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Napoleon is halfway through his shrimp gemelli when he finds a hair buried underneath his pasta.
After several years in his job as one of Michelin’s anonymous restaurant inspectors, he has encountered many mishaps in the realm of the food industry. He’s been made to wait over 2 hours for a single plate of fried rice, eaten half-raw chicken and rotten seafood, had glasses of wine accidentally dumped into his lap, and dealt with waiters who were somehow still allowed to serve while being high out of their minds.
Honestly speaking, he wishes he could say that at this moment in time—him, eyeing the pasta that no longer seems so appetizing, the hair, poking innocently through the sauce and forming a perfect curl in the air—he does not feel particularly surprised.
But that would be a lie, because this is also when bullets start flying through the air above his head.
Amidst the sudden uproar of shrieking patrons and shattering glasses, Napoleon follows his instincts and drops to his knees, shielded behind his table. He can’t see what’s going on beyond the flimsy cover of his tablecloth, but he can hear the muted pops of gunfire. His heart pounds loudly in his chest, and as Napoleon watches the slow spread of blood-red wine from a dropped wineglass creep across the floor, he thinks, I should have just stayed in my motel today.
From his crouch on the floor, Napoleon sweeps his gaze across the restaurant, looking desperately for a way out of his predicament—and inexplicably, his eyes are drawn to another table about six feet to his left, where the most handsome man he’s ever seen in his life is also hiding behind the tablecloth.
My god, Napoleon’s fear-hazed mind manages to produce. What a specimen.
As if through telepathy, the man’s eyes snap to his. His gaze, icy-blue, pins Napoleon to the spot.
In any other situation, Napoleon would perhaps be trying to introduce himself to this angel-made-man, maybe suggesting a coffee or a martini or a fun night back at his room. However, the situation being what it is, he can only manage a lifted eyebrow, and a little shrug that he hopes properly conveys Well, look at us two poor schmucks, stuck in a firefight and facing certain death in the shittiest fine Italian restaurant I have ever had the displeasure of eating in. By the way, I’d climb you like a tree!
The blond Adonis returns his lifted eyebrow, and then, amazingly, casts his gaze up and down Napoleon’s body, taking in the ruffled curls, the plain, nondescript black dress shirt picked specifically to avoid attention, and the line of the notepad jammed into his pants pocket. He pauses, as if in contemplation; then, with a great, heaving sigh, he hisses, “I usually work alone. I will make a special exception for today, but! Do not get any ideas, and if you wish to live, do not tell anyone.”
Napoleon has exactly five seconds to take in the fact that he might be receiving the most terrifying, weirdly-worded, and inappropriately-timed pickup line ever, and then the Adonis slides his hand into his jacket and pulls out a gun, and Napoleon’s inner monologue goes from I could be into this to Am I in danger?
“There’s a back door in the kitchen. I will draw their fire—you, get as many people out as you can.” Then, before Napoleon can answer, the Adonis unfolds himself, stands up in his full, startlingly massive height, and takes off, shooting all the while.
Well. Never let it be said that Napoleon would let a handsome man sacrifice himself for nothing, even if the handsome man did go around packing heat in luxury restaurants.
Somehow, he makes it to the back door. Somehow, he gets the rest of the restaurant patrons out. He also pulls the fire alarm, because that seems like something people would do in movie gunfights. It can’t hurt, can it?
He stays out on the sidewalk next to the establishment, surrounded by nosy passers-by craning their necks to see above the crowd. The police come, setting up barriers and neon caution tape, sirens flashing red and blue, apprehending the men who attacked the restaurant.
The Adonis is nowhere to be seen.
Napoleon spends the rest of that eventful day trying to convince himself that it was not simply a fever dream. Before he goes to bed that night, face pushed into the musty motel pillows, he comes to the conclusion that the Adonis was a fun wrench that the fates had decided to throw into his otherwise predictable life, and that nothing like that would ever happen again.
Then, a mere two weeks later, he finds himself staring into that same handsome face, this time under the refracting light of a crystal chandelier.
The Adonis stares back, seemingly just as baffled as Napoleon. He’s wearing a crisp black tailcoat, blonde hair slicked back neatly. His name tag says Marcus.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Napoleon says slowly. In the background, the chatter of the restaurant patrons flows on, punctuated by soft piano.
The expression that ‘Marcus’ is wearing is indescribable.
Napoleon’s eyes narrow in sudden suspicion, and he casts a wary glance at the clean lines of the other man's tailcoat. “Wait, do you still have a gu—”
“Good evening,” ‘Marcus’ finally unfreezes from what could only have been a self-berating stupor and talks over the rest of Napoleon’s sentence through a clenched jaw. “I am Marcus, I will be your waiter for today. May I interest you in any of our appetizers? The duck pâté is very popular.”
He leans in to gesture toward the menu, his face inches from Napoleon’s ear. “Not a word,” he hisses. “And do not call me Marcus.” Then he draws back, taking the wonderful warm scent of his cologne with him.
Napoleon frowns in displeasure at the rudeness in his tone. Well, two can play this game.
Even if one of the players is a potentially armed-and-dangerous individual, and messing with him goes against every lick of common sense in Napoleon’s body.
“Alright, Marcus,” he says sweetly. “I’ll take the duck pâté and the coq au vin.”
He spends the meal egging his waiter on, calling his name at every turn, calling for unnecessary drink refills and making sly jibes that conjure up darker and darker glares. It’s the best entertainment he’s had in weeks. Of course, the very fact that this man is in the same place as him—let alone serving him, for some goddamn reason—should be conjuring up some sort of apprehension or fear, but all Napoleon feels in the moment is a sort of playful smugness, like a cat playing with a tangled ball of yarn.
So when he gets up to use the bathroom in the hall behind the dining room and ‘Marcus’ slips in behind him and locks the door, Napoleon concedes that he might have had it coming for him.
In an instant, the man has him shoved up against the bathroom wall. “What are you doing here?” he growls.
Napoleon sputters, both at the audacity of his words and at his sudden proximity. “What am I doing here? My job, that’s what! Do you own this restaurant, to be able to dictate who comes and who goes? For that matter, what are you doing here, Marcus, you crazy, gun-swinging—”
‘Marcus’ shakes him, nostrils flaring. “Don’t call me that!” A slight Russian accent slips through in his anger—and yet again, against his better judgement, Napoleon can’t stop thinking about how attractive it is. He snaps himself back to the moment.
“Well, it’s literally on your name tag—it’s not my fault you have a stupid name! What else am I supposed to call you? Peril, because you’re putting my mental well-being in peril? Seriously, what is your problem? If this is about last time, I didn’t rat you out to the police, and I believe some gratitude is also in order, because I actually also helped you—”
‘Marcus’, now Peril, narrows his eyes and presses closer, pinning Napoleon between the heavy crush of his body and the cold tile wall. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
Even as adrenaline races through his bloodstream, Napoleon does his best to keep his expression level. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I really don’t know! But you’re really putting me on the spot here, you know, what with the thigh you have in between my legs right now. Any higher up and it’d be even harder for me to think.”
Peril glances down, as if only just realizing how close they were, and backs up immediately. “I’ll let you go,” he warns after a long, frozen silence, “but only because you helped me last time. If you get in my way, I won’t forget it so easily.” Distantly, Napoleon observes that his ears are red.
Then he turns around, unlocks the door, and leaves.
The next man in line for the bathroom comes in, and freezes at the sight of Napoleon, flustered and rumpled, still in the bathroom. The single person bathroom, from which another person has just exited.
“Don’t look at me,” Napoleon says, straightening out his shirt. “I don’t know either.”
He exits with the little dignity he has left.
It’s a reasonable expectation, Napoleon thinks, that that would be the end of it.
He’s wrong.
The sixth time they meet at a restaurant, Napoleon is well past being surprised, and Peril is nearly friendly.
“Peril,” Napoleon greets. It’s almost a habit by now.
“Cowboy,” Peril nods back. He has a bit of scruff this time—Napoleon wonders what it’d feel like under his lips.
“Oh, so I get my own nickname! I feel flattered. Why Cowboy, though?”
“Your tie last time. Little cowboys and cacti, very classy. Your girlfriend got it for you?”
Ah. He both hates and loves that tie, both because it’s the tackiest thing he’s ever owned and because it was a prank gift from his best friend Gaby. “My friend got it for me. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, for that matter. Not that it’s any of your business. Are you going to take my order or not?”
“Hmm.” Peril gives him a slow, considering glance, then turns to the menu and starts recommending entrees.
The seventh time, Napoleon finishes paying for his bill at the register just as Peril walks in at the front, the door bell jingling brightly as his entrance brings with it a wave of cool evening air.
Napoleon turns and grins as he sees the other man behind him. “Perfect timing! This cake was too rich for me, but I didn’t feel like wasting it. You can have it!” Napoleon shoves the takeout box of coconut cream cake into Peril’s hands as he passes, delighting in the bewildered expression on his face.
“Cowboy, what—”
“It’s your problem now. See you around, Peril!” Napoleon waves a hand as he exits, and misses the disappointed look Peril sends his retreating back.
At their eighth meeting, Peril leaves a note on Napoleon’s table as he passes by with the bussing cart. Thank you for the cake, it reads. It was delicious. I’ll buy you something next time.
What does it mean, Napoleon texts Gaby one day while waiting for his order, when you keep accidentally meeting the same person over and over at random places in the country, and you’re reasonably sure you’re becoming friends, and you also find them extremely attractive?
Her answer comes when he’s halfway through his bowl of clam chowder.
Well, it could be that you have a hot stalker.
The seagulls call loudly over the pier, flying high in the damp, salty air.
Or, it could be fate.
The eleventh time or so, Peril catches up with him in the darkened parking lot of a sushi restaurant.
“Here,” he replies when Napoleon gives him a questioning look. He holds out one massive hand. “You left this behind.” He’s clutching Napoleon’s cheap, worn little spiral-bound notebook.
“Oh! My notebook! Many thanks, Peril, you saved me one hell of a headache. All my notes are in there.”
“Notes...on…?” Peril asks, tone strangely delicate.
Napoleon scoffs. “What else? The food, of course.”
Peril’s jaw drops. “Food?”
“I’m a restaurant inspector, what else would I be writing about? I figured a smart secret agent like you would’ve already figured it out.” He rolls his eyes when Peril stiffens. “What, you think that I’m blind? Guns, impressive physicality, popping up in random places like a ghost; I figured you’d be something like that. Like the movies.”
“You—“
“Don’t worry. As far as I know, we’re just frequent restaurant companions—I won’t blow your cover if you don’t blow mine. Anonymous Michelin inspectors have to be very secretive too, if you must know. There are only 120 of us out there in the world.”
There’s an odd warmth growing in Peril’s eyes. “You truly are unique.”
The quality of his tone doesn’t sound like sarcasm—Napoleon can’t put his finger on it.
“Careful, say that one too many times and I might not think you’re joking.” Napoleon shifts a little under the sudden heat of Peril’s gaze, kicking at the gravel at his feet. “Alright, you can give me back my notebook now—whoa!”
One long arm snakes around his body, and a large hand slides the notebook into his back pocket. Peril pats it over the thin fabric of Napoleon’s pants. “There’s your notebook back. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon again, Cowboy.”
Then he turns around and heads toward the building, disappearing into the fluorescent-bright light of the restaurant entrance.
Napoleon stands there in the shadowy parking lot, cheeks burning, for a humiliatingly long period of time.
He starts losing count, after that.
Halfway through a quick dinner break, Peril appears out of nowhere, slides into Napoleon’s booth with a tray of food and tucks in, ignoring the flabbergasted look Napoleon sends him from across the table.
Peril makes it nearly halfway through his meal, Napoleon’s eyes burning a hole straight through his head, before bothering to say anything at all. “No notes for today, Cowboy?”
Napoleon gives him a flat stare, pushing down the urge to laugh. “This is a McDonald’s.”
Peril stares back, the quarter-pounder between his massive hands dripping sauce onto his grease-stained, paper-lined tray. “So?”
“So? It’s a fast food restaurant, you—wait.” Napoleon’s brow furrows. “Why am I arguing with you? Of course you wouldn’t understand, a brute like you. No sense of culinary know-how, even for a secret agent.”
Peril chuckles a little, and Napoleon’s heart stutters in his chest. It’s like a supernova just went off in front of his very eyes—he is already uncommonly handsome, but it becomes something else entirely when he smiles. “Alright, Cowboy. Teach me about food.”
“Well. If you regret this, don't forget—you asked for it!”
They exit together an hour later, Napoleon feeling a little confused about the strange focus Peril had maintained throughout their lengthy conversation about the ins and outs of the culinary world. He had nodded and hummed along at every break in the conversation, asking surprisingly engaging and attentive questions to push Napoleon’s lecturing along.
There is a large, warm hand at his lower back—he’s confused about that too. Maybe a little hopeful, as well.
“The first time we actually eat together properly, and it’s at a near-deserted fast food restaurant.” Napoleon sniffs, and then that little ember of hope in his chest really must be making him bold, because he adds half-jokingly, “You know, despite the quality of the meal, this probably wouldn’t be bad as a first date, considering the conversation and the company.” He coughs and looks away. “I would probably even stay around for dessert. Or more.”
“I’m happy to hear that. There’s a pie shop down the road that you might like, why don’t we go there?”
Napoleon’s head snaps around. He manages to crack open his mouth after several tries. “I’m sorry, Peril. I just nearly thought you were flirting back with me.”
Peril gazes back calmly. “I was. I have been for a while. Do you want pie or something else?”
“I—okay. I guess this really is happening.” Napoleon’s pulse shoots up several levels as the hand at his lower back creeps around his waist. “Wait! I’m not that easy. You didn’t even ask me out properly.”
Peril blinks. “Ah. Sorry. Cowboy—“
“Ah-ah! You might as well know my name now, since we’re apparently going on a date. It’s Napoleon.”
Peril’s eyes crinkle. “A very unique name, for a very unique man. Alright, Napoleon. Would you like to go get pie with me? And maybe more?”
Napoleon’s reply leaves his mouth as quick as lightning. “Yes! Gladly!” He beams back at the other man, hardly able to believe his luck. “The night is still young. Show me this pie shop of yours, Peril.”
The hazy mandarin sky washes the pair with a soft glow, light-pollution sunset darkening into the early stages of twilight.
“Illya.” Peril’s smile is bright in the encroaching night. “Call me Illya.”