An Unlikely Soup Kitchen
Sep. 30th, 2013 10:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuFirst time response to PICFIC
Tattered and slightly scorched, the two agents stumbled through the entrance from the tailor into U.N.C.L.E headquarters. Given the bloodshot eyes and weary carriage, the two had clearly seen better days. They accepted their badges on autopilot.
“I’ll report to Waverly,” Napoleon directed, “and you…”
“the Lab,” Illya nodded before whirling to head to section VIII. He clutched their hard won prize, a small stoppered vial in his hand.
Napoleon watched his partner depart with a heavy heart. Three other agents had died as they had infiltrated the Thrush satrapy, their lives forfeit to the poison in that vial. Given their losses, their victory felt empty.
He turned to the reception desk with decision. “Wanda, tell Section I that I’m in the Lab.”
They had to know what new compound that vial contained. His report to Waverly could wait, at the very least the chief would know where to find him. Napoleon briskly started down the corridor to Section VIII. Without that knowledge his report would be incomplete in any case.
Not far off the heels of his partner, he sailed through the doors of the Lab as they hissed open to let him through. Scanning the room, he noted the absence of Dr. Simpson. He sighed, Illya would be on a tear having to deal with his underlings. The problem with having a Ph.D. for a partner was his complete mistrust of the competency of the Lab personnel. He pitied the waif in the lab coat conferring with his demanding cohort. Napoleon approached the pair gingerly.
Much to his surprise, for once, Illya did not look disgruntled. He spoke in low tones in a rapid fire clip making sharp and rapid notes on the clipboard between them. Napoleon appraised the rare creature who had won his partner’s respect. She looked diminutive next to the blonde, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Wide hazel eyes sheltered by tortoiseshell glasses followed his notations carefully. She bit her lip thoughtfully as tapered fingers tapped her narrow chin. Not the usual sort to garner Napoleon’s attention, her brown hair was worn severely businesslike in the chignon at her neck. There was no artifice about her.
Napoleon cleared his throat and they both looked up, startled. He anticipated his partner’s questions. “Waverly knows where to find me, and I couldn’t wait any more than you could.”
Illya nodded. “We were fortunate in one thing. Dr. Cranmore is on duty - U.N.C.L.E. has no better. If there is a solution to be found, she will find it.”
Napoleon watched her cheeks color delicately at the praise. He could tell she was not used to being the center of attention. “I’m Napoleon Solo, Dr. Cranmore. A pleasure to meet you.” His warm gaze on introduction was lost on her as she clutched the clipboard to her closely and nodded silently, eyes on the ground. A shy bird, he thought.
She didn’t appear so with his partner. “Dr. Kuryakin, you’d best shower, there may be traces on your skin and clothing,” she chided. She lay the clipboard down, turned him and gave him a gentle push to the back where the emergency showers were.
Napoleon’s eyebrows rose at the familiar treatment. Not many were so comfortable with the reclusive blonde. Then again, his partner spent more time here in the lab than any other agent.
“Are my clothes..?” Illya began as he began to strip, dropping his black turtleneck in the hazardous waste bin before moving behind a partition to shower.
“Hanging in the closet.” Her voice was low and musical, prosaic and unaware that anyone would find it unusual that she kept a spare set of clothes for Illya in her lab.
Her anxious eyes met Napoleon’s cautiously as she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward the shower.
He smiled gently in response, “No, only Illya was exposed.”
He caught her worried frown before she bent with resolve to the task at hand. He sat wearily on a lab stool to watch her work as she slipped a gas mask over her head and drew out a small sample through a syringe. Her hands were calm, careful and methodical unfazed by the lethal draught she held. Napoleon pursed his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps Illya was right and they wouldn’t miss Dr. Simpson at all.
Lost in thought, he was startled by Illya’s reappearance. He was often caught unawares by his partner who, when he wished, moved like a cougar in the night. Dr. Cranmore focused on her vials and litmus tests ignored them both. Illya had ceased to look disreputable, as his damp locks framed his face. However, he had the perpetually tetchy look about him indicating gross discontent. Illya was hungry.
“Commisary?” he asked, forestalling the worst.
“At this hour?” Illya scoffed, “Closed, I should think.” He crossed his arms over his mid-section as if to hold the hunger pains in check.
Without words, the doctor finished her last measurement carefully, then shucked her gloves before crossing to the other side of the lab. She turned a bunsen burner on high under a stainless steel pot. She tidily washed her hands and then retrieved two bowls, spoons and a box of crackers from her office, handing them silently to Illya. When she turned to lift the lid off the pot, the agents were surprised by the redolent smell of chicken soup.
She turned to face them and shrugged. “I brought in soup for lunch, you’re welcome to it.”
“Spasibo!” Illya said fervently, crossing rapidly to the bowl and hungrily eyeing the noodles inside. He missed her quirk of a surpressed smile, but Napoleon did not. This woman surely knew his partner.
She quietly donned her safety goggles and went back to work, missing the fact that Illya had already consumed one bowlful. His eyes were closed in rapt bliss. Napoleon quickly laved a bowl for himself knowing full well that Illya could make short work of a pot when he chose. As he sipped what he had to admit was a damn fine bowl of chicken soup, he quietly assessed the pair.
A tiny woman with an entire potful of soup for lunch. A ‘lunch’ that was warmed at close to midnight over a bunsen burner. A spare set of his partner’s clothes that hung in the closet by her own. Hmmm. The lab made for an unlikely setting for domestic bliss, yet he had never seen Illya Kuryakin look so at home.
He looked over again at Dr. Cranmore huddled over her notes. If this quiet wren had broken through Illya’s defenses, she had surely done what none of the sultry female agents upstairs had managed. She would bear watching.
Tattered and slightly scorched, the two agents stumbled through the entrance from the tailor into U.N.C.L.E headquarters. Given the bloodshot eyes and weary carriage, the two had clearly seen better days. They accepted their badges on autopilot.
“I’ll report to Waverly,” Napoleon directed, “and you…”
“the Lab,” Illya nodded before whirling to head to section VIII. He clutched their hard won prize, a small stoppered vial in his hand.
Napoleon watched his partner depart with a heavy heart. Three other agents had died as they had infiltrated the Thrush satrapy, their lives forfeit to the poison in that vial. Given their losses, their victory felt empty.
He turned to the reception desk with decision. “Wanda, tell Section I that I’m in the Lab.”
They had to know what new compound that vial contained. His report to Waverly could wait, at the very least the chief would know where to find him. Napoleon briskly started down the corridor to Section VIII. Without that knowledge his report would be incomplete in any case.
Not far off the heels of his partner, he sailed through the doors of the Lab as they hissed open to let him through. Scanning the room, he noted the absence of Dr. Simpson. He sighed, Illya would be on a tear having to deal with his underlings. The problem with having a Ph.D. for a partner was his complete mistrust of the competency of the Lab personnel. He pitied the waif in the lab coat conferring with his demanding cohort. Napoleon approached the pair gingerly.
Much to his surprise, for once, Illya did not look disgruntled. He spoke in low tones in a rapid fire clip making sharp and rapid notes on the clipboard between them. Napoleon appraised the rare creature who had won his partner’s respect. She looked diminutive next to the blonde, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Wide hazel eyes sheltered by tortoiseshell glasses followed his notations carefully. She bit her lip thoughtfully as tapered fingers tapped her narrow chin. Not the usual sort to garner Napoleon’s attention, her brown hair was worn severely businesslike in the chignon at her neck. There was no artifice about her.
Napoleon cleared his throat and they both looked up, startled. He anticipated his partner’s questions. “Waverly knows where to find me, and I couldn’t wait any more than you could.”
Illya nodded. “We were fortunate in one thing. Dr. Cranmore is on duty - U.N.C.L.E. has no better. If there is a solution to be found, she will find it.”
Napoleon watched her cheeks color delicately at the praise. He could tell she was not used to being the center of attention. “I’m Napoleon Solo, Dr. Cranmore. A pleasure to meet you.” His warm gaze on introduction was lost on her as she clutched the clipboard to her closely and nodded silently, eyes on the ground. A shy bird, he thought.
She didn’t appear so with his partner. “Dr. Kuryakin, you’d best shower, there may be traces on your skin and clothing,” she chided. She lay the clipboard down, turned him and gave him a gentle push to the back where the emergency showers were.
Napoleon’s eyebrows rose at the familiar treatment. Not many were so comfortable with the reclusive blonde. Then again, his partner spent more time here in the lab than any other agent.
“Are my clothes..?” Illya began as he began to strip, dropping his black turtleneck in the hazardous waste bin before moving behind a partition to shower.
“Hanging in the closet.” Her voice was low and musical, prosaic and unaware that anyone would find it unusual that she kept a spare set of clothes for Illya in her lab.
Her anxious eyes met Napoleon’s cautiously as she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward the shower.
He smiled gently in response, “No, only Illya was exposed.”
He caught her worried frown before she bent with resolve to the task at hand. He sat wearily on a lab stool to watch her work as she slipped a gas mask over her head and drew out a small sample through a syringe. Her hands were calm, careful and methodical unfazed by the lethal draught she held. Napoleon pursed his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps Illya was right and they wouldn’t miss Dr. Simpson at all.
Lost in thought, he was startled by Illya’s reappearance. He was often caught unawares by his partner who, when he wished, moved like a cougar in the night. Dr. Cranmore focused on her vials and litmus tests ignored them both. Illya had ceased to look disreputable, as his damp locks framed his face. However, he had the perpetually tetchy look about him indicating gross discontent. Illya was hungry.
“Commisary?” he asked, forestalling the worst.
“At this hour?” Illya scoffed, “Closed, I should think.” He crossed his arms over his mid-section as if to hold the hunger pains in check.
Without words, the doctor finished her last measurement carefully, then shucked her gloves before crossing to the other side of the lab. She turned a bunsen burner on high under a stainless steel pot. She tidily washed her hands and then retrieved two bowls, spoons and a box of crackers from her office, handing them silently to Illya. When she turned to lift the lid off the pot, the agents were surprised by the redolent smell of chicken soup.
She turned to face them and shrugged. “I brought in soup for lunch, you’re welcome to it.”
“Spasibo!” Illya said fervently, crossing rapidly to the bowl and hungrily eyeing the noodles inside. He missed her quirk of a surpressed smile, but Napoleon did not. This woman surely knew his partner.
She quietly donned her safety goggles and went back to work, missing the fact that Illya had already consumed one bowlful. His eyes were closed in rapt bliss. Napoleon quickly laved a bowl for himself knowing full well that Illya could make short work of a pot when he chose. As he sipped what he had to admit was a damn fine bowl of chicken soup, he quietly assessed the pair.
A tiny woman with an entire potful of soup for lunch. A ‘lunch’ that was warmed at close to midnight over a bunsen burner. A spare set of his partner’s clothes that hung in the closet by her own. Hmmm. The lab made for an unlikely setting for domestic bliss, yet he had never seen Illya Kuryakin look so at home.
He looked over again at Dr. Cranmore huddled over her notes. If this quiet wren had broken through Illya’s defenses, she had surely done what none of the sultry female agents upstairs had managed. She would bear watching.
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Date: 2013-10-01 03:46 am (UTC)Thanks for a well written ficlet, and welcome!
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Date: 2013-10-01 11:24 am (UTC)Congratulations on the debut:)
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