"YOU TURKEY!"~ for the 'What a Turkey' story challenge on Section VII

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

* Note, just a bit of silliness...as silly as I could get it. All in fun for the parameters of the challege...Wishing everyone a happy and bountiful Thanksgiving.



                             

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving Illya?”

That’s all the Russian heard in dulcet, sing-songy tones as he ran the gauntlet through the secretarial pool at headquarters in New York.

At first he lied politely, saying he already had plans, then as the inquiries increased exponentially, he simply buried his nose in a folder, trying to ignore them.

He finally made his escape, not bothering to deliver the file he carried to Margo, the secretary subbing for Eileen O’Toole, the Section II secretary who was on her honeymoon. Eileen had always been a pleasure to work with as she never flirted, and remained professional at all times. Napoleon learned quickly that she was immune to his charms, and was there to do a job to the best of her abilities and nothing more.

With the ground rules established, that made for an excellent working relationship between her and the all field agents.  Though she readily admitted that Illya and Napoleon were her favorites. They not only treated her with respect, but respected and valued her opinions as well.

The barrage of questions and invitations continued, however, as Kuryakin made a beeline back to his office while a gaggle of geese, as he called them, actually pursued him through the grey hallowed halls of U.N.C.L.E.

“Bozhe moy!” He blurted out, leaning against the pneumatic door as it closed behind him. His hand went instantly to the lock on the wall beside it.

“What’s wrong partner mine?” Napoleon was sitting at his desk, thumbing through his little black book, deciding who’d he ask to join him for Thanksgiving.  He was going to cook his own turkey with all the trimmings and make a entire day of it...and hopefully a night as well.

“I have been attacked.”

“Attacked?” Napoleon jumped to his feet, automatically grabbing his Special from its holster. “T.H.R.U.S.H...wait, why no alarms?”

“Not physically attacked... that was a poor choice of words on my part. Perhaps ‘accosted’ is better.”

“You have some splainin’ to do Lucy,” Solo joked, though as usual, such television tropes went over the Russian’s head like a jet fighter. He looked at the confusion in Illyas eyes.

“Could you pleased be a little more clear?” He translated for his partner.

“Oh, sorry. Yes...on my way to deliver a file to Margo, I was accosted by possibly every secretary in the pool, all wanting to know my plans for Thanksgiving. It was all I could do to get away from them. Some even followed me here...it was most disconcerting.”

“So just accept one of their invitations and get it over with,” Napoleon snickered at this seemingly trivial dilemma.

“Please, there is no need. I have plans to stay home and catch up on my reading. Thanksgiving is an American holiday and if you recall I am not an American.”

Napoleon scrunched up his face, not getting that excuse. “For someone who loves food the way do you, I find it hard to believe you’d pass up on the opportunity for a full turkey dinner, prepared and served to you by a gorgeous woman, much less the possible dessert to follow.”

“Pa-lease,” Illya snorted. “No meal is worth being fawned over. You do not understand Napoleon, so many women want to mother me...smothering me with their attention.”

“Well that mothering and smothering can lead to much more interesting things, can’t they.”

“Nyet,” Illya sliced the air with his hand. “I will go to bed with a woman I am genuinely interested in, and on my terms; not because she has fed me.”

Napoleon couldn’t help but smile at his partners stubborn ways. “Your loss chum. Me, I’m doing the cooking for me and my lady of choice this year.”

“And who is the lucky woman to be graced with your presence.”

“That didn’t sound very nice.”

“I was not trying to be.” Illya flopped down in his chair at his desk, tossing the file across to Solo.” Since you have no issues with the ministrations of the ladies of the secretarial pool, perhaps you could drop this off with Margo. I could not get near her desk as I was surrounded by the enemy.”

“Illya, women are not the enemy. They’re lovely, fascinating creatures and whether we make love to them or not is really immaterial.  I myself just enjoy being around them.”

“My friend, I find that hard to believe...you be with a woman and not go to bed to her?”

“It’s true. You’ve just never taken time to notice as you’re too busy scowling and complaining.’

“While you keep bragging.”

Napoleon face flushed, “You got a problem with what I do, seriously?” He stood up, taking off his suit jacket. “Tell you what, smart ass...let’s take it to the gym and settle this once and for all. I win, then no more comments about my love life.”

“And if I win?”

“I’ll cook Thanksgiving dinner for you.”

“And what about your hot date?”

“I haven’t called anyone yet.”

“Fine, it is a deal.” Illya stuck out his hand and the two shook, sealing the agreement.

Twenty minutes later they were in the gymnasium, having changed in the locker room to grey sweats and sneakers.

Curly Johnson, a man without a single hair on his head, and who ran the gym, would handle the coin toss. He could sense the testosterone in the air and that had him worried. “You know the last time you two got into it…”

“Never you mind Curly, this is a matter of honor,” Napoleon said.

“Honor? Ha!” Illya barked, giving his partner the stink-eye.

The coin was tossed and the Russian won. He decided it was time to put on boxing gloves to settle this, but with one caveat...it would be kick boxing.

“Kick boxing? I don’t know how to kickbox. Can’t it just be regular boxing?” Napoleon seemed to be unhappy now.

“So shoe is on the wrong foot now, “Illya stood there sticking his index finger dangerously close to Napoleon’s nose. “Take back what you said and it will be over without us throwing a punch.”

“Napoleon,”whispered Curly,” Kickboxing is just a hybrid martial art combining Muay Thai and karate.”

“Oh gee, thanks,” Napoleon said, thinking for all the good that was worth. He bit his lower lip, responding to Illya.

“Not a chance pal. Give it your worst...and it’s the shoe is on the other foot!” He couldn’t resist giving that one back at him.

“You mean best.”

“Tsk. You’re correcting my English Kuryakin?”

“Okay, okay gentlemen, simmer down and save it for the ring and let’s keep it clean,” Curly said, knowing he was going to regret letting this happen.

A crowd had already begun to gather around the ring in the gym, as apparently word had carried quickly about a Solo-Kuryakin grudge match.  The last time this happened there had been a lot of money to be had on the quick bets being placed, and people hoped it would be just as lucrative again.

After putting on their gloves, both men came out fighting, with Illya getting off an instant kick to Solo’s upper torso, sending him staggering.  Napoleon rebounded, throwing a couple of quick punches, but Illya dodged them.  They danced around the ring, with Napoleon blocking and dodging the next few kicks and sweeps his partner tried to land with his legs.

The style of fighting Illya demonstrated was known by quick and complex moves, using power, speed, and leverage for kicks, spins, and highly mobile techniques; at heart was the ginga, the back-and-forth, foot-to-foot movement that served as the starting point for such leverage.

Capoeira used in genuine self-defense situations incorporates many sweeps and low moves, whereas when played as a game there is more emphasis on high moves, demonstrations of acrobatics, full cartwheels (called au) for evasion, and flips or other exotic techniques by mestres (masters), and performing an entertaining match for the audience.

Illya, with his gymnastic ability utilized both low and high moves, quickly shifting his weight back and forth as if he were dancing...he supposed his knowledge of this particular martial art did give him an unfair advantage, but….oh well.

Still, Napoleon was holding his own, landing a punch or two to Illya’s face, leaving him bruised and bloodied.

The round ended, and each man went to his corner, both fairly winded.  There Mary Sue Miller was waiting to console Napoleon...and he was eating up every second of it, thinking she’d be the one he’d invite to dinner when all was said and done.

“My poor Nappy,” she leaned over to kiss his cheek and the top button on her tight yellow blouse popped open, as did Solo’s eyes as he got an eyeful. “Go get em tiger,” she whispered.”Just think what I’ll do for you to make you forget all this.” Napoleon was distracted enough that when he turned, he didn’t see Illya’s punch coming until it was too late.

“I win,” the Russian announced, watching his partners head jerk as he hit it, and stood with his arms crossed in satisfaction as the American wilted to the canvas.

.

Napoleon’s doorbell rang, and after looking through the peephole, he confirmed it was his partner, bearing a bottle of wine.

He opened the door, trying not to smile as he took a gander and the fat lip and black eye Illya was sporting.

“Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”

“I thought you might shoot me for the trouncing I gave you.”

“You did not trounce me….Mary Sue distracted me that’s all.”

“Really? Would you then be willing to go best two out of three?”

“No I would not,” he glanced at his own reflection in the mirror, reminding him of his own bruised face. Napoleon took the wine. “I’m going to make good on my part of the bet, even though you cheated.”

“I did not cheat; you did not pay attention and that is not my fault. Where I was trained we were taught to take advantage of an opponent’s weakness and I simply did.”

“Weakness, seriously. What weakness? I got you back pretty good if I do say so myself.”

“Yes, but it is women who are your foible. If you had not let that dippy blonde distract you, as you so often do then…”

They argued, it escalating into shouting, shoving and finally a wrestling match that had them rolling and tumbling across the floor.  Somehow they managed to not destroy Napoleon’s livingroom.

They lay on the floor winded and finally looking at each others bloody faces; they started to laugh. Not just ordinary everyday  laughter but belly busting, side splitting guffaws.

While gasping for breaths Illya raised his nose, sniffing the air. “Something is burning.”

“Oh crap!” Napoleon yelled. “The turkey!”

They raced to the kitchen, now filled with smoke and Solo grabbed a pair of mitts, opening the oven and pulling out the roasting pan.  The turkey was burnt.

Illya bent over, looking at what should have been his feast. “Maybe some of it is salvageable?”

“You’ve obviously never cooked a turkey before. No it’s ruined, as is the stuffing. He looked at the pots of vegetables on the stove, seeing they too had boiled away to a sticky, ruined mess. Napoleon looked at his wristwatch.  “Hey Changs is open….will Chinese do?”

“I suppose, but I get to order whatever I want.”

“Fine, a bet is a bet, even though you…”

Holding his jaw and manipulating it with his fingers; Illya cut off his partner.  “Enough. Do not go there again. Food...now. Hungry.”

“Wow becoming rather Neaderthal aren’t you?”

The blond grunted his reply.

“You know Illya sometimes you can be...never mind. Let’s go and get this over with.” He ushered the Russian towards the door.

“By the way, even though you are springing for Chinese, you still owe me a turkey dinner with all the fixin’s...”

“Illya, you turkey! You’ll never let this go will you?”

Forgetting it would hurt, Illya flashed an evil grin. “Ow!”

“Serves you right, cheater.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Nyet, ya ne yavlyayus’. And … you are the one who is of the genus meleagris, the species gallopavo. After all, you are the one buying my Chinese dinner, are you not?”

“What exactly is a meleagris gallopavo...I took Latin in school, but… wait, wild turkey?”

Napoleon snickered as he locked his apartment door behind them.

“Well you did get the ‘wild’ part right.”

“Tsk.” Illya walked away, rolling his eyes, but in addition to that, he gave himself a slap on the back of his head for not getting his Latin quite right...