Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Napoleon thinks he’s lost his prized antique ring.

Not crossposting this because I’m lazy again.

It was something to be said about the dangerous nature of
their work when Napoleon’s reaction to waking up in Medical was a groan of “Not
again…”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, as Napoleon
struggled to sit up.  “You successfully
destroyed the THRUSH satrap, and we are interrogating the prisoners now, but
you appear to have sustained a few bruised ribs and a rather nasty bump on the
head—not a concussion, thankfully.”

“Ah…  Well, it was quite a brawl,” Napoleon mused.  “I was trying to stall them as Illya set off
the explosives…”  He trailed off,
realizing there was a missing voice in the conversation.  “Illya!?
Where’s–!?”

“Look to your right, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon did so, sighing in relief as he saw Illya smiling
back at him in the next bed over.
Napoleon’s own smile faded as he got a good look at his partner—Illya
had a few burns, and he was breathing pure oxygen from a tank.

“It looks worse than it is,” Waverly assured him.  “The burns are superficial, and he did have a
bit of throat damage from smoke inhalation, but the doctors are confident that
he’ll recover completely.  He won’t be
able to talk until his throat heals, however.”

“You got caught in your own explosion?” Napoleon asked,
giving Illya a sympathetic look.

Illya shrugged with an It
could happen to anyone look.

“But not to you!
You’re a demolitions expert!  What
really happened in there while I was
knocked out?”  Napoleon looked back at
Waverly.  “I remember the brawl, and I
remember…”. He suddenly groaned, looking at his bare left hand.  “My ring…!
My gold ring with the star sapphire!
If fell off in the fight!”

He sighed now; the slight lapse in concentration at the
loss of his prized possession had cost him the fight—even though, prior to that
moment, he’d been holding his own despite being surrounded.  He had been subsequently knocked out.

“I don’t suppose a sweep has been done of the wreckage of
the satrap?” he asked, glumly.  Deep down,
he knew there was a very good chance that the ring had melted in the heat of
the fire, but he wasn’t going to give up without searching for it.

“It’s ongoing as we speak,” Waverly said, getting up.  “You’ll be informed of what was
recovered.  In the meantime, I suggest
that the two of you recover
posthaste.”

“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon said, as Illya nodded.

Satisfied, Waverly took his leave of them, and Napoleon
laid back on his pillow, sighing as he glanced up at the ceiling.

“Ma gave me that ring before I had to leave for Korea,” he
said.  “It was an antique that someone
gave her to give to me when I was a few days old.  I always considered it my good luck
charm…  That ring was probably the source
of Solo Luck.”

Illya cleared his throat quietly, and Napoleon turned to
him—and then stared as he saw Illya’s hand outstretched, with the ring in his
hand.

“My ring!” Napoleon exclaimed, taking it from him.

Yes, it was the genuine ring—down to the inscription in the
interior of the band: L. M., 6/26/1870.  With a sigh of relief, Napoleon placed it back
on his little finger.

“How did you find it?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged casually, and Napoleon paused as something
sunk in.  The burns and smoke inhalation
that Illya had suffered—he shouldn’t have gotten caught in the ensuing fire of
the explosion by stopping to get Napoleon out of there…  The only way he could have had sustained that
much damage from the fire would have been if he had gone back inside to
retrieve something…

“You…  You… blockhead!” Napoleon exclaimed,
temporarily stealing Illya’s insult of choice.
“You went back for the ring!?”

Illya glanced at him with a soft expression that clearly
read, I know how much it means to
you.  I had to try.

Napoleon’s heart twisted; Illya was in this condition just
because of the ring.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” he said.  “Because I do.  But don’t you ever do anything like that
again!”  His expression softened now.  “You know you mean more to me than some
antique ring.”

Illya just smiled back and gave him a promising nod;
satisfied, Napoleon relaxed and began to entertain his companion as they both
rested and recovered.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Illya’s legendary appetite is known well enough for him to get requests to judge a bake-off.  Napoleon just wonders how he does it.

Not crossposting this because I’m lazy again.

Napoleon stared glumly at the gray, overcast skies over New
York.  Their first day off in a long time
seemed to be holding the promise of rain, scrapping the plans for a Central
Park picnic lunch that he had been hoping to arrange for him and Illya.  Their cat, Baba Yaga also looked irked at the
cloud cover, which had preempted her plans of lazing in a sunbeam all morning;
she sat on the windowsill, tail lashing in frustration.

But Napoleon was a resourceful person; he was already
trying to come up with alternatives when he heard a knock on the door.  Out of habit as an agent; he checked who it
was first, and was surprised to see a group of girl scouts from Troupe 144
outside the apartment door.

“Good morning,” he offered, as he opened the door.

“Good morning,” one of the scouts said.  “Is Mr. Kuryakin in?”

“Yes, he’s just finishing breakfast,” Napoleon said.  He turned towards the breakfast nook.  “Illya, you’ve got company!”  He turned back to the scouts.  “I didn’t think it was cookie season…”

“It’s not,” another one of the girls said.  “We wanted to ask Mr. Kuryakin about
something else…”  She trailed off as
Illya arrived.  “Hi, Mr. Kuryakin!”

The girls all greeted him, and Illya returned the
greetings.

“What brings you out here?” he queried.

“It’s time for our annual charity bake-off,” the lead scout
reminded him.  “Remember?  You asked us to let you know when we were
going to have it.”

“Oh, that’s right, I did,” Illya mused.

“We’ve had a bit of trouble getting things set up,” a
second scout said.  “First of all,
because of the storm coming, we had to move it inside the community center near
West Side—the one near the old gym.”

“Ah, yes, next to the old building that smells of chlorine
swimming pools,” Illya said, frowning slightly.
“Not the best place for a bake-off, but seeing as though you’ll be
rained out otherwise, not much of a choice…”

“We’re also out one judge,” the first scout said.  “That’s why we came here to see you—do you
think you can judge the bake-off, Mr. Kuryakin?
We thought of you because we know you appreciate food—you’re the one who
buys most of our cookies each year.”

“You hit the nail on the head there,” Napoleon grinned,
looking at his partner.  “Illya is a
connoisseur of all kinds of foods.”

“Da, I am,” Illya
said.  “When is your bake-off?”

“In an hour,” a third scout said, sheepishly.  “Sorry for the late notice, but our judge
just quit on us.”

“Well, Mr. Kuryakin did just finish breakfast right now,”
Napoleon began, but Illya cut him off.

“I am more than happy to step in as judge for you,” he
said.  “I’ll be at the community center
in an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kuryakin!” the girls chorused, and they headed
back outside where their chaperone was waiting with the car.

“…You literally just ate,” Napoleon said.  “How are you going to be able to judge the
bake-off?”

“I am their best customer, Napoleon; I must help them!”

“…In America, the customer is the one who is served.”

“Da, but I am a
Soviet—we share all burdens and help each other.”

“…You just want to sample those cookies and cakes.”

Illya went slightly red.

“I’ll see you after the bake-off, Napoleon.”

“Ready for lunch, no doubt,” Napoleon smirked, as Illya
darted out the door.  He sighed and
looked to Baba Yaga.  “Where does it all
go?”

“Mrrah?”

“You don’t know, either, hmm?”

“Mreh.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,”
Napoleon teased.

At any rate, he had an idea for what to do now—Illya would,
no doubt, find a way to be ready for lunch even after judging the
bake-off.  And Napoleon still had plans
for a picnic… but having one indoors.

“A gourmet picnic,” he mused aloud.  “In the comfort of our apartment.  …Honestly, what could be better?”

It was promising to be an enjoyable day after all.