Barbara Gordon was logical. The CIA had recruited her at age eighteen because her mind worked like a computer. She ran through complicated algorithms and strategic patterns before most even knew there were issues. So to be unceremoniously shipped off to babysit a rogue agent?
She knew she was cold. Barbara didn’t make friends in the agency or network like other analysts. Her connections with upper brass were Wayne, her CO, and Brown, a former operative. And even they tested her patience.
Napoleon Solo. Of course she knew the name. He was, after all, the CIA’s most effective agent. Despite that reputation, he was also known as slick, a con man, and a traitor. Barbara had no patience for a man who had no pride in himself or his country. She understood how the lines grayed when one was on mission. Solo pushed past those boundaries into the black.
Possibly, the agency thought her no-nonsense attitude would keep him on the straight and arrow. but most likely she would kill him before reforming him.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and trooped out of the terminal. Solo was supposed to be waiting for her, but she didn’t hold her breath. To Barbara’s surprise, there he stood. Sharp cut suit, slick hair, and sleazy charm. He held her hand as if she was a French socialite. Barbara’s eyes rolled so far back into her head that she was surprised they didn’t fall out.
“No more than the company, Mr. Solo.” Her smile was ferocious.
Barbara gestured for him to lead the way. No way would she allow him out of her sight.
When they reached the vehicle, Barbara placed a hand on his bicep to halt him, as well as to confirm that he didn’t bolt. Then she leaned into the front seat and whispered their location to the driver. Only once the car began to move did Barbara relax into her seat.
If asked, he’d openly admit that he was used to harsh treatment from his very employer -- Sanders was often an arrogant handful, quick to hang the threat of his prison sentence over his head -- and not many of the other agents he had ever met held much respect for him. Not that he was expecting this to be any different, knowing that many of them would disagree greatly with his criminal background no matter the effectiveness of his work. It was simple: the man enjoyed his freedom, not under any particular government, and understood that prison really wouldn’t be for him. His existence was opportunistic, sure, but ever the indefatigable optimist, he would have to make the best of his circumstances, such as he was being on loan to U.N.C.L.E. Solo wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he nearly enjoyed the presence of his partners, almost like friends would, Waverly helpfully overlooking his tendency to help himself with side jobs without also presenting it as blackmail as Sanders often would.
So the cold shoulder the woman immediately gave him wasn’t startling in the slightest, Napoleon deciding it was best to not comment on the eyeroll or the attitude, not wanting to dig up any rumors or gossip about himself that no doubt kept circling around. It was simply that he couldn’t be bothered to care, for if he was a self-made man, he would stick by it and hardly let anyone else shape his actions or reputation.
The walk to the car had been quick, the woman holding him back to give her own directions in only a hushed whisper. And this time he found himself resisting an eyeroll of his own, for not even Sanders treated him as if he might spontaneously dive out the window. When the vehicle began to move and Ms. Gordon settled back into her seat, Solo hadn’t immediately sought to strike up conversation, calmly watching the passing scenery in the window. Taking notes.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly ordered you to come and pay me a visit? I daresay there might be more effective ways to use your time here, like sightseeing perhaps. Madrid has some beautiful architecture.”