MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary:
In which Illya’s vexation at long, boring solo missions are somewhat alleviated by coming home to Napoleon–and his cooking.

Notes:
There are two versions of this piece.  This is the light slash
version.  There is a gen version on my
dreamwidth if you’d prefer reading that.
The two blurbs are around 95% similar.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Illya had to admit that coming home to Napoleon’s cooking
was one of the few highlights of a day doing solo missions and tasks, even on a
cold, winter day like the one that had descended upon New York.  Napoleon never failed to surprise him; Illya
hadn’t expected a worldly, well-to-do person like Napoleon to be proficient in
a task like cooking when he could afford to eat food in the finest restaurants.  But Napoleon was a talented chef, and as
Illya announced his return home, he caught a whiff of a tantalizing carrot soup
on the stove.

“Ah, Illya, perfect timing,” Napoleon said, picking up some
of the orange soup in a soupspoon.
“Think you can give me your opinion on the seasoning of this soup?  I hope it didn’t end up too spicy…”

He gently held the soupspoon out to his partner, who took a
taste—it was spectacularly seasoned, as always, and Illya suspected it had been
less about that and more about making sure that he wasn’t uncomfortable from
being out in the winter wind.  If that
was Napoleon’s plan, then it was working perfectly; the warm soup seemed to
course through him, warming up his fingers that had been numb from the cold.

“It’s perfect, Napoleon,” he said.  “As always.”

“Great; then get out of that coat and warm up by the fire;
I’ll get you dinner.  I’ve got a
full-course meal here from soup to nuts!”

Illya grinned as he saw roasted chestnuts, roasted fish,
and a tossed salad on the coffee table in front of the fire.  Baba Yaga was sprawled out by the fireplace
with a piece of fish in her mouth, lazily nibbling on it.

Napoleon now sat down beside him with two bowls of soup,
handing one to him.  Illya now leaned
cozily against his partner.

“How was your day?” Napoleon asked, kissing him.

“Routine—but lonely without you,” Illya said, kissing him
back.  “But coming home to you makes it
all worthwhile.”

Napoleon smiled.

“Yeah, I like working with you, too—these solo adventures
take away from our quality time together.”

“At least they aren’t as often these days,” Illya
said.  He drank several spoonfuls of
soup.  “Napoleon, this is incredible.”

“You really like it?”

“Of course!  This
soup is so much better than anything I could have gotten in a restaurant—for
you make it with love.”

“Of course I do; I want you to have nothing but the best.”

Illya sighed contentedly—a rare sound, and a sound that
filled Napoleon with so much joy to hear.
He drew an arm around Illya, hugging him close to him.

“I can’t believe you’re really here with me…” he said,
sounding amazed.

“There are times when I can’t believe it, either—that I
have finally found a happiness that I had been searching for all these
years—and had not really expected to find, if I may be honest.  I did not think I would find love, and yet, I
did…”  He looked up into Napoleon’s eyes.  “I do not say it as often as I should—I don’t
wear my heart on my sleeve, as you know…. And I feel as though you know it
without my saying it…  But I love you so
much, Napoleon.”

Napoleon smiled and kissed him again.  

“I do know, just as I’m sure you do, too—that I love you,
too,” he replied.

He held up the soup bowl, and Illya held up his, and they
silently toasted with the soup bowls, drinking to each other, and their life
together.