Another New Year’s Eve
Expecting the
unexpected was the motto of spies everywhere.
With a little twitch of a near-grin, Napoleon Solo pondered the all too
true statement. Several other pithy
quotes about plans, plots and Murphy’s Law flitted through his mind as he
aimlessly paced alongside the windows of the small airport.
This would teach
him to make elaborate plans, he muttered under his breath and turned to pace
back in the direction of his partner.
Illya Kuryakin
seemed oblivious to any problems whatsoever.
Slumped in a chair, reading a newspaper, the Russian looked studiously
above the slight irritations of normal people.
With his dark-rimmed reading glasses, he looked the part of a brainy-PHD
in physics.
Glancing up from
the paper, he gave Solo a nod. Reaching
down by his feet, he picked up one of two Coka-cola bottles and lifted it to
the American.
“You seem
unsettled. Are you that anxious to
return to the cold?”
Of course
Kuryakin had no trouble reading his mannerisms or even his thoughts, Napoleon
wryly admitted. Lacking the energy to disavow
the comments, he shrugged. Drained of
energy and interest, he took the coke and slumped into the chair next to his
partner. Stuck on an island after their
little zombie affair with a nasty dictator who wanted to turn them into
monkeys, neither had any desire to join the partying throngs in and out of the
small airport building.
“You don’t want
to go out there and join the partying?” Illya asked, askance at the thought.
Who knew what
heathen dangers there would be in such a zombie-ridden culture? Two unsuspecting tourists could end up as
toads or any number of things, Illya had warned. After seeing voodoo in action, Solo could
only agree.
“No,” Napoleon
returned, amused that his rational, practical and so down-to-earth partner
could be so superstitious sometimes. “I
was just pondering life and the perplexities and complexities of planning
ahead.”
Taking a long
drink of coke, Illya eyed him suspiciously, and then his face cleared. “You forgot to break a date before we
left? There is always the communicator.”
Solo
laughed. “No -- uh -- kind of . . . .
see . . . . “How did he explain this?
And come clean he must or the persistent Russian would pester him to no
end. What was the point of
concealment? Illya would needle it out
of him eventually. “I had thought since
you were so generous at Thanksgiving -- with your excellent meal and everything
-- that I would try to -- uh -- kind of reciprocate with a New Year’s Eve
little get-together. A couple of girls
from Section Four and some – uh – well, something memorable for a celebratory
dinner.” {fanfic
– TURKEY SURPRISE}
For a moment, a
flash of incredulous amusement covered Kuryakin’s face, and then he quickly
sublimated it behind polite interest. “You? Were planning
-- I hope -- I mean -- you weren’t going to cook anything, were you?”
The American was wounded. “I CAN
cook, you know.”
In
a limited -- very limited -- degree. When he wanted to impress
a date he could get something together that seemed romantic and chic like
scrambled eggs with caviar and champagne.
Anything more elaborate he would have catered (which he would then place
on his own dinnerware) or just go out to a good restaurant. A few years back there had been a girl who
bought him some very nice cookware in an effort to elevate his skills in the
kitchen -- with the ultimate goal of domesticating him. It hadn’t worked, but she left the cookery
and that was what Illya had used last month to whip up an incredible and
unexpectedly delightful Thanksgiving dinner.
After taking
another sip of coke, Illya returned his attention to the paper. “A pity,” he mildly commented. The Kuryakin-touch wry tone was indication of
the humor and sarcasm bubbling just under the placid surface. “You will have to wait for another occasion
to attempt your one-upmanship. Perhaps my birthday?”
Miffed, Solo
instantly returned, “It was not one-upmanship.
I really was trying to attempt a little surprise -- and not my cooking!”
he finished when he saw the flit of a grin on Illya’s face. His own amusement soon filtered past the
irritation. “And if I pulled of a
triumph surpassing your own, well . . . .” he shrugged.
“I would like to
see you try,” Kuryakin countered with a smile.
Laughing, Solo
nodded. “Yeah, so would I.” With a sigh, he lifted his cola bottle. “Anyway, Fate has landed us here in yet
another airport on yet another holiday.
So here’s to another New Year’s Eve spy style.”
“Happy New Year,
Napoleon. And if it is any consolation,
it is always the thought that counts.
Perhaps, in this case, that is the best.”
“Ha, ha,” Solo
shook his head, trying to think of a good comeback. He hated to end the old year with his partner
winning in the constant game of one-upmanship they played.
Hoots, shouts,
laughter, firecrackers proclaimed he missed his chance.
“Happy Nineteen
Sixty-six,” Kuryakin wished, again raising his bottle for a toast. “May this year find us in the hospital less
than last year.”
“Absolutely.”
HAPPY NEW YEAR