II. Yellow Sun
...
Despite the perpetual tan of her skin, Gaby doesn't actually spend much time outdoors. As a mechanic (and the daughter of one), she is more frequently found in dark, dusty garages underneath malfunctioning cars.
Not that she minds. She prefers the dark, actually. It's a sort of comforting nothingness that helps her think, helps her concentrate. She does some of her best work at night.
It's during the day when she feels uneasy. She feels exposed in all that brightness, like she's on display. That's why she wears sunglasses so often – to shield herself from the blinding light in any way that she can.
Still, she has to admit, she can't help but feel drawn to it, those warm rays, that soothing glow, the feel of its kiss against her skin.
The first time she locks eyes with Illya, she feels that same pull.
He is half-hidden by shadows, more mirage than man, but when he turns towards her, the light hits his face just so and she is struck by how blue his eyes are, bright and blazing and oh, she likes what she sees.
Is this how Icarus felt, when he first glimpsed the sun?
...
When she wakes up on that second day in Italy, tucked into a bed she doesn't remember climbing into, the light seeping through the curtains nearly paralyzes her. It's too much for her senses, and she grabs one of her largest pair of shades (as Solo would call them), along with a hat, before heading out into the day.
She is not prepared.
The mid-morning sun hits her so hard she has to stop for a moment and catch her breath, and she sees spots dancing in front of her eyes until she rights herself on the door. She's not sure if she wants to throw up or lay down but she knows she can't do either, so she steadies herself and walks towards the car with as much composure as she can possibly manage while still hungover.
Illya, meanwhile, looks like some sort of fair-haired prince from one of her childhood fairytales. It's a significant departure from the man she saw on that dark road in Berlin. Back then, he had seemed mysterious and dangerous and brooding, but now, in the daylight, he seems younger, gentler. As she approaches, she realizes that he's smirking, and for a split second, she wonders if he would still look so dignified if her fist made contact with his jaw.
She never gets to find out, because the next thing she knows, he is slipping a ring onto her finger and they are engaged again. The jewel is heavy and foreign on her hand and she finds herself fiddling with it more than once. It doesn't feel right. Or maybe it feels just right.
She knows it's a cover, she knows that, but there is something undeniably comfortable about his presence, the way he fills and brightens the space next to her. It's dangerous territory she's entering, mixing business with pleasure, but in the back of her mind, there's a nagging little voice telling her that it could be wonderful, that it would be worth the risk.
And she wants to believe it.
So she spreads her wings and flies towards the sun.
...
But here's the thing.
Icarus got too close.
And in the end, he fell.
...
You should be careful, Solo tells her in Istanbul.
They are eating dinner in a quiet little cafe near the hotel, just the two of them, as their Russian friend has retired to bed early.
She sets her fork down with a gentle clink. Whatever do you mean? Gaby feigns ignorance, but Solo, rather uncharacteristically, is not in the mood for games.
This thing you're doing with Illya, he elaborates, and that's when she knows that he's serious because he has always called him Peril, never his real name. Be careful.
She's not sure she wants to have this conversation with him. No, that's not right. She is sure that she doesn't want to have this conversation with him. Don't worry, Cowboy, she says flippantly. I know better than to let myself get hurt.
If he's annoyed by her tone, he doesn't show it, just leans forward and looks her straight in the eyes. It's not you I'm worried about.
That gets a rise out of her. She is not having this conversation, not here, not now, not with a man who has no right telling her what she should and shouldn't do, and certainly not when the man has no business in whatever she is or isn't doing with Illya.
Well, you definitely don't need to worry about him, she says with a wicked smile. Illya's a big boy, I think he can take care of himself.
Solo stares at her for a moment and Gaby knows he's trying to make her uncomfortable, to wear her down until she tells the truth. She's seen him do it many times in the field, but this is not an interrogation and she is not a suspect. Her mouth stays shut.
With you, he finally says, I'm not sure he can.
The words are like a knife, and the way he says them, they almost sound like an accusation. She realizes her breathing has sped up - the adrenaline that comes with learning she has such power over a man.
They reach a stalemate, neither one speaking, both consumed by their own thoughts. Solo eyes her warily, and he looks so exhausted. When was the last time that he slept?
I adore you, Gaby, he murmurs, the first to fold. But I'm serious about this. Don't hurt him.
(Here's a quiz, which of these two scenarios is more unlikely: Illya getting hurt, or Gaby being the one to hurt him?)
(You have two hours to complete your essay.)
She wants to retort, to defend herself and her man, but then Solo continues, so quietly she almost misses it, as if he's speaking more to himself than to her. You don't know what a broken heart can do to a man.
(For your final exam, which of these scenarios is most unlikely: Illya getting hurt, Gaby hurting him, or Solo experiencing heartbreak?)
(Trick question - they are all equally improbable.)
Solo, she says softly, as if she may startle him, and it's troubling to her, the thought that these men might not be as invincible as they seem. Napoleon Solo, are you speaking from experience?
He doesn't respond, which is the only answer she needs.
Just...don't hurt him, he repeats as he leaves.
And then it's just Gaby, alone at the table with Solo's words and her own thoughts and an ache for a man she was never supposed to have.
She sighs and takes a sip of tea, looking out towards the street.
The sun has set by now, but if she looks hard enough, she can still see a sliver of violet bleeding into the night.
...
They've been together for only four months and part of the trio for another two years on top of that when Illya gets the call one night ordering him back to Mother Russia. He's needed back at the KGB, his commanding officer says. Permanently.
It was only a matter of time. Frankly, she's surprised the call didn't come sooner.
She'll never admit this to him, but she has spent the last four months preparing for this moment, envisioning this exact scenario in her head. Sometimes, she tackles him and yells at him to leave and sometimes she holds his hand and cries for him to stay and sometimes she just says goodbye and that she'll miss him and sometimes, she even tells him she loves him. But now that his last day is really here, she finds herself at a loss, uncertain of what to do or say.
Much to her surprise, and Illya's too, she's sure, the one who throws a fit is Solo.
You can't be serious, Peril! He fumes, pacing around the apartment, looking more frazzled than Gaby has ever seen. They're going to torture you for information, you know, about UNCLE, about us. And if you don't do what they want, they'll kill you. Don't you get it? You have no future there! At this point, he may have even thrown something.
Illya is as stonefaced as ever, muttering something about duty and loyalty, before leaving the room to go pack.
There's a fine line between loyalty and stupidity, Solo shouts after him, and you've just crossed it!
Gaby watches the scene unfold before her, pretending they are arguing about literally anything else. What she settles on is this - Illya wants to wear his father's watch with his suit, but Solo insists they would clash. It makes her feel better about the whole thing. Almost.
Solo is still seething when she comes out of her fantasy. You're going back there to die! he yells, because he knows, as does she, that there is no question where their Russian's true loyalties lie, that the menacing Red Peril would rather betray his own country and suffer a slow, painful death than let any harm come to the Cowboy or the Chop Shop girl.
When Illya returns, Solo is gone, having finally stormed out in frustration. He sets his suitcase - just one - down on the floor and suddenly it's real, it's too real, and it's too soon and she's not ready for this. Why did it have to be him and why did it have to be her and why did they agree to do this when they knew it would end and how is it ending already when it feels like it just began?
She pours herself a drink but it just tastes bitter and burns the whole way down her throat.
He watches her all the while, eyes never leaving her face, and she wonders if he is trying to memorize what she looks like, the way she is trying to memorize him.
Gaby, he says quietly, goodbye.
There is no sweeping declaration of love, no drawn-out monologue summarizing their time together, not that she was expecting it, not from him. He has always been efficient with his words, using only the bare minimum needed to convey his meaning, so of course he would find a way to reduce his departure down to just one word.
Goodbye.
And it hurts. Oh, but it hurts. She has spent so many months preparing for this, thinking that it might somehow lessen the pain when it finally hits, but it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. It's still a punch straight to her gut, leaving her breathless and shaking.
She realizes that he has turned away from her, perhaps trying to sneak out like she once did in Rome, and she jumps to her feet, crossing the room in a few quick strides until she stands right behind him.
Illya, she whispers, and he stops in his tracks. The muscles in his shoulders tense as she approaches and she wonders just how much he is holding back. He must want so badly to lash out, to yell and scream, to throw his fists until they are raw and destroy things. She laces her fingers through his, a small comfort, and smiles to herself when she feels him relax.
He turns around to face her now, silent as ever, waiting for her to speak. And there are so many things she wants to say.
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Be safe.
I love you.
Stay with me.
Stay with me.
Stay.
But the words are stuck in her throat. She could never ask that of him, because she has no right to, because it is the one thing he cannot do, and more importantly, because it is the one thing he would do. For her.
She recalls what Solo told her in Istanbul and she knows that she could destroy the man in front of her if she chose. And she could do it with just one word too.
If she asked, if only she asked, he would drop everything to stay with her. And it would kill him, as surely as returning to Russia would. Because Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man who runs away. Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man who hides. He is the man who fights.
But now, when he looks at her, he doesn't look like a fighter. He just looks weary and lost and that's what scares her more than anything, the fear that he has given up, the fear that he is already dead. And as much as she wants to scream and cry and beg him not to leave, she knows she has to be strong now for the both of them.
Illya, she says again, more forcefully this time, and he's so close that she can feel him breathe. She leans in, almost kissing him, and places her hand over his heart. It's going to be alright. You're going home.
With that, he nods, exhaling what she is certain is relief, and she feels it too, knowing that she is not just another master with a leash, knowing that she is not holding him back, knowing that he is free.
And then he is gone, out the door and out of her life and she is left alone as the familiar darkness greets her.
For the first time in her life, she wants the light.
...
Here's the thing.
Icarus got too close, and in the end, he fell.
But for a moment, he got to touch the sun.
...
It's the creaking sound in her hallway that wakes her. She sits up with a start, instantly alert, and picks up the nearest blunt object - a heavy copy of War and Peace (the original Russian text, of course) from her night stand. Slowly, she makes her way down the hall, book clutched in hand as the first rays of morning light cast a warm glow on her living room.
Standing there is Illya.
She breathes - inhale, exhale - and closes her eyes. When she opens them, he is still there.
She takes a step towards him, then another. He is still there.
(Pop quiz: Who is the last person Gaby expects to see standing in her flat at 5am?)
(Answer: Illya.)
I come back, he says, and she can't help but laugh at his English, which clearly suffered during his time in Russia. When he smiles in response, she launches herself at him, the book falling from her hand as she wraps her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life. He grunts softly at the impact, and that's when she notices the blood at his temple and the bruise on his cheek.
Apparently his English wasn't the only thing that suffered, and she wonders how many other injuries he has that she can't see.
She doesn't like the thought and pushes it out of her mind. The injuries will heal in time, she tells herself. They will fade away until they are nothing more than a bad memory and then the two of them will make new memories, new happy memories, like this one right now, when his lips are on hers, and god, she has missed this, she has missed him so so much. She promises herself then that she will spend the rest of her life making memories with him.
When they break apart, they're a mess of limbs on the couch, and she presses her forehead to his.
You came back, she repeats, afraid to speak any louder, afraid of breaking the spell. But his hands in her hair and his breath on her cheek tell her this is real. This is real and he is here with her and he is here, he is here.
He kisses her again, long and slow, and she can feel the slight turn of his mouth that tells her he's happy.
I come back, he nods, pressing his hand against her cheek. I come home.
She likes the sound of that. Home.
She likes the sound of that very much, and she curls up against his side, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she feels the steady drum of his heartbeat.
Moments later, the dawn breaks and the morning sun washes over them, Gaby in the light and Illya in her arms.
And they are home.