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section7mfuPrompts – Recipe/Midnight Blue
Word Count (approx.) – 864
It had been much too close, but thanks to the quick actions of his bodyguard, Alexander Waverly survived the assassination attempt. He had, however, been knocked unconscious after hitting the pavement, when the agent threw him out of the path of the oncoming bullet. His doctor had reassured his wife that he had already been awake a couple of times, and would be given a clean bill of health. Keeping him in medical overnight was merely precautionary. Veronica Waverly fussed with the midnight blue comforter she had brought him from home. It was tired and worn but, because she had made it, Alexander cherished it.
The other bed in the room was occupied by Mr Waverly’s saviour. Illya Kuryakin’s left shoulder had received the bullet meant for the head of U.N.C.L.E. North-west, and the man was sleeping peacefully following the surgery to remove it. Ordinarily, Mr Waverly would have had a private room, but Mrs Waverly insisted on having them in together, so she could watch over them both.
Opening his eyes, Mr Waverly smiled at his fretful wife. “Hello, my dear.”
“What have I told you about frightening me like this?” she admonished softly.
“I’m terribly sorry, Veronica. I didn’t ask to be shot at.”
“Luckily, you had young Mr Kuryakin with you.”
She went over to Illya’s bedside and began to rearrange his sheets. Waverly couldn’t help but smile at the sight. One of the many things he loved about Veronica was her abundantly caring nature. Whether it was bedraggled lost kittens or hardened U.N.C.L.E. agents, to her they were one in the same. He very much doubted Kuryakin would enjoy being the centre of his wife’s attention; nor would he relish sharing the room with his boss. Still, while he slept, he would be blissfully ignorant of it.
“How old did you say he is, Alex?
“Thirty-one.”
Mrs Waverly almost refused to believe that. The injured man looked so much younger, and appeared so angelic and innocent. Given his upbringing, that was quite an achievement. After brushing a stray hair from his forehead, she went back to sit by her husband. As she settled in the chair, Napoleon Solo entered the room with a large bag and a larger smile.
“It’s good to see you awake and uninjured, Sir,” he greeted Mr Waverly. “And it’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Waverly.”
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. Veronica had to quash her sudden urge to giggle. There was something about the suave young man which reminded her of Alex, in his younger days.
“What do you have there, Mr Solo,” she asked him, hoping he hadn’t seen her blush.
“Chicken soup,” the CEA announced. “It’s an old Solo family recipe.”
“That looks like a restaurant take-out bag,” Mr Waverly stated, suspiciously.
“Exactly, Sir,” Napoleon confirmed. “Take one telephone, call in your order, and then pick it up. It’s a very traditional method.”
With Mrs Waverly’s assistance, Napoleon began to serve up the soup in one of the two bowls he’d brought with him, along with fresh warm bread, and a flask of tea.
“Mr Kuryakin is still sleeping, so best not dish his out just yet.”
“Give it a few minutes, Mrs Waverly,” Napoleon told her, with a slight chuckle. “I think you’ll witness the recovery of the century.”
Not a truer word was spoken as, five minutes later, Illya began to rouse from his slumber. He moaned softly as the pain from his shoulder assaulted him, then he stopped moving and wrinkled his nose. Without opening his eyes, he cautiously sniffed the air.
“Chicken soup?” he murmured.
“My word, Mr Solo. You were right.”
Once Illya wakened fully, and was given the go-ahead by his doctor, he was finally allowed some of the soup. After he’d finished, Mrs Waverly took his bowl from him before kissing him on the cheek. His blush could have lit the night sky, and he was too embarrassed to ask what had prompted the kiss. Fortunately, Mrs Waverly saw his confusion and explained.
“That was for saving my husband’s life,” she told him. “I’m not ready to lose him just yet.”
“I was just doing my job,” the agent mumbled in response.
“That’s as may be, but I’m sure that you don’t get thanked very often in your line of work.”
Illya was about to comment that, doing the job well was its own thanks, but was prevented by the arrival of a nurse. She was there to kick the visitors out, to allow the patients to rest. As Mrs Waverly said goodbye to her husband, Illya beckoned Napoleon over to him.
“I can’t stay in here with Mr Waverly,” he whispered. “Can’t you arrange for something else?”
“Sorry, Tovarisch, this is the work of a higher power,” Solo replied. “Mrs Waverly arranged it.”
He smiled at his partner’s look of absolute pleading.
“It’ll only be for tonight,” he reassured the Russian. “I would pretend to be asleep if I were you. You’ve done it many times before, in THRUSH cells.”
When Mrs Waverly and Napoleon had gone, Illya settled down for the most uncomfortable night of his life.
The End.
Word Count (approx.) – 864
It had been much too close, but thanks to the quick actions of his bodyguard, Alexander Waverly survived the assassination attempt. He had, however, been knocked unconscious after hitting the pavement, when the agent threw him out of the path of the oncoming bullet. His doctor had reassured his wife that he had already been awake a couple of times, and would be given a clean bill of health. Keeping him in medical overnight was merely precautionary. Veronica Waverly fussed with the midnight blue comforter she had brought him from home. It was tired and worn but, because she had made it, Alexander cherished it.
The other bed in the room was occupied by Mr Waverly’s saviour. Illya Kuryakin’s left shoulder had received the bullet meant for the head of U.N.C.L.E. North-west, and the man was sleeping peacefully following the surgery to remove it. Ordinarily, Mr Waverly would have had a private room, but Mrs Waverly insisted on having them in together, so she could watch over them both.
Opening his eyes, Mr Waverly smiled at his fretful wife. “Hello, my dear.”
“What have I told you about frightening me like this?” she admonished softly.
“I’m terribly sorry, Veronica. I didn’t ask to be shot at.”
“Luckily, you had young Mr Kuryakin with you.”
She went over to Illya’s bedside and began to rearrange his sheets. Waverly couldn’t help but smile at the sight. One of the many things he loved about Veronica was her abundantly caring nature. Whether it was bedraggled lost kittens or hardened U.N.C.L.E. agents, to her they were one in the same. He very much doubted Kuryakin would enjoy being the centre of his wife’s attention; nor would he relish sharing the room with his boss. Still, while he slept, he would be blissfully ignorant of it.
“How old did you say he is, Alex?
“Thirty-one.”
Mrs Waverly almost refused to believe that. The injured man looked so much younger, and appeared so angelic and innocent. Given his upbringing, that was quite an achievement. After brushing a stray hair from his forehead, she went back to sit by her husband. As she settled in the chair, Napoleon Solo entered the room with a large bag and a larger smile.
“It’s good to see you awake and uninjured, Sir,” he greeted Mr Waverly. “And it’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Waverly.”
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. Veronica had to quash her sudden urge to giggle. There was something about the suave young man which reminded her of Alex, in his younger days.
“What do you have there, Mr Solo,” she asked him, hoping he hadn’t seen her blush.
“Chicken soup,” the CEA announced. “It’s an old Solo family recipe.”
“That looks like a restaurant take-out bag,” Mr Waverly stated, suspiciously.
“Exactly, Sir,” Napoleon confirmed. “Take one telephone, call in your order, and then pick it up. It’s a very traditional method.”
With Mrs Waverly’s assistance, Napoleon began to serve up the soup in one of the two bowls he’d brought with him, along with fresh warm bread, and a flask of tea.
“Mr Kuryakin is still sleeping, so best not dish his out just yet.”
“Give it a few minutes, Mrs Waverly,” Napoleon told her, with a slight chuckle. “I think you’ll witness the recovery of the century.”
Not a truer word was spoken as, five minutes later, Illya began to rouse from his slumber. He moaned softly as the pain from his shoulder assaulted him, then he stopped moving and wrinkled his nose. Without opening his eyes, he cautiously sniffed the air.
“Chicken soup?” he murmured.
“My word, Mr Solo. You were right.”
Once Illya wakened fully, and was given the go-ahead by his doctor, he was finally allowed some of the soup. After he’d finished, Mrs Waverly took his bowl from him before kissing him on the cheek. His blush could have lit the night sky, and he was too embarrassed to ask what had prompted the kiss. Fortunately, Mrs Waverly saw his confusion and explained.
“That was for saving my husband’s life,” she told him. “I’m not ready to lose him just yet.”
“I was just doing my job,” the agent mumbled in response.
“That’s as may be, but I’m sure that you don’t get thanked very often in your line of work.”
Illya was about to comment that, doing the job well was its own thanks, but was prevented by the arrival of a nurse. She was there to kick the visitors out, to allow the patients to rest. As Mrs Waverly said goodbye to her husband, Illya beckoned Napoleon over to him.
“I can’t stay in here with Mr Waverly,” he whispered. “Can’t you arrange for something else?”
“Sorry, Tovarisch, this is the work of a higher power,” Solo replied. “Mrs Waverly arranged it.”
He smiled at his partner’s look of absolute pleading.
“It’ll only be for tonight,” he reassured the Russian. “I would pretend to be asleep if I were you. You’ve done it many times before, in THRUSH cells.”
When Mrs Waverly and Napoleon had gone, Illya settled down for the most uncomfortable night of his life.
The End.
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no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 02:59 pm (UTC)On another note, I think I got the wrong prompts on my story.
no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 03:25 pm (UTC)Being asleep hides the steel in Illya's expression. Saying that, he does a good line in innocent looks when he's awake.
You seem to have gone for todays prompt's for next week. Mistakes happen, especially when you have a flood over the weekend.
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Date: 2015-01-19 03:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 03:41 pm (UTC)This had a wonderful canon feel to it!
no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 06:53 pm (UTC)That's my kind of recipe. Get someone else to do it. Although, soup is one of the few things I can do.
no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 06:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-19 09:51 pm (UTC)Don't worry. I don't think he's safe from me yet :-)