Soup - Short Affair - March 9th

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Prompts - Stir / Tempt / Orange
Word Count - 622

You can find the story beneath the cut, or you can follow the link to AO3.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084896



Wrapped in a warm blanket, while his dripping wet suit dried out, Napoleon Solo peered into the pan of soup being slowly stirred by Illya. He too was wrapped in a blanket. As Napoleon watched, a large bubble formed on top of the thick, orange liquid, and then popped, releasing a small puff of steam.

“This will soon warm you up my friend,” the Russian stated, as he ladled some of the soup into a bowl.

The agents had sought refuge from a heavy downpour in a hunting cabin which, thankfully, was stocked with firewood, cans of soup, and a can of coffee. They had been travelling in an open-topped car when they’d hit a rain storm and, despite their best efforts, they had been unable to fasten the roof over them. To add to their woes, the dirt road they were on had quickly become a mud river. Knowing that the forest they were in was strewn with hunting cabins, the pair decided it would be wiser to go in search of shelter.

Accepting the bowl which was handed to him, Napoleon gave it an experimental sniff and wrinkled his nose.

“I thought you liked tomato soup,” Illya said, pronouncing it ‘tom-ah-to’ like the British.

“I do, when it’s made from scratch, with fresh ripe tomatoes, and freshly chopped herbs,” Napoleon replied. “This stuff is just gloop with a vague hint of tomato.”

“You’re a snob,” Illya snapped, with an edge to his voice which Napoleon had learned to recognise. He’d put his foot in it again.

“It may not be haute cuisine,” Illya continued. “But it is hot and nourishing. More importantly, it will help to stave off any illness from being soaked to skin. I would have given anything to find such food when I was a child, foraging in the streets for anything which would keep me alive for another day.”

Taking his own bowl, Illya sat in one of the two wooden chairs and stared out of the window. Napoleon could tell from his expression that he was remembering the struggles of his childhood. The American sat in the other chair and apologised for his inadvertent insensitivity.

“However, Tovarisch, I won’t apologise for who I am,” he said. “I was brought up in relative privilege, and had access to some of the best things in life. I’m truly sorry that your upbringing was the opposite of mine, and I honestly wish it could have been different.”

Illya turned to look at Napoleon and he smiled.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I do not know where that came from. To be honest, I would also prefer it to be freshly made. Having the opportunity to travel the world, trying the cuisines off all nations, I too have become somewhat of a food snob.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Napoleon replied. “Now, eat up. You’re more likely to get sick than me.”

*******

Two days later, Napoleon let himself into Illya’s apartment. He called out his presence and was greeted in return with a loud sneeze from the bedroom. Solo followed the sound and found his partner sitting up in bed, surrounded by tissues.

“I’ve brought something to help your cold,” he said, producing a thermos flask from behind his back. “I made it myself, this morning, using my grandmother’s recipe. Can I tempt you to some?”

Illya wasn’t feeling all that hungry but, as Napoleon poured the freshly made tomato soup into the cup, the smell caused his stomach to rumble. Like the soup from the can it was orange in colour, but it was a more attractive shade, and it smelled of real tomatoes.

“I think I could manage a little,” he answered, shortly before devouring two thirds of flask.

.