Illya sits down with a soft groan. The medics had looked him over and told him he was fine, but there was still a pervasive ache in his chest from his target's well-placed kick. Gaby is fine, though. And Napoleon had weaseled his way out of his kidnapper's torture chamber without so much as a scuff, as usual. So, all in all, Illya can't complain.
Soon enough, his partners are there, Gaby next to him on the sofa and Napoleon across from them in the armchair. Each holds a glass of terribly expensive Scotch that Napoleon had lifted somewhere along the way. A glass appears on the table in front of Illya, as well, but he won't drink it. He never drinks it, but it's always there, and he has grown to enjoy that little ritual. In case you ever want it, his partners are telling him.
They sit for a while, just like that. A record plays in the background, something old and classical, maybe Bach. Illya's too tired to reach through the recesses of his memory to actually place it, though. Soon, the record runs out, and no one bothers to replace it. There is just silence.
Napoleon is the first to speak.
"So, Peril, while you were playing with the medics, Waverly sent this." He produces a thick envelope, the kind that their missions always come in, and tosses it on the table. U.N.C.L.E. is written on the front in thick, black ink. It's Waverly's secretary's steady handwriting.
"Oh?" It comes out like a grunt.
"We're headed to Monte Carlo. You can work on your tan, my friend. I, personally, am excited to see the new exhibit at Nouveau Musée National de Monaco." Napoleon's French accent is impeccable. "Only after we shut down the terrorist cell that's been growing down there, of course."
Illya doesn't respond, so the American continues.
"But we don't leave until 0700 on Tuesday, which gives us" – he glances at his watch – "just over thirty-two hours to enjoy Rio. How about that for a Fourth of July gift, eh, Peril? I know it's your favorite holiday."
Illya shakes his head. It's always a joke with the American. Napoleon, drowsy and slightly tipsy, doesn't notice.
"Well, friends, I think I'm going to retire for the night." Napoleon stands up and pats Illya on the knee. All three know that retire, more likely than not, means go to the bar to find out just how promiscuous Brazilian women are. But no one says anything. And those nights, nights when Gaby rushes in with news on case to find some unnamed woman in Napoleon's bed, are slowly becoming less common. Slowly.
Once Napoleon is gone, Gaby turns to Illya.
"How is your chest?" she asks quietly. She is painfully aware that, had he not been trying to make sure she wasn't hurt, Illya would probably never have been touched by the spies they captured today.
"It is fine." The response is terse, blunt. It's the kind of thing Illya might have said when they first started working together, when he was still mad at her for being a British spy.
He had hated her, for a while. She was inexperienced on top of being a traitor. He wouldn't even look at her. If at all possible, he spoke to her through Napoleon, like a sullen schoolchild. Cowboy, I think Ms. Teller's idea is fine, what would you say? Or, Cowboy, I think it's too cold for what Ms. Teller suggests – do you have an opinion? It was comical: a KGB agent hated her more than he hated a CIA operative.
He came around, though. Whatever spark had existed between them, all the way back in Rome, it started to show again. Once he actually started talking to her, Gaby began to notice Illya stealing glances when he thought she wasn't looking. The banter that constituted Illya's relationship with Napoleon never showed up between him and Gaby. He was always kind, tender, almost, as if she existed in a perpetual state of about-to-break. When it wasn't aggravating, it was endearing.
Now, though, the pain has brought him back to not meeting her gaze.
They don't have a chess set at this hotel. Gaby had kept an eye out all through their mission, but, as far as she can tell, there isn't a single chess set in the entire city of Rio. Napoleon could probably find one, but he'd already gotten the celebratory Scotch, and Gaby tries to keep him to one theft per mission. So Illya has nothing to do but sit on the sofa and try not to think about the bruises forming on his body.
Eventually, Gaby gets up and walks to the bookcase over by the far wall, her eyes scanning the spines. Most are covered in Spanish, which she could barely read, but one lone English title stands out: Pride and Prejudice.
"Illya, have you ever read anything by Jane Austin?"
"No," the spy muttered.
Gaby pulls the thick book off the shelf and holds it up. "So you don't know the story of star-crossed lovers Elizabeth and Darcy?"
"Romeo and Juliet were the star-crossed lovers, were they not?"
"Yes, and Elizabeth and Darcy didn't really like each other at first, anyway. But it's still a good book."
It is clear Illya must make an effort to keep from rolling his eyes. Gaby is sure this is not the kind of reading assigned at whatever Soviet school Illya went to, but she sits down beside him and opens the book anyway.
"Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austin," she reads. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm reading to you."
"I do not wish to be read to."
"Would you prefer to sit in silence?"
Illya is about to say yes, he very much would prefer silence to whatever feminine nonsense was in that book, but Gaby looks at him with such an expression of dubiousness that he just shakes his head.
"Good. As I was saying, it is a truth universally acknowledged…"
Soon, despite himself, Illya got wrapped up in the story, in the mischiefs of rich, nineteenth-century Englishmen. When Gaby yawned and said she should probably go to bed, he found himself feeling disappointed.
Gaby saw his face fall and said, "Maybe we could continue reading in the morning? We have a day to enjoy Rio, after all."
Illya smiled. "That sounds lovely, Gaby."
He then went into his room, wondering when Elizabeth and Darcy would fall in love.