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100promptsTitle: Overtime
Word Count:1178
Characters: Illya & Gaby, Napoleon Solo
Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Prompt:#027 plenty for100prompts, All Night Long for fluffbingo
Rating: G
Summary: Her paperwork was done. Gaby could have left with Solo and enjoyed steak paired with one of his expensive bottles of wine. Her stomach angrily protested at her for not escaping when she had the chance.
A/N: This is a bit of an ode to one offleurviolette head canons in which Solo is a wonderful chef.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me
Long days and even longer nights were expected as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. During their missions, dates, times, and events always seemed to bleed into each other. The long nights were barely noticeable when there were people trying to kill them. On the days that lagged, the nights felt even longer. Gaby stared down at her Russian grammar book and frowned. She had read the same sentence four times and still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Why had she committed to learning Russian again? The German agent glanced up from the book and looked at Illya. He was hunched over a typewriter pecking at the keys with both index fingers. Oh, that’s right, she thought with a smile. The sound of his ardent two finger typing interrupted the silence in the room. Hunt. Peck. Hunt. Peck. The clicking sound was almost soothing.
Gaby turned her gaze toward Solo. Her other partner leaned casually in his while he read the morning paper. There was no way he could have gotten through the mountain of paperwork that sat on his desk when they arrived earlier in the day. Gaby wondered who he charmed or bribed into doing it for him. Duncan, she thought. The American practically idol worshiped Solo. Gaby made a note to herself to have a talk with the young man about letting Solo take advantage of him. They all had responsibilities, yet solo always seemed to manage to skirt out of his.
She looked down at her book again and sighed. It was no use. Whatever Russian she managed to cram into her brain was starting to turn into mush. Gaby placed the book in the top drawer of her desk and pondered on what she would eat for supper that night. She couldn’t stomach another one of those frozen dinners she filled her freezer with. When she purchased them on her last store run, the frozen meals seemed convenient. “No muss, no fuss,” the store clerk said as she rang each package up. Gaby purchased almost every variety from Salisbury steak to beans and franks. She imagined the package with its two sad pieces of meat floating in beans and immediately felt depressed. There was nothing sadder than coming home to an empty apartment with only a frozen dinner to greet you.
“Well, I’m going to call it a night,” Solo said from across their cramped office space. Gaby watched as he unrolled his shirt sleeves and slipped back into his suit jacket.
“And where do you think you’re going? She asked.
“Home,” he said. “You two are both welcomed to join me. I’ve had a particularly expensive piece of rib steak marinating all day. There’s enough for a table of three.”
The idea of steak was tempting. Gaby’s mouth watered as she imagined the prime cut melting in her mouth. Despite Solo’s poor attempt at risotto back in Germany that one time, he was an excellent cook. A few months ago, she caught him secretly working on a cookbook while he was supposed to be writing up a field report for Waverly. She wondered if he ever got around to finishing it with all the free time he managed to find during office hours.
“Sorry, Cowboy.” Illya looked up from his hunt and peck. “Some of us have work to do. I will take rain check.”
Solo shrugged nonplused by Illya’s rejection and turned toward Gaby. “Agent Teller? The invitation still stands.”
Gaby peered around Solo and looked at Illya. His fingers paused over the keys while he waited for her response. “Thank you, but I’ll have to pass, too. Work.” As soon as she said the words, the typewriter began to click again.
“Suit yourselves,” Solo replied as he made his way out of the office. “I’ll see you two in the morning,” he said before disappearing through the door.
“How he manages to get through all his work is nothing short of a miracle,” Gaby murmured once she and Illya were alone.
The Russian spy looked up and frowned. “If that miracle’s name is Duncan.”
Gaby’s eyes widened in surprise. He knew! Of course, he knew. Nothing got passed Illya. He was one of the most perceptive people she had ever met. Gaby smiled at him from across the room. Whenever they were alone together, more of his personality appeared. At work, Illya’s stalwart presence usually kept the office free of Solo’s shenanigans. When they were alone, he smiled more and even cracked a joke or two.
After the Cuban mission, they both agreed to see where things would take them. Gaby was happy to report that things were going well. At U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters, they were a picture of professionalism. That was Illya’s doing. She was a little more comfortable bending the rules. At any rate, she was happy; and Illya seemed happy, too.
“How’s the report coming along?” She asked.
“Slowly,” he answered in his usual stoic way. Illya’s fingers went back to punching each key one letter at a time.
Her paperwork was done. Gaby could have left with Solo and enjoyed steak paired with one of his expensive bottles of wine. Her stomach angrily protested at her for not escaping when she had the chance. Dinner at Solo’s was an enticing treat, but she much rather be hungry in Illya’s company. Boy, aren’t you lucky I love you, she thought to herself. Gaby glanced at the wall clock. It was already late. Knowing Illya, he wouldn’t leave until every word was typed. Gaby sighed and resigned herself to a long night.
She reached inside her desk and looked for something to occupy her time. Her hand hovered over the Russian grammar book in the top drawer before she changed her mind. There had to be something she could do. Gaby stood up and walked over to the small table near Solo’s desk. He kept a radio on it so they could listen to the news during the day. Gaby fiddled with the dial and surfed the airwaves until she found a station she enjoyed. Illya paused his typing but didn’t complain. Gaby turned the radio up a little louder before returning to her desk. The sound of American R&B drowned out his typewriter. Gaby spun around in her chair and hummed to the music.
“You don’t have stay, little chop shop,” Illya said over Sam Cooke’s crooning voice.
“Oh, yes I do. I have work.”
Illya paused and turned toward her. Gaby was sitting at her empty desk; no work was in sight. “Really? Where is this work?”
“Don’t worry about me, Kuryakin. I’m perfectly fine.” She said and walked over toward his desk. Gaby pushed a stack of papers aside and sat on the edge while he went back to typing again.
Illya shook his head. “This will take a while,” he warned.
Gaby shrugged and tapped the key he was searching for. “That’s alright. I’ve got all night.”
“Stubborn woman,” Illya muttered. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.
Word Count:1178
Characters: Illya & Gaby, Napoleon Solo
Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Prompt:#027 plenty for
100prompts, All Night Long for fluffbingoRating: G
Summary: Her paperwork was done. Gaby could have left with Solo and enjoyed steak paired with one of his expensive bottles of wine. Her stomach angrily protested at her for not escaping when she had the chance.
A/N: This is a bit of an ode to one of
fleurviolette head canons in which Solo is a wonderful chef. Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me
Long days and even longer nights were expected as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. During their missions, dates, times, and events always seemed to bleed into each other. The long nights were barely noticeable when there were people trying to kill them. On the days that lagged, the nights felt even longer. Gaby stared down at her Russian grammar book and frowned. She had read the same sentence four times and still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Why had she committed to learning Russian again? The German agent glanced up from the book and looked at Illya. He was hunched over a typewriter pecking at the keys with both index fingers. Oh, that’s right, she thought with a smile. The sound of his ardent two finger typing interrupted the silence in the room. Hunt. Peck. Hunt. Peck. The clicking sound was almost soothing.
Gaby turned her gaze toward Solo. Her other partner leaned casually in his while he read the morning paper. There was no way he could have gotten through the mountain of paperwork that sat on his desk when they arrived earlier in the day. Gaby wondered who he charmed or bribed into doing it for him. Duncan, she thought. The American practically idol worshiped Solo. Gaby made a note to herself to have a talk with the young man about letting Solo take advantage of him. They all had responsibilities, yet solo always seemed to manage to skirt out of his.
She looked down at her book again and sighed. It was no use. Whatever Russian she managed to cram into her brain was starting to turn into mush. Gaby placed the book in the top drawer of her desk and pondered on what she would eat for supper that night. She couldn’t stomach another one of those frozen dinners she filled her freezer with. When she purchased them on her last store run, the frozen meals seemed convenient. “No muss, no fuss,” the store clerk said as she rang each package up. Gaby purchased almost every variety from Salisbury steak to beans and franks. She imagined the package with its two sad pieces of meat floating in beans and immediately felt depressed. There was nothing sadder than coming home to an empty apartment with only a frozen dinner to greet you.
“Well, I’m going to call it a night,” Solo said from across their cramped office space. Gaby watched as he unrolled his shirt sleeves and slipped back into his suit jacket.
“And where do you think you’re going? She asked.
“Home,” he said. “You two are both welcomed to join me. I’ve had a particularly expensive piece of rib steak marinating all day. There’s enough for a table of three.”
The idea of steak was tempting. Gaby’s mouth watered as she imagined the prime cut melting in her mouth. Despite Solo’s poor attempt at risotto back in Germany that one time, he was an excellent cook. A few months ago, she caught him secretly working on a cookbook while he was supposed to be writing up a field report for Waverly. She wondered if he ever got around to finishing it with all the free time he managed to find during office hours.
“Sorry, Cowboy.” Illya looked up from his hunt and peck. “Some of us have work to do. I will take rain check.”
Solo shrugged nonplused by Illya’s rejection and turned toward Gaby. “Agent Teller? The invitation still stands.”
Gaby peered around Solo and looked at Illya. His fingers paused over the keys while he waited for her response. “Thank you, but I’ll have to pass, too. Work.” As soon as she said the words, the typewriter began to click again.
“Suit yourselves,” Solo replied as he made his way out of the office. “I’ll see you two in the morning,” he said before disappearing through the door.
“How he manages to get through all his work is nothing short of a miracle,” Gaby murmured once she and Illya were alone.
The Russian spy looked up and frowned. “If that miracle’s name is Duncan.”
Gaby’s eyes widened in surprise. He knew! Of course, he knew. Nothing got passed Illya. He was one of the most perceptive people she had ever met. Gaby smiled at him from across the room. Whenever they were alone together, more of his personality appeared. At work, Illya’s stalwart presence usually kept the office free of Solo’s shenanigans. When they were alone, he smiled more and even cracked a joke or two.
After the Cuban mission, they both agreed to see where things would take them. Gaby was happy to report that things were going well. At U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters, they were a picture of professionalism. That was Illya’s doing. She was a little more comfortable bending the rules. At any rate, she was happy; and Illya seemed happy, too.
“How’s the report coming along?” She asked.
“Slowly,” he answered in his usual stoic way. Illya’s fingers went back to punching each key one letter at a time.
Her paperwork was done. Gaby could have left with Solo and enjoyed steak paired with one of his expensive bottles of wine. Her stomach angrily protested at her for not escaping when she had the chance. Dinner at Solo’s was an enticing treat, but she much rather be hungry in Illya’s company. Boy, aren’t you lucky I love you, she thought to herself. Gaby glanced at the wall clock. It was already late. Knowing Illya, he wouldn’t leave until every word was typed. Gaby sighed and resigned herself to a long night.
She reached inside her desk and looked for something to occupy her time. Her hand hovered over the Russian grammar book in the top drawer before she changed her mind. There had to be something she could do. Gaby stood up and walked over to the small table near Solo’s desk. He kept a radio on it so they could listen to the news during the day. Gaby fiddled with the dial and surfed the airwaves until she found a station she enjoyed. Illya paused his typing but didn’t complain. Gaby turned the radio up a little louder before returning to her desk. The sound of American R&B drowned out his typewriter. Gaby spun around in her chair and hummed to the music.
“You don’t have stay, little chop shop,” Illya said over Sam Cooke’s crooning voice.
“Oh, yes I do. I have work.”
Illya paused and turned toward her. Gaby was sitting at her empty desk; no work was in sight. “Really? Where is this work?”
“Don’t worry about me, Kuryakin. I’m perfectly fine.” She said and walked over toward his desk. Gaby pushed a stack of papers aside and sat on the edge while he went back to typing again.
Illya shook his head. “This will take a while,” he warned.
Gaby shrugged and tapped the key he was searching for. “That’s alright. I’ve got all night.”
“Stubborn woman,” Illya muttered. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.
