The prompt was a photo: a small cake with a birthday candle
RAIN AND FIRE
The rain had been falling since morning and though he couldn't hear it, he knew that it was still raining, he felt it. Rain could be a pleasant thing. A summer rain, refreshing the air, washing all the dust of the day... This was a gray, persistent, dark, boring, cold rain. Treacherous. It looked like to be a simple drizzle, a mist. Then, just a few steps later, you were damp, soaked, drenched, like a drowned rat. And you were cold, so cold. And alone.
Of course, he was not. Damp, soaked, drenched, like a drowned rat, cold. His office was warm and brightly lit. And deserted. Suddenly, he burst into a bitter laughter. It was so stupid. All he had to do was to go out of this room, to prowl around. In no time, he would find a willing prey, take her out for dinner. He did that, usually, for years.
His partner hadn't shown up for days, eleven days. No, twelve.
The rain had been falling since morning, and it was still raining. The gray, persistent, dark, boring cold rain, filling the evening air with a deafening lapping. Heavy drops hammering, continuously. And as he walked along the sidewalk, he was damp, soaked, drenched. Like a drowned rat.
Beyond the gray curtain of water, the city was engulfed in black. He sighed, shook his head, and went back in his living room, cursing himself for being such a traditionalist. His partner was fine. He had fulfilled his assignment, and would be back soon. Soon, but too late. Napoleon Solo chuckled, as he vowed never to tell his friend about this. Illya Kuryakin would raise his eyebrows, looking at him with an amused compassion, and probably mutter something about American sentimentality. He was shivering and headed towards his bathroom, when a familiar ringing gave him a start. What the hell...? He got his gun and came up to the door, silently. No more ringing, just silence. The Uncle agent lit off, unlocked the door, and took some steps back, aiming at the unexpected visitor.
A faint, quivering light appeared.
A small, pink candle.
A small cake.
A blond Russian partner, concentrating on protecting the flame. A smile. Twinkling blue eyes.
"-Needless to say, Napoleon, at this time of the night, it was not easy to get a more convenient cake..."
"Illya? Waverly told me that..."
Illya Kuryakin put his burden on the table, and turned toward him.
"One year, Napoleon. Just one year, today. Would I have missed it?"