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Napoleon knew how to cook dishes. Not the things that Gaby once put on her rickety table back in East Germany, but real, actual dishes that tasted like they belonged in a Michelin star restaurant and not sitting on their new dining room table. She had to fight herself from moaning every single time she took a bite, and even then it was a challenge, because some of the things he cooked were absolutely sublime.
Whenever Illya ate Napoleon’s food, there was always a strict routine involved. The food would be placed in front of him, and he would eat it without complaint. When it was done, he would take his plate to the kitchen and wash it, not commenting until he had finished.
When he did comment, however, it was always something along the lines of you are a terrible cook, Cowboy or that was decent enough. Gaby knew that he didn’t actually want Napoleon to be offended by his criticism, and she knew Napoleon knew this too, because every time Illya insulted his cooking, he would beam like he had just received the highest praise available. Illya did not look insulted at this fact either. Instead, he just continued with whatever he was doing before dinner rudely interrupted him, and got straight back to it.
This was how every night played out, and Gaby was determined to change it.
She could see the way the two of them had been stepping around each other, determined not to put a foot out of place and disrupt the perfect balance that they had created. That was just not done, especially for an American art thief and a Russian spy. Illya and Gaby were in this almostsortofcouldbe relationship, and Napoleon was determined to respect it, even if the boundaries weren’t clearly established. And as of yet, Napoleon did not know how to share.
Gaby, on the other hand, knew how to share very well. Napoleon was obviously very handsome, and very kind to her, and so it was almost her duty to make sure that he got exactly what he wanted, even if he didn’t know it yet. Because what he wanted, was also what she wanted.
Here was where her dinner plan came in.
Napoleon was always the one to cook for them, so if one night, he was not allowed to, who would cook them? Well, the task would be left to Gaby and Illya, and they would have to create a dish for a man who could cook food that could be served to Gods. And it was from this experiment that Gaby could discern whether Illya really liked Napoleon in the way that she felt he did.
If Illya was worried about every little aspect, about how perfect it must be, then surely. Surely he felt the same way for Napoleon as Gaby did. Surely, this whole dinner affair could end in a rather pleasant, but sweaty way.
She began her experiment like this.
“You are not allowed to cook for us tonight.”
“And why ever not?” Napoleon peered over his newspaper, staring intently at her.
“Because it is our turn to cook for you.”
“And who is us?”
Napoleon was always cut out to be a spy, and he picked up on her wording almost instantaneously, turning his head so that he was looking at Illya too.
“I do not wish to cook for you, Cowboy.” Illya’s voice was determined, but she was not going to give up that easily. However, Napoleon beat her to it.
“Do you think you have a choice in the matter, Peril? It looks like Gaby has made up her mind, and I think you might just have to go along with her plan, no?” When Illya looked over at her, she knew that she had won. He slumped his shoulders back and mumbled something in Russian, getting up off the couch.
“Почему бы и я не могу сказать, не для вас?” Illya grumbled, rolling his eyes subtly, before moving towards the doorway. Gaby glanced at Napoleon, who was trying to hide his laughter behind his newspaper.
“Come on then,” she said cheerfully, setting a brisk pace as she strolled out of their apartment, enjoying the fresh air on her skin and the presence of her 6’5 Russian bodyguard at her side. He did not smile once on the walk to the market, which was quite disappointing, but he did not look unhappy to be outside, which was definitely a win in her book.
“What are you going to cook for Cowboy then?” Illya broke the silence with his question, which was enough to make Gaby believe that, yes, he was definitely interested in making this dish as perfect as he could.
“We are going to be cooking something that I have not yet figured out what it is supposed to be, and when we get to the market, you will help me figure that out. But, what I do know is that it will be absolutely perfect, make no mistake.” She smiled at him, but instead of smiling back, he began to frown.
“Do you know how to cook, chop-shop girl?” Gaby’s smile did not waver from her face, but inside she felt her whole plan crumble to pieces. She didn’t actually know how to cook.“Do you know how to cook?”
“No. In Russia we do not need to know how to cook. Women cook.” Illya was sharp and to the point, and she knew that she had forgotten so many variables when she was coming up with her plan, and that was a grievous miscalculation on her part. How were they going to be able to cook something superb for Napoleon if neither of them knew how to cook?
When Illya saw the look on her face, which had turned into some sort of twisted disappointment, he smiled this soft little smile, which made her heart warm a little to see. It wasn’t every day that she saw him smile, and so this must have been a special occasion.
“I assume by your look, chop-shop girl, that you do not know how to cook either. Do not worry. We shall find a recipe and make a perfect dish for Cowboy.”
And there it was. The understanding that maybe Illya felt the same for Napoleon as she did. The example of a perfect dish, something that he had been serving to them every single night since they moved in together, and the need to reciprocate that, if only for a night. Yes, she and Illya were on the same page, and she straightened her back with new resolve. She would make this dish perfect, or as perfect as she could manage.
Napoleon had not moved since the time Gaby and Illya left and the time they returned, except to exchange his newspaper for a novel, one he had picked up in Paris. It was quite a good novel too, with the heroine saving the hero for once. He had not actually read anything like it before, and he was looking forward to the ending, where hopefully the heroes of the story would finally break the tension in the air and kiss. However, tonight, he was not going to get to read the ending of the tale, because of the noises that were coming out of the kitchen.
“I KNOW HOW TO FRY A SAUSAGE CHOP-SHOP GIRL!”
“YOU CALL THIS FRIED? THIS IS BLACK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”
There were two voices going at each other, and in the back of his head, there was a realisation that maybe he should have tried to ease them into the art of cooking, instead of planting them headfirst into it and hoping that they could do it as well as he could.
Well, it wasn’t actually his idea at least. This one was all on Gaby, and although that should have been a relief, it was still probably going to be his arse on the chopping block when they eventually came out to ask him for help.He pretended to be engrossed in his book, when really he was listening to the sounds of arguing drifting through the apartment. It comforted him more than he would ever care to admit, this sound of domesticity, and it reminded him of the way his mother would bicker with anyone and everyone who was around her over the smallest of things. It reminded him of home.
“I TOLD YOU THAT I COULDN’T COOK ILLYA!”
“YOU NEVER SAID IT!”
“JUST BECAUSE I ONLY IMPLIED IT DOESN’T MEAN I DIDN’T SAY IT!”
“YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN CLEARER!”
It was now, when Napoleon realised that maybe he needed to get up and save them from their misery, and hopefully salvage his own dinner. He was quite hungry after all.
“Do you folks need any help in here?” He said politely, leaning against the doorframe.
Gaby and Illya turned in sync and shot daggers at him, a resounding “NO” echoing through the apartment.
It was then that the scent of smoke filled Napoleon’s nose, and he knew exactly what had happened. He knew that there was a smoke detector in this apartment, and even though he didn’t know precisely how it worked, he knew that it wasn’t long until it went off, and he definitely knew that that would make a racket.
Instead of actually asking Illya if he could help them, he moved swiftly past the large Russian man and into the kitchen, grabbing a tea-towel as he went. The moment he was anywhere near the burning food on the saucepan, he began to flap the tea-towel around wildly, hoping that that would push the smoke away from the smoke detector.
Both Illya and Gaby were looking at the scene with puzzlement, as they could not determine what the hell Napoleon thought he was doing waving a tea-towel around like that. It was Illya though, who first asked what the hell Napoleon thought he was doing.
“Do not flap tea-towel around Cowboy. That will not salvage meal.”
Napoleon just rolled his eyes and continued to flap the tea-towel, waiting for the smoke alarm to go off so that the two other people in the kitchen would be frightened.
“Yes Napoleon, what on earth do you think-” Gaby was quite rudely cut off by the smoke alarm finally going off, emitting shrill, punctuated beeps every few seconds. Once the alarm went off, Napoleon realised that the wild flapping of the tea-towel was going to do nothing more, and the only thing left to do would be to smash the alarm to stop it from making any more annoying sounds. If it was anything like a lot of the alarms he had worked with in the past, that was the only thing that was sure to work.
He glanced over at Illya, noticing that he had sprung into a defensive position and was searching around the room for the source of the beeping.“Bomb?”
Napoleon just shook his head, trying to contain his laughter.
“No Peril, it’s a smoke alarm,” he said, moving over to the pantry and rummaging through it, looking for a broom of some sort that he could use to smash the smoke alarm in. Once he found it, he moved back over so that he was standing underneath the smoke alarm, and pushed the broom up. The moment the broom made contact with the smoke alarm, the shrill beeping stopped, leaving behind only a faint ringing in Napoleon’s ears.
Illya still looked defensive, and Gaby had a pained sort of look on her face, which could either be from the fact that her dinner was much burnt or the fact that she had to put up with that shrill beeping for the last few seconds. And it was painstakingly obvious that only a few seconds of that smoke alarm beeping was enough to last a lifetime.
“So then,” Napoleon said, breaking the silence, “Dinner? My treat.”
Illya and Gaby scowled at him in sync, before Gaby nodded at him subtly.“This was supposed to be perfect,” she murmured in German.
“And it still will be perfect, Miss Teller. It will just be perfect at a fancy restaurant that I will treat you too,” Napoleon said cheerfully, holding out his arm. “Shall we?”
Gaby reluctantly took Napoleons arm, before she held her free hand out to Illya. “Come on then,” she said with a huff, dragging Napoleon to the door. “This restaurant better be good.”
Illya followed, his face blank, but Napoleon could tell that the man was smiling underneath. He just didn’t like to smile on his face, for he had more intimate ways of showing it.
“Well,” Napoleon began, when they got out onto the humid streets, “I guess we have all learnt our lesson, no?”
“And what lesson is that, Cowboy?”
“Neither you nor Gaby is ever to cook again, unless you want another smoke alarm going off.”
For that comment, he earned a slap from Gaby and one of the heartiest laughs he had ever heard from a Russian.