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@kuryakinredperil-blog
“Agree to disagree, then, Peril.”
America still exists, the Soviet Union does not. So who’s the real winner?
"You’re a really sore loser, Cowboy.”
Have you seen the candidates for presidency in America? It's probably best not to make this about politics.
Great, okay, cool. So…
“Go on.”
Eggsy walks over and sits down, looking like a schoolboy ready to take notes.
“You goin’ to share, or what?”
First, Illya would like to know why this boy seems to think that this sort of approach will really get him any information.
Then he’d like to know who directed him to Illya.
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘now’?”
She lifts her chin, smiles, and for a moment there’s a much younger woman stood in the office, the same woman that Illya had seen her as last. And then the moment passes, and she’s just M once more.
“ —- it’s good to have you back.” A quiet moment of open sincerity she doesn’t tend towards often. And then, because it’s too much like genuine emotion, and she’ll save that for later, in private –
“For God’s sake, don’t cause me as much trouble as you did Waverly. I’ve far less patience.”
“Again.” He corrects with a smile, an amused apology in his eyes, “We answer to you again.”
She always was better at keeping them in check than Waverly was. Solo and Illya’s competitiveness, and their recalcitrance towards working as a team (after so many years of working alone), often led to them losing track of their purpose.
And bickering. Much bickering.
He likes to think they’ve gotten much better over the years, but some habits die hard.
“Of course. We like you much better than Waverly.”
“Of course,” she agrees, and her eye-roll is audible. Nevertheless, she curls her fingers around his forearm and lets him lead her, her smaller legs executing a graceful half-skip to catch up with his longer ones.
“And what did Russian architects build in this fine city? The Arc de Triomphe, perhaps? The Sacré-Cœur?”
Illya slows down his gait, so that they may both walk comfortably next to each other. The Arc de Triomphe and the Sacré-Cœur are both much too well known for him to credit them to Russian ingenuity — even if she already knows whatever he says next will be fake. “...—no.”
So he steps away from the subject of architecture altogether.
“But so-called French Baguette was actually brought here by Russian baker first." Give him a second to think, “Anatoly Zaitsev.”
It’s actually credited to Austrian officer August Zang, who brought the first steam oven to Paris. But no one cares about the Austrians.
“ – oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
He’s fifty years too late for that; she’s long since come to terms with it. Or at least, she’s learned not to care too hard or too openly – learned that in life, some things don’t get a happy ending, a neat resolution.
Now that he’s here – he’s back – she doesn’t feel the need to waste time with might-have-beens.
“Being sorry doesn’t help anyone. Waste of damn time.” And this is Gaby, now, a woman who’s made her way in this man’s world and clung on through sheer force of will. “Napoleon?”
A brusque question, Just making sure.
“Cowboy’s fine.” That’s an easy answer, at least. Disregarding the nightmares and the drinking, Solo is about as well as can be expected. They both are.
And now, despite the different times, and the shift in the old chain of command, they can both get back to work. To continue the missions that were neglected in the years since they disappeared. From now on, they are hers to command.
“We answer to you now.”
“All of them? Or just the ones that were actually built by the Russians?”
Something she’ll never let him forget, and the small smile curling her lips says so quite plainly. Still, it fills the time and – for someone who’d never made it out of East Germany before it ended up behind a wall – it’s quite literally a whole new world. Nice to see it when her life’s not in danger.
“...—”
She will never let him forget that. So he might as well run with it. Illya clears his throat, and gently takes one of her small hands to link her arm with his.
“—Always Russian architect.” And with that, they’re off.
“And until then –?”
She’s never been to Paris; she doesn’t know what they can fill six hours with. After all, she’d seen a little more of the Eiffel Tower than she’d ever really wanted over the past two days. There’s something unfair about a man who’ll make you chase him up six hundred feet of stairs.
“Until then—”
It’s rare that they have a few hours to spare when neither of them are in serious need of a drink, or medical attention (or some manner of forced sleep). And Illya can’t speak as to Solo’s current whereabouts, but he can at least keep Gaby entertained until it’s time to leave.
“—we see the sites.”
She lets out a mirthless chuckle, short and surprised out of her by the easy continuation of a conversation that had halted so many years ago.
“It would be, if it were at all the case.”
Somehow, he feels taller now than he ever did. Some youthful part of her half wants to stand on the table, to tower over him in turn – but she’s too old for that kind of nonsense, now, has had to learn instead to tower over men through sheer force of personality alone.
“Regrettably, special agents are as much children as they ever were.” He’s struggling with this, she can see – struggling with that vulnerability he had worn around her more easily than almost anyone else. So she smiles, and hides the half-formed regrets she can’t afford to have.
“Not a patch on what they used to be, for the most part.”
That smile is curiously contrary. Highlights the aged lines of her face, and brings back some of the Gaby he remembers. Rare and precious though her smiles were back then, they were still there. Now...—well, Illya wonders if she ever has cause to smile, anymore.
“They are lucky to have you.”
Just as he and Solo were lucky to have her. Without Gaby Teller, they would not have become a team. And it was without Gaby Teller that they tripped into this different time, and left her to keep working — because there was no doubt, she would keep working — alone.
“I’m sorry, Gaby.”
“ — hmmpph.”
But there’s a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth, despite her disbelieving tone.
Here’s the thing: Gaby is not a secret agent. She’s a girl from behind the wall who fell into a dangerous game, and held tight onto it with white knuckles to keep her freedom. She’s tap-dancing on a landslide, working with Illya and Napoleon. They’re trained. She’s a mechanic and an ex-ballerina.
So moments like this – six hours of breathing space with them – feel almost like a bonus, like a hard-earned chance to settle further into the team (the family) she’d never expected.
“We’ll see.”
“Until Cowboy gets back.”
He offers jokingly, like an admission of future blame, though they’re perfectly capable of behaving themselves outside of missions. A little more than they used to be, at least.
@kuryakinredperil
“So, uh. You know of any secret Russian torture techniques, or… ?”
He’s asking for a friend, of course.
“Yes.” He does. The old ones, he knows very well. The new ones, he’s only recently become privy to.
“Point taken, my friend.”
He’ll spend several silent moments studying the little notebook in his hand.
“Would you like me to procure you another one, or will your ego shatter after so many repeated losses?”
“This is funny. I recall killing you several times.” Solo can say whatever he wants. As far as Illya’s concerned, he got the most kills in the Halo game.
“Been a while since anyone called me that.”
She’s different, she knows. She’s older, yes, but there’s more to it than that – accent lost entirely to the years, along with what was left of her always limited patience. A little colder, a little harder. Still just as damn stubborn.
And then, because it’s been a long time since she called herself Gaby, but a longer time since she said his name —
“Illya.”
He wants to know what happened. When she changed her name, and lost her accent. When the ever present gleam in her eye, that tendency to make everything a challenge for him, sharpened into something colder.
But there is still that proud set to her jaw; that much has not changed.
Hearing his name brings him back from the memory of her, and Illya steps closer, towers over her just like he used to.
“You don’t work with children anymore.” He’s not so sure about that, actually. “This must be a relief, no?” There’s a fond smile hiding in the corner of his lips. An apology that hasn’t found its voice yet.
A quick, long-suffering sigh.
“Have you considered therapy?”
Says the man who got wasted on a transatlantic flight and robbed half the patrons in First Class.
But yeah, Illya’s the one who needs therapy.
“Have you?”
It wasn’t exactly unusual for Solo to have a drink, even during a mission. But Illya had never seen him drunk. Not like he was on the flight to London.
“Yes, I contacted Waverly.”
She sounds a little offended. Impatient.
“The rendez-vous time isn’t for another six hours.” An eyebrow is arched, almost sternly. “A long time to spend with a pair of toddlers.”
If Gaby doesn’t end up with some manner of army at her command, some day, Illya will be very surprised. Perhaps a country would be more fitting.
So he nods, only a brief twitch of his lips to show for his amusement, “I will do my best to behave.”
sussoria:
The Man From U.N.C.L.E. + ao3tags
@stealingthings @kuryakinredperil
The stunned silence lasts less than half a moment.
“ — well, you took your damn time.”
Confusion clouds his eyes, taken aback by the words, enough that it takes him a moment to recognize her. He was expecting M. The woman who would likely become a stand in for Waverly in this strange time.
Of course, to her, Illya looks the same as the last time she saw him. Whereas there is little Illya can find now of that little chop shop girl.
“——Gaby.” He doesn’t mean to speak. He’d hoped she might have made it through. He’d hoped they hadn’t left her to grow old alone.
@kuryakinredperil
“Did you… break the Ex-Box?”
“...——I fell asleep.” And with sleep came dreams, and Gaby’s voice. And with waking came the grip of anger and helplessness around his heart.
So, yes. He broke the Ex-Box.
