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Well Taylored Fiction

Summary:

Gaby and Napoleon need to retrieve a briefcase in the name of the Queen of England, and their boyfriend in the name of love.

Notes:

This is for Fictober24, prompt 8. "Are we happy?"

This is the apartment scene from Pulp Fiction reenacted by Gaby and Napoleon, and the suitcase comes attached to a kidnapped Illya.

Their relationship is only implied because I love the never-quite-there feel of the movie.

DISCLAIMER: I don't condone Armie Hamer's life choices. I'm woking with characters here, not real life actors.

Work Text:

There is a fine gentleman's accessories store in a busy street in a big city of England. There is a couple walking down the street who stops to admire the hats, gloves, scarves and walking sticks beautifully arranged at the window. One of them is a broad man in his thirties, impeccably dressed in a gray tweed three piece suit. The other is a young woman, petite, with tanned skin and inquisitive eyes, wearing fashionable wide-legged pants, and a masculine hunting jacket over a satin white top. Both are donning matching plaid duckbills. They look like a magazine cover, briefly thinks the man sitting behind the counter inside the store. He is an older gentleman, with achy knees and shoulders, and a very hard few days behind. He’d rather have this week over than keep dealing with customers, so he resumes his reading and hopes nothing interests them enough to step in. 

 

The bell chimes as the door opens, and the man puts down his cheap mystery novel to reluctantly stand up and greet the gorgeous couple.

 

“Welcome. How can I help you?”

 

Neither of them immediately responds. The woman, hanging off the man’s arm, is looking around the shelves with curiosity. The man smiles charmingly at him. 

 

“Hello, my friend,” the customer says in a well rounded American accent. “Would you be so kind as to show us inside?”

 

“I beg your pardon?” he splutters, and curses inwardly. He couldn’t appear more suspicious than that.

 

The young lady lets go of the man’s arm and, with a charming smile of her own, walks confidently around the counter, sliding her hand over the top gracefully along the way. She stops in front of the heavy velvet curtain to the backstore, peeks behind it, looks at the pretend shop clerk, waves him goodbye and skips in. He is so caught in that unexpected development that the sound of the lock at the front door makes him jump. When he looks, the man smiles again and puts his finger to his lips, signing silence. 

 

“I am looking for a rather exclusive item, and I’m told you might have one in the back”, he says calmly as he walks behind the counter and wraps an arm around the decoy shopkeep. “A rare Russian import. With all its original parts intact,” he finishes, strengthening his grip alarmingly. 

 

The old man closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath and tilts his head back. He doesn’t normally deal with hostages or close combat, but the Russian took eight men, including himself, to pin down and truss up. He doesn’t want to go through it again with this American. Nor be there if the American sets the Russian free. He hopes the boss and the others already took care of the girl and will get this over with quickly. But when the American walks him into the backstore, the girl is waiting at the door to the office, admiring the silk pocket squares in their boxes as if this wasn’t a potentially deadly operation with armed men involved. He lets out a surprised, muffled whimper when the man puts his gigantic hand over his mouth. She looks up at the sound and seems pleased to see him.

 

“Good, you’re cooperating. Tell me, how many men are there behind this door?” she asks nicely, with an accent. 

 

He raises two fingers.

 

“Perfect! Would you care to unlock it? But do not open it, please. Let me do that.”

 

He sighs through his nose and does as told. 

 




The door to the office opens without the agreed warning, but the man in charge, sitting at the desk, and the young boy draped over the sofa freeze midway to their respective guns. A young lady comes in. She is beautiful and stylish, so out of place their brains halt for a second. She walks in appraising the office as if she is enjoying the decor, sways past the boy, smiles at the man, and starts rummaging around behind him, by the backdoor. 

 

The boy, Spencer, glances at the man behind the desk, Cavendish, and then at the toilet room to the left behind him. Before neither of them can say a word, in comes a bulk of a man, gently pushing their sweaty watchman ahead. Outstanding job at watching, he did. Although, in his defense, nobody told him he had to act according to the things he watched. 

 

“Good evening!”, says the intruder. He is American and in a cheery mood. “But please don’t stand, there’s plenty of room on the couch, by this young man,” he tells the failed watchman, Ashley. 

 

A moment of tension ensues as the yank, with an equal parts charming and menacing smile, gestures towards the sofa and takes one step forward for every step Ashley takes backwards, until the edge of the seat touches the back of his legs and he drops himself down next to Spencer. Then the American picks up the boy’s pistol from the tea table at the center of the sofa set and calmly unloads it. The tension doesn’t dissolve after that. 

 

“Where was I? Ah, of course: good evening, gentlemen!”, he continues as he undoes his blazer and pockets his hands, pacing slowly up and down the room in a studied and altogether unnerving display of ease. “Do you happen to know who we are? No? Miss Teller and I are here on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen, so to speak. You do remember your own allegiance to the Queen, do you?”

 

Spencer, Ashley and Cavendish exchange nervous glances. None of them replies. The lady, Miss Teller, keeps opening cabinets and pulling out books from the shelf. She moves slowly, delicately, and puts everything back where she found it. Still she manages to be oddly threatening about it. The American watches them silently fret and chuckles quietly to himself before grabbing a chair and sitting at the desk, opposite the man in charge. 

 

“You must be Cavendish. Am I right?”

 

Cavendish nods. He notices his hand is still hovering on its way to the drawer. He looks at it and then at the man, who’s still sporting that intimidating smile. He decides to bring his hand back to the desktop. The man’s smile widens at his choice. 

 

“Cavendish! A pleasure. I must apologize, I can see we barged in right in the middle of tea,” says the intruder pointing at the pastries in a plate, the teapot, empty teacups and a liquor tumbler. Cavendish feels a cold sweat slide down his spine at the unexpected courtesy. “Are these— are these homemade scones?”

 

Cavendish takes a couple of seconds to nod.

 

“Blueberry? Can I— would you mind terribly if I took a bite?”

 

Cavendish really tries to say “Go ahead”, but eventually gives up and simply pushes the plate towards the ominously polite gentleman in front of him.

 

“Thank you!” he pleasedly chirps as he takes one scone and bites down with impeccable manners and extreme gusto. “Mmm! A delicious homemade blueberry scone! Mrs Cavendish’s work? Yes? You’ve got a proper treasure at home, Mr Cavendish, you really do. Gaby! Do you like scones?” he asks enthusiastically as he finishes the first one and digs into another. 

 

Gaby turns from the bookcase and drops the book she’s holding on the desk, right next to Cavendish, with a loud thud. She hums affirmatively as she perches herself next to the book. 

 

“You must take a bite, Mrs Cavendish is a true artist!”

 

“I’m alright,” she says, picking up the teapot, weighing it and testing its temperature on her palm. “But I’ll have a cup of tea,” she declares, pouring a serving in one of the used teacups. 

 

“Every time I come to England I make sure to have my fill of scones,” says the man to Cavendish. “Tea pastries in general, actually. No one does better use of sugar, flour, eggs and butter than the English. There are many notorious tea drinking nations, but none of them dresses the tea table as perfectly as the English. We’ve been to Turkey recently, haven’t we?”

 

“We have”, confirms Miss Teller before sipping her freshly poured tea. 

 

“What would you say they have with their tea, Mr Cavendish? No idea? Tell him, Gaby.”

 

“Rose flavored jelly blocks covered in powdered sugar.”

 

“Rose flavored jelly blocks covered in powdered sugar! What do you think about that, Mr Cavendish?”

 

“Well, I suppose each culture’s gastronomy is linked to their history, geography and climate…” ventures Cavendish. 

 

“My goodness, Mr Cavendish! Have you heard, Gaby? Mr Cavendish here is an educated modern man. That was an assessment fit for a sociology lecture, if I know anything on the subject. Now, what’s in here?” the American asks, pointing at the tumbler. 

 

“Whiskey”, babbles Cavendish, disoriented by the sudden change of subject right when he thought he had found some sort of footing. 

 

“What kind?”

 

“Irish. Jameson,” he replies. 

 

“Do you mind if I wash down the scones with—?”

 

“Go ahead!” he rushes. “Please,” he adds with a very small voice. 

 

The American seems beyond pleased with that invitation. He takes the tumbler and sniffs its content. He takes a generous sip and makes a show of swallowing it, all the while looking directly at Cavendish’s eyes. He sets the glass down with a blank expression and stands up. 

 

“Now,” he says, and turns to the sofa, setting his disturbing gaze on the boy. “Where is it?”

 

Spencer takes his eyes wide with bewilderment from the American to Cavendish, then to the toilet door and finally to the man sitting at his side, who’s pointedly looking at his own hands on his lap. 

 

“Ashley…”, the boy mumbles to get his attention.

 

Ashley sighs, rubs his thighs and, still looking down, says:

 

“It’s with your friend, in the—”

 

“I haven’t asked you,” cuts the American, managing a commanding tone without raising his voice too much, and not taking his eyes off the young man. Gaby fills the subsequent silence with a loud sip of tea.

 

“It’s in the toilet, still cuffed to the Russian man you sent before.”

 

The man looks at the lady, who sets down the teacup and gets off the desk with a little jump. In a couple of strides she reaches the toilet door and opens it ro reveal the Russian, gagged with a silk neckerchief and wrapped in an excessive amount of rope. He is sitting on the toilet and, cuffed to his wrist and sitting on the small basin, there’s the briefcase they were probably here to retrieve. 

 

The American hasn’t moved, maybe to prevent any of them from moving, and he can’t see from where he stands. 

 

“Are we happy?” he asks Miss Teller. 

 

She steps in, ungags and unties the Russian and pats him for any wound or fracture. She stops with her arms wrapped around him, and the Russian, looking down at her draws a half smile. 

 

“Gaby?”, insists the American. “Are we happy?”

 

“We are happy,” reply Gaby and the Russian in unison. 

 

“Gentlemen,” says Cavendish, primarily addressing the American, who seems to be in charge. “Uh, I believe I don’t know your name, sir. That’s Mr Kuryakin and Miss Teller, but you—”

 

“You don’t need to know my name. You didn’t even need to know Miss Teller and Mr Kuryakin’s names, you only needed to deliver the suitcase”, he replies, calmly but openly threatening for the first time since he entered the office. 

 

In the meantime, Miss Teller has freed Kuryakin from the briefcase and sat with it at Ashley’s other side, on the sofa, while Kuryakin has come to stand next to Spencer, resting a hand on his shoulder as an older brother would. Both he and Ashley are sweating. After a moment of hesitation, Cavendish soldiers on:

 

“Well, of course. I do feel the need to tell you that, with regards to His Majesty we didn’t intend—”

 

Cavendish is cut short by the sound of the Russian slapping the boy to unconsciousness. Ashley is shaking, but Miss Teller and the American haven’t moved an inch. 

 

“What?! Is, is— Is he alive? What? What?!” babbles Mr Cavendish, half standing. 

 

The American points a gun at him. 

 

“Sit down, Cavendish.”

 

“What?” Says Cavendish, frantically looking from the boy to the three intruders, raising his palms in reflex.

 

“Say ‘what’ again, I dare you. I double dare you, double dealing swine.”

 

Cavendish drops on his seat pressing his lips shut, with his hands still up. 

 

“What were you saying about the Queen? That you didn’t intend to take her for a ride? Oddly enough, that’s what you happened to do. And she doesn’t appreciate that. She employs people for that, and she is an accomplished driver herself. She doesn’t need you guys to do that.”

 

“I am sorry, we’re sorry,” mumbles Cavendish. Kuryakin walks up to him and puts him to sleep the same way he did the boy. 

 


 

Kuryakin rubs his palm. It’s a bit sore from being tied up, the second “kiss” feels like pins and needles. 

 

“Oh, my goodness, please!”, bawls Ashley. Gaby tuts and rubs his shoulder soothingly. “I made a mistake, I made a mistake, please, spare me!”

 

“Go ahead, Peril,” says Solo, waving in Ashley’s general direction. 

 

Before Kuryakin can reach him, the back door opens brusquely and in comes one of the goons that managed to reduce him. He is yelling and shooting aimlessly into the room, with his free arm half covering his sight. Only when he runs out of bullets does he look properly at them. After checking themselves and a terrified Ashley for any hits, they return him a puzzled look.

 

“Oh, shite”, he says, before Kuryakin knocks him off with the butt of his own gun. 

 

While Kuryakin sits the unconscious gunner at the desk, opposite his boss, Solo crouches in front of Ashley:

 

“You said there were two people inside. Why didn’t you warn us about the guard at the back door?” 

 

“We’re lucky we’re not dead. You included,” says Gaby, looking away from the bullet holes on the drywall. She sounds as if she is admonishing a child.      

 

“Time is passing. It is not a good idea to give two ‘kisses’ in a row to one person. What is the plan?”

 

Gaby stands up cheerfully, swaying the briefcase back and forth:

 

“We get out the front door like three happy customers, then someone else comes take care of these espionage geniuses.”

 

“Good,” says Kuryakin, relieved after half a day sitting in the same position. “Shall I make him sleep too?” he asks, pointing to Ashley, who is frozen in shock. 

 

Before he takes a step forward, Solo does the ‘kiss’ on Ashley. Kuryakin rushes to the man and checks his vitals from an inch apart, to avoid touching him in case Solo has done it well. He finally straightens up and turns around, clapping slowly, thoroughly impressed:

 

“Well done, Cowboy.”

 

“I learnt from watching the best,” admits Solo, wrapping his arm around Kuryakin’s waist with a self-satisfied smile. 

 

Kuryakin returns the half hug with a teasing smile of his own:

 

“Nah, I think you were lucky. Early Christmas miracle?”

 

Solo laughs:

 

“You don’t believe in Christmas!”

 

Gaby steps in between them and pinches their faces:

 

“And neither of us believes in miracles, but I do believe in getting out of here before it gets complicated.”

 




There is a fine gentleman's accessories store in a busy street in a big city of England. The lights are on, but there is no one behind the counter, and a sign on the door says “Closed” in beautiful letters, despite being well within business hours. The door opens with a ding and a young, stylish lady carrying a black briefcase with golden clasps steps out. Behind her, two tall, broad men follow, one in a gray tweed three piece suit and the other in brown corduroy pants and a bomber jacket over a knitted sweater. The three wear matching plaid duckbills. The lady links her arm with the man in a bomber jacket’s, and the man in the suit puts his arm around his shoulders. The three walk down the street and get lost in the crowd.