Civil Unrest
A gift fic for yourearainbowtoo
"Gotta say, Peril," Solo's ever-cavalier voice was starting to wear into fretfulness, "you could try to keep a lower profile."
"Why should I?" Illya replied. He gestured to the chilled carafe of wine and display of fruit on the ornamental table in the middle of the suite. "You appreciate the benefits, don't you?"
"They were terrified of you," he said, picking up the wine all the same. Georgian vintages were difficult to find outside the country, and he was too much a connoisseur to resist. He smelled and sipped, eyebrows raised. "Now, I enjoy inspiring fear as much as the next man, but," a cherry, ripe and bursting with juice, followed the wine, "it does put a target on your back. If you're not careful—"
"I am not here to be subtle," he interrupted, "and I am always careful. If you were serious about subtlety, you would not be here now."
Napoleon humphed under his breath, muttering, "If you say so." Soon thereafter however, he abandoned the wine and pulled out his scanner, joining his comrade in arms as they swept the room for bugs. There were three scattered about; all Russian make and all five years out of date.
"I'm disappointed in your countrymen," Solo said after drowning each of the devices in the sink, "with all the unrest here in Tbilisi—unrest severe enough to require our involvement—I would have thought an update in order."
"Waverly may consider a few student demonstrations serious, but I can guarantee you my superiors do not," Illya had not stopped moving once since entering the room; even now, he was unpacking his case and setting up some bugs of his own.
A quiet trio of taps sounded at the door; despite being halfway across the sitting room, Illya still managed to beat Napoleon to the door.
Gaby looked no more pleased than she had before they had parted ways on the other side of the Turkish border. Her small features were pinched in irritation, her large eyes withdrawn and suspicious. She stalked right past Illya to where Napoleon waited with a outstretched, brimming glass of wine, and downed the whole thing without a word.
It was never a good idea to try coaxing Gaby out of her frequent foul moods. She had to emerge from them herself, which she generally did after a few days of intense drinking and internal wrangling. Unlike Napoleon and Illya, who had abandoned their moral compasses in service of self and country respectively, Gaby had aligned herself with Waverly and U.N.C.L.E. because it had been her only way out of east Berlin.
It remained the only security she had of staying out of east Berlin. Gaby was as much a slave as any of them; unlike either Napoleon or Illya, she had not yet stopped straining against her yoke.
She drained the glass and poured another. Then another. When she reached out for the carafe again, Napoleon stopped her.
"You don't have to be nervous, Gaby," he said, tugging the glass away. "We're not going to let anything happen to you."
She gave him a look—a look she'd learned from Illya—of mixed exasperation and disdain. "We're here to go up against a bunch of kids," she scoffed, "and didn't I pin you three times last week? I can handle myself."
Illya chuckled, looking down on Gaby with a fond smirk. Her progress in hand-to-hand combat—and his role in her training—was an endless source of pride. Not to mention endless jibes against Napoleon, and how often he found himself ass-over-teakettle underneath the wiry, furious woman.
"You know what I mean," they were infuriating, the pair of them, "It's your first time behind the curtain since—"
"Shut up."
He shut up. It was usually the smart thing to do, with Gaby.
"We will never leave you," Illya said, hand ghosting over hers where it was clenched at her side. Napoleon watched the sudden delicacy in those long, skilled fingers, and shook his head. They had worked together for months now—patched each other's wounds, seen each other's warts, even slept in the same bed once or twice—but despite knowing how much Peril wanted Gaby, he never once touched her. Not unless she initiated it.
Napoleon was not a romantic man, but the almost religious devotion Illya offered the woman he loved was beautiful to see. A man of unbridled violence against his enemies—and often against his allies—he was unfailingly considerate of her.
Torture couldn't make him admit any of that, though.
That gentleness, that reserve, was always what Gaby needed. She looked up at him, brown eyes softening beneath his solid, understanding gaze.
"Of course you won't," she said, turning away. Always she hid her vulnerability with forced nonchalance. "What would you do without me, anyway? You're both behind schedule; the demonstration is only an hour away and you," she poked Illya's impeccably-uniformed chest, "need to get into position."
()()()
Napoleon wasn't sure where—or when—things started to go wrong. All he knew for certain was that when things did start to go wrong, they went catastrophically wrong.
Their goal was simple. Student organizations were demonstrating against the Georgian SSR; a few high-ranking officials in the party had come under fire, one had been injured in the process. However the kids were doing it, they were getting good information and were fearless about acting on it.
Russia had been made to look foolish one too many times, and crackdowns, regardless of civilian casualties, were in the offing.
Which was where Waverly had come in, offering to send his team into Tbilisi to infiltrate the student rebel cells and dismantle them from the inside. The ringleaders would have to die, of course, but the rest of the protesters would be saved...not to mention the countless passers-by who might be caught up in an indiscriminate tightening of the Soviets' iron fists.
Their plan was straightforward. Illya would pose as a visiting Soviet dignitary in a parade down Rustaveli Avenue. Such a flagrant flaunting of Russian authority would be certain to draw the protesters. Gaby and Napoleon could observe the group, apprehend or identify the leaders, and hand them over to Russian intelligence. As obvious foreigners, they could get closer to the rabble than any undercover Russian agent.
What Napoleon realized when the first explosion rocked the Opera House was how idiotic they'd been to ignore just how fearless their targets really were.
The bomb sprayed chunks and fragments of marble and granite all over the street, streaking pedestrians with blood and shattering the forced cheers of the crowd into shrieks of terror. Napoleon saw Gaby go down on the far side of the street just as he was knocked flat on his face in the middle of the road himself.
Inches from his nose, black boots stood lined in order; above his head, a row of rifles tipped towards the crowd.
Someone kicked him in the jaw, nudged him in the cheek with the barrel of a gun.
Even he wasn't arrogant enough not to think that the end might just be nigh.
Then a throaty Russian snarl sweeter than any angel's trumpet: "Forget him, you idiot! Get after the others!"
The soldiers turned and moved away at Illya's command, firing into a knot of figures throwing burning bottles towards the parade of cars. Illya stood above the rest, directing the effort; one eye on the crowd, one eye on Gaby. By following his gaze, Napoleon caught sight of Gaby trailing the soldiers; still trying to fulfill the mission even when it had all gone to hell. He set off to follow her, purposely avoiding Illya's gaze.
He had gone only three steps before another explosion detonated from the sewer and Illya's car overturned, spilling him hard onto the cobblestones.
From the alley came a masked group of teenagers, armed with clubs and torches and their invincible, foolish bravery. Napoleon rounded on them with his pistol, backed by a wall of men quickly retracing their steps to their fallen leader's side. Illya lay where he had fallen, a crimson streak of blood mingling with the dull gold of his hair.
Somehow, the first person to reach him in all the chaos, was Gaby. Disheveled and bruised, blood trickling down her scratched legs, she threw herself across him, gun drawn.
It was Guinevere coming to Lancelot. It was Persephone returning to Hades. And it was more than all of that.
It was a frightened, angry little girl who had grown up in deprivation, coming to save the engineered killling machine with a heart too soft for his own good.
And none of it would mean anything unless Napoleon could figure out a way to get them out of there.
Which he did.
()()()
Later, Gaby lay curled up in bed beside Illya, cold and withdrawn save for the odd tear that stole from her eye when she wasn't careful enough to catch it in time. But she didn't seem to care; her concern for Illya had finally thawed her frozen shell.
If Peril were awake, Napoleon knew he'd know exactly how to act. He was always better at handling a hurt or frightened Gaby, even when hurt or frightened himself. However—give him credit for knowing his own weakness—Napoleon fully admitted he was not as sensitive as the Russian. Neither was Gaby. Left to themselves, they were not a sentimental pair.
"You should get some rest," was his feeble offering. "It's anyone's guess as to when he'll wake up."
She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him, and probably hadn't heard a word. Napoleon took that as full dismissal, and retreated into the suite's living room to compose his report to Waverly. It was very doubtful that they'd be able to complete the mission now.
Half an hour later, he sneaked back to the bedroom with an idea of tempting Gaby away from the sickbed with a full bottle of chacha. The home-brewed Georgian vodka tasted like rocket fuel and kicked just as hard.
Do her good.
Gaby had propped herself over Illya, strands of her hair falling to brush against his face and neck. They trembled as she did, shaking with the turmoil of her pent-up heart. From Napoleon's vantage, the pair of them looked still and timeless as a sleeping princess and her valiant rescuer.
Unlike Sleeping Beauty's prince, Gaby was crying in earnest as she pressed her warm, red lips to Illya's still and pale ones. When that stirred no response from him, she tried again, and again, kissing him wherever she could. Eyebrows, temples, cheeks, chin...with each kiss Napoleon could hear the quiet, desperate little huffs of breath that were only just shy of outright sobs.
"Forgive me," she whispered, her English overpowered by her sorrow. The broken syllables of German spilled from her again and again, a torrent of bitte, bitte, bitte, please, please, please.
She curled herself into his side, careful, so careful not to jostle his bandages. The only comfort she allowed herself was drawing his arm from his side and pressing it between them, so she could hold his hand between hers.
"I should have told you so long ago," she whispered, voice rough. Napoleon could barely hear it as she continued, "But I was so afraid."
"Did you not think," Illya's voice was equally rough from pain and exhaustion, "that I understood your fears?"
Gaby cried aloud and shot upright, laughing and crying at once as she looked into Illya's pale, strained, but conscious eyes.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, and kissed him again, full and long and sweet. "Illya, I—"
He shook his head. "Do not be sorry, Gaby," he smiled, the radiance of it somehow undimmed in spite of his injury. His hands were still sure and kind when they stroked her face, brushing the loose hair out of her eyes so he could see her fully at last. "The wait was nothing."
When he drew her down to him, she went without a qualm. Her hands—so capable and efficient—skated along his brow and down his neck, the touch feather-light. His palms—rough and vicious as they could be—cradled her sides, large thumbs just pressing the sides of her breasts. She sighed into his mouth and bit softly down, a wicked smile blooming when he groaned. They shared a breath, each caught momentarily in the amber glow of sensation.
Napoleon was so lost in the scene that he actually jumped when Illya said:
"You can get out of here now, Cowboy."