CHAPTER ONE: THE ANGEL IN THE SQUARE (pt 2)
"Really?" She's unable to help herself. There's a little smile on his face, sweet like daisies. It's not smug at all- just like a schoolboy laughing at an innocent joke. A little warmth curls around her insides.
He was a terrifying champion, she remembered, hearing rumors floating around about the year's last winner. Big as a house, and a child prodigy to boot. No one stood a chance, and they all understood that, though they tried like the devil.
She, on the other hand, clawed her way to the top out of sheer stubbornness and skill, and pretty much no one wanted to accept that. She wanted to laugh.
"Your predecessor," he says placidly, like it's no big deal.
She turns a little away from him.
"I watched your match, you know," he says thoughtfully. "You're very skilled. Congratulations."
She nods shortly, feeling embarrassed. It was a personal win for her that day as well. But the vision of the man red from humiliation flashed in her mind. A thought came to her, that perhaps she ought to feel ashamed that her opponents had gotten the best of her.
She shrunk into her bedsheets a little. (She is a proud person, good at what she did, and hard-accepting of things beyond her control. This is one of those things, unfortunately.)
So they sit in silence, the two of them- one feeling the stirrings of shame and the other not knowing quite what to say. Suddenly, as if an act from god, Illya says then:
"If they are who you said that they are, then they are cowards." He states, startling her. "You are a formidable opponent in the ring, and it is not your fault."
When she looks again at him, there is a dark fire in his eyes. It is not the red fury of before- she doesn't quite know what to feel. It makes her feel uncomfortable.
But she smiles, and he smiles back at her.
It doesn't cure her from dwelling on it, but it helps.
•
Illya begins visiting the hospital as often as he can. He brings little bundled arrangements of pine, sometimes. They fill her whole room with the scent and it makes her smile. The first time he saw her smiling to herself after he brought in a stick, he made it a point to try bring it whenever he could.
"You like it?" He asks her one day. One of his feet is shuffling a little on the floor, like he's anxious and it makes her smile. "Yes. Where do you get it?" His answer was pursed lips, a little twinkle in his eyes and a small shake of the head. She lets it go.
He even drags in his colleague one day, the American. It was a fine day for Russian winter, with the sun lighting up the snow so that it glowed on the roofs. The American introduced himself as "Napoleon Solo," and despite her initial impression that he was likely to be a bit of a troublemaker, they hit it off relatively well. "You're the one with the red eye, aren't you," he had said, surprising her by remembering. "How?" She queries, and Napoleon shakes his head. There's something very arrogant about him, she thinks. Not enough to be a problem, but enough to irritate her. But he is very charming, and it helps. "You're the only woman who has ordered that. Newcomers will ask for tea immediately, or liquor before ordering coffee. But not you."
A little nonplussed, she says "I don't mix my coffee with my liquor." and immediately regrets it. It's not what he meant, and she knows it. Tea is the drink of choice in Russia, and following it, vodka. It is Germany, not Russia that has a long history of being coffee consumers.
"Ah, then it is my mission to convert you. For instance, Caffe Corretto is a wonderful little drink." There is a little mischievous gleam in his eye, which is not broken by Illya taking the time to kick his colleague's foot. "Illya here doesn't drink," he gestures up at him, apparently unbothered by the intense glare he is being sent. "I drink," Illya mutters, jaw set. "Just not often." "Illya has control issues," Napoleon continues, as if his Russian friend hasn't said a thing this entire time. "He doesn't do things like give control to... inanimate objects."
Illya's cheeks are turning red, Gaby watches with some fascination. He looks angry.
Unaware of being an object of speculation, Illya huffs out a sigh. "Cowboy..." He says warningly, and surprisingly, Napoloen does stop. He smiles charmingly at her. "I'm sure you already knew all this, however." She didn't, and he knows it. He winks at her. She's more fascinated that he would poke the stick at the figurative bear in such a fashion. Who knew that you could find such friends in Russia? On the other hand...
They end up playing cards with an old, battered deck that Napoleon has brought with him. It's fun. Illya is surprisingly awful at it, but Napoleon assures her that if he really put his mind to it, he'd be fairly decent. Gaby feels generous, however and shoves half of her winnings in Illya's coat pocket before he departs. His expression is priceless. (They were little marzipan chocolates that Napoleon had brought specially for the occasion.)
and after, even Napoleon visits a few times, by himself. Without Illya around, however they quickly turn into serious affairs. He asks her the same thing- why would the men attack her? She is reluctant to say anything about her mother's passing, however and only says that she knew one of the men, which leads to her telling him about her judo championship title. His only reply is a raised eyebrow and a low whistle. "So, the same as Illya. The following year, even. You must be good." And when she nods shortly, he smiles. It even looks real.
But it's the visits from Illya that brighten up her day. She barely knows this man, but despite herself, she likes him. It's hard not to. They talk a fair amount- about many things. How he became a barista (the owner was an old childhood friend of his mother's) how they became students of judo (they shared similar motivations) and many, many other things. Sometimes, they'll simply read in silence, quite happy to be in each other's company.
Then came the day where the hospital releases her.
"She needs to stay with a friend," the orderly tells both of them, baldly. "The doctors have recommended that she have someone around to take her back, should her condition take a turn for the worse." Illya's brow is furrowed, she sees. "But why are you releasing her if she is not well?" He asks, and she sighs. "It's because of the elderly coming in, isn't it?" She swings her feet off of the bed, and attempts to hold a brave face. Inside, she is fearful of leaving- going back to her apartment, feeling vulnerable once more to attack is not a prospect that she enjoys.
The orderly nods. It is a well known fact that the hospitals fills up to the brim in the winter with the elderly and the otherwise dying. The fact that she is healing well enough alone makes them release her. She will be alright, given that she takes proper precautions.
"I will take care of you." Illya says then, and his tone brooks no argument, even if she wanted to make one.
•
He dresses her in a thick coat that he has brought from his own apartment. It hangs off like a tent on her, which he apologizes for. "I am sorry. This was the smallest," he says, but she waves it off. "It's fine." It is big, and warm- usually much better quality than what she can afford.
He slips a hand between them and holds hers. Ordinarily, she'd protest, but she likes him well enough.
They trudge out into the snow together and brave the temperatures of a Russian winter.
•
When they arrive at her condo building, though: her landlady, who spots them when they come in through the door went quite white, dropped her knitting and profusely apologized to Gaby. "I'm sorry, but you know those young two hooligans you mentioned- they went into your apartment a few days after you left. I tried stopping them- but it didn't seem to help."
Gaby's blood turns to ice.
She lets go of his hand and without a word, she turns to trying to climb the flights of stairs. She doesn't have any information they could possibly want- she had been careful, but it was her other belongings that she was worried about. And her money.
God. What if they had taken it? Anxiety clawed at her insides, making her feel sick.
"Be careful." Illya is there, holding her as she climbs the stairs, like she could break. It made her angry. More so that she was, in fact, broken- physically.
She breathes out. "I need to have a look at my belongings." It was no time for feeling angry over petty things. Her worst fears have been realized- almost. I can no longer stay here, she thinks. If they figured out that she simply didn't die that night, they would probably try again, but not before wringing the information of her father out of her that they couldn't find in her flat.
"Stay with me." Illya's voice comes from above, strong and determined. "I have a flat, and I can protect you."
She wants to say something like "Put the brakes on, my Russian friend." She's only known him for a month's worth of hospital visits and a initial meeting in his coffee shop. But though she'd rather die than admit it, she's frightened. And she rather feels like she doesn't quite know what to do.
So she nods, once.
•
She opens the door with shaking hands, and the old thing swings open with a mighty creak.
Her apartment is destroyed.
The dressers lie on the floor, drawers carelessly thrown about. The mattress has been ripped open: one long gouge with stuffing pouring out. Everywhere she looks she sees devastation.
Somehow it's worse to look at it. She remembers crawling on her stomach, daring to try get some food. What if she was here instead when they came? She would of never been rescued.
"Help me look," she manages to whisper to Illya, who nods briskly.
•
Her money is mostly untouched, which relieved her. When she looked in her hiding spot, someone had tried to get in, but failed.
She stares down at the little pot of water she is currently attempting to coax into a boil so that she can serve some tea. There is already a few bubbles, so she is hopeful.
Illya is sitting in the room in back of her on the ruined bed.
It is silent and cold in her flat, she thinks. How strange. Maybe one of the men left one of the windows open, or her landlady had turned off the heat, since she was gone for so long.
How fast life can change.
She remembers first moving in shortly after her tournament. It was a good few weeks- she was young and full of victory, and even her old landlady had given her a big hug when she had gotten home. How delighted she was when Gaby had told her that she had won.
The old dojo owner had made the both of them Napoleon and hot black tea in her tea set to celebrate, with the flaky layers of the Napoleon melting in her mouth and the tea hot and strong between her lips. It was a good night, and that night, for the first time in a long time, Gaby had felt what it meant to have a mother.
Of course, her husband had told her, rather apologetically in the morning that since he could no longer call her his student and that he could teach her little else, she had to move. She took it with good grace; she had been expecting such a thing for a long time. But she was invited back whenever she wanted for a visit, which surprised her. She had yet to go back.
She could hardly go back now, though. Not with all of this hanging around her head.
It seemed that despite her fleeing from her past, it would always haunt her in some form.
The water was boiling, she realized. Scrambling, she pulled out the loose leaves and what cups she had.
When she approached Illya again, he silently tapped the spot beside him in indication she should sit. When she does, she hands him his beverage, and for a while, they drink in silence.
"Cowboy lives with me."
"Excuse me?" She turns around, surprised. His expression is awkward and something like sheepish, if you can call it that. "Cowboy lives with me. I would not be the only one looking after your safety."
"So... I'd be living with two men?" She raises an eyebrow. Illya looks increasingly embarrassed. "That is not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
"What I meant was," and he gives her a look that lets her know that he knew she was yanking on his chain, even though she was mostly serious "I would not be the only one taking care of you. I trust him with my life."
She sighs. "So you're trusting him with mine?" She says skeptically.
"Yes."
•
What he means is, she realizes is that Napoleon is a chaperone.
In addition to being what Illya says he is.
"Isn't this a little soon, Illya?" He asks them with a raised eyebrow, standing in the doorway. Gaby's arms are growing heavy with the boxes.
Illya glares at him from on top of his.
Napoleon moves away from the doorway and begins walking into the living room in faux-obedience. Illya marches in shortly after. "I mean, not that I've ever seen you like this, but you know." Napoleon tosses over his shoulder, to which Illya growls out: "Shut up, Cowboy."
Gaby merely pretends not to hear, and says only: "Where am I putting my boxes?"
"In my rooms," Illya calls out from the hallway, slightly muffled.
It occurs to her that perhaps staying with Illya in his rooms, specifically is not a good idea. "I'm sure it'll get crowded!" She calls out.
"You are not staying in Cowboy's rooms," he returns, and Napoleon is there, ushering her gently. When she glares at him, he winks. "I'd do as he says," he whispers. "I often have company over- not very pleasant for you, and not for me."
Ah. "And he doesn't?"
Napoleon looks insulted on behalf of his friend for a moment before he sees the glint of insecurity in her eyes. He takes pity on her and shakes his head. "No. Illya is a romantic." He shoos her forward, and this time, she obeys.
A romantic, then.