#chopshopchic

[isnottherussianway]

Mixology

Their downtime afforded hours upon hours of time in which to get to know each other on a more personal level, but it was more of a bore than anything. They’d spent month as partners within UNCLE, and even Illya--normally so stoic and stern-faced in the presence of boredom, had begun to crack. They spent endless days in Napoleon’s New York apartment rather than their own separate ones, because, well..he could cook.

They’d grown close at least; Gaby and Illya had reconciled their affections for each other but hadn’t wanted to make it exclusive. Exclusivity didn’t bode well for agents whose missions sometimes ran toward the romantic, and Illya wasn’t really looking for much in the way of constant companionship, so long as he had the two of them as company.

The two of them; Napoleon factored into the relationship status, as well. It was still a point of conjecture for Illya, but Gaby was very slowly worming out Illya’s appreciation of Napoleon, whether Illya liked it or not. He’d shared the odd kiss with the American agent, but light touches and bodies piled together on the sofa while watching television were common enough and platonic enough for Illya’s confused self.

[damnbourgeoisie-blog]

@chopshopchic

cont. from here

{ 🔫 } —- ; “Well. I have some sense of humor,” Illya turns his head, lips pursed, in an expression clearly meant to portray nonchalance, “It is not hard to see why I would laugh when man falls on his ass after only seeing me with little bit of blood on my face, yes? Was ridiculous overreaction.”

[thiefonaleash]

Back to back to back missions made Napoleon a dull boy, and after what felt like months of bouncing around Europeon hotel rooms of varying elegance, UNCLE’s flagship team was finally up for a bit of time off-- and they’d be spending it in New York. 

Napoleon had mixed feelings about that.  It was the first time in years, he was home, so to speak, without the CIA constantly looming over his shoulder.  He’d wasted no time in dipping in his retirement fund, and renting a proper apartment, but the temptation was there, to go back to his old haunts-- streets he hadn’t walked since he was sixteen.

There were other temptations too.  Night clubs, parties, galleries--museums.  It was like an itch under Napoleon’s skin, one that led him into the MOMA instead of the streets.  He was testing boundaries, he told himself.  He needed to know just how long his new leash was, and no better time to do it than a week without the Red Peril breathing down his neck. 

The agent that tailed him into the museum didn’t go unnoticed.

He amused himself for hours looking at the security systems just as much as the art, and when his little plans became a bit too real--a thrum instead of an itch, he sought out Gaby.  It had been mere days since they went in different directions, but Napoleon was in need of a distraction, and Gaby was just about as distracting as she was amusing.

It was nothing to distract one of UNCLE’s secretaries with a bit of charm, and get her location.  He thought about letting himself inside, but if he wanted the trip to be worthwhile, then perhaps, annoying her right off the bat wouldn’t be his best plan of action.

So, instead, he did something unheard of--he knocked.

[thelionofnaples]

Repercussions || Gaby & Solo

@chopshopchic

It’s been four months, three weeks, and two days since Napoleon had been drugged by a very clever mad woman, strapped to an electric chair, and made to suffer under the hand of a Nazi who had been overwhelmed to the point joyful tears watching Solo lighting up again, and again, and again, and again-- he’d covered his mouth to smother a delighted laugh when Solo had no longer been able to keep the tears back, gasping, slumping as the electricity cut off. Images of dismemberment and dissection and agony danced before Solo’s eyes as the machine once again sent him arching and gritting his teeth against the unbelieveable pain.

He had not begged. 

Teller had wanted him to. He’d wheedled, teasing, mocking, telling Solo that all he had to do was give up a few facts and he’d be released, or at least be killed out of mercy. Solo had known it was a farce, an act, that Teller didn’t care about any information he might have. 1,000 volts of electricity had been sent lancing through his body again and again, leaving him on the edge of unconsciousness but never blissfully tipping him over, because Rudi Teller, Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, Butcher of Ravensburg, had wanted to bathe in his pain, his agony. He wanted to bring on the shame of having committed betrayal, and there would be no release, no matter who or what Napoleon gave him. 

So Napoleon had not begged. His last vestige of control, as his teeth clenched so hard his jaw felt like it was going to shatter, blood dripped from his nose, and every muscle seized and cramped. 

Teller had been intending to pull each tooth from his head when Kuryakin had finally found him.

Only half an hour, but Napoleon had never known relief so sweet.

What he hadn’t expected, naively and with impressive levels of denial, were the aftereffects. The way the rhythm of his heart sometimes stutters so badly now that he grows ashen and has to make an excuse to sit down. The way his left hand sometimes goes numb and no amount of shaking reawakens the nerves, until it all comes flooding back in pins and needles, and he has to take deep, measured breaths. He hadn’t expected the nightmares, where he’s back in the chair, Rudi’s face leering in front of him, all childish glee and sadistic intent. He hadn’t expected the night sweats, the terror to grip him by the throat, to be thrown out of the dream clutching at his chest and heaving, stumbling to the bathroom to vomit. 

He hadn’t ever expected to hate Gaby Teller so much. 

He still likes her just fine, of course. It’s hard not to, not when she’s so stubbornly charming, soft in all the right places, sarcastic and gentle and so very eager. Not when she’s so clearly terrified of her new life, and yet so intent on not letting them down. It’s hard not to like someone who is so dedicated to one’s happiness and safety.

But he hates her. Oh, he hates her, resents her, the grudge over her betrayal still seething deep inside of him like a lump of coal, compressing into a particularly malevolent diamond. Napoleon has always been a vengeful man, but a patient one. He’s adept in waiting years, planning, setting the lines, and then snapping shut his revenge. 

But it’s Gaby, and Illya adores her, and really, Solo’s found himself quite fond of their little chop shop girl. She’s exactly the balance they need. She’s their ideal handler.

If she hadn’t set him up as bait. If she’d given him an out, like she had Illya, if she hadn’t been acutely aware that Victoria more than likely was going to shoot him through the back of the skull and have his body thrown into the bay. If she hadn’t been willing to sacrifice him, while giving Illya every chance to escape. He could have forgiven her. He wants to forgive her, but it sits there, simmering, condensing, tucked away until he can wreak on her what was done to him-- if he can do it without the same guilt that she so clearly feels.

They’ve never addressed it. He hopes they never will, because he won’t be able to give her the forgiveness she’s going to be too stubborn to ask for, and like Illya had said those months ago, he would have done the same-- Wouldn’t he? Would he have sent Gaby Teller walking into the lion’s den knowing full well she was going to be killed? He’s a cold man, but in the dark of night, drenched in the sweat of nightmares and clutching at his chest, he timidly, vaguely admits to himself that he wouldn’t have been able to, and that he’d been hurt that she had. Truly, emotionally, hurt that she had betrayed him, even two days into their partnership, when they were all intended to go their separate ways. He knows he will never trust her, not the way he trusts Illya, but he wouldn’t have sent her into Victoria’s office knowing he was going to give her away. 

If you had to save one of you, who would you chose? Illya, Gaby, or yourself?

-------

He shoots up, Brooks Brother’s pajama shirt twisted in his fist above his heart, and exhales harshly. The night is still dark and quiet save for his own heaving breath.

[isnottherussianway]

@chopshopchic started following you

Illya knew he’d be followed; he both expected and welcomed it. It often gave him time to mete out what sort of person his shadow was, and what sort of skills they had at their disposal. When he realized it was Gaby following him, after a lengthy jaunt around the block in both a vehicle and on foot, Illya felt almost silly about the effort he’d gone to. He ducked into a niche in the alley he’d taken last and leaned back to hide in the narrow shadow, waiting for the perfect moment to step out.

[laurelaiwingates-a]

|| cσdє zєя0

@chopshopchic

The funny thing about explosions, thought Horst as he was thrown off the wall he had been climbing, was that you never heard them until after the explosion had already happened. Of course, he didn’t really have time to get caught up in the technicalities of physics- being hurtled at the ground from a second story ledge was rather distracting.

He hit the pavement below with a muffled “Oof!” and lay still for some moments- the stars above spinning as he took stock of his surroundings. His arm was broken, as were some ribs, but all in all it was not nearly as painful as it should have been.

Unfortunately, the safe-house was now on fire. Or rather, what was left of it was burning. Horst dragged himself upright, focusing inwardly on forcing broken bones to knit. 

[thiefonaleash]

'Amuse Me'

Amuse Me: I will write a funny drabble about my character trying to cheer yours up.

In Prague, Gaby and Illya’s little game of will they/won’t they boils over into an argument as tensions, both related to the mission and not, rise.  He should have seen it coming, really.  After all, Gaby isn’t the sort to wait around, and Peril, well, he doesn’t deal with jealousy well.

Napoleon certainly doesn’t feel guilty for his part in that growing tension, even though he’s made a game of walking into the room just before their lips-- don’t-- press together, and he certainly doesn’t feel the need to help move things along, but Peril has taken to moping in his room making sad faces at his chess board, and that isn’t to be borne.

Napoleon lets himself into the room Illya is supposed to be sharing with Gaby.

She looks up, poker face not quite on enough to hide her disappointment when she sees it’s him.

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” Napoleon drawls as he steps right up to her and takes one, not quite as delicate as it looks, wrist into his hands.  Before she can rip it away, he slips Illya’s watch around it, and clasps it as tightly as he can.

The look she gives him is far from pleased, but Napoleon’s used to getting that look from just about everyone--he’s immune.  “You shouldn’t steal his things,” Gaby tells him, once she’s pulled back out of Napoleon’s hold.  She isn’t taking the watch off, however, so Napoleon will take that as a win.

“It’s like a game between us.  Hide and seek.  I’ve hidden it, and now he’ll seek.” Napoleon helps himself to a glass of scotch while he’s there, in their honeymoon suite.  “You’ll give the watch back to him.  Have a conversation about how annoying I am, and my thieving, American ways.  He’ll apologize for his jealousy while looking very contrite, and you might even forgive him.”

She’s trying not to smile, as she watches him sip his drink.  “It sounds like you have it all planned out for us, Mr. Expensive Suit.”

“Well, someone has to stay on top of things.”  He puts the empty glass down, just as a brisk knock pounds against the door.  “And that’s my cue.  Make him sweat a little Ms.Teller, but for all our sakes, just kiss and make up.”

Gaby scowls at Napoleon again, then turns away as she stands to answer the door.  “Coming!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”  Napoleon exits, via the balcony just as Illya steps in.  Much as he’d like to stay and see his carefully orchestrated drama play out, his presence would only drag things on, and he’s certainly reached his quota of good deeds for the day.

[isnottherussianway]

O Juliet / O Hero

O Juliet: I will write about my character’s feelings for yours.

Illya knows he feels something for Gaby, but it isn’t as simple as love, despite Illya being a relatively simple man. It’s devotion and respect, and tolerance and a smidge of dominance. He’s proud of her as a person, for overcoming what some women might’ve seen as an unbearable obstacle; losing two fathers and still being a tough, no-nonsense person while remaining soft and kind.

Gaby’s boldness in the face of danger, even when Illya himself was the danger, makes him almost feel shy, because no woman had ever stood up to him the way she had in the beginning. None so brave during a time of so much unrest. It’s humbling, knowing that Gaby could survive perfectly well on her own at a time when most women couldn’t, and it reminds Illya how much stronger women are than men, but how much harder they have to work at it for that fact to be recognized.

O Hero: I will write about my character mourning yours. 

He thought he had more time, but the uncertain became certain the moment Illya watched through binoculars, as a sniper shot tore a hole through his world. He saw Gaby go down, and heard his own scream of anguish as if it were from some far away street in a deserted town, the sound echoing and bouncing off nearby objects as if it were a tangible thing.

Napoleon had a hold of his jacket to keep Illya from jumping out of the bushes and cocking up the entire mission, Napoleon’s head on straight as a secret agent, but not as a man whose lover had just been gunned down in front of him. Illya didn’t remember much after that; Napoleon keeping him silent and subdued, the mission coming to an end and Waverly indicating that Gaby had indeed lost her life to a Russian sniper’s fire, the attack on the Kremlin foolish and something that should never have been attempted.

A wake was held but the only mourners that came were UNCLE members and the lady that watered Gaby’s plants while she was away on her ‘work errands’. Illya sat on a chair beside the casket like a mourning husband–he may as well have been one–and nodded numbly to mentions of condolence and sympathy. He was like a shell, his KGB training allowing him to shut everything out except basis life necessities but even then, Napoleon had to help Illya dress and get a decent shave in, before they got to the wake.

Illya insisted upon cremation for Gaby because then he’d have something–someone–to speak to when he felt ill at ease, or needed an entity to listen to his verbal thoughts. He wasn’t allowed, by Napoleon’s demand, to be left alone. Napoleon insisted that Illya move into his apartment for a while and missions were put on hold, the emotional state of Illya’s broken heart as evident on his face as if it had been broken and smeared across it. He’d survive it, but only barely.