Bouncing stones

[svetlanacat6]

 

“Look!”

 

The dark haired man was pointing down at something, on the ground. His tone betrayed an unusual excitement, almost childish. Illya Kuryakin was about to obey, when his partner shook his head.

“No, stop here!”

Napoleon Solo bent down and picked something up. When he turned to him, his eyes were twinkling with amusement as he was clenching his find in his hand. The Russian hesitated for a second. Would he ignore it, roll his eyes and go on looking for a convenient place to settle in for the night? Would he give up, and ask gently about his friend's treasure? Napoleon's face was a very amusing mix of mischief and boyish expectation. Illya Kuryakin sighed.

“What is it, Napoleon?”

“Perfection. That's what it is. Perfection.” he paused, staring at his hand with delight. “Round, flat smooth... Undoubtedly, more than 10...”

“More than ten... What, Napoleon?”

As he asked, Illya Kuryakin bit his lips. He'd have known better... A triumphant Napoleon slid the treasure in his pocket, with an unbearable self-satisfied grin.

“I'll show you... tomorrow. Let's set ourselves up for the night, now. Then, we'll have dinner. I am hungry, aren't you?”

***

 

The Russian was sitting down on the grass, his eyes closed, letting the morning sun and the breeze dry his hair, in his old khaki shorts.

“You've had your morning bath, already, Illya?”

The blond nodded, opening his eyes, and took the cup of coffee he was offered. The dark hair flying in the air, the white shorts... Uncle ladies would enjoy the sight, Illya Kuryakin thought. Napoleon Solo was keeping his right hand behind his back, admiring the lake. The same self-satisfied look wasn't lost on the Russian, however. He sipped at his coffee, and asked as he knew he was expected to.

“Napoleon? Please?”

The Section 2, Number 1, the New York UNCLE HQ CEA held out his hand, theatrically. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened it, slowly, carefully. Something round, flat, smooth was sitting imposingly on his palm.

Illya Kuryakin raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and craned forward.

“That's... a pebble, Napoleon.”

The dark-haired man chuckled, savoring the moment. He brushed slightly the gray glossy stone with his forefinger, and pointed at the lake.

“Do you know about ... skimming pebbles across a pond or a lake, Illya? I guess I could make it bounce ten, twelve times...”

Illya Kuryakin sighed loudly, rolled his eyes and stood up, effortlessly. Slowly, carefully, sliding his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a round, flat, smooth, gray and glossy pebble.

“You said... ten or twelve times, Napoleon? Just... ten or twelve?”