”
“Oh, hello there, George,” Napoleon said. “Ah, which one of these is Miss Charles’ office?”
George’s smile faded. “Let me see. That would be two doors to your right.” He tapped his fingers together at his waist. “Any particular reason you need to see my star engineer?”
Napoleon held up a bag. “Just a little ‘Welcome to the team’ offering. Engineers do eat, right?”
“Sure, sure, we eat. That’s real thoughtful of you.” His brows lowered, and his eyes grew uncertain. “Well, see ya,” he said finally. He waved his hand with a jerk and walked away.
Napoleon approached the doorway two to the right and knocked. “Come in,” Verity responded. As the door slid open, the invitation was repeated. “Come in, come in.”
“Hello-hello-hello.” Assuming his most charming smile, Napoleon stepped into the office.
“Oh, Mr. Solo.” Verity jumped up from her desk, a pen flying from her hand. It clattered across the surface and fell at Napoleon’s feet. “Thank you,” she stammered as he retrieved it for her.
“Thank you. Thank you.” A voice with the same high pitch came from his right. A large cage sat against the wall, a silver parrot pacing along the top. Napoleon cocked his head. The bird did the same. Then it wolf-whistled at him.
Verity’s cheeks reddened. “Lovelace, hush,” she commanded in a tone of fond exasperation. She moved to the cage and held out her hand. The parrot climbed onto her finger. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Solo. She’s incorrigible. Always has been.”
He crossed to her side. “That’s alright. What kind of parrot is she?”
“A Congo African Grey.” She kept her eyes on the parrot, gently stroking her back. “Give us a kiss,” Verity cooed quietly. Lovelace extended her neck and received a peck on her black beak.
Napoleon admired the picture they presented. Bands of red piping traced the seams of Verity's dress, accentuating her deep curves. The color was echoed in the parrot’s tail feathers. “She’s a very pretty girl,” he said. “Just like her owner.”
Verity’s blush deepened. “Pretty girl,” Lovelace said. The voice was masculine and vaguely familiar.
“Does Mr. Waverly know that she’s here? He can be particular about things like this.”
She nodded, smiling shyly. “Lovelace isn't used to being alone everyday. She’d get so nervous, she’d pluck half her feathers out. We were a package deal.”
“Tell me, does she let you get away for dinner dates or is that a package deal too?”
“Dates?” she squeaked with a start. The parrot shook her head, and Verity let her step back onto the cage. “Um, no. I mean, she’s fine on her own for reasonable periods.”
“So if, say, an admirer took you out for dinner and dancing, you wouldn’t return to a bald bird?”
Verity giggled breathlessly. “I hope not. I haven't put it to the test very often though. My research has kept me too busy.” Her green eyes held his squarely for the first time, and her wide jaw jutted stubbornly. “I’m working on my Ph.D.”
“Very commendable. But surely it’s good to give the brain a rest now and then.”
Her eyes fell away in confusion. Before Napoleon could speak again, the phone sounded. Lovelace echoed its two-tone ring.
Verity moved to the desk and answered it. “Miss Charles speaking. Yes, G—Mr. Dennell.”
“George Dennell.” Lovelace did a credible imitation of the Section Head’s voice.
Verity listened for a moment. “Yes, certainly. I’ll be right there. Goodbye.” She hung up the receiver. “Mr. Waverly’s called a meeting.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could eat lunch together.” He held up the bag. “Liverwurst on rye.”
“Mmm-mmm. My favorite,” Lovelace announced.
Verity’s smile dimpled her cheek. Napoleon grinned back. “That was very nice of you,” she said. “Perhaps another time.”
“How about dinner tonight? If Lovelace needs a birdsitter, I know the perfect candidate. He’ll teach her Russian.”
“Tonight?” She picked up the pen from her desk and twisted the cap. “Oh, um, I’m afraid I have to work late. We have a proposal due soon, and it seems like Mr. Waverly is about to make more demands for the system.”
“What about tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Dennell said the team would eat, sleep and breath the project for the foreseeable future.”
“The project. Very important.” Lovelace channeled George again.
Napoleon frowned. “Surely he’d let you have one night off, if you asked?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking him that. I mean, after all, I just started here.”
“Then I’ll ask him. I’m sure if I explain, he’d—”
“Please, don’t do that,” Verity squeaked. She blushed and took a deep breath. “This project is at a critical stage. We're on the verge of breakthroughs I thought were years away.” She lifted her chin. “To be distracted at this point would be disastrous. And you, Mr. Solo, are as distracting as they come.”
He spread his arms in capitulation. “As you wish. We’ll call it a date, but mark the night as first available.” Napoleon placed the bag of sandwiches on her desk and headed for the door. “I hope those breakthroughs don't keep us waiting long.”
Her smile returned. “Me either. I may sound like Snow White, but I've never been good at waiting.”
“How goes the wooing?” Illya asked.
“At the moment, it’s a no-go.” Napoleon collapsed into the chair and slapped a file on the desk. “I never pictured George as a slave driver, but he’s got that team putting in twelve-, sometimes fourteen-hour days. They’re even working through meals.”
“As I hear it, what began as an overhaul has become a complete systems upgrade. Things will look different around here by the time they are finished.”
“At this pace, they should be finished next week. I’ve considered protesting the situation to Mr. Waverly.”
“That sounds like toe-stepping to me, my friend. I thought you were Fred Astaire.”
“What's Fred without Ginger?”
“Fred with Eleanor or Rita or Leslie.” At Napoleon’s curious look, he shrugged. “There was a marathon at the Palladium. The point is, there are other fish in the sea. It is not as if you are in love with this girl.”
“Of course, not. But I would like the chance to know her better.”
Illya gazed at him over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. “You are being thwarted in your efforts, and it is galling you.”
“Smart Russian. For all my attempts, I've managed ten minutes with Verity this week at best. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ isn't helping my cause.”
“So you're going to wallpaper her office with your photograph?”
Napoleon frowned. “Let me finish. She keeps a pet parrot there.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about it. Lovelace, the African Grey. Remarkable birds. Highly intelligent.”
“I noticed. It’s already got George’s voice down pat.”
“Really? Very interesting. Mimicry usually requires some degree of repeated exposure.”
Napoleon leaned forward conspiratorially. “Verity is at YIT today for a conference, and I offered to check in on Lovelace. While she's gone, I'm going to teach that bird to mimic me.”
“For what purpose?”
“To keep me in her thoughts. The way to Verity’s heart may be through her bird.”
When Napoleon entered Verity's office, Lovelace was in her cage, whistling and chirping as a radio played softly. “Hello,” Napoleon said, nearing her.
The parrot turned her head. “Hello,” she said. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Talking to a bird.” Napoleon laughed at himself. “Can you say ‘Verity’?”
“Verity Charles,” she said in her owner’s distinctive voice.
“OK, so you can. How about ‘Pretty Verity’? Can you say ‘Pretty Verity’?”
“Verity.” The voice was George Dennell’s.
“Ah, no. Try ‘Pretty Verity.’”
“Verity. Verity.” George’s voice continued from the parrot’s throat in a ragged murmur.
Napoleon eyed the bird in concern. “Are you alright?”
“Give us a kiss,” Lovelace said brightly, speaking as her owner.
“I've been hoping to hear that, but not from you.” He rubbed his chin. “Let’s try ‘Napoleon.’ Will you say that?”
Lovelace cocked her head and fixed her black eyes on him. Napoleon repeated his name several times coaxingly, but the parrot remained silent. He sighed in frustration. “You're perfectly willing to say ‘George.’”
“Oh, George,” Verity's voice called out from the parrot.
Napoleon looked around uncomfortably. “What?”
“Oh, George,” Lovelace breathed passionately.
Napoleon squinted at the parrot. “You're kidding me. Verity and George?”
Lovelace spoke again. “Verity,” George murmured, followed by Verity's impassioned, “Oh, George.”
Napoleon backed away. “I get it, thanks.” He paused at the door. “Napoleon?” he ventured forlornly.
“Oh, George.”
He grimaced and nodded. “I guess a good word would be unnecessary at this point.”
In the corridor, he blew out a relieved breath as the door slid closed behind him.
“Hiya, Napoleon.”
He jumped and thrust a hand into his jacket.
“Gee, did I startle you?” George asked.
“Ah, yes, a little bit.” Napoleon tried to look him in the eyes, but failed.
“Imagine that. Hey, I gotta question, and you're just the guy to help me.” He swung his gaze up and down the empty corridor, then asked, “What's the best way to get lipstick out of a shirt collar?”
Napoleon wiped his hand down his face. He slanted his eyes at George, who smiled back guilelessly. “Del has a special formula. I'll have him mix you a bottle.”
“Thanks, Napoleon. You're a pal.” He hooked his thumbs in his vest. “And thanks for visiting Lovelace. Verity really appreciated the offer.”
Napoleon sneezed loudly. “You know, George, I think I might be allergic to parrots.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose.
“Is that so? Wow, that's too bad. I guess you won't be coming down here as often, then.”
Concern marked George’s tone, but Napoleon thought he detected a sparkle lurking in his eyes.
A wry smile curved Napoleon's lips. “I guess I won't. See ya later, George.”
“Bye, Napoleon.”
no subject
Nice to see your name pop up. Hope all is well.