Illya shivered as he lay underneath a pile of blankets on his bed. This horrible case of the flu had turned even the stoic Russian into a quivering mass of misery. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this sick. His head felt as if it were about to explode, and his throat felt as if it had been scratched by sandpaper. He recalled numerous bouts of tonsillitis as a child in which his throat had hurt so badly that he could hardly swallow, and this seemed even worse by comparison.
Suddenly he heard the doorbell. The last thing in the world he felt like doing right now was getting out of bed, but it might be an important visitor, so he grabbed his warmest robe and, with difficulty, shoved his feet into a pair of threadbare slippers and made his way to the door, grabbing his special and slipping it into the waistband of his pajamas in back just in case there was trouble.
As soon as he opened the door, he saw Napoleon holding a big pot from which a delicious aroma wafted and felt his mouth water in anticipation.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside so that his friend could enter the small apartment.
"Waverly told me you called in sick this morning, so I brought over a little something to make you feel better." Napoleon carried the pot to the stove and sat it on one of the front eyes. "It's Aunt Amy's special recipe. I hope you like it."
"Spasibo," said Illya. "It was very kind of you to think of me."
He'd already begun to feel terribly dizzy, so he hastily pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Napoleon served up the soup, which was a tasty combination of boiled chicken, noodles, sliced carrots, and celery, with garlic and spices added.
Illya savored the taste as he sampled the first spoonful, and the warmth of the soft food sliding down his throat soothed the scratchiness. "It is delicious," he told his friend.
"When I was a child and got sick, my mother used to always make this soup for me," Napoleon said. "Aunt Amy gave her the recipe, and then she in turn gave it to me."
Illya smiled, picturing Napoleon as a scruffy little boy with unruly brown hair and a smudged face. "It is the best soup I have ever tasted," he replied.
Napoleon stayed and visited for awhile and then had to leave. Illya felt much better after eating Aunt Amy's soup. He went back to bed and slept for most of the rest of the day.
Several days later, he felt well enough to return to work.
"Good to see you back," Napoleon remarked as the two passed in the hallway.
"Spasibo," Illya replied. "It is good to be back."
"Any of that soup left?"
Illya grinned. "Nyet."
Napoleon laughed. "I didn't think there would be."
"You know me too well," Illya replied.