Vanilla #2 - The Sniffles
Author: Wang Xi-feng
Story: Stand and Deliver!
Flavor: Vanilla #2 (the sniffles)
Rating: PG (language, tongue-in-cheek suicidal ideation)
Word Count: 1728
Summary: Lukánsky is miserable. Zlatka isn't helping.
It was barely ten o'clock in the morning, and Lukánsky had been up for six hours already. His head was pounding, his sinuses felt as if they were packed with ice, and he reached every five minutes for the handkerchief that lay next to him, wadded up on the desk. "Excuse me, my cold," he kept saying every time he reached for it, which was inevitably in company with Someone Important. The Prince Palatine showed up five times to discuss his brilliant and half-assed plan for rooting out the Northern hajduki, as if Lukánsky had nothing more important to worry about than some snot-nosed little shits who thought themselves very important because they had managed to hold up the Prince Palatine's carriage for about fifteen minutes last Friday night. If Lukánsky had his way, they'd all be rotting in St. Catherine's until their hideously inbred parents came down from the hills to claim their equally repulsive spawn, not petted here in the capital and allowed to think even more highly of themselves.
By the time the Angelus rang at noon, Lukánsky had seen the Prince Palatine twice more, both times about some minor detail that could easily have been handled by a junior officer. He had had to take seven loud and contradictory statements from illiterate witnesses in a destruction-of-property case that took place practically outside his door, and he had blown his nose approximately fifty-six more times. The shouts of the witnesses and the bells of every church in the capital rang in his head, and he heartily longed to take his police-issue flintlock and blow his brains out.
In hopes of a few minutes' peace, Lukánsky brewed himself a weak cup of tea, laid his head on his desk, and prayed for death to take him.
"Christ Jesus, my Lord Prefect, you look like death warmed over."
Lukánsky jerked up with a start, nearly upsetting his tea, and frantically pushed away the damp handkerchief, only to find that his nose had begun to run. He snorted, hoping to control the damage, and managed to bring the handkerchief to his face before everything was lost. "Oh." His voice was somewhat muffled by the handkerchief and by his stuffed nose, which would not empty no matter how many times he blew. "Countess Necker. What an honor to be of service to you. I assume your matter is too pressing and delicate for one of my subordinates to--Do not put your feet on my desk."
Zlata, Countess Necker, leaned back in the chair at a precarious angle, arms folded behind her head. Her delicate, gossamer gown--the white one painted with blue butterflies, which ill-suited the weather and which Lukánsky privately thought did not suit her--was hiked up demurely to reveal the shafts of hunting boots, which had clearly seen some use in the muddy streets that morning and were already threatening to leave filthy little clods of debris on his desk. The last time they had been in close quarters, Lukánsky had smelled only dogs and gunpowder; today, Zlatka smelled disturbingly, and strongly, of bergamot. His eyes watered, and his head swam.
"'Please take your feet off my desk, my Lady,' is so much nicer," Zlatka said, brow arching over one fine amber eye.
"Fine. Please remove your feet from my desk, my Lady, and be pleased to sit upright in that chair, because it is the only one I have and also it is the property of the State." Lukánsky snuffled crossly and blew his nose again.
"Which is heavily in debt to the House of Necker," Zlatka said; her mouth quirked a little at the edge, and the heavy layer of powder split, revealing the plaster underneath. She had a skin disease (or so she always told people) and was prone to scabbing there; it was a pity, as otherwise she was a beautiful woman. "So, properly, it is my property."
"No, it is not. Do you need something, or are you here to provoke me into shooting you?" He could feel the unpleasant little tickle that told him his nose was about to start running again.
"It would be a blessing," Zlatka said, and she looked at him levelly, unsmiling. "But no, I'm not here to give you that pleasure today. My Lord Prefect, I have received a report that there is, in this very office, this hallowed stronghold of the Law, a goddamned moron who has arrived at his post obviously ill. My investigations lead me to believe that he would be better off resting." She drew out the last word, clicking her teeth together, before leaning forward and bringing the front legs of the chair down with a bang. For a moment, Lukánsky could see straight down the bodice of her dress, and wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell her to cover up or bury his face in her breasts.
"I shall have him seen to." Lukánsky blew his nose again, only to find that his sinuses had doubled production.
"I should certainly hope so. I should hope that this afternoon will find him at home, resting and recuperating, rather than spreading his vile miasma to everyone who has the misfortune to come into contact with him."
"You know very well that isn't how--"
"Ohhhh yes it is." Zlatka leaned forward again, and at the scent of bergamot, Lukánsky's eyes watered. "I should hate to take matters into my own hands, Prefect Lukánsky, but surely you concede that I am quite capable of it. You may leave at once, and I shall carry a message to the Prince Palatine and to anyone else you may care to name, or I shall have you conveyed home. I am forcing you to do nothing, you understand. It is entirely your choice."
Lukánsky felt his face flush unpleasantly as he stood upright, sniffling loudly. "It was pleasant talking to you, Countess Necker. As ever."
"You never do things the easy way, do you," Zlatka said.
"Corporal Marusz!" Lukánsky's voice was hoarse and weak, and it took him a few coughs to clear his throat enough to catch the corporal's attention.
"Sir?" the young man said, poking his round, eager face into Lukánsky's office.
"Countess Necker has overstayed her welcome. If you would be so good as to see her out?"
"I can find my own way, thank you," Zlatka said, standing and smoothing out her dress. She smiled at Corporal Marusz, who gaped for a minute, dazzled. "I'm not playing around, Lukánsky. Get in the fucking carriage or I'll know the reason why. And for God's sake, do not bring your wet, nasty handkerchief in with you."
"Sir?" Corporal Marusz said again, blinking.
"Zlatka, I'm sorry," Lukánsky said on the way home, "but I am not very fond of you right now."
"I know you don't like me very much. You're not the first nor the last." Zlatka uncapped her snuff bottle and took a pinch. She sounded almost like him as she sneezed, Lukánsky thought with dark amusement. "Jesus, what a hole you live in."
"I needed as little a mortgage as I could get by with and close proximity to work. Not all of us can marry bankers." He snuffled again, loudly, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat, wincing when the brass buttons nipped him. "Crap."
"Lukánsky?"
"Yes, Zlatka."
"If you use my dress for a snotrag, I am going to kick your balls straight up your ass. And then nobody will ever marry you."
"I have never been in danger of anyone marrying me."
Zlatka's lips curled, barely suppressing mirth. "That's not what I heard."
"That was a long time ago and you were barely more than a tadpole. In any case, it obviously wasn't serious."
"Obviously. Got your keys?"
"Jesus, Zlatka. Yes."
"Now," Zlatka said when they were inside. "I am going to draw you a bath and run to the druggist for you, and then I am going to see that you get some rest." She set the kettle on the fire and poked the embers. "What the fuck you were thinking, I'm sure only God knows."
"Some of us have to work for our living." Lukánsky snuffled again and blew his nose into a hastily-grabbed napkin. "I can get my own bath."
"No, you can't. Look at you. You can't even breathe."
"All right. I don't want you here while I'm undressing."
She smirked up at him. "Because in twelve years of marriage, I've never seen a dick. I'm sure the sight of yours would put me straight off them."
"Don't be crude." His head hurt more than ever.
"I have three brothers, for crap's sake. You can stop acting like I'm a delicate flower."
"You can stop acting like I'm incompetent to take care of myself."
"Then don't be so incompetent," Zlatka said. "Sit your ass down in that chair. I'm going to fix you some tea."
Vision blurred by his watery eyes, Lukánsky watched her deft movements as she swirled boiling water around the inside of the pot. When she moved closer, he caught a whiff of her bergamot scent, which made him sneeze. The light blurred everything: the glow of the fire, her amber eyes, her scabbed fingertips against the thick, honest crockery of his cup...Lukánsky started back.
"Your hands," he managed, head thick with dull pain.
"I know. It's been pretty bad over the winter. It doesn't hurt me, and it can't hurt you. Now drink up." Zlatka set a hand on his head as he took the cup from her, and for a moment, something that he had no name for twisted inside him. The brew was strong and herby, almost unpleasantly so, but it was hot and it felt good going down, and that was all Lukánsky cared about. "As soon as the kettle heats up again, it'll be bathtime. I'll go out to the druggist, so as not to compromise your dignity."
"All right." He no longer had the strength to argue; his temples ached and throbbed. "Will you be long?" How childish of him, as if being alone in the house was somehow worse than being under the weather.
"I'll be back to make sure you don't drown." Zlatka checked the kettle again. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you on my watch."
Story: Stand and Deliver!
Flavor: Vanilla #2 (the sniffles)
Rating: PG (language, tongue-in-cheek suicidal ideation)
Word Count: 1728
Summary: Lukánsky is miserable. Zlatka isn't helping.
It was barely ten o'clock in the morning, and Lukánsky had been up for six hours already. His head was pounding, his sinuses felt as if they were packed with ice, and he reached every five minutes for the handkerchief that lay next to him, wadded up on the desk. "Excuse me, my cold," he kept saying every time he reached for it, which was inevitably in company with Someone Important. The Prince Palatine showed up five times to discuss his brilliant and half-assed plan for rooting out the Northern hajduki, as if Lukánsky had nothing more important to worry about than some snot-nosed little shits who thought themselves very important because they had managed to hold up the Prince Palatine's carriage for about fifteen minutes last Friday night. If Lukánsky had his way, they'd all be rotting in St. Catherine's until their hideously inbred parents came down from the hills to claim their equally repulsive spawn, not petted here in the capital and allowed to think even more highly of themselves.
By the time the Angelus rang at noon, Lukánsky had seen the Prince Palatine twice more, both times about some minor detail that could easily have been handled by a junior officer. He had had to take seven loud and contradictory statements from illiterate witnesses in a destruction-of-property case that took place practically outside his door, and he had blown his nose approximately fifty-six more times. The shouts of the witnesses and the bells of every church in the capital rang in his head, and he heartily longed to take his police-issue flintlock and blow his brains out.
In hopes of a few minutes' peace, Lukánsky brewed himself a weak cup of tea, laid his head on his desk, and prayed for death to take him.
"Christ Jesus, my Lord Prefect, you look like death warmed over."
Lukánsky jerked up with a start, nearly upsetting his tea, and frantically pushed away the damp handkerchief, only to find that his nose had begun to run. He snorted, hoping to control the damage, and managed to bring the handkerchief to his face before everything was lost. "Oh." His voice was somewhat muffled by the handkerchief and by his stuffed nose, which would not empty no matter how many times he blew. "Countess Necker. What an honor to be of service to you. I assume your matter is too pressing and delicate for one of my subordinates to--Do not put your feet on my desk."
Zlata, Countess Necker, leaned back in the chair at a precarious angle, arms folded behind her head. Her delicate, gossamer gown--the white one painted with blue butterflies, which ill-suited the weather and which Lukánsky privately thought did not suit her--was hiked up demurely to reveal the shafts of hunting boots, which had clearly seen some use in the muddy streets that morning and were already threatening to leave filthy little clods of debris on his desk. The last time they had been in close quarters, Lukánsky had smelled only dogs and gunpowder; today, Zlatka smelled disturbingly, and strongly, of bergamot. His eyes watered, and his head swam.
"'Please take your feet off my desk, my Lady,' is so much nicer," Zlatka said, brow arching over one fine amber eye.
"Fine. Please remove your feet from my desk, my Lady, and be pleased to sit upright in that chair, because it is the only one I have and also it is the property of the State." Lukánsky snuffled crossly and blew his nose again.
"Which is heavily in debt to the House of Necker," Zlatka said; her mouth quirked a little at the edge, and the heavy layer of powder split, revealing the plaster underneath. She had a skin disease (or so she always told people) and was prone to scabbing there; it was a pity, as otherwise she was a beautiful woman. "So, properly, it is my property."
"No, it is not. Do you need something, or are you here to provoke me into shooting you?" He could feel the unpleasant little tickle that told him his nose was about to start running again.
"It would be a blessing," Zlatka said, and she looked at him levelly, unsmiling. "But no, I'm not here to give you that pleasure today. My Lord Prefect, I have received a report that there is, in this very office, this hallowed stronghold of the Law, a goddamned moron who has arrived at his post obviously ill. My investigations lead me to believe that he would be better off resting." She drew out the last word, clicking her teeth together, before leaning forward and bringing the front legs of the chair down with a bang. For a moment, Lukánsky could see straight down the bodice of her dress, and wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell her to cover up or bury his face in her breasts.
"I shall have him seen to." Lukánsky blew his nose again, only to find that his sinuses had doubled production.
"I should certainly hope so. I should hope that this afternoon will find him at home, resting and recuperating, rather than spreading his vile miasma to everyone who has the misfortune to come into contact with him."
"You know very well that isn't how--"
"Ohhhh yes it is." Zlatka leaned forward again, and at the scent of bergamot, Lukánsky's eyes watered. "I should hate to take matters into my own hands, Prefect Lukánsky, but surely you concede that I am quite capable of it. You may leave at once, and I shall carry a message to the Prince Palatine and to anyone else you may care to name, or I shall have you conveyed home. I am forcing you to do nothing, you understand. It is entirely your choice."
Lukánsky felt his face flush unpleasantly as he stood upright, sniffling loudly. "It was pleasant talking to you, Countess Necker. As ever."
"You never do things the easy way, do you," Zlatka said.
"Corporal Marusz!" Lukánsky's voice was hoarse and weak, and it took him a few coughs to clear his throat enough to catch the corporal's attention.
"Sir?" the young man said, poking his round, eager face into Lukánsky's office.
"Countess Necker has overstayed her welcome. If you would be so good as to see her out?"
"I can find my own way, thank you," Zlatka said, standing and smoothing out her dress. She smiled at Corporal Marusz, who gaped for a minute, dazzled. "I'm not playing around, Lukánsky. Get in the fucking carriage or I'll know the reason why. And for God's sake, do not bring your wet, nasty handkerchief in with you."
"Sir?" Corporal Marusz said again, blinking.
"Zlatka, I'm sorry," Lukánsky said on the way home, "but I am not very fond of you right now."
"I know you don't like me very much. You're not the first nor the last." Zlatka uncapped her snuff bottle and took a pinch. She sounded almost like him as she sneezed, Lukánsky thought with dark amusement. "Jesus, what a hole you live in."
"I needed as little a mortgage as I could get by with and close proximity to work. Not all of us can marry bankers." He snuffled again, loudly, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat, wincing when the brass buttons nipped him. "Crap."
"Lukánsky?"
"Yes, Zlatka."
"If you use my dress for a snotrag, I am going to kick your balls straight up your ass. And then nobody will ever marry you."
"I have never been in danger of anyone marrying me."
Zlatka's lips curled, barely suppressing mirth. "That's not what I heard."
"That was a long time ago and you were barely more than a tadpole. In any case, it obviously wasn't serious."
"Obviously. Got your keys?"
"Jesus, Zlatka. Yes."
"Now," Zlatka said when they were inside. "I am going to draw you a bath and run to the druggist for you, and then I am going to see that you get some rest." She set the kettle on the fire and poked the embers. "What the fuck you were thinking, I'm sure only God knows."
"Some of us have to work for our living." Lukánsky snuffled again and blew his nose into a hastily-grabbed napkin. "I can get my own bath."
"No, you can't. Look at you. You can't even breathe."
"All right. I don't want you here while I'm undressing."
She smirked up at him. "Because in twelve years of marriage, I've never seen a dick. I'm sure the sight of yours would put me straight off them."
"Don't be crude." His head hurt more than ever.
"I have three brothers, for crap's sake. You can stop acting like I'm a delicate flower."
"You can stop acting like I'm incompetent to take care of myself."
"Then don't be so incompetent," Zlatka said. "Sit your ass down in that chair. I'm going to fix you some tea."
Vision blurred by his watery eyes, Lukánsky watched her deft movements as she swirled boiling water around the inside of the pot. When she moved closer, he caught a whiff of her bergamot scent, which made him sneeze. The light blurred everything: the glow of the fire, her amber eyes, her scabbed fingertips against the thick, honest crockery of his cup...Lukánsky started back.
"Your hands," he managed, head thick with dull pain.
"I know. It's been pretty bad over the winter. It doesn't hurt me, and it can't hurt you. Now drink up." Zlatka set a hand on his head as he took the cup from her, and for a moment, something that he had no name for twisted inside him. The brew was strong and herby, almost unpleasantly so, but it was hot and it felt good going down, and that was all Lukánsky cared about. "As soon as the kettle heats up again, it'll be bathtime. I'll go out to the druggist, so as not to compromise your dignity."
"All right." He no longer had the strength to argue; his temples ached and throbbed. "Will you be long?" How childish of him, as if being alone in the house was somehow worse than being under the weather.
"I'll be back to make sure you don't drown." Zlatka checked the kettle again. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you on my watch."