The things that enter my brain when I should be sleeping...
What can you do?
;)
"What is that english saying?" Illya looks up from his book, one pale eyebrow arched. There is a barely veiled hint of judgement lurking in his voice. "One cannot teach an old dog new tricks?"
Napoleon expression morphs into one of suspicion. "I believe so, yes."
"You are rather like that dog." Illya lowers his novel, blue eyes sharp with what could either be cynical amusement or just plain fact. They are sitting by the fire, snow falling outside.
"How so?" Napoleon frowns, crossing his arms.
Inwardly, the Russian is trying not to laugh. His partner's face is the picture of careful confusion. Needling Napoleon has become a past-time. It is hardly as if the American didn't fight back.
And it isn't as if Illya's observation isn't true.
"No matter what we are doing, you always end up putting your foot in it."
Napoleon looks offended now, though not angry. "I'll have you know, most of the time your foot is next to mine, Illya."
"Perhaps I should stop following your lead then."
"Perhaps you should keep those nasty thoughts to yourself."
"Says the capitalist."
Napoleon snorts. "I'm not a capitalist."
"You are American."
"That's like saying a Frenchman's a romantic just because he lives in Paris!"
Illya cannot keep in his laughter any longer. Napoleon endures his mirth like a oak tree in a storm, a long-suffering look on his face, but Illya can see the little sparkle lurking at the corners of his eyes.
"Frenchmen are romantics," he manages to say after he has exhausted himself somewhat.
"Not all of them." Napoleon thinks this over, then grins. "I suppose that was a rather bad metaphor, huh?"
"Yes it was."
A companionable silence follows, and Illya gets up from his armchair to join Napoleon on the sofa. His attention has been broken, he won't be able to focus on his book now.
"Though you do put your foot in it just as much as I do," says Napoleon in the tone that implies he will not be convinced to settle for anything less than agreement. So Illya gives him a nod and lies back against the arm of the sofa, kicking his feet onto Napoleon's knees.
"Fine. Maybe I do. However, It is part of our job description."
"So is getting captured on the job, I assume," says Napoleon with that little shit-eating grin of his.
Illya glowers, but there is no heat in it. "Don't start."
A gesture of surrender.
The snow drifts in flurries of pale lace, wind hissing at the glass.
Illya doesn't mind. It reminds him of Moscow, and anyway- he's not alone.
Neither of them have anywhere to be for once. It's a rather novel feeling. He could get used to it.