Illya had spoken to Oleg already, of course. He didn't just take someone's word that he was working under British Intelligence without checking in. Tensions were high in the world right now and whether he found himself being drawn in by an American and British Intelligence, it didn't change the fact that they were still at war. Arms Race. Americans versus Soviets, whatever the case may be. They'd stepped out of one World War and into a war amongst themselves. Illya didn't think he could remember a time when he wasn't on some side of some war.

Now, KGB, it seemed more important than ever to remember his roots. To remember why he did the things he did and what drove him at the end of the day. Reputation was important. Love of his home country. And somewhere, very far down the line, was his belief in how the world should be.

Maybe that's why he'd let Solo set fire to the computer disc.

It was easy to spot Oleg. He hadn't really made himself incognito and Illya could recognize that it was a purposeful thing. He'd wanted to be spotted. Maybe so Waverly would send him down. There was always a game to be played with Oleg. Always.

When he spoke, he spoke in his native tongue. Even if it drew attention, he thought it was safer at this point instead of slipping into English. "Anything interesting, comrade?"

Oleg didn't answer at first. Instead, he seemed to finish his article and Illya was left standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he waited patiently. Finally, Oleg folded the newspaper down, laying it across his lap, looking up at the tall Russian in front of him. "Sit."

Illya glanced at the chair across from him before doing so. Oleg was not a man to question. He was a different kind of leader, one that used threats as motivation. He knew where to poke and knew where to prod and at the end of the day, he got what he wanted. And he did so for his country. For Russia. For the Soviet Union.

"This arrangement of yours has us worried," the man said. Illya sat up a little straighter. He knew how it looked. In bed with the enemy. Didn't matter if they all shared a common purpose. This…unit, codenamed UNCLE, whatever they were – designated to handle global threats. Heavily backed by British Intelligence, which meant they weren't exactly neutral. "As does this disc you claim didn't exist."

"There was no-…"

"Horse shit." Illya closes his mouth, looking across at the other man with a steeled look on his face. "We swept that room and there was no sign of it. I'm going to ask you this once. Does the American have the plans?"

Illya lowered his chin, firm in his answer. "No."

"How do you know?" The question was a simple one, but Illya couldn't give the honest answer. Because they'd burned the disc. They watched it go up in flames as they shared a drink and the implications of such a small action – it kept the playing field even. It didn't tip the hand of nuclear warfare in one direction or the other. If either Solo or Illya had take that disc back to their superiors…

"I just know." It was the only answer he gave. His superior would just have to trust him.

Oleg, for his part, didn't say anything for a long while. He studied Illya's face. Under the scrutiny, Illya didn't flinch, but he couldn't figure out what the other man was thinking, either. Couldn't figure out the conclusions he was coming to. Finally, he leaned back, that knowing smirk on his face and Illya tried to prepare himself for what came next. It was always the same. Always that one spot Oleg knew where to prod to get him to do his job.

"If we ever find out that you had those plans and didn't bring them to us…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "Your father was a year into Gulag before he died. Don't think that just because it's shut down that Siberia is no longer an option. I'd be very interested in seeing, Kuryakin, whether or not you'd outlast him."

Tapping. His finger tapped along his arm where they were crossed over his chest. The blood rushed in his ears and drowned out the sounds of the hotel lobby, of people coming in and out, laughing and arguing, being people. He could only stare at Oleg's face. His father. In Gulag. The steady sound of marching. Of men starving in chains.

"Kuryakin," Oleg said, bringing Illya's cold eyes up to him. "The next time any intelligence on MI6 or the CIA falls into your lap, you bring it to us. Or I will make good on my curiosity. Is this understood?"

Illya was quiet for a long moment, but only answered with a curt nod, which Oleg returned. He stood afterwards, buttoning his suit jacket and tipping his hat to the man, turning as he made to leave. Illya was still glued to his chair.

"Oh, and one more thing," Illya's jaw was still set, teeth slammed together as he looked up at him. "This arrangement of yours is temporary. You may be UNCLE now, but at the end of the day, you will always be KGB. Don't forget that."

He left at that and Illya's grip was so tight around his own arm, he hand to stand to keep from bruising himself. His eyes roamed the lobby and there was the urge, the very strong urge, to rip this place to shreds. To overturn the chair he'd just risen from and make everything beautiful in this setting into something shattered and torn.

He didn't. He took a breath, heading back upstairs.

—

It was a similar scene, the three of them in a boutique. Gaby had disappeared into a fitting room, trying on a ballgown she'd found particularly interesting. Illya, for once, sat in one of the waiting chairs, a pensive look on his face. Solo didn't rightly know how his meeting with Oleg had gone, but he could chance a few guesses based off how the man was acting now. When things didn't go how he liked, Illya had a tendency to get quiet. Nods and one word answers.

Solo didn't like it, but he couldn't say for certain where Illya's loyalties lay. If he had to say anything, he would say the KGB, but that was an unpleasant thing to admit. He didn't know if a spontaneous bonfire was enough to make him question those loyalties or forge new ones. He'd like to think that if anything, he had forged a new loyalty to the small German mechanic currently trying on the gown.

The quiet, though, was unnerving. Solo settled in at a dress rack and thought that he should ask. But the man took a certain amount of extra lengths to get that sort of truth out of. He looked through the assortment of dresses, reaching out for the most sheer, revealing one he could find.

"I'm thinking this will be the one," he said.

It drew Illya's attention, at least and when the man caught sight of the dress, he frowned. "No, she will not wear this," he said, doing as Solo hoped and rising to his feet. He came over to stand near the man, starting to sift through the dresses on their hangers as well.

"I don't know, she has to catch Kotil's eyes somehow," Solo insisted.

Illya clucked his tongue. "She will do this on her own. She does not need your…lingerie dress to do it." There it was. That jealous, protective side of the man he had trouble hiding.

But Solo didn't rib him on it. He'd goaded him out of his mind, whatever dark thoughts had been bothering him since he'd returned from his meeting with Oleg, and that had been the purpose of the words. So his next were carefully calculated. "I take it your conversation with Oleg didn't go well."

The Russian turned to look at him, studying his face and Solo kept his own eyes on the man, trying to read whatever hints he'd let through in that steely gaze. There wasn't much. Just the same as Illya always let through. A need to prove himself. A need to be good at what he did. That look that conveyed the weight of the iron curtain on his shoulders.

"Do not worry about Oleg," he said.

"You're right, he doesn't concern me, I suppose," Solo gave, nonchalantly. "The thing is…I rather like not having to worry about you pulling a gun behind my back."

Illya shook his head. "If I shoot you, you will see it coming, Cowboy."

"Reassuring," Solo sassed and didn't know what to make of the smirk on Illya's face.

They didn't have time to figure it out any further as Gaby emerged from the dressing room. Long, flowing ballgown with a slit up one leg. Solo lifted a brow. The woman continued to surprise him. For a girl who'd had grease and oil under her nails the first time he'd met her, she sure did clean up nicely.

"Do you really think this will catch his eye?" Gaby asked, coming over to them. She stretched her shoulders, twisting and turning in the dress as though she were not used to it.

Solo gave her a smile. "Ms. Teller, I can assure you, if you in this gown doesn't catch his eye, then we should have sent in Peril." He expected Illya to shoot him a glare, but the man's head was tipped as he regarded her, quiet for once. Infatuated. Solo smirked. "One small change, though. You're no longer engaged. So, the ring?"

That gained Illya's attention and he lifted his head to give Solo a wide eyed look, then down at Gaby. She looked at the ring on her finger and then nodded. "You're right," she said. Illya's mouth formed a thin line as she removed the ring and Solo held his hand out. Only she didn't place it in his palm. Instead, she reached for a chain dangling from the available jewelry. Putting the ring around the chain, she hang it from her neck, it matched perfectly with the gown, a sparkling centerpiece. "It's my mother's ring," she told Solo and turned to look up at Illya. "I keep it with me." Then she headed to go look at herself in the mirrors.

"I suppose that makes you happy," Solo said, giving his companion a side glance.

Illya held his chin up a little. "It is only a ring."

The smug smirk gave him away.