section7mfu | That Silly Poll - "The Brownie Story"

Glennagirl suggested a brownie story for the poll, so here it is. I'll post it on Ao3, but I think I need a better title than "A Brownie Story." Any suggestions?

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“That looks tasty,” Napoleon said as he lounged against the doorjamb of Illya’s hospital room. His partner was spooning a yellow substance out of a bowl. It looked rather like library paste.

“It’s edible,” his partner replied after swallowing. “Not a great deal of flavor, but it goes down easily.” He finished the last spoonful and set the dish down on the bed table.

Napoleon had to admit Illya was looking better than he had when they’d found him chained in that basement after two weeks without food. The only reason his partner had survived was that he’d had access to water.

When they got to him, Illya had been unconscious, deathly pale and skeletal. His ankle had been bruised and abraded where he’d fought against the restraints. Now, he was on the mend after nearly a week in medical, receiving specialized nutrition supplements designed to avoid overwhelming his system. The doctors had said that too much food too soon would be dangerous.

His partner had filled out a little, looking less emaciated then he had when they first brought him here. The first few days, Illya had been so weak, becoming exhausted just walking to the bathroom. Now he was able to walk longer and longer distances around medical, complaining to all within earshot that he wanted to go home.

Illya's body had been so depleted when he'd first come in, he had slept almost constantly. Now he was awake and aware, though still napping periodically. Those naps came on suddenly and without notice. He’d dropped off in the middle of a few gin rummy games. Napoleon was sure he wasn’t faking, since Illya had been winning some of those hands.

But the doctors were extremely pleased with his progress and thought he might be back to fighting weight and strength in less than a month. As Illya recovered, he’d begun to pine for real food, but he’d been compliant with the supplements. Illya knew he’d face stomach pain and digestive issues if the process was rushed.

“How are you feeling?” Napoleon asked.

Illya had not talked much about the experience, but that was not surprising. They both hated talking about the events that resulted in a stay in medical. And knowing Illya, he was probably embarrassed that he hadn't escaped, though the basement had been quite impregnable.

“Bored beyond belief, though mostly with my own frailties. I'm only now able to hold a book long enough to read a chapter. And I want food. Real food.”

“That’s understandable.”

“It was all I could think about when I was in that basement. What would I eat when I was finally free. I dreamt about the food from home, the dishes my grandmother used to cook, then it was croissants from Paris, and bubble and squeak from England,” he said with a chuckle. "Finally I started thinking about all the wonderful food in New York. I kept dreaming of a hotdog with everything from the street vendor near the office.”

Illya’s eyes started to drift shut. “I should probably let you rest,” Napoleon said.

“No, please,” Illya said, pushing himself up in bed. “Don’t leave.”

“When will they let you have real food?”

“I’ve been promised an egg and toast for breakfast tomorrow. I’m salivating already at that prospect.”

“If I were to sneak something in for you, what would that be? The hotdog with everything?”

“Actually, what I’m dreaming of is a big, gooey brownie from Veniero’s.”

The nurse came in carrying another bowl of yellow stuff. “Mr. Kuryakin, the doctor wants you to have two of these for lunch,” she said, replacing the empty bowl on the bed table with the new serving before sweeping out the door. Illya sighed deeply, but picked up his spoon.

“If you’re a good little agent and eat all of your library paste, I’ll see what I can do.”

The next evening, Napoleon entered medical with all the tip-toeing and exaggerated caution looking around corners that he would have used in sneaking into a Thrush facility. A white bakery bag was hidden in the folds of the overcoat draped over his arm. He opened Illya’s door, holding one finger before his lips.

Closing the door after him, Napoleon silently produced the paper bag, setting it on the bed tray.

“Is this what I think it is?” Illya said. “You wouldn’t be toying with a desperate man, would you?”

“Did they give you food today?”

“Yes, miraculous regular food. And all of it tasted wonderful. But not as wonderful as I hope this will be.” He opened the bag and took out the biggest gooiest brownie they’d had in the case at Veniero’s. He placed the brownie on the white bag he’d flattened into a placemat. “Behold,” Illya said. “The most beautiful sight these eyes have ever seen.”