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East Germany, 1962 (two years prior)
Gaby hated waiting.
When Waverly had explained the situation to her, she had been scared, shocked, and a bit angry, but at least she had known what was happening. What to expect.
She had expected people to come looking for her. She had prepared herself to be kidnapped, cajoled, or threatened. She had not expected to wait.
The tension didn’t go away. It just built. Each morning heralded another day of glancing over her shoulder, watching shadows, startling at any sudden noise.
This quiet anticipation would be the death of her if it didn’t end soon. At this point, Gaby would welcome any change that gave her the chance to take action.
Italy, 1963 (one year prior)
For a moment, Napoleon didn’t react.
“They’ve agreed to let me keep the team together for a while,” Waverly had said.
The team?
Napoleon knew, rationally, what Waverly meant by the team, but he still couldn’t quite understand the concept of being on one.
Gaby and Peril were fun to be around, and capable, no doubt about that, but could he ( should he ) really trust them? Peril was still a KGB agent, and a volatile one at that, and Gaby was some sort of deep-cover British agent.
Would they trust each other? Gaby had betrayed them both, although before that, there had been something between her and Peril. Napoleon prided himself on his people-reading skills, but for the life of him, he couldn’t say whether Gaby had been playing Peril or was genuinely fond of him.
If she had been playing him, that would make it all the more difficult for Peril to trust her. If she did care for him, it might be hard for Peril to remain impartial.
Napoleon decided that it wasn’t his problem to worry about (but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to).
Turkey, 1963 (one year prior)
Gaby wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do.
Correction: She wasn’t sure what Illya and Solo expected her to do. During their mission in Rome, she had played the naïve German girl, but now her cover was blown. She had tried so hard to fit in, to conform for the mission, that she wasn’t sure how they would react to honesty. It was easier to be on the offence than to show her true self.
For Solo, she had been the spunky, sarcastic mechanic. For Illya, she had been the guileless, feisty faux-fiancé. Now that they were all agents, almost equals, she wasn’t sure. Illya had, for the most part, resisted her charms, but he had still acted differently towards her, with kindness.
Gaby liked Illya, he seemed to be a decent person, but her act in Rome had been just that; an act to test him. To find out his weak points, what sort of person he was, how he treated those he saw as helpless. She couldn’t afford to be caught off guard. He had passed with flying colors; her deception, on the other hand, might not be so easily forgiven.
They traveled to the next mission separately, which was better and worse in that it gave Gaby time to think. By the time she arrived at her new hotel, she had decided she would have to talk to Illya. Just so he knew it wasn’t anything personal. She had apologized already, but that was when she thought she’d never see him again. This was different. There couldn’t be anything interfering with the mission.
“Illya,” Gaby said. They were in his hotel room, going over all the information they had on the mark. Solo was supposed to be joining them in an hour.
“Mm?” Illya intoned, not looking up from the file.
“I’d like to talk to you.” Gaby waited for him to look at her. He did, setting the file aside. For a moment, Gaby let herself enjoy having his complete attention.
“About our mission in Rome.”
Already, Illya was beginning to shake his head, but Gaby pressed on.
“My actions were unprofessional. It was…my first real mission, and I was trying to figure out what sort of person you were. I know I’ve already apologized, but…I hope my past actions won’t affect our partnership in future.”
Gaby stopped speaking, and silence rushed in the fill the void. One breath, two, and then Illya spoke.
“You do not need to apologize,” he said, looking at her steadily, “We both made mistakes. Is in past. We are team now.”
China, 1964 (three months prior)
(Napoleon had been enjoying his evening, right up until the kidnapping.
Now, beaten, chained, and with his designer suit ruined, he was beginning to wish he had just ordered room service.)
China, 1964 (three months prior)
Illya was annoyed. He should be focusing on the mission. He should not be distracted, and yet his mind kept wandering back to Solo. Illya had not heard from the American in almost a day. He should not be worried; they were working separate parts of the mission and it was entirely possible the Cowboy had simply forgotten to update him, but still…something wasn’t right. Illya’s gut was telling him that something had gone wrong.
Sighing, Illya turned on his walkie-talkie, allowing his voice to carry to Gaby, staying in a separate hotel room two floors below him.
“Gaby, when was last time Cowboy checked in?” he enquired, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible.
There was a few scuffling noises from Gaby’s end, and then she responded “Uh, yesterday morning, I think.”
There was a pause.
“Why?” Gaby asked.
Illya hummed noncommittally, but finally said “Something feels…off.”
This seemed to satisfy Gaby, and the line went dead.
A few moments later, there was a knock at Illya’s door. He got up from the communiqué he had been attempting to decrypt, and picked up his gun, but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew who it was.
Gaby didn’t say anything when he opened the door, just strode into the room. Illya shut it after her and turned to find her staring at him, hands on hips.
“Well?” she asked, and when he looked at her, confused, she said, “How are we going to rescue Solo?”
China, 1964 (three months prior)
11 non-fatal bullet wounds, 3 fatal bullet wounds, 5 non-fatal physical injuries, 1 fatal physical injury.
That was Illya’s body count when they rescued Solo.
Gaby was the one who found him, chained in a small, unlit room.
“Napoleon?” she said, voice impossibly gentle, “Napoleon, we’re here. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out.”
Illya was amazed by how Gaby could go from fearsome warrior to caring friend in the space of a heartbeat. On each new mission they went on, he found himself noticing new aspects of her.
“Hey,” Solo managed, then he coughed weakly. It didn’t sound good.
After scanning the corridor one more time, Illya came into the room.
“Cowboy, can you stand?”
Grasping Gaby’s shoulder, Solo managed to lift himself about four inches off the floor before he slid back down.
“Let me,” Illya said, carefully moving Gaby aside. With two bullets, the chain holding Solo broke, and Illya holstered his gun, reaching down to pick the other man up.
Illya carried the American down the hall, bridal-style, as Gaby covered the rear, gun in hand.
“Of the three of us,” Gaby commented, shooting Illya a bright smile, “Shouldn’t I be the bride?”
Solo let out a cough that was probably a laugh, and Illya blinked in surprise, but then smiled. It was nice to see Gaby comfortable enough to make jokes.
“I didn’t know if you’d come after me,” Solo admitted, then, because the man was loath to show anything close to emotional fragility, he added, “Thought you and Gabs might elope.”
From behind, Gaby snorted.
Argentina, 1964 (one hour prior)
“So,” Napoleon said, once he’d gotten Gaby alone, “What was all that about?”
Gaby ignored him, continuing to stuff clothes into her suitcase.
“Gabs,” Napoleon dragged her nickname out, somehow making it last five syllables.
Gaby continued to ignore him. Napoleon came over to the bed and draped himself across her suitcase, preventing her from packing.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Gaby said shortly. It wasn’t strictly true, but it also wasn’t any of his business.
Napoleon raised his eyebrows, and Gaby sighed. He did have a point, and he was one of the only people she could talk honestly with.
“Get me something to drink,” she ordered, and he smiled, walking to the liquor cabinet.
A few moments later, they were sitting cross-legged on Gaby’s bed, a bottle of Scotch between them.
“How much did you hear?” Gaby asked, staring at the bottle instead of looking at Solo’s face.
“The first few minutes. Then I got,” he paused to smirk, “distracted.”
Gaby rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling at his theatrics.
“Well, while you were off having fun, we were trying to keep our covers intact.”
Solo nodded to show he was listening.
“And we knew they had planted a bug on Illya,” Gaby continued. “We had to prove we were who we said we were. We were dancing.”
She paused, opening the bottle of scotch and taking a sip. It burned pleasantly.
“We were dancing, and talking, and—he said he loved me.”
Once she had said those words, Gaby quickly tried to explain.
“I know it was pretend, just for the cover. I know that, but still, it felt…real. It felt like…it felt like it wasn’t part of our cover.”
She glanced at Solo nervously, trying to gauge his reaction. His face was purposefully blank.
“What?” she snapped, suddenly defensive, “Are you going to tell me how stupid I’m being?”
“No, Gabs—” Napoleon started, then paused and continued more solemnly, “I don’t think you’re stupid. Undercover work is hard, and us having been a team for a while now, some real feelings are bound to slip through.”
“Especially between you and Peril,” he added with a wink.
Gaby slapped his arm, but without any real force.
“But what should I do?” she asked. “Do I say something?”
When Solo didn’t immediately reply, she kept talking.
“I worry that if I don’t do anything, I’ll miss out on something really good. Or worse yet, make Illya think I don’t care for him. But if I do say something, then what? We become lovers? How can we continue working together if that happens?”
“I don’t know what will happen,” Napoleon admitted, “But you should talk to Peril. That’s the only way to sort this out.”
Argentina, 1964 (at present)
“Illya?”
Gaby knocked lightly on the door, which was already partly ajar. Unusual.
“Come in,” said Illya from inside the room.
Gaby entered and walked over to him. His suitcase was already full, and he was in the process of disassembling and packing his surveillance equipment.
“I, ah, I wanted to…” she trailed off, unsure. What exactly did she want to do? The confidence she had felt talking to Napoleon drained away. Illya wasn’t even looking in her direction.
“Illya,” Gaby tried again, “I want to talk.”
Illya looked up at her and blinked.
“Okay,” he said, getting the chair from the corner of the room. He sat down and gestured for her to sit on the bed. His earnest, concerned expression reminded her of the conversation they had had at the beginning of their second mission.
God, he was beautiful.
“When we were undercover, at the club, they put a bug on you,” Gaby said, staring at a point on the wall, “and we were trying to keep our covers intact. You said you loved me.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Illya’s direction. Gaby didn’t look at him.
“I understand why you said it, but,” she stopped, trying to find the words.
“You are right,” Illya said, after a moment of silence, “It is…even undercover, it is difficult to say—or to hear—those words.”
To say those words.
Gaby hadn’t even considered what Illya must have been feeling.
“We haven’t—” Illya paused, struggling to find the words, “I like you, Gaby. Much. But I have not—I have avoided saying it, because we are colleagues. I think, now, we cannot avoid any longer.”
Gaby nodded, and then said aloud, “Yes. You’re right.”
Neither of them said anything, despite their agreement that they should talk.
“Cowboy is better at this type of thing,” Illya finally commented, with a huff that might have been a laugh.
Gaby nodded again, and tried to think of what she wanted to say. She was excellent at starting conversation, and she could generally handle assigned speeches (for missions or for when she was determined to get a point across), but having a real, serious discussion about one of her only genuine relationships was proving troublesome.
She thought of her talk with Napoleon. It was easier to talk with him; he wasn’t Illya, he wasn’t the one whose relationship she was contemplating. Then again, relationships weren’t supposed to be perfect and easy. You had to work at them.
“Do you want this?” She asked, gesturing between them. Really, that was the root of all of this. Were they willing to risk their careers, their lives, for a chance at love?
“Yes,” Illya answered without hesitation, “But I do not think is good idea.”
That was all Gaby needed to hear. Yes, it might bring their downfall, but if they wanted this, wanted each other, they could figure it out. She had to believe that.
“Well then,” she said, “We’ll just have to find a way to make it work.”
A tiny, almost unnoticeable smile slipped onto Illya’s face.
“Yes, we will make this work,” he said, “And then, I will really say I love you.”
Gaby grinned, incredibly glad that this was finally, really happening. Suddenly, Illya stopped smiling, and Gaby’s own happiness faltered with it. Was he already regretting his decision?
“One thing you must know,” he said, face serious, “Cowboy will tease endlessly.”
England, 1965 (seven months afterward)
“Illya,” Gaby scolded, “I’m trying to cook.”
There was no verbal response from Illya, but he hummed gently. Gaby was at the stove, trying to reheat leftovers into some semblance of a meal. Illya was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, and it would be his fault if Gaby burned the pasta because she was distracted.
“ Illya ,” Gaby said again, suppressing a laugh, “I need to make dinner.”
Illya pressed his face into her hair, not letting go. Gaby turned around, giving him a soft, short kiss.
“There,” she said. “Now get out the silverware.”
“Yes, dear,” Illya replied, moving to set the table.
Gaby finished preparing their meal, and doled out the pasta. Napoleon had made it for them a few days ago, so it would still be delicious. She brought it over to the table, and said, only somewhat joking, “I made the food, so you have to clean the pots.”
Illya nodded agreeably, accepting his plate. He watched as she took a bite, ignoring his own food.
“I love you,” Illya said.
Gaby was surprised, but not unpleasantly so.
“I love you too.”