18! Or if that’s beef asked, 6. 😁
6 was also a belter!! I might take that one, too!! Thank you, love! xxx
“Mamochka, it hurts my hands.”
“Put them in your coat.”Illya let go of his mother’s hand to stuff his little red fingers in his pockets. “It is cold in there, too.”Stopping at the Nikolskaya street crossing, his mother peered down to study him closely. They were in a hurry to meet his father for lunch, a rare luxury, but something here had slowed her. Pulling him aside and off the street, Illya’s mother crouched down to wipe at his chilled-pink nose with a tissue. Her leather gloves smelled new, and she removed each from her hands to slip them onto his. There was so much room his fingers nearly got lost, but she quickly righted them for him.“Don’t think about the cold, Ilyusha,” she said, as she checked the fastenings of his coat. “Remember our holiday to Sochi? How warm it was in the sun?”Illya sniffed and the ice stung his chest. “Yes, Mama.”“Think about that. The nice memories, too. That same sun is in your pockets and it is keeping you warm. Now, come. We will buy new gloves on the way hom—
“You don’t speak Russian now, Kuryakin?” Illya blinks hard. In the rear view mirror ahead, a set of black olive eyes are scrutinising him. “What are you talking about?”
“Too much time with the English and your tongue will stay that way,” tuts another.The third agent beside him removes the dossier from his lap and gives it to those in the front seat. “You have gotten slow,” Agent Kuznetsov warns him, grim. “Wake up.”
There is breath on the inside of the windows and ice on the out, and they have put him in the cramped back seat. He can’t have dozed off, not in this cold. He has only glazed over again. Now, Moscow is frozen over with memories. He can’t work here without thinking of his mother.
Illya has missed Russian company, but not company like this. This is a routine KGB assignment with three unwilling fellow agents, one of whom he has worked with before, but that makes the man no more friendly. They’re here to trail another corrupt Official. After so much time neglecting the Motherland, Illya’s handler thought it smart to reacquaint him with the concept.
The assignment has been gruelling. Long nights, rushed travel, and an open deadline; as long as they wanted him in Moscow, he would stay in Moscow. He could not choose his work, his schedule, or his company. He should be grateful to be back in the city. Glad for the shards in the wind that have spiked his nose and cheeks for weeks now. It’s where he belongs.
Illya might wish for the other agents not to berate him, or ignore him. He might wish for his reputation and authority to hold as much weight as they used to; both have suffered here since U.N.C.L.E., though his skills still keep him tolerable. He is only half Russian, now. On loan. He has known forgiveness, and acceptance, and that has ruined him.
But tonight he doesn’t mind. He isn’t running in this race anymore. In Moscow, he will do as he is told. In the quiet, in his corner of the car where none of them want anything to do with him, Illya can practise his own discipline. Self-preserving discipline, gentle on the heart. He cuts out the bitter world he’s been dropped back into, and sinks back into the one he has taken by choice.
Illya doesn’t think of Sochi to stay warm anymore. He thinks of Istanbul.
When Kuznetsov cracks open the squeaking window to smoke, and the blistering wind rushes back in to bite him, Illya thinks of the breeze from the Bosphorus strait, billowing the sheers from the balcony and into his room. When the Moscow streets reek of wet cold cobblestone and damp wool coats, Illya feels nothing but sweltering heat, black tea, and how his sweat had plastered the bed sheets to his back.
Then street lamps are a pair of sunny yellow earrings. His hands, no gloves, are brushing dark hair over a soft, bare shoulder. Warm, slow. He hadn’t thought it would be slow. It wasn’t, until he’d insisted on it. Taking his time, his palms on her thighs to gentle her. Skin to skin. Nothing was cold, there. Only stickily, breathlessly hot. So much so, it was only cool enough to touch at night, so all day they waited, standing too closely, talking too quietly, holding glances steady enough to burn.
At dawn, golden with prayer calls down all the white walled streets, was Gaby sprawling in the sun of his ruined bed and stroking his aching jaw. On him, under him, around him, she radiated with all the surprise and power of a Spitfire. Sparking under his hands, his mouth. She’d tasted of sunlight, salt, clean sweat. Shivering only for his words, and shaking only for another cause entirely. She’d laughed. And to Illya’s surprise, even now, so had he.
“What’s he smirking about?”
Sleet splashes mutely on the windscreen, torn up by the wipers. They’ve reached the checkpoint, the white beam of a guard’s searchlight cutting everything in half.
“This is what the West does to you?”
Illya snatches Kuznetsov’s hand, threatening now to slap the back of his head, and he shoves it away. The agents and the guard discuss schedules, papers, and a boxing match they had all missed tonight. Illya takes his papers from his coat pocket, blankly hands them to the front seat. They’re cleared, and they drive on.
Illya winds down his window, and he starts again.
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