Notes: I'm sorry it took so long to post this! I had parts of it right, but a lot of it (mainly the intro) I didn't like. I'm still not crazy about the intro. But, here it is now, and I'm super excited as always for you guys to read! Also, on a side note, I'm trying to keep my profile updated on upcoming projects, so always check there if you're wondering when I'll post next. Anyway, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It's the middle of the morning when Illya leaves.
Truthfully, he would've preferred to leave at night, but that would've been too alarming. If Illya left in the middle of the night, they would have known he did so on his own accord and would go looking for him. They would have seen their were no signs of a break in, no scruff marks from a fight — besides, both Napoleon and Gaby would've woken at the sound of things crashing.
So he waits until the morning.
Leaving is hard, to the point where Illya debates not doing so, but he knows what he's risking if he doesn't. The KGB has called him multiple times in the past few days ordering him back to Russia, and each day he didn't go added one more wound he knew was going to receive. He already knows what they want — the same information they have wanted for the past year. Napoleon, Gaby, Waverly, UNCLE. At some point in the last year, Illya decided that he wasn't going to give the KGB anything about UNCLE, and only recently chose to cut ties with the agency. The choice was — is — a death sentence, but Illya was prepared.
He knows that no matter when he leaves, Gaby and Napoleon will come looking for him, and he is partially relying on their appearance, should they arrive in time. If he is going to fight the KGB, it would be nice to have two people at his side. But he doesn't want the fight here, at this safe house, because it's meant to be a safe house, and he does not want either of them to feel this place is otherwise. He also doesn't want to force them into a fight that is rightfully his.
And so, Illya leaves in the middle of the morning, claiming he has to run several errands in town and will be back later. Neither Gaby nor Napoleon pay him much attention, thinking he will come back as he always does. And he does always come back.
Or, at least, he used to always come back. He can't be sure if he'll come back this time.
It's dinnertime when Gaby and Napoleon officially begin to panic over Illya's lack of a reappearance. They had started panicking several hours earlier, but Waverly had told them they were not allowed to do so yet. He said he had errands to run, Waverly had said. Give him a few more hours.
A few more hours had passed, and Gaby and Napoleon were now allowed to panic.
"Did he mention what he needed to you?" Napoleon asks, because they have to start somewhere. They can't go into town without an idea of where to begin looking for him.
"No," Gaby says slowly, thinking of everything Illya had — and hadn't — said to her in the past day. "No, he didn't."
"What about the car?" Waverly asked. "Go see where he parked and start there." There was a note of annoyance in Waverly's voice, and Gaby knows he is annoyed with their worry. He isn't the slightest bit fazed by this, Gaby thinks. Not worried about his own people.
"Illya likes to park on the outskirts of town," Gaby says. "Just incase."
"Well, then go look for him," Waverly says, the annoyance more prominent. "It shouldn't be that hard to find a man of his stature. Honestly, you two, you'll find him and realize your worry was for nothing. Kuryakin can take care of himself."
Several hours later, after checking every open shop in town and not finding the Red Peril, they return to the safe house and Waverly joins in their panic.
"If I had to guess, I'd say Russia," Napoleon says, running a hand through his locks. Over the past hour, he has done this a lot, more than he cares to. He likes his hair to be perfect, to run his fingers through it hazardously only with the intention of luring women. Not because he was beginning to stress out.
"Yes, but where in Russia?" Gaby asks, glaring at the map of Russia before them. The map is massive, and there's so many cities to consider that nobody knows where to begin.
"KGB headquarters are in Moscow," Waverly says, his calm demeanor in place. Napoleon is half tempted to punch the Brit if only to get a rise out of him. Illya was — is — just as much Waverly's agent — UNCLE's agent — as he was the KGB's agent. "If he got called back, they'd probably take him there first."
"I've been to Moscow," Napoleon says. "It's a massive city, and I doubt they'd torture him at headquarters." Gaby's expression morphs into one of alarm and fear, and Napoleon quickly amends, "If they're planning to torture them. They might have just needed him home for a couple weeks. Sans torture."
Gaby frowns, throwing a glare at Napoleon that still showed the panic in her eyes.
"We'll find him, Gabs," Napoleon says later, when they have a few ideas of where to begin looking and Waverly is out of the room. "I promise."
It takes several weeks, but eventually, Gaby and Napoleon go to Russia with the intent of finding Illya. It took a fair amount of scheming and sneaking, but they had found a file on Illya that included his home address in Russia, and they had decided rather hastily to start there.
Gaby knows the house they find is not what she was expecting, and imagines Napoleon feels the same way.
The house they find is fairly ornate, with windows littered all along the front and a sturdiness to the craftsmanship that seems to beg for a challenge. The yard itself is covered in snow, but the surrounding trees give everything a sense of homeliness that Gaby had imagined long-ridden from the world. Along the bottom of the porch, nearly impossible to see for someone who isn't trained to see everything, is a scattering of marks and dents that Gaby curiously wonders were the result of Illya and his rage.
"This is where Illya grew up," Gaby murmurs, the realization finally sinking into her core. They were here, at his home, in Russia, trying to find him.
"Yes, it is," Napoleon responds just as quietly. Gaby sneaks a glance at his face, noting the awe she is sure marks her own features. The home is a sacred place to spies, a spot marked as entirely their own, and going there unannounced can be considered a mighty insult. To find Illya, though, it doesn't matter.
"What if he isn't here?" Gaby asks, trying to fight to keep her voice from trembling. She's known the question for a while, felt it slip through her mind and over her tongue like poison. What if they don't find him here? What if they came all this way for nothing? Russia is a big place — the KGB could already have him, and he could be in Moscow or Leningrad or the Gulags at this point. What if he isn't in Russia at all? The world is an even bigger place.
"We'll find him, Gabs," Napoleon reassures her, though Gaby knows it is just as much for himself as it is for her. They have to hope he is here, because they other possibilities are endless and overpowering. "If not here, somewhere else. But we will find him. We won't give up on him, because he would never give up on us."
That's true, Gaby thinks, remembering how far both of them had gone to find her. Illya would never let one of us go so easily.
"Remember," Napoleon murmurs at her ear, "don't say anything."
He knocks on the door, a firm, confident beat, because they can be nothing but confident that Illya is here.
Illya knows that it's only a matter of time before they come for him.
He just isn't expecting them to literally knock on his door.
Glancing briefly at his mother, Illya slips into the parlor closet, scowling when he realizes that he has no view of the entryway. He can hear everything quite clearly, though, and he's been mercilessly trained to rely on other senses when one fails, so that's what Illya does. He closes his eyes and focuses on the noise in the entryway.
He counts three pairs of footsteps, but knows one of them belongs to his mother. The other two are disjointed and the way the boots clunk against the floor makes Illya think that these people do not often wear such heavy boots. There is something oddly familiar about the footsteps, but Illya cannot figure it out over the rough patter of the boots.
"Good evening," a man says, his tongue rolling over the Russian words without difficulty. Illya tries not to knock his head against the wall in exasperation. The footsteps and voices are unfamiliar, and with no way to see them, Illya cannot determine whether they are friend or foe. KGB agents do not knock on doors and greet their hosts — they barge in and shoot. At the same time, Illya is unwilling to assume it's not the KGB, because they know he knows their methods, and perhaps they would change tactics to confuse him.
It is like a game of chess, where there are countless moves and countless motives, and guessing is a dangerous risk.
He should've picked a better hiding spot.
Illya listens as the conversation continues in the next room, going through his mind to try and place the voice or the footsteps. The fact that he can't figure it out irritates him, and Illya is tempted to step into the entryway and shoot the two newcomers. Of course, his mother probably wouldn't be too pleased blood in the entryway, but it's been there before and Illya knows how to clean a mess.
"We're looking for someone," the man says in Russian, and Illya's heart stops. He prays his mother hasn't blanched, prays that she's dealt with enough people like this to know how to school her features.
"Oh?" she asks, and the calmness of her voice reassures Illya. "And who would that be?"
"A friend," the man says. Idly, Illya wonders why the man's partner hasn't spoken yet. Perhaps to try to get Illya to forget they are there.
"A friend is a vague term," his mother says. She has said this to Illya a handful of times, a quiet reminder of his KGB status and her desire for him not to be dead. KGB agents do not have friends — they barely have partners — and they will not hesitate to kill him if the need arises. "Does he have a name?"
"Yes," the man says, hesitating. Illya waits with bated breath, knows that his name will be the one the man says, because why else would he be here if not to find — kill — Illya?
"His name is Illya," a feminine voice says in English, and Illya's heart stops. He knows that voice. He knows the german lilt, has heard the voice say his name a thousand times before. "We know you're his mother. We just… we wanted to find him. We had hoped he would be here."
Without a second thought, Illya moves, his only desire to get to Gaby, to make sure it is in fact Gaby. He keeps a steady grip on the gun in his hand, because he still isn't sure who the other person is, and if they're a threat he'll have to get rid of them quickly.
What he finds is the familiar sight of Napoleon and Gaby, though they are now bundled in coats and scarves and thick winter boots. They're standing with their backs to him, and Illya allows himself the briefest of moments to understand it all. They're here, in Russia, with him. For him. He has half a mind to yell at both of them, to demand what they're doing here and order them back to London. He will take care of the issue here because it is his fight. This fight is to ensure Napoleon and Gaby will be safe from now on, and that means they are not supposed to be part of the fight.
The other half of his mind knows that they won't leave. They'll fight beside him because that's what they do, and if he's going to fight to protect them then they should fight to protect him. The three of them will fight together once again, because they are a team. They are friends.
"I'm here," Illya says quietly, stepping fully into the entryway. Napoleon and Gaby spin to face him, both drawing their guns from their coats because that's what they've been trained to do. Illya had put his own gun away when he saw the two of them, but even he knows having the gun in his hand right now would be a comfort even if he didn't use it. Even he is slightly uncomfortable with the idea of staring down two loaded barrels.
"Illya," Gaby breathes at the same time Napoleon murmurs a quiet, "Peril."
He offers them the smallest of smiles to assure them it is in fact him. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya spies his mother watching them, an odd look on her face. He has told her about them once or twice, let her know that these are the people he frequently works with, these are the people who have saved his life more times than he cares to admit, and, most importantly, these are the people he would dare to call his friends.
Gaby is the first to move, handing her gun blindly to Napoleon before darting to Illya. She crushes herself into him, tangling themselves together in that familiar way, and it is only because Illya is paying attention that he is not tackled. He grins at her when she looks up at him, a private grin he reserves for her alone, and finds that he does not mind that Napoleon and his mother see this side of him. Gaby is all that matters right now.
He isn't sure if she kisses him or he kisses her, but their lips find each other like magnets, and Illya loses himself in the kiss, in the feeling of her. It has been too long, he thinks. He should've brought her and Napoleon along from the beginning, because they could've helped him from the very start. They are a team and they should be together at the end of it all.
"If that's her greeting," Napoleon says from his spot in the foyer, "I can't wait for mine."
"These are the people you spoke of?" his mother asks softly in Russian. Illya nods. Gaby and Napoleon are in the main living room of the house, looking at the different knick-knacks and pictures along the walls. Both seem consumed with better knowing Illya — he is fairly certain Gaby's intent is for personal gain and Napoleon's for professional — understanding where he came from and how he had become what he is.
"I like them," his mother murmurs. Illya glances at her, a question written in his expression. His mother likes Napoleon and Gaby? Was it even possible? She had always told him to watch his back when he was in the KGB, to know his partners better than his enemies because in this line of work, the partners were more likely to stab you in the back.
"They're good for you," she says, smiling gently. "Around them, you're Illya once more."
There is a legion of unspoken words behind his mother's eyes, and Illya knows all of them. He knows that she is thinking of the young boy he had once been, the one who smiled and laughed, who only wanted to make other people smile and laugh. She is thinking of the boy who had changed when his father was sent away, who had to watch his mother be put through years of degradation. The boy who had joined the KGB with the intent to harm those who had hurt his mother, who had risen to be the best so anyone who went to touch his mother would be reminded of the force that he was.
The boy he had been as a child was a thousand miles away, buried deep in the recess of his mind, but Illya understood. With Gaby and Napoleon, it was easy to believe that the boy was not entirely gone.
"She's wonderful," his mother adds, because their feelings have delved into dangerous sentimentality, and though Illya knows his mother loves him dearly, she is also the mother of a spy, and knows he couldn't lose himself to his feelings in the open. Even if she does like his partners. "Don't let that one get away. I'll beat you if you do."
Illya laughs as he imagines his petite mother trying to fulfill that promise, earning him confused looks from Gaby and Napoleon.
"What's the plan, Peril?" Napoleon asks once he and Gaby have sufficiently surveyed Illya's childhood home. His mother is in the kitchen preparing dinner for them, and now is the time to perfect their plan.
"They will try to ambush us," Illya says, leading Gaby and Napoleon to the dining room where he has created a basic model of the home. "I have put day and night alarms around the permitter — blinding lights for at night, noise triggers beneath the snow. There are trackers in all the trees."
"That sounds excessive," Gaby says. Illya shakes his head.
"They are KGB, and they are going after one of their own. We must plan to think like them, but we must also plan to think in the exact opposite way as well."
"There's absolutely no way to guess their plans, then?" Napoleon asks, frowning. He's studying the replica with the kind of intensity Illya has been giving it, trying to find if there are any spots he missed, any advantages or disadvantages that need to be accounted for.
"No."
"So the odds are against us," Gaby says.
"Yes."
"Lovely."
"It's nothing that hasn't happened before, Gabs," Napoleon reassures her. "We'll figure it out, and if all else fails, we've always been good at creating solutions on the spot."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
After nearly four hours of planning, the three have an idea of what they will do, and have even accounted for on-the-spot solutions. Though Illya and Napoleon were satisfied with the rough plan — as per usual — Gaby hadn't been, and had called Waverly to send assistance, stating that three spies against God knows how many KGB agents was an impossible fight, even with the best.
And so their day had passed, fading into a bright, moon-lit night. Illya had relaxed at the sight, because though he wasn't sure what to expect from the KGB, he knew they wouldn't attack on a night like this. It would be too easy to spot them.
The hardest part of the night for Illya had been realizing his mother would not leave Russia with them. He had come quite near begging when he had invited her along, but she never changed her mind.
"My place is near your father," she said every time, smiling at him. "Yours is with them."
"Hello," Gaby murmurs when she and Illya are safely locked away in his room. After weeks of not seeing her — and only a heated kiss to hold him over for several hours — Illya felt as though his entire body was on fire with the urge to touch her.
He does just that, touching ever bit of her, his hands sliding over her body with expert efficiency. She is still the same Gaby he had left at the safe house, with her sweet smelling hair and her sharp edges hidden beneath soft skin. He can feel her hands sliding over his body, touching him everywhere and anywhere, and remembers that she has a particular fondness for bold, daring caresses — it's one of his favorite things about her.
"Hello," he repeats, grinning. He knows that his mother and Napoleon knew exactly what he and Gaby were planning when they had excused themselves, but finds that he does not care. It's been hell, and Illya is ready to be reunited with her.
They do not say much else, save for several more "hellos" and their names over a dozen times, but they do not need to say much at all. They explore each other with rekindled vigor, and it doesn't take long until their clothes are scattered about his room and she is in his bed — the one he grew up with, that was so large he occasionally got lost as a child — and all that is left is him and her and their love. They throw themselves into the fire, into each other, lose themselves, and find each other all over again.
"Why did you leave in the middle of the morning?" Gaby asks quietly, doodling on his chest. His arm is wrapped around her, and her head is using his upper arm as a pillow, and all Illya can think is that, despite everything, this is perfect.
"It was easier than leaving at night," Illya says, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is looming above him, a taunting acquaintance. He's tempted to try and sleep, though part of him only wants to stay awake and feel Gaby.
"Easier?" Gaby demands, her voice rising, and Illya wishes he had chosen sleep. "We were worried out of our minds for you, Illya! I was terrified you had died or other KGB agents had gotten ahold of you."
"I didn't die. They didn't get ahold of me."
"I see that now," Gaby snarls. It's odd, Illya thinks, to see her so angry after the gentle eagerness with which they had explored each other not even an hour ago. "But how can you say it was easier? Did you not care about how we would react at all?"
"Your reactions meant everything to me," Illya snaps, because her irritation has caused his own to rise. With a few deep breaths, Illya relaxes, reminding himself that he has no reason to be angry. "That's why I left in the middle of the morning."
"So you would know we were devastated?" Illya flinches at the word, because devastated is strong and harsh, and he would rather not see Gaby, or Napoleon, in such a state. Gaby must have seen his flinch, because her voice drops to a murmur. "You should've left at night. It would've been easier."
"No, it wouldn't have," Illya says, focusing entirely on Gaby. The rest of the world fades away until it is him and her and they are tangled together as hopelessly as ever, as lost in each other as ever, and Illya knows that there is no place he'd rather be. This is his home, and he will never let it go. "I left in the middle of the morning because I knew you would come looking for me. I knew you would stop at nothing to find me. I know you, Gabriella."
He would fight a thousand wars for the smile he receives.
So that's it! I hope you guys enjoyed it! Like I said, I'm not crazy about the intro, but I had to get it over with because this story was killing me. Also, I wasn't sure how to write his mother, but I got the impression that she knew enough about Gaby and Napoleon to know they're good for Illya. That's just me. Anyway, please review and let me know what you thought!