Chapter Text
Illya walked down the creaking stairs. He ducked just in time not to hit his head on the very low door frame out of the staircase. He stepped into the kitchen and there was a chicken sleeping in the bread basket in the middle of the big wooden dining table. He frowned, walked to the table and picked the chicken up. It woke, flapped its wings furiously, cackled loudly. Illya kept his hold, tucked it under his arm, opened the door to the yard, and threw the chicken out. He brushed a few feathers off his shirt and started making his coffee.
He had only sat down when a rattle on the corner alerted him. His gun was in the holster and his hand already grabbed it when the chicken toddle across the kitchen floor, hurtled in the air, landed on the table and hopped back in the bread basket.
Illya sighed, annoyed, put his gun back, threw the chicken out again and went to watch where it had come in. There was hole in the wall right next to the old cupboard. He pushed a heavy wooden chest in front of it.
He didn’t wonder anymore why the farmhouse was abandoned and free for them to use in their mission; it was falling apart. Everything creaked and rattled, there were holes on the walls and a chicken on the table. Again. Illya squinted at it. He couldn’t understand how it had managed to get in this time. He took his gun, sat down and aimed at the chicken. It fluffed its brown feathers in the bread basket. Illya’s eyes narrowed. It was useless to threaten a creature which didn’t know what a gun was. He put his gun away, crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head, annoyed. There were probably a dozen ways into the house if you were chicken sized; it was just easier to let it sit on the bread basket.
So he grabbed yesterday’s newspaper they had brought with them and sipped his coffee.
Gaby came into the kitchen. She was still wearing her pajamas. She had a cardigan on top of that and thick wool socks on her feet. Her hair was messy and she looked like she was cold. She stopped at the door and pointed at the table. “What is that?”
Illya glanced at her from behind his paper and then at the table. “Chicken.”
Gaby frowned and her shoulders slumped when she sighed. “Well, I know that. Why there is a chicken on the table?”
“It likes it there,” Illya said and returned to his paper.
“It’s not very hygienic,” Gaby said and looked the chicken unhappily. “Could you throw it out?”
“It won’t stay there,” Illya muttered.
“Illya, please,” Gaby asked. “Get rid of the chicken.”
He sighed, but stood up, grabbed the chicken and threw it out. “Better?” Illya asked and sat back down.
“Yes. Thank you,” Gaby said and poured herself coffee. She gasped when the chicken ran across the floor and, frantically flapping its wings, flew back in the bread basket. A few white and brown feathers slowly fell on the floor.
“I told you so,” Illya muttered and turned the page on his newspaper.
“How did it get back inside?” Gaby huffed.
“There are holes in the walls,” Illya said.
“Threw it out again,” Gaby told and pointed at the door like a tiny queen giving orders.
“It won’t stay out,” Illya sighed and looked at Gaby. “I have tried. You can try yourself if you want.”
“Fine,” Gaby said tightly and approached the table. She reached towards the chicken. It made a clucking noise and Gaby pulled her hands back.
Illya, who had been looking her under his brows, held his smile. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“No,” Gaby said firmly and glared at Illya. She reached again towards the chicken and grabbed it clumsily. The chicken cackled, flapped its wings in panic, Gaby shrieked and let go of it. The chicken returned to the bread basket.
Illya pressed his lips tightly together and cleared his throat. “Was that the first time you touched a chicken?” he inquired and tried not to look too amused.
“I lived in the city,” Gaby explained annoyed. “I have always lived in the city. I was a ballerina and a mechanic and now an agent. There has never been any reason for me to go anywhere near chickens.” Napoleon stepped in and Gaby pointed at the chicken. “Could you please throw that chicken out?”
Napoleon went to the coffee pot and glanced the chicken over his shoulder. “I’m not going to touch that filthy animal,” he said. “Peril?”
“It won’t stay out,” Illya said.
“I hate that chicken,” Gaby announced, took her coffee and left the kitchen.
Napoleon looked after her and sat at the table. “Why there is a chicken on the table?” he asked and turned to face Illya.
“It is countryside,” Illya muttered absent-mindedly.
***
Illya stepped in the kitchen and stretched his back slightly. The beds in the rickety farmhouse were terrible. The chicken was sleeping in the bread basket as he started to make the coffee. Illya took the brown paper bag from the counter and cut a piece of bread. The chicken hopped out of the bread basket they couldn’t use for actual bread and took a few steps on the table. Illya glanced it quickly and turned back to look closer. He walked to the table and took an egg from the basket.
Gaby walked slowly in, poured herself cup of coffee and looked at what Illya was doing. “Didn’t we use the last eggs last night?” she asked. “Where did you get that?” she pointed at the egg frying in the pan.
Illya nodded towards the table, Gaby glanced there and her face first sank and then tightened and her eyes narrowed when the chicken was sitting in the bread basket. “Of course,” she muttered and went to sit in the chair furthest from the chicken. She watched Illya crush the eggshell in his palm and set the little pile on the table. “What are you doing?” she asked, frowning.
“The chicken needs the calcium,” Illya said. “For the shells.”
“How you know that?” Gaby wondered.
“I just know,” Illya said and went back to the stove.
Gaby sipped her coffee and glared at the chicken pecking at the pieces of eggshell. “There isn’t even a henhouse here,” Gaby pointed out annoyed. “There is no reason why there would be a chicken. It’s some weird wild chicken.”
Illya hummed and put the egg on top of his bread and went to the table to eat. He crumbled some bread crust for the chicken.
Gaby watched his doings. “Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?” she asked.
“Why?” Illya asked.
“To get inside the house to annoy me,” Gaby said between her teeth.
The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched when he glanced at Gaby under his brows.
***
Gaby yawned as she walked down the creaking stairs and stepped in the kitchen. She wrapped the cardigan tighter around her and shivered. It was cold in the mornings. She had slept wretchedly and was awake even before Illya. Gaby stopped on the floor and scowled at the chicken. It was sleeping and Gaby determinedly returned upstairs and to her room, grabbed her gun and went back to the kitchen. She aimed at the chicken, both hands on the gun, cocked it, and narrowed her eyes.
“What are doing?” Illya asken from the door.
Gaby turned to look at him. “Breakfast,” she said.
Illya shook his head. “Stop aiming at the chicken.”
“I’m going to eat it,” Gaby claimed.
“Are you going to prepare it too?” Illya wanted to know and lifted his eyebrows. “You can not even pick it up.” He went to the table, picked the chicken up, tucked it under his arm and Gaby was annoyed how still the chicken stayed. Illya took the egg from the bread basket. “Here. You can make breakfast from this. It is not going to fight back.”
Gaby glared Illya, lowered her gun. “I don’t want your egg,” she said and lifted her chin.
“Do you want coffee?” Illya asked and put the chicken back on the table. “I can make it. Do not shoot the chicken.”
Gaby looked Illya’s back, displeased, and then at the chicken standing in middle of the table. “Why you don’t mind that the chicken is on the table?” Gaby asked. “It’s not hygienic.”
“There are several holes in the wall that go straight outside,” Illya pointed out, preparing the coffee. “The chicken is least of your worries. You should be worried about the rats.”
“There’s rats?” Gaby asked her eyes wide.
“Probably,” Illya muttered.
“I’m going to go across the street to the marks and blow our cover so we have to leave,” Gaby announced.
“If you must,” Illya muttered.
Gaby shook her head “I don’t understand how you are so calm. If there was a chicken on the table of the HQ you would be annoyed.”
“We are in the countryside. I think the chicken is fitting,” Illya said. “Why it is annoying you so much?”
“Because it’s standing in the middle of the table,” Gaby said with a high pitched and annoyed voice, and pointed the chicken. “You keep feeding it. I have to make my own sandwich.”
Illya stopped what he was doing and looked at Gaby over his shoulder. “Are you… jealous… of the chicken?”
“No,” Gaby huffed like it was the stupidest thing to suggest. “I’m just saying that it can do things you wouldn’t let me do. You wouldn’t let me stand on the table.”
“You can stand on the table,” Illya assured her and continued making the coffee, “when you can lay eggs,” he muttered and smiled to himself. He could only imagine the glare he was getting from Gaby.
***
Napoleon barely dodged the bullet and shot back. His gun clicked empty. “We need to get out,” he shouted when the guns were blazing and it was hard to hear. He was tired. They all were, long day had turned into a long night and now it was dawn again.
“The kitchen door,” Illya, whose bullets had run out too, said and turned to Gaby. “Do you have ammo?”
Gaby gave him her gun and stepped behind him after giving her gun away.
Illya fired a few times. “We need to go before we are out of ammo.” He pulled the magazine out quickly and pushed it back in.
Napoleon glanced his tense expression. “How many?”
“Four,” Illya said and gritted his teeth. “There are five men.”
“The gas stove,” Gaby said and Illya and Napoleon both glanced at her and then at each other.
“Get ready to run,” Illya said and took a better grip on the gun.
“Behind the tractor,” Napoleon said.
“Ready?” Illya asked and glanced at Gaby, who nodded hastily. He fired towards the men and after the first shot stepped forward from behind the doorframe; he could aim better but was a better target too. Gaby and Napoleon ran behind him, along the narrow corridor towards the kitchen. Illya fired two more times, that was all he had to spare, and ran after them.
The chicken cackled and flapped its wings when they stormed in the kitchen and straight through the door so that it hit against the wall with a loud crash. They ran behind the old tractor in the middle of the yard, the air smelled of morning dew. Illya steadied the gun against the metal and aimed through the open kitchen door, not at the man running into the kitchen but the pipes of the gas stove. He fired and ducked just before the kitchen blew up and parts of wood and metal exploded through the yard and hit against the tractor. He huddled with Gaby where they squatted behind the rusty piece of junk metal and thick tires. They all stayed quiet when the noise stopped and listened for sounds of life.
“I think we got them,” Napoleon finally dared to suspect and sat better on the ground.
“We are out of ammo,” Illya reminded him and sat next to him. “So let’s hope so.”
Gaby took a deep breath and peeked over the big tire. “I can’t see anybody up, half of the house is gone” she said. Gaby shrieked loudly, startling Illya and Napoleon, when the chicken flew over her head, almost hitting her, and landed on the tractor tire. Its tail feathers were little charred but otherwise it looked unharmed. Gaby slumped back on the ground. “How is that chicken alive?” she asked totally amazed, frowning and out of breath from the fright. “Did you teach it some KGB survival skills?” she asked, turning to face Illya.
“It is a good chicken,” Illya praised.
“It’s very convenient to always have fresh eggs,” Napoleon muttered and examined his ripped cuff.
“I’m saying this only once,” Gaby said. “We are not keeping the chicken. It’s either me or it.”
“Well, it’s decided then,” Napoleon sighed and stood up. “We should leave before the place is full of people and we need to explain what we were doing here. And why the house is in flames. Peril, grab the chicken.”
Illya’s mouth twitched when he got up and reached his hand to Gaby and pulled her up while she scowled Napoleon. “We are not going to leave you behind,” he promised almost gently and let Gaby’s hand go. “And eventually you will learn to respect the chicken.”
Napoleon grinned.
“No,” Gaby moaned frustrated. “This isn’t funny. We are not keeping it. Illya, don’t pick it up. Put it down. Please, put the chicken down.”