It hits him quite suddenly one afternoon during the dog days of summer, when the air is thick and golden and heavy with sunset's approach, that he's happier than he can ever remember being. Nothing of particular note has happened recently – just the normal running of the bakery, weekend socializing, and the occasional Event – and nothing of particular note is happening now. There's absolutely no reason to feel so content, but he does. He's in Gaby's kitchen making omelettes when the thought occurs, and he nearly flips the eggs right out of the pan. He catches them just in time and tries to contain his grimace, but something must show.
"Close one," Illya comments drily, and Napoleon scowls at him.
"If you'd like to take over, you only have to say so."
Illya scowls back, but there's no steel behind it. Illya's real scowls can practically cut through rock. Without the sheer laser-like hatred, the expression looks more like fond exasperation, and Napoleon's whole chest gets warm. He grins, and Illya smiles back – it's a small smile, not much more than a slight twist at the corner of his lips, but it's unexpected and lovely enough to send his heart skittering.
Gaby's sitting on the counter beside them, shamelessly eating the leftover toppings with her hands. Diced bell pepper, shredded cheese, sautéed mushrooms – nothing is safe from her, no matter how shortly they'll be eating. "Who decided we should have omelettes for dinner, anyway?" she asks out of nowhere. "They're a breakfast food."
"That doesn't mean they can only be eaten for breakfast," Napoleon argues, swirling the pan before flipping again. "Besides, breakfast for dinner is a wonderful American tradition. Peril, what kind of cheese for you?"
"Cheddar, but not like you put on Gaby's. That is far too much cheese for one person."
Gaby sticks her tongue out at him, but Napoleon snatches the bowl of cheddar before she can steal another handful.
"I would have made pancakes, you know," he goes on, sprinkling the cheese over Illya's omelette, "if someone hadn't thrown a fit."
"Pancakes aren't real food," Illya insists, exasperated. "They are dessert, not dinner."
"Peril, I'm surprised at you. Perfectly shocked, really. That you would so insult pancakes when they're not even here to defend themselves…" He tuts disapprovingly. Illya rolls his eyes and turns away to finish setting the table, but not before Napoleon sees another smile trying to get out. "It's just too easy," he stage-whispers at Gaby.
"It's a miracle he hasn't locked you in a freezer yet," Gaby mutters back.
"That you know of," Illya says blandly, setting down silverware.
Napoleon winks at Gaby, then folds the omelette and slides it onto its waiting plate.
He's not particularly good at being happy, but with these two around, he'll have plenty of time to practice.
I wrote this back in December as part of a "short story celebration" that marked the third birthday of takingoffmyshoes fanfic. As a thank-you to everyone who'd supported me and encouraged me, I spent two weeks taking writing requests on tumblr, and then posted the finished stories first to tumblr, and then to my AO3 account in February. I initially wasn't going to post them here, but then I thought why not? You guys have been just as kind and encouraging here, and I'll make sure to open up requests on this site as well when December rolls around again.
Title (and some imagery) from Florence + The Machine's "Dog Days Are Over."
Omelettes brought to you by the fact that I have made SO MANY FRICKIN' OMELETTES while working at the dining hall.
In my mind, this is like part 4.5 of the bakery AU, but it doesn't spoil anything that may or may not be slated to happen
As always, thank you for reading! Any feedback you'd like to leave is welcomed and appreciated.