Thunder and lightening ravage the sky, and, as if things couldn't get any worse, huge droplets of rain are falling in sheets, obscuring Illya and Gaby's vision drastically as they dash through the streets of London. Gaby curses the unanticipated storm as she sprints to keep up with Illya, whose hand dwarfs hers in a vice grip. The voices of their pursuers have long since faded into the patter of the rain, but Gaby won't allow herself to feel safe until they've found Napoleon, wherever he is...
After two blocks of running they see the car, and thankfully Napoleon's already inside. Gaby hardly has time to feel relieved before Illya opens the door and practically pushes her in, promptly following suit.
"Did you plant the tracker?" Napoleon asks from the driver's seat as he looks at them in the rear view mirror.
Gaby frowns at Illya. "Barely."
"Good." He speeds off into the relentless, blinding downpour, racing through side streets until it's clear they're not being followed. Even so, he wastes no time as they make their way back to the hotel, eyes ever alert. Striding through the revolving front doors and inconspicuously navigating the sea of wealthy socialites that populate the lobby, they finally reach the stairwell and bolt up the steps to their respective rooms. Gaby and Illya stumble through the doorway of their suite, drenched and panting, but safe.
Gaby instantly removes her shoes – thank God she decided to forgo the heels – and watches as Illya immediately locks the door out of habit. Rainwater drips from his coat as he sheds it, and she can see part of his shirt is soaked through in the front where the rain decided to slip in regardless.
He walks across the room to retrieve a black case from beneath his bed, placing it on the duvet and opening it as he methodically removes each piece of equipment still on his person, gingerly securing them in their allotted compartments. Every move he makes is swift and precise, as though he's gone through this a hundred times before. And he undoubtedly has, Gaby thinks. But there's a burning frustration in the back of her mind, and she won't let it go unspoken.
"What was that about?" Illya pauses and looks at her, frowning in confusion. "You were supposed to let me talk to Francesco," she continues with a hint of impatience. "Why did you attack him?"
"He reached for his gun. You were in danger." He says it so pragmatically, but Gaby knows he's intimately aware of the gun and dagger she's armed with – he helped strap the latter to her thigh.
"I can take care of myself."
He shakes his head as he closes the case, and his fingers begin to make quick work of his tie. "Too much risk."
"So you don't trust me." Her voice is sharp, challenging him as she crosses her arms defensively. Something stirs deep within her, and it's not pleasant.
He turns to face Gaby, loosened tie hanging awkwardly against the translucent fabric of his wet shirt. "I did not say that."
But she knows that's exactly what he means. He has a point, in a way: she doesn't have a tremendous amount of experience yet. Still, she's worked her whole life to make something of herself, sculpted by adversities and broken promises in a world that pushed her to prove herself time and time again, and she'll be damned if she lets someone belittle her. Even if it's unintentional.
And, if she's honest with herself, she's afraid. If theirs is a distrustful partnership, her inexperience makes her a particular liability. And she can't be, not if it means Illya might...
She strives to push the thoughts away, but it's too late – fear grips her, cold and unforgiving as it shoots through her veins, and she's angry. She's angry at herself, angry at him, angry she has to prove herself again, and that the cost of failure is so horrific.
So Gaby yells. Torrential, biting words spill from her lips, angry exasperation and fear-fueled accusations that she doesn't really mean. She can taste the bitterness of what she's saying, and she knows irrationality is clouding her judgment, but she's so caught up in the frenzy of it all that she can't stop. It's cathartic in a way, a cleansing fire in her lungs bursting forth. And not once does Illya break eye contact.
She sighs and closes her eyes, finally spent. When she looks up he's still staring at her, flat wet hair dripping onto his furrowed brow, and she realizes he's done nothing but take it. A barrage of abuses and he just stood there, fists balled up at his sides, the embodiment of stoicism, and she wonders how hard he's fighting to remain calm. She wishes he'd say something, anything... but at the same time, she's afraid he might.
They're still frozen to the spot, wrapped up in suffocatingly tense silence, when the phone rings. Illya hesitates for a moment before he makes for the source of the offending noise. He's barely held the receiver to his ear before he thrusts it in her direction.
"Here."
Stubborn pride gets the best of her as she holds her head up high, composing herself as she takes the phone from his hand. She can't help but frown as she notices his bleeding knuckles, indicative of the mission's mayhem no more than an hour ago. It could've been worse, so much worse, but still there's a slight feeling of guilt. She raises the phone, bracing herself for a noise complaint.
Instead, she's greeted by Waverly's voice. He's checking in, confirming the tracker works and discussing impending updates, but she's only half-listening – behind her she can hear the bathroom door shut loudly, followed by the sound of running water. The fact that he's locked himself away in the wake of what just happened makes her uncomfortable, and he's still in the bathroom by the time she hangs up and changes out of her own soaked clothes. Part of her is inclined to think this is juvenile, but while Gaby may not know Illya as well as she'd like, she knows him well enough to understand that this is more than just childish obstinacy. She swallows her pride and walks to the bathroom door.
"Illya." No answer. "Illya," she says more forcefully. Still no answer. She's not terribly surprised. There's an apology on the tip of her tongue, but she can't say it, not like this. If she had the audacity to spew such vitriol at him point blank, it's only fair to deliver an apology to his face, not cowering behind some door. It may not be much of a salve, but she owes it to him nonetheless.
As she readies herself for bed, completely exhausted, she resolves to say something to him in the morning.
When she wakes to the sunrise streaming in through the windows, he's gone.
(I originally planned for this to just be an angsty one-shot, but I'm going to continue it - stay tuned!)