They walked into Napoleon’s apartment and he, knowing his partner’s bottomless pit of a stomach, went to the fridge to apprise him of what was there. “Ah, Illya, I have chicken cutlets, spaghetti Florentine, tossed salad, an ear of corn, some broccoli, oh, there’s some steak and half a baked potato. What do you want?”
Illya held Napoleon’s head down while he opened the freezer and retrieved his vodka. “What are you eating?”
“I’m opening a can of clam chowder.”
“Then, I will eat everything else. I am hungry.”
“I love it when you eat the leftovers,” Napoleon opined.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-18 04:40 pm (UTC)Oh, to have Illya's metabolism. Or digestion.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-25 05:22 pm (UTC)