Chapter Text
Mission Report: November 07, 1963. Moscow, USSR.
The words race on a closed track in his mind, each syllable corresponding to his footfall on the stairs. His nails are biting into the manila folder, broad hands threatening to crush the pages within. Good, he huffs. Let them.
There is nothing of value in the file anyway—not for UNCLE, not even for the KGB. But that had never been the intent. No. It is not what is within the report that matters. It is the fact that such a document has even been allowed to exist. For it proves beyond a shadow of a doubt who truly has control over Illya Kuryakin.
He nearly misses a step in his haste to get this over with. A guttural curse rings through the empty stairwell as he catches himself. Illya shakes his head at his clumsiness, at the hissing static of the nerves in his chest. He is racked with a schoolboy’s shame and the reflexive flinch of discovery, the discipline he expects to follow.
Illya’s handler had recalled him unexpectedly three weeks ago with nauseatingly cryptic instructions: take the first flight to Moscow. It didn’t matter that he was on another mission. He had no choice but to comply.
A good dog always runs at his master’s call.
Illya is well-acquainted with his agency’s mind games—the tests of his obedience, the questioning of his loyalty, but this had been something different. More than suspicion, this was spite. He had been made to wait ten days before he’d received his next assignment.
Ten days in the dark, without contact to either agency. Ten days flooded with guilt and worry over the unfinished mission in Peru, the partners he had left behind.
Ten days to find out that all that was needed from him was his presence.
There would be no ounce of skill involved. No special clearance. Illya was simply there to be a body. Just one more soldier on parade.
Almost instinctively, he falls into a marching cadence as he continues his descent. His chest is tight. His mind is reeling. The glowing coals of his anger have been rekindled and they seem to blister him, brand him with the disgrace of it.
He cannot rail against his superiors, so he drives the pain and fury inward. It is not as if he is undeserving of it. Illya had abandoned Gaby and Cowboy, left them alone and in a circumstance.
All because the KGB had wanted to teach him a lesson.
As the days have grown shorter, a darkness has been encroaching, steadily and stealthily, upon the agencies. Diplomatic relations have cooled in the wake of ever-lengthening shadows and pernicious frost… and have shown precious few signs of thawing.
UNCLE may have managed to survive into the Fall, but Illya knows only too well that Russian winters are as long as they are treacherous. His days here have always been numbered, and yet, now, more than ever, he finds himself dreaming of spring and the golden days of summer beyond.
The blood rushes back to his fingers in hot, angry spurts as Illya flexes his hands, finally loosening his grip. He glares at the offending paperwork. It had sat on his desk for a week before he could bring himself to do it.
How unlike him, he thinks, to put it off so long.
Waverly had assured him, of course, that it wasn’t necessary. In fact, he had asked Illya no questions other than to inquire as to the state of his health and to see if there were anything further he could do for him. It was a humbling homecoming—one that he couldn’t afford to believe in.
Illya had insisted on filing his mission report, and so, the forms had appeared in his in-box the next morning… and remained there, untouched and mocking, in an office that suddenly seemed too large and too quiet without his teammates.
How often had he chastised them both for their clutter, their volume, any of a thousand distractions they could conjure at a moment’s notice? It wasn’t until Illya had stared mournfully out at their empty workstations that he realized he’d grown accustomed to it.
His partners were due back in headquarters any day now. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t looking forward to seeing them again.
Another, to say he also didn’t dread it.
Guilt plucks at his insides like a harp: a familiar melody, well-worn like the records in Gaby’s apartment. His hand slips over the doorknob at the thought, and he grouses in frustration. Illya exhales sharply through his nose, throws open the heavy door with a resounding, satisfying bang.
The Archive, as always, is disorientingly bright after the shadowy trek to the basement. All Illya registers at first is movement: a dark head snapping up, the graceful arc of a ponytail, a pistol brought to bear.
Gaby.
She is kneeling on the carpet, stacks of papers laid out in a neat semicircle around her. A sight for sore eyes, though Illya feels raw from it all the same. Her absence had left a dull, persistent ache in his chest; seeing her now sparks every exposed nerve ending inside of him.
Illya sees the tension leave her shoulders as she takes him in, feels his own begin to relax in response. He takes a deep breath to steady himself as her gaze flicks over him. The gun is tucked away, the back of her skirt smoothed as Gaby pushes to her feet.
There is an odd note to her voice when she greets him. She picks her way over to him, and he realizes, distantly, that he is still standing in the doorway. Still staring, still gaping at the mechanic. Illya knows he should move, but his feet won’t cooperate any more than his eyes will.
He is utterly transfixed by the sight of her.
There is a heat, a hunger in his eyes, and Illya can only hope it looks more professional than it feels. Gaby comes to a stop before him, just out of arm’s reach—a deliberate tease, he wonders, or a friendly distance strained in light of recent events.
He wants to ask, wants to beg. For mercy or forgiveness. For permission to pull her against him, press her up against the wall. But then she tilts her head to the side, appraising him, and Illya loses all sense.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me back?” she asks.
Illya tears his gaze from the line of her neck, from the curve of her jaw, and meets her eyes with a start. “I was… of course.” He shakes his head at his own uselessness. “Welcome back.”
“I heard you marched in a parade,” she says, turning on her heel and heading back to her filing. Illya hesitantly takes it as an invitation to follow. When Gaby bends to retrieve the documents, he is sure to train his gaze on the ceiling.
She inclines her chin at the folder in his hands. “Is that your mission report?’
“Da.”
“Are there any pictures?”
Illya frowns deeply at that, but surrenders the file for her inspection anyway. The mechanic tsks softly at the creases left by his fingers, smooths over them with a gentle touch. His stomach twists sharply as she sets the folder on a nearby table, braces her hands on either side.
She hums when she finds it: a close-up of Khrushchev with Illya framed perfectly over his shoulder. Her index finger lazily traces the scar by his eye before Gaby looks up at him again. “I’ve never seen you in uniform before.”
Illya clears his throat, chokes on a reflexive apology. He knows what it represents to her. To her people. “Is ceremonial attire,” he finally says when the silence drags on too long, and he’s spent too much time imagining her touch—not on the page, this time, but on his skin instead. “For special occasions. Celebrations. Like October Revolution.”
“That explains why you look so grim.” There is something inexplicably like a grin tugging at the mechanic’s lips. “Celebrating the Russian way is very serious work.”
Illya blinks, startled and more than a bit distrustful at this turn of events. He never knows when to expect a trick with her. “You’re not angry?”
A moment passes as Gaby considers this, dark eyes searching and as fathomless as ever. “Not at you,” she says, then shrugs. “We wrapped up the mission, the Soviets got their poster boy for the big parade… and you came back. Everyone wins.”
He isn’t sure, but Illya thinks he stops breathing. By the time his brain catches up to his pulse, the German woman has already tucked the picture away and offered him the folder. The graze of her fingers against his is enough to send his faculties back another several paces.
If Illya were in his right mind, he might think better of the impulse that grips him just then. He might think things through, plan ahead, make sure he has a proper command of the English language.
What he wants to do in that moment is ask Gaby out. Invite her to get coffee, perhaps. To have her tell him all about Peru and the other missions he’d missed. More than that, Illya wants to hear how she had filled her time outside of the office, to learn who she is off the clock, if only she would let him.
He’s seen Cowboy do this a thousand times with a thousand, different women. All it took was a charming smile, a playful remark, and soon enough, the two were setting a time and place. To borrow the American’s phrase, this should then be a piece of pie. Or was it cake?
It did not matter. He could handle this.
Illya plans to say something clever, something light and teasing about how Gaby looks like she could use a pick-me-up. What he says instead is…
“There are bags under your eyes.”
He stares a little too intently at her face, too caught up in how her nose scrunches and her eyes go wide to recognize the danger. If Illya Kuryakin were a smart man, he would stop talking.
He is not a smart man.
“Why have you not slept?” he demands, taking another step towards her. Common sense gives way to concern as all pretense and possibility scatters. The moment is gone, and so is this tentative, blossoming truce. He should have known better than to believe it could last.
Gaby’s bangs flutter with the force of her exhale, the annoyed huff he’s certain he’ll pay for later. She sets her hands on her hips, that beautiful mouth of hers flattening into a thin line. Before she can mete out justice, however, Solo peeks his head into the room with his usual knack for interruptions.
“Thought I might find you two down here. Hope I’m not interrupting any clandestine encounters.” His blue eyes falter imperceptibly over the tension he senses between them. Reading or misreading the situation, Illya doesn’t know. Doesn’t particularly care either.
He drags a rough, shaking hand over his face and sighs. “What do you want, Cowboy?”
“An audience with the king,” he announces. He grins at his partner’s startled expressions. “Five minutes.”
Beside him, Illya can feel Gaby go still. “A new mission?”
“I’d imagine so.” Solo’s gaze skims over the mechanic, no doubt seeing what Illya had a moment earlier. How long has it been, he wonders, since he had seen her last?
The American offers her his most disarming smile. “Say, Miss Teller, it looks like you could use a drink.”
“And I don’t mean coffee,” she quips. Gaby grabs the man’s wrist, twisting to read his watch. Illya’s stomach lurches as he observes this exchange. Not for the first time does he envy their ease with one another. “Come on, Solo. We’ve got to hurry if we want to get to Waverly on time."
His roguish wink has Illya rolling his eyes on instinct. “I can be quick when I want to be.” Solo glances over at him, a slight crease forming between his brows. A pricking of his conscience, perhaps. “Care to join us, Peril?”
“Illya has some paperwork he needs to file,” Gaby says briskly, effectively putting an end to that discussion. “He’ll catch up with us later.”
Solo ducks his head in acknowledgement, hands raised in supplication. He spares Illya one final, pitying look before bowing the mechanic out of the room. The door closes, not with a bang, as he expects but with a whimper: a pathetic, little click that seals his fate. Seals him in the Archive like a stone over a tomb.
Gaby sweeps into Waverly’s office with all the airs and graces of visiting royalty. With head held high and Solo waiting on her hand and foot, she eases into the proffered chair and accepts the still-steaming cup of coffee with a gracious smile. She even deigns to acknowledge her superior with a nod.
It takes her a moment before she realizes that Illya isn’t there, that her performance is without its intended audience. The indignity of it all causes her cold shoulder to waver ever so slightly. Illya is always there. Always early, always dominating the space with his size and his presence. How dare he make himself scarce when she wants to ignore him?
The room seems off-kilter somehow without his shadow at her back. Gaby sets her jaw, prods at her bruised ego so as not to soften at the realization. She summons all the steel she can to her spine, recalling Illya’s scrutiny, the scalding intensity of his gaze. The conflicting desire and concern that seemed to be behind it.
So she hadn’t been sleeping well. What else was new?
Gaby wraps both hands tighter around the too hot cup and tries to avoid thinking about just why her insomnia had worsened over the past month. It was better that way.
A polite cough from her American partner startles her from her sudden, sullen reverie. Gaby blinks, looks guiltily up at Waverly. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say something?”
“Yes. I asked you about your Russian.”
“My… Russian?” she repeats. Confusion furrows her brows, even as her pulse spikes sharply. Traitorously. “You mean Illya?”
“Your Russian language,” he clarifies. “How do you feel you’ve been getting on with your studies?”
Oh.
“Oh,” she says softly. There is a furnace underneath her skin, causing her cheeks to glow scarlet with embarrassment. She wants to crawl under Waverly’s desk and hide, maybe relocate to a remote village in the Andes. Anything but this polite, expectant silence.
Gaby tucks a stray curl behind her ear, wets her dry lips. “I—I speak better than I underst—”
“She is proficient,” a deep voice rumbles behind her. A slight, careful pause, then, “She has been working very hard.”
Gaby nearly spills her coffee as she jerks her head to the side and then up, up, up. She wonders when Illya had arrived, how much of their conversation he had just overheard. Wonders if she… minds if he did.
She lets her gaze ghost over him for a fraction of a second—just enough to notice the reddened tips of his ears, the quick flexing of his fingers. Illya studiously avoids her eye, and remembering her resolve to ignore him, Gaby is swift to return the favor.
Beside her, Solo sips demurely from his cup… as if he hadn’t nearly choked on his drink a moment earlier. She wants to glare at him, to grudge him for it, but then their superior is speaking again.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he says, handing them each a train ticket. “Because you’re about to put it to good use.”
Gaby’s stomach drops on a silent gasp. Her eyes scan the neat Cyrillic lettering with something like disbelief. “We’re going to Russia.”
It’s not a question, but God, she wishes it were.
Gaby doesn’t miss the small, encouraging nod Waverly gives her before he speaks. “The train leaves five minutes til midnight from the Leningradsky station in Moscow and arrives in St. Petersburg eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Fingers steepled and expression grim, the Englishman leans forward in his seat. “As you may have guessed by now, we have a very limited window for this assignment.”
“And what would that be, sir?” Solo asks.
“A personal favor to Khrushchev. Even I don’t have all the details.”
The American’s frown mirrors Gaby’s own as a sense of foreboding permeates the room. If she were feeling uneasy a moment ago, she is nearly vibrating with panic now. Her coffee sloshes against the walls of her cup before Illya shifts closer to her, as if it is somehow second nature for him to do so. A large hand settles on the back of her chair, its fingertips a mere whisper against her shoulder, and Gaby finally releases the breath she’s been holding.
Gratitude surges through her, overtaking all of the anger and shock and chaos that his absence, his return has brought with him. How could she be upset with him? In spite of the way she has treated him this morning, Illya is still here for her now. Like he always is.
It humbles her.
Illya’s presence, so steady and sure behind her, is a tonic for her nerves, calming her enough to focus. She catches the tail-end of the American’s sentence, but the message is more than clear. They’re flying into this mission blind.
“Not exactly,” their superior assures them. “The KGB’s playing this one close to the vest, Solo, but the information is coming.” Gaby watches as Waverly and Illya exchange a look. An understanding, as well. “The drop is in an hour.”
Their superior stands to dismiss them then with a pointed glance at his watch. “Better get packing, chaps. I do believe you have a plane to catch.”
Illya withdraws his hand from her chair, and Gaby feels the loss acutely. Not just of his touch, but of the strength it had imbued her with. The mechanic fiddles with her coffee, her purse, stalling until the other agents take the hint.
“The Krasnaya Strela, huh?” she hears Solo say as the men head towards the door. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ride the famous ‘Red Arrow’ train. Now, you’ve ridden it before, haven’t you, Peril?”
Without turning to look. Gaby can picture Illya’s curt nod, the muscle flexing in his jaw. Maybe even the slightest tremor in his hand. His voice is guarded, as it always is, whenever his time in Russia is brought up. “A few times.”
“You must be an expert.”
Illya’s response is muffled by the door’s closing. Gaby slowly lifts her head, heart hammering in her throat, as she looks at the Englishman. “Is it—” she shakes her head and starts over. “Is it truly necessary for me to go, sir?”
Waverly gives her a sad, little smile in return. “I wouldn’t send you otherwise, Miss Teller.” He drums his fingers on the desktop, as if considering whether to elaborate or not. He does. “I must confess that I have something of an ulterior motive in taking on this mission, shrouded in secrecy though it is.”
She waits.
“This assignment not only puts us back in Khrushchev’s good graces, it also puts us in a prime position to bargain with the KGB. To keep our team together for a little while longer. And for that, I need my best men and my best woman on the job.”
“Listening at doors again, Peril? Eavesdropping is a nasty habit. Even for a spy.”
Illya whips around to glare at his partner. The American leans against the wall opposite Waverly’s office, smirking knowingly into his coffee.
“I was waiting for Gaby,” he says stiffly.
“I don’t doubt it. But is there a reason you have your ear pressed to the door?”
Illya scowls. Cornered like this, his best option is to come clean. He sighs. “My name came up.”
“Waverly wanted to know more about Gaby’s Russian?”
Heat flares in his chest, his cheeks, but Illya refuses to acknowledge it. There’ll be time enough for that later. “He mentioned KGB. How this mission could help extend my contract here.”
Solo nods. Something suspiciously like sincerity creeps into the man’s words. “All the more reason to ensure this goes according to plan.”
There’s a shade of humor in the grimace Illya gives him. “Since when do our missions ever go according to plan?”
Illya tucks his coat even tighter around his waist and resists the urge to growl. The prearranged dropsite has been something of a dead end. Just one more layer of cloak and dagger to an already unsettling mission. All that had been left for him here were instructions to wait.
So, he does.
Illya sits, poised and alert, on a weathered bench in a secluded corner of the park. He may be exposed to the elements, caught in the crosshairs of a bitter, wintry chill, but his position is a strategic one. From this vantage point, he has clear sightlines to anyone who comes and goes—not that there has been anyone.
The minutes tick past until Illya’s fingers feel clumsy with the cold. He fumbles with his newspaper, his breath steaming in short, irritated bursts that obscure the tiny black-and-white print. He grits out a few, choice words when the pages seem to stick together.
With a little finesse and a lot of frustration, Illya manages to separate them. His eyes widen as he takes in the coded message: 1700, black cab. The intersection right behind him.
He glances over his shoulder and sees the car: a shadowy outline against the haze of streetlamps. The headlights flick on in acknowledgement as Illya gets to his feet and starts walking.
“Going to the airport, tovarishch?”
Illya replies in the affirmative, his eyes never once leaving the other agent. His words take on a sharp, clipped tone. “Do you have it?”
Wiry fingers close over the handle of an attache case. “You understand the need for secrecy, of course,” the man says, shrugging. He bares his teeth in a pseudo-smile, a hardness to the gaze he now locks onto Illya. “We can’t have just any agent getting a hold of this.”
And then, because he must, he nods. “I understand.”
“You will receive no help from the KGB. No friends, no favors. No contact.” The man presses the case into Illya’s hands, all trace of politeness gone from his voice. “Burn everything when you are done.”
Illya’s composure is steel and ice by the time he steps out of the cab, but something inside him eases at the sight of his partners: an island of stillness, marooned amid the hustle and bustle of the airport. He nods at them in greeting when he approaches and lets Cowboy lead the way.
The American remains a few, careful paces ahead, leaving Gaby and Illya to walk alongside one another. It is a very public sort of privacy. The rise and fall of conversations is a perfect mask for their own. There are no prying eyes or straining ears.
Nothing, in fact, to stop Illya at all.
Except for Gaby.
The mechanic stares resolutely in front of her, a dusting of color high on her cheeks. They seemed to have parted on good terms outside of Waverly’s office, but Illya wonders now if she might still be angry with him.
He opens his mouth to apologize: an entire speech prepared to clear up the misunderstanding, and, if he may be so bold, to make it up to her when they return to London. But then he notes the tension in her jaw, the white line of her knuckles on the suitcase handle, and realizes with a jolt that it’s not anger that she’s feeling.
It’s fear.
And so, Illya does the only thing he can do in that moment. He takes Gaby’s luggage from her and keeps his mouth shut.
It’s been twenty minutes since their private plane took off. Nearly thirty since Gaby has spoken. Her eyes rove restlessly over the same rectangle of sodden, gray sky—hyper-vigilant and constantly darting around. Her feet tap an agitated tattoo: a frantic, manic beat that has his own heart rate kicking up in response.
She reminds Illya of a child’s toy. Like jack-in-the-box, he decides. Drawn into herself like a coiled spring, a pent-up, almost violent force ready to launch at a moment’s notice. With or without any warning.
Illya frowns as he looks her over. Gaby’s hands must be aching from clutching the armrests so tightly, and he wants desperately to soothe them. But would she permit such an intimacy from him? This is more than a touch ghosting on the back of a chair. This is more , so much more, and Illya cannot afford another misstep.
He folds his arms instead, tamping down the impulse, the instinct that threatens to overtake him. Let Cowboy handle it, he thinks bitterly. Somehow he always seems to know the right thing to say and do.
The man in question is lounging in the seat across from him, his expression brimming with his usual degree of insouciance. Only his eyes give him away: stopping on Gaby just a second too long to be indifferent. Solo is as concerned as Illya is, but unlike the Russian, he’s able to compartmentalize it, to lock it away in a safe deep inside himself.
Illya should—no, needs to do the same. They are on a mission, after all.
As if reading his mind, the American leans forward, subtly raising his voice to try and draw Gaby back in. “All right, Peril. You’ve kept us in suspense long enough. Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”
Illya grunts in acknowledgement. He bends to unlatch the case at his feet, lays the folders on the table between them. They’re thin. Too thin.
Something’s wrong.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Solo demands. He points to the offending bag. “Check it again. There has to be a hidden compartment somewhere.”
A muscle flexes in his jaw as he shrugs. A brittle, token gesture. “This is all there is, Cowboy.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Is dead end,” he finally snaps, all but shoving the case at his partner, “but please, be my guest.”
Gaby finally tears her gaze from the window to look at them. Her voice has a distinctly distant quality to it that matches the look in her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“It would seem that for a communist intelligence agency, the KGB are, ironically, not very good at sharing.” Resigned to the fact that the attache truly is empty, he passes out the three, anemic folders. “Some light reading for you both.”
Illya glares daggers at the American and then at the file before him. Anger and an inexplicable shame surges through his chest as he opens it. The only intelligence that the agency, his agency, had provided was a grainy photo and a single sheet of paper.
Were they deliberately trying to sabotage them?
The mechanic comes to the realization a split-second before he does. “They’re different,” she says. Her voice is no longer small and dreamlike, but sharp and piercing. “Each folder is different.”
That seems to pique Solo’s interest. The man straightens in his seat, plastering on an irritating, little grin. “Looks like we’re playing at ‘Show and Tell’ then. Now, who wants to go first?”
Gaby casts a quick glance between her partners before volunteering. “I’ll go.”
The men stare at her in surprise, but she shrugs it off, brusque and more than a little bit defensive. She needs to pull herself together, prove herself on this mission.
Her time with Illya depends on it.
“Schematics for the train,” she announces, spreading the file flat on the table. “Looks like we’re all staying in separate berths.” She taps her finger on a hand-drawn star. “There’s a fourth one marked here too. Either of you know who it’s for?”
Illya clears his throat and shows her his own folder. A young woman with light eyes and dark hair stares morosely up at her. “Zofie Vackova. The Czechoslovakian ambassador’s daughter.”
That earns an appreciative hum from Solo. “And what is our interest in her? Besides the obvious, of course,” he adds with a wink at Gaby.
She rolls her eyes at him, but there is a smile tugging at her lips just the same. Across from her, Solo is practically preening at this tiny victory. Gaby ignores him, turns her attention back to Illya instead.
She has to crane her neck to read the sheet of paper he now slides in front of them. Illya’s voice, she notices, is deliberately flat. “It says she is courier. For sensitive intelligence.”
“Are we supposed to apprehend her?” she asks. “Stop her from selling the files?”
Illya shakes his head slowly. “They want us to protect her, I think.” His blue eyes are troubled when they lift to meet hers. “I do not know yet from whom.”
“I do believe I have the answer to that,” Solo declares, and it is as if spotlights are suddenly beaming down upon him. He flips his folder to face them in a measured, dramatic reveal. “Looks like we’re dealing with one of yours, Peril."