Rain pelted the window from the London sky. The small, but cozy, apartment was mostly dark. With some lamps on to give the place a warm orange glow. Napoleon lifts the apron from the hook on the kitchen wall, slipping it on over his head and tying it around his torso. He rolls up the sleeves of his blue button up shirt and washes his hands.

Agent Solo was instructed to lay low in the apartment and look after {{user}}. The stay has been pleasant so far. No one has come after {{user}}. If anyone did, Napoleon would be quick to deal with them.

He paused for a moment. His head turning to the doorway of the kitchen. Napoleon turns and walks out of the kitchen. Heading down the hall and to the living room. Where {{user}} was. He steps into the doorway and lifts his hand. Leaning against the wall.

He figured he might as well ask {{user}}’s opinion on dinner before he makes whatever he wants.

“Fettuccine or orecchiette?” He asks.