... the most expensive mechanic in east germany

Independent Gaby Teller.

[kuryakinredperil-blog]

“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.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“Somehow, I doubt that will have much bearing.”

Certain agents -- certain people -- can’t help but attract trouble. James Bond is one. Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo are certainly two others. Perhaps it’s in their genes, or perhaps it’s a learned trait. Either way, though she’d never admit it out loud, it seems to make them all the better agents for it.

    “You’ve already generated enough paperwork to fell      a small forest, not to mention the fuss that the CIA      are kicking up.” She observes him closely. “And the      Russians, of course.”

[cruentusreus-blog]

If nothing comes up. 

If nothing comes up.

So Stiles might possibly get arrested (and that’s the best case scenario), for borrowing and crashing Lestrade’s police car. And the only person — he’s asked around, okay? All fingers pointed him here —, the only person who might be able to save his skinny ass, might have to leave him hanging.

(Which, again, he actually gets, because he’s been spending some nights dealing with the supernatural with one special some-type-of-secret-agent-or-other Eggsy Unwin. So, yeah, no judgment there.)

Shit. He might have to hide at Eggo’s for three days.

If nothing comes up.

“Yeah, no, three days is…fine.” A little squeaky? Maybe? “Three or so days is totally fine.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

   “You see this?”

She gestures, wholesale, at the car behind her; kicks a foot back to tap the bumper. One side gives up its haphazard grasp on the rest of the car, and clangs to the floor with an unpleasantly loud noise. Gaby, unfazed, raises her eyebrows, as if to say, see?

       “Three days is a miracle.” She shrugs. “I hope you          have a good lie prepared. If you’re in prison, I’m          sending him the bill.”

[onemortgagetwocats-blog]

“That would be a safe bet, yes.”

In fact, he’d be much more agreeable to her taking a look around, if she’d focus on the guns, instead of…—well, anything else, really.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

  “Hm.”

And then, his confirmation fully ignored, she picks up what looks like a cheap, plastic lighter, carefully resting on a stand which suggests it’s much, much more than that.

      “What’s this?” Her thumb hovers over it,       mischief in the tilt of her head, not quite       depressing the button.

[tonyandhisbots-archive]

“ — yeah I get that a lot. ”

“ You ever try to fix a car in a suit? I don’t recommend it. ”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

   “You fix it up yourself?”

Grudging respect coating her words, she absolutely fails to ask permission before she runs her fingers along the curve of the bonnet, leans down to peer in through the driver-side window. Cars have changed - low and sleek and powerful, the opposite of the boxy, plastic little Trabi she’s restoring and secretly very fond of.

But there’s no denying that this car -- this is a different class altogether. This car is beautiful.

            “ -- does it have seat-warmers?”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

@tonyandhisbots

    “Nice car. Expensive.”

She lifts her eyes to to the man in front of her, quirks an eyebrow.

        “Unlike that t-shirt. It looks like you went five          rounds in it.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

@onemortgagetwocats

    “I bet you get sick of people playing with      these things.”

‘These things’ being the rows of interesting-looking guns on stands. Or, more significantly, the boring-looking things on stands which are probably much more dangerous.

[cruentusreus-blog]

She doesn’t believe him at all.

But that’s fine. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would know that there’s no way Stiles got his hands on a police car through legal means. The important part is that she doesn’t seem totally opposed to the idea of helping him.

“Yeah! Yeah, no, I’ll pay for it. I’ll definitely pay for it. But uh…I mean, do you know how long it’ll take? ‘Cause I kinda need to know if I’ll have to plan for a rushed escape out of this country.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“If nothing comes up? Three days.”

Here’s the thing: she’s not actually a mechanic. She’s a -- she’s whatever it is that she and Napoleon and Illya are. UNCLE again, she supposes, though she hasn’t heard the codename bandied about anywhere.

She’s not actually sure whether MI6 would let her on a mission. Napoleon and Illya have training, however outdated it might be. She has nothing of the sort. Still, they’ll have to fight her on it, and Gaby is as stubborn as they come.

    “Fast enough for you? Or will you be long gone by then?”

[cruentusreus-blog]

“Nonono, hey, I didn’t steal it.” Let’s make that clear right now. “Okay? I just…borrowed it. Without permission. From a…cop that I know.” One who’s given Stiles a roof over his head until he goes back to the States.

God, he’s an asshole.

“And I wanna give it back to him in one piece, alright? If I tell him what happened, he’ll freak out. And possibly kill me. Slowly and painfully. It’ll be violent, there’ll be blood everywhere. And you’ll feel really really guilty when you see it in the news.” And then Lestrade will kick Stiles out of his house.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“Oh, you borrowed it. Of course.”

She turns away and runs an eye over the car. A couple of days and a few parts and sure, she can have it pretty much as good as new, although she’s got no idea how to replace the standard-issue lights.

    “Are you going to pay me for this? Because I definitely don’t want      to be arrested for aiding and abetting in the destruction of a police      car.”

[cruentusreus-blog]

“Yep! The other child who stole and unmarked police car, and still didn’t really have a handle on the whole driving in London thing.” 

And who also hit a werewolf (or something). But that was totally in self-defense, and the guy totally walked (crawled) away without a scratch. Or so Stiles thinks he saw from the rear view mirror, as he drove away.

“Can you fix it?”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“I can fix it.”

Cars might have changed a little since 1963 -- made of sturdier stuff than duroplast -- but the pre-requisite parts are still pretty much the same. She tosses the glass towards the sprinkling that covers the floor in front of the car, dislodged by her examination.

“I don’t see why I should. You stole a police car.”

[kuryakinredperil-blog]

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.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“Who knew Russians could cook.”

They stroll at their new, slower place along the quiet street, the early evening still quiet. It’s not quite late enough for the dinner crowds, or for the bars to be overflowing; here and there Parisians smoke, or argue in rapid, jolting french.

   “You certainly can’t. Perhaps ‘Anatoly’ could teach you a thing or two,” she suggests, inverted commas clanging into place.

[cruentusreus-blog]

@mostexpensivemechanic liked for a thing

“…—that wasn’t me.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

   “Mhmm.”

The sound of a woman who doesn’t believe you, and also probably doesn’t care. She purses her lips and straightens, looking down at the mess that is the front half of the car.

      “So it was the other child who stole the unmarked police car?”        She brandishes a piece of cherry-red glass she’d fished out        from behind the crumpled grill. 

[kuryakinredperil-blog]

“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.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“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.”

[kuryakinredperil-blog]

“…—”

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.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“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?”

[napoleonsolo-a-deactivated20180]

“Nonsense, we’re right on time.”

No, they’re about 50 years past-due and Napoleon, even in his endless, collected optimism, understands there’s a part of this that will never be okay. Gaby was meant to outlive them both.

He lifts her hand to his lips, pecks it lightly. She’s real.

“I can’t imagine why you’d be happy to see us again. Every time Peril and I turn up, we nearly cause World War Three.”

An apologetic smile. Charm is damn near all he’s got.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“Yes, you were always rather laissez-faire with your timekeeping.”

And, if Napoleon closed his eyes, perhaps he’d struggle to reconcile her voice with the girl he once knew. No trace of that accent left, stripped away forcefully by the years; only her tone is the same.

    “Sometimes one longs for a little excitement,” she points out, and      finally thinks  to retrieve  her hand.  “World War Three  would do       quite nicely. Certainly beats politics.”

[napoleonsolo-a-deactivated20180]

Ah, angry Gaby is as familiar a sight to him as his own reflection. Napoleon actually smiles.

“I’ll take it to a mechanic in the morning, you won’t ever know I backed it up into a fire hydrant in the first place.”

( If he lives to see the sun rise, that is. )

“– I had a very good reason.”

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

“Hm.”

A non-committal noise, and Gaby nods her head slowly, lips pursed and clenched fists resting on her hips. One foot taps against the floor, one-two-three.

And then, a decision appears to be reached.

    “I’m going to kill you.”

And no, Gaby may not be combat trained, but she’s small and she’s scrappy and she kicks like a mule.             Good luck, Napoleon.

[kuryakinredperil-blog]

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.” 

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

   “ -- 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.

[gclahad-archive-deactivated2016]

He clears his throat, tries not to wince when his voice cracks.

“– Uh, yeah, well, Napoleon sort of said you’d say that, so …”

( This is great, Eggsy, very charming. )

“He said to tell you I’m takin’ a car?”

No, that most certainly should not have been posed as a question.

[mostexpensivemechanic-blog]

She pulls herself out on the board once more, sits up, and fixes him with a look that makes it clear just how unimpressed she is with him.

“Well you can tell Napoleon,” she says, setting the wrench down and wiping her hands on the grubby overalls she’s wearing. “That I said -- ‘no’.” A smile, faint and defiant, graces her lips for a moment.

“Or are you going to try and steal one from me?”