- Chapter two -
Berliner
"We have to get tough with the Russians. They don't know how to behave. They are like bulls in a china shop." – Harry Truman, April 1945
"What's going on between you and Peril?"
They were inside a small clothing boutique, located in the North End of Boston. Waverly had given them a generous amount of cash as a parting gift; more than enough to buy proper clothing that fit their profiles and probably three months' worth of grocery shopping. Gaby was inside one of the changing rooms, her hands skating over her pretty green dress with floral details. Definitely too fancy for a bakery girl, she thought sadly.
"Nothing is going on. Why would you think that?"
She heard Solo sigh. "For starters, you usually take Peril with you for shopping—even though his taste for fashion is atrocious—and you two have been overly civil with each other since our arrival, to the point where it's almost worrying."
Gaby pulled on another dress; a deep blue one with a wide skirt, a small black belt around her waist and sleeves that reached her elbows. Not quite ready to face Solo's scrutinizing gaze, she focused her attention on her messy brown fringe.
"I asked Illya to come, but he was busy."
"We both know that's a lie, Gaby. And please come out of that changing room, that's the fifth dress you've turned down today."
Now it was Gaby's turn to sigh, and she brushed her hair out of her eyes as she stepped out of the square room. Napoleon was sitting on a leather chair, bags filled with clothes scattered around him. He stood up, one hand on his hip and the other on his chin as he eyed her critically. "Not bad, but it definitely needs a finishing touch." Without another word, he turned around the corner of the hallway, back into the store.
He was back in a minute, his hands filled with a pair of shoes and what looked like very expensive jewelry. Solo kneeled down and motioned for her to lift her right leg, carefully guiding her foot into one of the black low-heel pumps. He then stood up, towering over her as he clasped a pearl necklace around her neck. Gently, Solo placed his hands on her hips to spin her around once. He grinned boyishly.
"There. Much better. You should really try and make amends with him, Gaby. At least for the sake of our mission."
Gaby rolled her eyes at his poor attempt to persuade her. "I already told you, Illya and I are fine."
Solo's eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown, and his hands released her hips before resting at his sides. "Fine, be stubborn about it. Let's collect your new wardrobe and rendezvous with our perilous colleague. He's expecting us in half an hour."
They ended up making a detour, walking past the Bova Bakery on Garden Street. The setting sun shimmered in the glass of the display window, and Gaby cupped her hands together to try and see inside the store. A smooth wooden counter occupied the majority of the workspace, with a vintage cashing register, and glass revealing empty shelves underneath. The wall behind the counter was adorned with more shelves, now empty except for the occasional piece of forgotten bread.
It was almost appealing to Gaby, if only she could ignore the pit in her stomach trying to work its way up her throat.
Their final destination was a couple of blocks further, and fortunately for Gaby they walked together in silence. She needed some time to think, and most of all she needed time to get her act together. For some reason, she felt on edge. It wasn't just the idea of temporarily working at the Bova Bakery that caused her stomach to twist and turn whenever it pleased. When she thought about it, she'd been feeling off for quite some time now, probably since Rome, and Waverly's decision had simply added to all that frustration piling up inside her.
It was the way he'd once again condemned her to be the pawn with female parts, nice legs and basic flirting skills. As if that was all she was good for! He could have ordered Illya or Napoleon to work at the bakery—plenty of men worked there—and as far as Gaby was concerned not one of them wore an apron. She'd had the exact same objective in Rome and Istanbul: endear yourself to possible male targets, look pretty, and let the boys take care of the rest. The longer she thought about it, the more it made her grind her teeth together to keep her frustration to herself.
Deep down, she knew that this was an important task of being a successful female agent, and the fact that Waverly trusted her to play the part certainly meant something to her. Yet, it also made her feel objectified and useless—like she was forever cursed to play the role of trophy wife/bimbo girlfriend/hooker for hire. She thought she'd proven her worth in Turkey, saving the boys and everything, but now she wasn't so sure anymore. It was this unfamiliar feeling of self-doubt—this weak, stupid insecurity—that pissed her off to no end and thus encouraged her to use Waverly's face to drill a hole through a brick wall.
(Fortunately, Gaby had an impressive amount of self-control. As long as she stayed completely sober, she should be fine.)
Solo's hand on her elbow brought her back to reality. He was looking at her strangely, and she casually raised an eyebrow in return.
"We're here," he said, tilting his head towards the door. "Alright there, Gaby?"
"Yes. Peachy." She held his gaze and watched him open and close his mouth, obviously debating with himself whether this was really a conversation he was ready to have with his female (and apparently moody) colleague. He didn't need to think much longer on it, because the heavy mahogany door swung open to reveal a flustered looking Illya.
"Do you want to blow our cover, Cowboy? Hurry and come inside!"
Something was definitely amiss, and Napoleon Solo was hell-bent on figuring out what.
He had been observing Illya and Gaby for the past two hours, watching them with mild amusement as they tiptoed around the elephant in the room in a way that was almost endearing. But enough was enough. Their mission would be their reality in less than 24 hours, so Solo needed his team razor sharp, even if that meant he would no longer be able to enjoy Peril stumbling over his own words like a child on his first day of school.
"Very well, team," Solo began loudly, and Peril looked almost relieved at this interruption. It truly was hard not to like the guy. "Let's go over our strategy one final time."
There was sufficient sexual tension in Rome, if I recall correctly, Napoleon thought, thinking hard. In an attempt to urge his brain to work on two tasks simultaneously, Napoleon started pacing the room.
"Tomorrow at 07.30, Doctor Summers will drop off Alexander at Newman Elementary School. After, she will take the usual route to Massachusetts General."
I even interrupted what looked like Illya's long-overdue first kiss. His mother doesn't count, of course.
"I will watch the boy during class, make sure he is safe," Illya said slowly, glancing at Gaby. He traced the map of Boston, his stubby index finger starting at Newman Private School and stopping at the hospital's location. "Solo will shadow Doctor, before work. To protect her from harm."
But Istanbul was different. I barely saw Gaby and Illya saw her even less, until she drove our car off the road to save us. I bet that was payback.
Oh, right, the mission.
"And then I will attend my shift at the Public Library, in case Doctor Summers shows her face," Solo added hurriedly, ignoring the questioning look on Illya's face. "I will also determine Summers' books of preference; that might reveal why she is suddenly spending her spare evenings at the Library."
No, the strain in their relationship started long after that. Probably during our time on the Brave Challenger. Solo bit his lip, mentally trying to recover what he'd missed. We stopped in Spain, Málaga; I left for the local market. The spices there are incredible, by the way. Illya and Gaby went to the beach together, after seven, and they returned to our ship after ni—Oh my God. There is only one possible explanation.
They totally had sex.
"I will watch Summers when she goes to her usual bistro, the Bova Bakery at Garden Street, for lunch. In the afternoon, when our shifts are finished, Illya will stake out at Summers' house while you and I investigate the abandoned Fisher's boat. Where the police found the last victim." With that, Gaby tugged the photo of the deceased girl from the file on her lap, placing it on the coffee table. Her fingers lingered for a second before releasing the picture. She looked fatigued to Napoleon, dare he say drained, but his racing mind paid no further attention to this observation.
This is it! This explains why they are acting more like emotionally dysfunctional teenagers than average. They can barely look each other in the eye!
Now, who said a man isn't capable of multi-tasking?
"Superb!" Solo exclaimed, and Gaby jumped at his loud voice. He busied himself with closing his file, trying hard to erase the shit-eating grin that was most definitely plastered on his face. "Very good, folks. I believe we have nothing left to discuss. Let's call it a night." So I can retreat to my own apartment to process the thought of my two closest colleagues having sex. No amount of therapy is going to help me now. Napoleon shivered involuntarily and out of the corner of his eye, saw Gaby do the same.
Gaby felt tired, and she wrapped her arms around her middle in an attempt to fight off the cold. It feels like Moscow in here, for the love of God. Even Solo is shivering. As if reading her mind, Illya stood up from his leather chair to close the open window behind Napoleon. His right hand lingered on the scarlet curtain. "I think a storm is coming. You should both head back soon," Illya said softly,
"Your apartment is on Portland Street, right?"
Gaby frowned at Solo. There was something in his voice that made her feel suspicious, and she chose her next words carefully. "Yes, but you know that already. It's in the fi—"
"You should sleep here!" Solo interrupted bluntly. "The weather is already quite horrid, and we don't want you caught in the middle of it."
"It's literally a ten minute walk!" Gaby fired back, now seeing what Solo was trying to do. She had made herself perfectly clear to him this morning. I am not going to sit here and allow him to play match-maker. Over my dead body. "I am perfectly capable of walking home."
"I think Cowboy has a point. You don't even have a coat." Illya was standing next to her, and the worried look in his eyes almost convinced Gaby to cave. But she was still her father's daughter, and that meant being stubborn was as natural to her as breathing. "I didn't bring anything! How can I sleep here if I don't even have pajamas?"
"Illya will lend you something." At this, Illya's head jerked up, looking abashed.
"You are being ridiculous!" Gaby shot back.
"Let's cut to the chase here, shall we?" Napoleon silenced Gaby, stepping closer to her. She set her jaw, and lifted her head to compensate for their difference in height. Gaby felt Illya move closer to the both of them, but she ignored him. This was her argument, not his.
"You two obviously have something to work out," Solo said matter-of-factly.
Illya looked more confused than Gaby felt. "We do?"
"And I suggest you take care of that tonight. We can't have any distractions during our mission. Waverly emphasized the importance of protecting this woman and her son, meaning we need to get our heads back in the game because believe it or not but it already started without us." Solo began moving towards the door, and dusted off the shoulders of his dark grey coat. "So play nice, kids, and for the love of God, play safely. Sayonara!" And with a final wave, Napoleon was out the apartment.
"Americans." Illya huffed softly, his racing heart slowly calming down. "Always dramatic."
He wasn't entirely sure what had just transpired, but Gaby was positively fuming so Solo must have said something that upset her. He feared, no, was sure, it had something to do with the rising tension between him and Gaby. He wasn't very keen on going down that road, but if them talking about it was vital for the success of their mission, Illya couldn't refuse.
"Would you like something to drink?" He asked carefully, and to his relieve she seemed to relax slightly.
"I don't suppose Vodka is such a good idea, right?" Gaby replied. She looked up at him, her dark eyes twinkling.
Illya released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Tea, then."
They ended up sitting on the couch, the files on the table now neatly tucked away in their folders. Gaby was sitting on Illya's right, her legs folded, sipping her tea quietly. She seemed distant to Illya, her eyes locked on the TV-screen but clearly not registering the images. Unsure of how to initiate conversation, Illya reached for the blanket on his left and offered her the woolen fabric.
"You seemed cold," Illya stated, his voice low. Gaby smiled back gratefully, and placed her cup on the coffee table to draw the blanket around her shoulders.
"We should talk, Illya." Gaby said after settling back on the couch. Illya turned off the TV, turning his body towards her. The single light in the corner of the room illuminated her face, and suddenly Illya was back in Rome again, only they were both on the floor, one drunk and the other significantly annoyed, locked in an embrace that was as vivid a memory as every other time they touched. Illya startled when he felt Gaby pinch his arm.
"I'd appreciate it if you don't zone out like you always do." Anger laced her voice, but the emotion was quickly replaced with uncertainty. "I'm really trying here, Illya."
"Right. Sorry." Illya cleared his throat, bracing himself. "I am. Really sorry. About the things I said."
Smooth, Kuryakin. When Gaby didn't reply—probably because she wasn't satisfied by his weak attempt—Illya continued.
"I said things I shouldn't have said. In Málaga. So…I apologize for that."
Abruptly, Gaby was on her feet. The blanket was still clinging to her thin frame, emphasizing her narrow shoulders and waist.
"God, Illya. Do you really think that's the issue here? That is not what this is about, why can't you see that?" Her voice sounded shrill, both of her hands clenched in frustration, but Illya honestly had no idea what this outburst was about or how to react to it.
"You don't want me to apologize?" Illya guessed.
"No! I mean, yes! It's just…You're apologizing for the wrong reasons! Are you really that thick?"
Now Illya was standing, towering over her. Her anger was always contagious to him, and he tried to calm himself before saying something he'd most definitely regret. As soon as it had come, Gaby's anger dissipated, and she looked worn and older than her actual age. Illya never expected he would associate those words with Gaby, and worry for his friend overshadowed the anger simmering in his veins.
"Never mind. I'm sorry. We both had a long day, let's just get some sleep and talk about this later. We have a mission to focus on."
Puzzled, Illya watched her fold the blanket and place it on the couch. Something was bothering her, apparently something he'd done, or not done, in the past. Clearly, this was not about Málaga. Was it Istanbul? Rome, perhaps? Or somewhere in between missions? Did he not show enough that he cared for her? Illya's mind drew a complete blank, like it usually did when it came to women. Why does everything have to be so complicated? Illya thought, feeling frustrated.
On auto-pilot, he followed Gaby to the bedroom, his mind still working overtime. He nearly bumped into her when she suddenly stopped in the doorway.
"Just one bed?" She asked quietly.
Illya hummed in reply, maneuvering his body around her to grab a worn t-shirt. He threw it at Gaby, together with a clean towel. "Bathroom's around the corner. If you want to shower."
Gaby nodded, looking almost as awkward as Illya felt. Then she squared her shoulders, as if she tried to convince herself that this wasn't a big deal, and left for the bedroom.
Illya began to unbutton his white dress shirt. Thinking longer about this entire situation, he realized that this really wasn't a big deal. They were colleagues, friends, and they had been in close quarters many times since becoming team U.N.C.L.E. Sometimes, he'd dream of that day in Rome, where he cradled her fragile body in his arms, both of them aching and soaked to the bone. Other nights, he'd dream of Istanbul, where she'd saved him and Solo, and the way she'd clung to him when she was allowed to see them in the hospital. They could handle this, whatever this was, like they had handled everything else life threw at them.
He was sitting on the edge of his side of the bed when she returned, her dark hair almost dry and his t-shirt brushing the skin of her thighs. The mattress barely dipped under her weight when she climbed in bed, and suddenly Illya felt self-conscious. He was muscular, but his chest was littered with scars, some ugly and messy compared to the smooth skin of Gaby's legs. He avoided her eyes when he turned to dim the lights.
"Dobroy nochi." The sound of his mother tongue breaking the silence surprised him, and he smiled softly. He was once again being ridiculous. This was Gaby he was talking about, his chop shop girl. They would figure this out, this tension between them, and they definitely did not need Solo's help with that. Tomorrow, Illya promised himself. Tomorrow, we'll talk.
Dozing off, he returned the Russian phrase softly.
A/N: This chapter took FOREVER. And it is also a mess. Hopefully a glorious mess ya'll are enjoying thoroughly. However, there are some things that need to be addressed.
1. First of all, MY GOD I AM LATE with this chapter. Like a pregnant girl's period. Or a pubescent boy's chest-hair. I'm later than Bruce Jenner admitting he actually wants to be a chick. Get the picture? I'm late.
2. Illya is so damn hard to write! Is he angst-y? Is he sure of himself? Does he even fancy women? I'm fairly convinced that he's lost when it comes to the opposite sex—Oedipus complex, bad childhood, yadda yadda—but I didn't want him to come across as a complete idiot. He's still a spy, and every spy has to seduce someone at some point in their career. Or sleep with them. Napoleon Solo: I'm looking at you, pal.
3. I know Gaby is a strong and capable woman, but I believe everyone has a breaking point. In this story, Gaby has definitely reached hers. She is insecure, anxious, and basically everything you would not associate with her. The previous missions took their toll on all of them, however, Gaby probably has the most difficulty with coping. She's a spy, but less experienced, and she is still a human-being with feelings and fears. She's not experiencing a burn-out, nor depression, but she's got shit she has to deal with and she obviously isn't ready to. Luckily for her, Illya can help her with that (after he finally gets his head out of his Russian ass).
Coming up: Doctor Summers makes an appearance! And we might get to find out where that other junky called Simon disappeared to. I just realized this rant was surprisingly polite. Yay me! Oh, and please R&R, that makes me feel all warm and gooey inside like a freshly-baked chocolate-chip cookie. Or an active volcano. Whichever you prefer.