Reasons to be challenge - a fic for Dancing Pony
Title: Reasons to be grateful.
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG
Prompt: Write a story about a cynic who has been told to start a "gratitude journal," and does so - begrudgingly.
dancingpony, yours was a delight to write and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to you and to nursesparky for her beta.
The paper dropped unseen from Illya’s hands. “You want me to do what?”
The fact that his partner’s voice had become very soft and without inflection meant he had trodden into dangerous territory. “Mr. Waverly thought, and I agreed, that it would be of benefit to the organization.”
“A gratitude journal?” Illya glared at his partner over the top of his glasses. “Really?”
“It’s simple and only takes a few minutes. Either first thing in the morning or the last thing at night, you jot down something that you are grateful for.”
“The concept didn’t elude me. The reasoning does. Why me and not you?”
Napoleon cleared his throat and tried to look sheepish. “According to Mr. Waverly, he was afraid that it would read like a male version of Emmanuelle.”
That elicited a small smile from Illya. “I bet he does.”
“Please, Illya, Mr. Waverly wants us to lead by example. By examining these afterwards, the boys in white will know who might need a little extra TLC after an assignment.”
“Swell.” Illya flipped open the book and reached for his pencil, touching the tip of it to his tongue. “Day 1, I’m grateful that I’m merely stuck writing in a book than bleeding in a ditch.”
“Maybe reel it back there a bit, DiMaggio.”
“You write what you want in your book and I’ll tend to mine, thank you.”
Illya walked wearily into his apartment and dropped his briefcase onto the battered sofa. Napoleon was always giving him grief about it, which was one of the reasons why he kept it. The other was that it was broken in just right. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, a glass and returned to the couch, thankfully just steps from each other.
That first slug of vodka hit his stomach and opened like a flower greeting the day. He welcomed the sensation with a contented sigh. “Vodka,” he said, aloud. “I’m really grateful for vodka.”
Two drinks later and he glanced over at his turntable and record collection. With a grunt, he got to his feet and randomly selected a vinyl record. It was Eric Dolphy, Out to Lunch album. Illya shook his head sadly. It was a shame Dolphy didn’t live out the year his debut album hit. There was so much passion in his music, especially Blue Note.
Carefully, he set the record in place and engaged the turntable, letting the notes fill the space. With music like this, you didn’t just hear the music, you consumed it, Illya decided. He allowed it to fill his senses until he was dizzy from the experience or perhaps from the vodka he’d too quickly already had. How could he not be grateful for this?
There was a measured knock at his door and Illya moved cautiously to it, his sense of well-being tucked away in his back pocket for the moment. He retrieved his pistol, then glanced out the peephole and grinned. He tucked his weapon into the waistband of his pants and pulled on his suit jacket to conceal it.
“Hey, Huang, I’ve been expecting you.” Illya let the man enter the apartment.
“I’m not likely to let one of my best customers go hungry!” Huang, born and raised in New York, dropped the accent he used around other clients. Illya spoke Mandarin Chinese better than his friend did. He carried the food to the kitchen and unloaded the bag while Illya pulled out his wallet and paid him.
A few moments later, Illya was back on the couch, his coat, holster and shoes tossed onto a nearly chair and Dolphy wailing in his ear. He didn’t even bother with a plate. Napoleon had taught him that Chinese food, well, the American version of Chinese food, tasted best straight from the carton. For the real thing, well, that was another story. Illya headed straight for the egg foo young, as it was best eaten hot. Then the curried shrimp and finally the chow mein. If there was anything left over, he’d have that for breakfast. Just the thought made him smile.
His hunger finally sated, he unwrapped his fortune cookie and cracked it open. When he saw the message, he laughed. This restaurant had the wildest fortune cookie sayings in the city. This one was no exception: Love is on the horizon. He is tall, dark and a centaur and then Illya saw that gratitude journal. His lips curled up in a grin and he reached for the phone. He knew just the man who could hook him up.
Napoleon Solo set the journals down on the circular table and spun it, stopping it when the books were in front of his employer.
“How did we do, Mr. Solo?” Waverly was too busy lighting his pipe to do more than glanced up at him.
“Results were mixed, sir.” He settled back in his chair and watched patiently as his employer flipped open the first one. “Of course, they are all anonymous, but it was easier to pick some out from the others.”
“Mr. Kuryakin’s?”
“Not a clue, sir. I thought it would be immediately apparent to me, but he could be masking his handwriting, so I can only guess. However, there was one that is suspect.”
“Why is that?”
“You will know it when you see it.”
“That’s… suspect.” Mr. Waverly shifted through the pile quickly, the opened one and paused. “What on earth.”
“Ah, you found it.”
On the first page was taped a fortune from a fortune cookie: Love is on the horizon. He is tall, dark and a centaur. Beneath it was taped - I’m grateful for love.
Rapidly, he turned the page. If you eat something and no one sees you, does it have any calories? Then - I’m grateful for empty calories.
It went on and on, one page after another. A fortune and a response. Some were philosophical: What is the speed of dark? while others were just silly, Help, I’m being held prisoner in a fortune cookie factory! Each one had a response, specially gauged to the tone of the fortune.
“It has to be Illya, sir.”
“Is Mr. Kuryakin given to such… pranks, Mr. Solo?”
“Well, no sir, but--”
“Then I suggest you look to the other sections. In the meantime, I will turn these over to the psychiatrists and let them examine them. All, except this one.” He carefully closed the book. “I think I shall keep this one for reasons of my own.”
“Yes, sir.”
Napoleon threaded his way back to his office and took his place behind his desk, just as Illya entered carrying a bag. Immediately the small space was inundated with a delicious aroma of Chinese food.
He sat and began to pull carton after carton from the bag.
“And did you bring enough to share with the class?”
“What?” Illya glanced over at his partner, frowning. “Oh, would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” He held out a hand. “Why this sudden urge?”
“I was reading through some of those journals. There was one that had all these fortunes in it and made it realize it had been ages since I’d had some decent Chinese food.”
“Really?” Napoleon opened a carton and peered into it. “I’m onto you, Kuryakin.”
“Pardon?
“That was your journal, wasn’t it?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” But the Russian smiled as he offered Napoleon a bag. “Fortune cookie?”
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG
Prompt: Write a story about a cynic who has been told to start a "gratitude journal," and does so - begrudgingly.
dancingpony, yours was a delight to write and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to you and to nursesparky for her beta.
The paper dropped unseen from Illya’s hands. “You want me to do what?”
The fact that his partner’s voice had become very soft and without inflection meant he had trodden into dangerous territory. “Mr. Waverly thought, and I agreed, that it would be of benefit to the organization.”
“A gratitude journal?” Illya glared at his partner over the top of his glasses. “Really?”
“It’s simple and only takes a few minutes. Either first thing in the morning or the last thing at night, you jot down something that you are grateful for.”
“The concept didn’t elude me. The reasoning does. Why me and not you?”
Napoleon cleared his throat and tried to look sheepish. “According to Mr. Waverly, he was afraid that it would read like a male version of Emmanuelle.”
That elicited a small smile from Illya. “I bet he does.”
“Please, Illya, Mr. Waverly wants us to lead by example. By examining these afterwards, the boys in white will know who might need a little extra TLC after an assignment.”
“Swell.” Illya flipped open the book and reached for his pencil, touching the tip of it to his tongue. “Day 1, I’m grateful that I’m merely stuck writing in a book than bleeding in a ditch.”
“Maybe reel it back there a bit, DiMaggio.”
“You write what you want in your book and I’ll tend to mine, thank you.”
Illya walked wearily into his apartment and dropped his briefcase onto the battered sofa. Napoleon was always giving him grief about it, which was one of the reasons why he kept it. The other was that it was broken in just right. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, a glass and returned to the couch, thankfully just steps from each other.
That first slug of vodka hit his stomach and opened like a flower greeting the day. He welcomed the sensation with a contented sigh. “Vodka,” he said, aloud. “I’m really grateful for vodka.”
Two drinks later and he glanced over at his turntable and record collection. With a grunt, he got to his feet and randomly selected a vinyl record. It was Eric Dolphy, Out to Lunch album. Illya shook his head sadly. It was a shame Dolphy didn’t live out the year his debut album hit. There was so much passion in his music, especially Blue Note.
Carefully, he set the record in place and engaged the turntable, letting the notes fill the space. With music like this, you didn’t just hear the music, you consumed it, Illya decided. He allowed it to fill his senses until he was dizzy from the experience or perhaps from the vodka he’d too quickly already had. How could he not be grateful for this?
There was a measured knock at his door and Illya moved cautiously to it, his sense of well-being tucked away in his back pocket for the moment. He retrieved his pistol, then glanced out the peephole and grinned. He tucked his weapon into the waistband of his pants and pulled on his suit jacket to conceal it.
“Hey, Huang, I’ve been expecting you.” Illya let the man enter the apartment.
“I’m not likely to let one of my best customers go hungry!” Huang, born and raised in New York, dropped the accent he used around other clients. Illya spoke Mandarin Chinese better than his friend did. He carried the food to the kitchen and unloaded the bag while Illya pulled out his wallet and paid him.
A few moments later, Illya was back on the couch, his coat, holster and shoes tossed onto a nearly chair and Dolphy wailing in his ear. He didn’t even bother with a plate. Napoleon had taught him that Chinese food, well, the American version of Chinese food, tasted best straight from the carton. For the real thing, well, that was another story. Illya headed straight for the egg foo young, as it was best eaten hot. Then the curried shrimp and finally the chow mein. If there was anything left over, he’d have that for breakfast. Just the thought made him smile.
His hunger finally sated, he unwrapped his fortune cookie and cracked it open. When he saw the message, he laughed. This restaurant had the wildest fortune cookie sayings in the city. This one was no exception: Love is on the horizon. He is tall, dark and a centaur and then Illya saw that gratitude journal. His lips curled up in a grin and he reached for the phone. He knew just the man who could hook him up.
Napoleon Solo set the journals down on the circular table and spun it, stopping it when the books were in front of his employer.
“How did we do, Mr. Solo?” Waverly was too busy lighting his pipe to do more than glanced up at him.
“Results were mixed, sir.” He settled back in his chair and watched patiently as his employer flipped open the first one. “Of course, they are all anonymous, but it was easier to pick some out from the others.”
“Mr. Kuryakin’s?”
“Not a clue, sir. I thought it would be immediately apparent to me, but he could be masking his handwriting, so I can only guess. However, there was one that is suspect.”
“Why is that?”
“You will know it when you see it.”
“That’s… suspect.” Mr. Waverly shifted through the pile quickly, the opened one and paused. “What on earth.”
“Ah, you found it.”
On the first page was taped a fortune from a fortune cookie: Love is on the horizon. He is tall, dark and a centaur. Beneath it was taped - I’m grateful for love.
Rapidly, he turned the page. If you eat something and no one sees you, does it have any calories? Then - I’m grateful for empty calories.
It went on and on, one page after another. A fortune and a response. Some were philosophical: What is the speed of dark? while others were just silly, Help, I’m being held prisoner in a fortune cookie factory! Each one had a response, specially gauged to the tone of the fortune.
“It has to be Illya, sir.”
“Is Mr. Kuryakin given to such… pranks, Mr. Solo?”
“Well, no sir, but--”
“Then I suggest you look to the other sections. In the meantime, I will turn these over to the psychiatrists and let them examine them. All, except this one.” He carefully closed the book. “I think I shall keep this one for reasons of my own.”
“Yes, sir.”
Napoleon threaded his way back to his office and took his place behind his desk, just as Illya entered carrying a bag. Immediately the small space was inundated with a delicious aroma of Chinese food.
He sat and began to pull carton after carton from the bag.
“And did you bring enough to share with the class?”
“What?” Illya glanced over at his partner, frowning. “Oh, would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” He held out a hand. “Why this sudden urge?”
“I was reading through some of those journals. There was one that had all these fortunes in it and made it realize it had been ages since I’d had some decent Chinese food.”
“Really?” Napoleon opened a carton and peered into it. “I’m onto you, Kuryakin.”
“Pardon?
“That was your journal, wasn’t it?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” But the Russian smiled as he offered Napoleon a bag. “Fortune cookie?”