Disclaimer: "You don't even own your scrawny backside!" – My parents.

Summary: Istanbul is just a distant memory as the men from U.N.C.L.E. move on to their third joint mission: protecting a witness in '63 Boston while adjusting to their deep cover profiles. Meanwhile, Gaby is torn between her loyalty to her country and her feelings for her Russian partner in espionage. Rated M for swearing and later content.

A/N: Brace yourselves.

It's time for a Man from U.N.C.L.E. multi-chapter story! Many of you might try to reason with me ("You haven't finished Wildfire yet!" or "You should really try watching the original series first, you reckless son of a gun"), but I'm going to pull the writer's block card. I've tried various plot-bunnies to continue Wildfire, and I've killed every single one of them (I'm terribly sorry, bunnies).

So, I figured a change of scenery might help. Basically, I'm using FanFiction as psychological therapy. Let's be honest, dear readers; we've all been there. I've watched Guy Ritchie's amazing production of Man from U.N.C.L.E. more times than I can count, which means I have found a suitable victim for my literary problem. The story will pick up where the movie left off, obviously.

I talk too much. Less rambling, more writing!

Berliner

All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner!" — President John F. Kennedy, June 26 1963, West Berlin

- Prologue -

It hadn't been the drug that had made her addicted.

Sure, the chemicals contributed to her dependence, her homelessness and her empty wallet, but she knew now that it had been her own body that had betrayed her. Every cell in her body craved that familiar feeling, of warmth and numbness, if only to drown out everything else. Anything could've triggered her addiction—alcohol, razor blades, father's sleeping pills—anything at all, but this was what the man in the glasses had to offer. And she gladly accepted.

It was surprisingly cold for early September, and she wrapped herself tighter in her cheap (stolen, whatever) raincoat. Every time a breeze picked up at the shoreline, she heard rather than felt the chime of the syringes in her pocket moving gently in unison.

She vaguely recalled a biology class on classical conditioning, something about a dog and a bell. The irony of the situation didn't escape her.

The harbor was already visible in the distance, and her feet took her to the usual hideout. She spotted the worn red paint of the abandoned fisher boat, but the dirty windows were dark. Apparently Simon wasn't home.

The boat rocked softly when she stepped on the rotten wood. As always, the door to the small vessel was jammed. It took her longer than usual to open it, making her painfully aware of the weight she'd lost and the way her hands were sweating. It didn't matter anymore. She needed an escape, and she needed it now.

Simon had taught her how to use. She hated needles, but her trembling fingers uncapped the syringe anyway. She usually let Simon rub the alcohol in the crook of her right elbow, his hands gentle and soft. Why wasn't he here?

The needle hovered over her skin. Her free hand twitched with anticipation. With a deep breath, she expertly plunged the needle into her flesh and slowly emptied the glass capsule.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong.

She yanked the needle out of her skin and blindly reached for another syringe, her movements slow and sluggish. It was working fast, too fast, and she should've checked the dosage but Simon always did that. Standing up, a wave of dizziness had her stumbling hard into a cupboard and without warning her stomach emptied what little she had eaten that day. She was so cold, and scared and alone, yet a small part of her kept telling her she needed to call for help.

Simon would know what to do. He always did.

The skin of her knees broke when she collapsed against the wooden floor. Outside, a seagull cackled.

- Chapter 1 -

She didn't want to admit it at first, but Gabrielle Teller really needed some time off.

Istanbul had been a messy five-months-long mission trying to uncover a terrorism network buried in the heart of the city. As expected, Waverly had let his brand-new team fend for themselves, sending them off with a friendly wave and a couple of classified files. Gaby was used to Waverly's cryptic nature and his tendency to put new agents to the test; she had learned to accept that a long time ago. Her two partners, however—it was still strange to think of them as such, Gaby thought—had experienced more trouble with adjusting to Waverly's methods.

Solo was sitting across from her, his legs crossed as he lazily flipped through a magazine. Raindrops blurred the square window of the pilothouse as the boat cut smoothly through the waves. They were aboard the Brave Challenger, a magnificent yacht built only 5 years ago, in 1958. The three gas turbines combined with surface drives could bring her to a staggering maximum speed of 60 knots, and two additional conventional engines made the yacht easily maneuverable at low speed. Gaby was a sucker for well-built cars, but she was also a mechanic, and the sleek aluminum structure framed with mahogany had her entranced.

"A beauty, isn't she?"

Gaby startled, withdrawing her hand from the polished wood she'd been absently tracing. Waverly sat down in one of the leather chairs beside Solo, and smiled at his agent. His hand clutched a file thick with paper. "Took me a while to convince Niarchos, but you'd be surprised what one can achieve with a couple of extra zeros."

Gaby had no idea who Niarchos was, but she smiled back nonetheless. "She is magnificent. Almost makes me regret I became a mechanic for cars, not yachts."

Solo lowered his magazine at this to look Gaby in the eye. "Ah, but then we wouldn't have met, would we?" It sounded more like a statement than a question. "Besides," Napoleon continued, "I'm sure Peril can teach you what he knows about boats. He proved himself quite the expert in Rome." The attempt at humor sounded somewhat forced and bitter to Gaby's ears, and once again she felt a little left out.

Rome. The city brought back memories that left a particularly bad taste in her mouth. They had been through hell and back during the Vinciguerra incident, yet she couldn't help but feel there was a lot she had missed while being undercover for Waverly. In Istanbul, she had noticed the quiet cough that sometimes rattled in Illya's chest, and the faded dark callouses on Solo's fingertips—both observations proved her theory more right than wrong. She might be 'under-trained', as Waverly so blandly put it, but she was still an agent.

"First lesson: always toss Cowboy off boat. Might save your life."

Illya's baritone voice echoed through the pilothouse as he entered, ducking slightly to fit through the door. Gaby sat back in her chair, trying hard to keep her expression neutral. "I'll keep that in mind," she replied, and she was glad her voice sounded unfazed to her own ears.

(They had had a huge fight two days ago, an explosion of all the tension between them that had developed steadily since their 'engagement'. The team had been offshore in Spain, and she had used the time to re-read Kennedy's West Berlin speech; something she had wanted to do since their last day in Istanbul. Illya had commented on this, and her German temperament had reacted to his inability to see the inequity of his own country corrupted by communism. Their discussion had started out (somewhat) civilized, and soon spiraled out of control until it had nothing to do with the Cold War anymore and everything to do with whatever existed between them.
Still, she couldn't avoid him forever, being on team U.N.C.L.E. and all. She could totally be a grown-up about it, despite wanting to shave off his Russian eyebrows. And his stupid blonde hair. With her variable-speed electric drill.)

Waverly looked from Illya to Gaby with his eyebrows slightly raised, but if he noticed something unusual he didn't say anything. Instead, he placed the file in his hands on the table between them and motioned for Illya to sit down. "Right, time for business. I presume all of you have read the file?" he asked, glancing around the table. No one reacted. "Splendid!" Waverly continued enthusiastically, "then all of you must be delighted we are arriving in Boston approximately 24 hours."

"Sir, may I speak freely?" Gaby asked tentatively. Waverly nodded slowly in response.

"With all due respect, Sir, it wasn't entirely clear in the file why we're assigned to a witness protection detail. Isn't there already a team available for that task? I read in the file that they appointed Gemini and they are all highly qualified to—"

"—Gemini has been terminated. Their carelessness and lack of insight almost cost the witness her life, and landed her six-year-old son in the local hospital." Waverly's voice held no emotion, and Gaby ducked her head to avoid his icy gaze, her face suddenly burning with shame. She knew better than to question his authority, but for some reason she kept pushing all the wrong buttons today. Way to go, Gaby.

As if sensing her self-reproach, Waverly softened his tone. "Currently, the men, and lady, from U.N.C.L.E. are the only ones competent enough to take on this mission. Which is why you'll be watching this woman for the next month or so."

He plucked a worn photo from the file and placed it on the table. The picture was slightly blurry and showed a pretty woman, with wavy hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She was standing on some sort of plaza, holding a phone in one hand and a bag in the other. A badge was on a cord around her neck.

Mary Summers, Gaby's mind put a name to the unfamiliar face. 30 years old. Unmarried, partner deceased. Anesthesiologist at Massachusetts general. One child, a six-year-old boy named Alexander.

"We all know who this is," Waverly said in a matter-of-fact tone. He placed another photo on the table, this time of the boy, Alexander Wilson. Silently, he placed the next photo on top of the previous one. The third picture was grim, portraying the face of a dead young woman with her eyes half-open and unseeing. Although the photo was black-and-white, Gaby didn't find it difficult to picture blue lips accompanied by a white face and she almost wanted to look away.

"As was stated in the file, the local hospital has observed an increase of victims suffering drug-overdose, specifically diamorphine." Waverly paused, his eyes lingering on the deceased Jane Doe. "Now, diamorphine is a powerful opioid and is usually preserved for cardiac and palliative pain care. Basically, it's similar to heroin. We theorized that there is a leak in the hospital staff, a moll, who trades syringes of diamorphine for hard cash. Until a week ago, we had no proof whatsoever. This is when Doctor Summers comes into play."

"She witnessed a trade," Napoleon supplied softly, his fingertips drumming on the table. During the first month of Istanbul, Gaby found Solo's constant remarks annoying and she had silently compared him to a schoolgirl yearning for the teacher's praise. After Istanbul, Gaby knew that was just Solo's way of contributing to the mission. He was dedicated and had an incredible work ethic; something she had come to appreciate more in the previous months.

"Indeed," Waverly said, looking straight at the American, "Do realize that all we have is the word of a well-respected doctor and vague hospital statistics. Your job is to identify the mastermind behind the drug trafficking, while protecting our only witness and her son. We all know how messy drug-cartels can be, so the sooner you finish this mission, the better." He finished with a final glance at the table, and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. He looked older to Gaby, fatigued and worn, but she knew better than to ask him about it.

Wanting to break the silence, Gaby grabbed the picture of Mary Summers. "She is already on the drug-cartel's radar, yes? Does this give us a clue on possible suspects?"

Illya spoke before Waverly could. "The car that crashed into Doctor Summer's vehicle had no number-plate. There were two men in the car, but other than that no clues. It's in the file, Gaby," Illya finished, fixing her with a pointed stare.

She swore he said these things just to annoy her.

"Take it easy, Peril," Solo said nonchalantly before Gaby could defend herself, "We've all studied the file, Gaby was just asking a legitimate question." He cleared his throat before he continued. "However, what I couldn't find in the file, granted we have one, is our cover-profile."

"Ah, yes, the cover profiles. Rather well put together, if I might pat myself on the back," Waverly said, and Gaby was sure she saw a glint in his eye. Please no more engagements, please no more engagements, she repeated in her head, feeling slightly silly for crossing her fingers. Waverly pulled three pages from the bottom of the file, handing them out.

Gaby quickly scanned the file, skipping across her cover name (Liesel Herschdorfer, seriously?), date of birth and other details before her eyes landed on something far more horrendous than her new name or an engagement.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," she said, feeling her temper rise, "A bakery? I work in a bakery?" What was she, some obnoxious farmer's girl? God, this was humiliating. She was an agent, and a damn good one; he might as well assign her to be a nurse to hit all the sexist clichés of espionage.

"Now, now, Gaby," Waverly said, his patronizing tone now responsible for the vein throbbing on the left side of her forehead. "It was a practical decision, really. Solo and Kuryakin simply wouldn't look convincing enough in a frilly apron."

Oh, she was going to kill him.

"I'll be lending my services to Boston's public library," Napoleon said, sounding slightly disappointed. "What have you got, Peril?"

"Judo teacher. At children school." Gaby choked back a laugh. Served him right for being an insufferable smart-ass. Waverly merely grinned at them, clasping his hands together.

"Agents, welcome to Boston."

A/N: Holy smokes. I just wrote 2300 words in one go. I hope the beginning wasn't too depressing, with the girl dying and all, but those are the hard realities of drugs. Here is an important message from your Uncle (or Aunt) Bill: DON'T BUY DRUGS. Become a pop star, and they give you them for free! (I just quoted Love Actually. I'm awesome that way.)

I might need to explain a little where this story is going. Man from U.N.C.L.E. left me incredibly frustrated, the way Guy Ritchie left us hanging with all that sexual tension between Gaby and Illya. ONE KISS. One kiss and I would've been satisfied! But nooo why do that when you can also leave your viewers waiting for another year or two before releasing another movie? AND THAT'S A BIG IF, PEOPLE. So, I took matters into my own hands to write a sequel. A romantic-comedy version, to be precise. I just really suck at writing thriller and/or action scenes so this story might contain some of that but not too much.

Heh. I just started and I'm already disappointing you guys. I want a gold medal.

Anyway, Gaby and Illya are already fighting (YAY) because they were really (read: too) close at the end of the movie and I need them to be a little hostile to each other again. Makes it more fun to write, or I would already be done in two chapters. Also, Waverly is really hard to write because he had only a couple of scenes so I didn't have much to go on. I picture him as this serious guy with a mischievous streak, 'cause according to his file he was a gambler and I've seen gamblers on Doctor Phil and therefore this was the only version of Waverly that made sense.

This author note is already longer than my dog's ginger-colored butt-hair (pardon my French). I have two more messages for you guys. First of all: I like making long author notes and I will bore you with them at the end of every chapter. Prepare yourselves for endless rants and an embarrassingly high usage of caps lock. Second message: a shirtless Illya might appear in the next chapter, but that totally depends on whether you review or not. Look at me; I'm already bribing my readers! Grandmother would be proud.

See you next chapter!