Chapter Text
By the time Gaby is released from the hospital, two weeks later, the bullet wound two inches above her bellybutton almost completely healed, Istanbul spring is almost certainly summer; she lets the warm sun coming through her hospital room curtains warm her cheek, as Napoleon packs up her suitcase.
****
When she woke up in that hospital bed for the first time, to the beeping of her heart monitor and the buzz of sounds on the other side of the door, Napoleon was there with her, body languidly stretched over three chairs. He had watched as she came to, blinking in confusion, then leaned forward and reached for her hand and said: „Teller. Don't ever let me call you anything less than an excellent agent.“
He filled her in on the aftermath: him rushing to the door as soon as he heard two bodies hit the floor, and reaching just in time to kick the gun out of de la Roche's hands after the first shot; the scene of her bloody body lying on the floor, staining the carpet crimson as Illya laid in the bed, paler than a ghost.
In the days that followed, Waverly waded in and out of her room, sometimes wringing his hands, sometimes smoking. They explained to her everything else, too: de la Roche was being shipped off to London with a heavy interrogation waiting; the factory was being disbanded and all its products destroyed (not likely, but still the official statement from both the CIA and the KGB – still, Napoleon had the decency to blush); no answers had been given to the pressing question of who was de la Roche's buyer; the case was still open, but passed to other hands while they recover. And Illya was in a separate hospital wing, recovering from the poison.
„Truly nasty stuff“, Waverly said, after one long drag of his cigarette. Gaby thought about showing him the sign above the door that said SMOKING PROHIBITED, but decided not to.
„His liver almost collapsed. One kidney is a damn near complete ruin. Still, a giant like that – he will pull through. And don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Teller.“
And she gritted her teeth and let it go.
***
And now it is two weeks later.
She closes her eyes, leaning into the light and warmth pouring from the window – her feet still a little unsteady from all the time she spent lying in bed – and when she opens them, Illya Kuryakov is standing at the treshold of her room. It is always about doorways and tresholds with the two of them – never quite there, but still close enough. He looks pale and thinner than before, but, alive. It is all that matters in the end.
They lock eyes, and Napoleon excuses himself with a burst of blabbering words Gaby can't bother to actually listen to.
When they are left alone in the sterile, humid, mint green room, only then Illya actually walks in.
„Gaby“, he says, voice grave. „I cannot – I am – forever grateful. You know that.“
„I do“, she says. „Besides, it was only one bullet. Tiny hole. Nothing to fret about.“
He kneels down, quite suddenly, in front of her.
„May I see it?“, he asks, looking up, his expression timid. Gaby huffs a surprised breath, and glances around as if someone will pop from under her bed. As she lifts up her blouse slowly, she watches his eyes.
Illya hesitates a moment, looking at the smooth tanned skin of her stomach, and the white, broken lines of the scar; and then leans in and kisses it, so tenderly that Gaby's breath hitches. He lays his forehead on her belly, then, and sighs.
„You should not have done it – you spilled blood for me.“
Her lips twitch in a small smile, and she runs her hand through his soft, blond hair.
„Blood and bones, Illya, is the business we have entered a long time ago. Get up from there.“
He gets up shakily, but reminds close enough for her to feel his presence – his warm, protecting, worrying presence. Gaby lifts up on her toes, ignoring the dull pain as her whole body stretches towards him.
„I would do it all over again“, she whispers confidentially, and before Illya can reply, she kisses him with a ferociousness she didn't think she was capable of. Caught off guard, he stumbles, only a little, before steadying her with a warm hand sliding around her waist. When she moves away, a few moments later, his lips follow hers as if by instict, and he kisses her chin instead:
„Gabyshka.“
Her neck:
„Prekrasnya.“
Her shoulder:
„Moya malenkaya.“
He kisses each and every one of her fingers:
„Moya hrabrya.“
If Gaby could choose any moment to live forever in, it would be this one: the unexpected gentleness of it makes her head spin. She wants to take it all in: his pale Byzantine eyes and each and every one of his eyelashes; the fading freckles on the bridge of his nose, caused by the southern sun; the delicate way he is holding her hands in his.
„You guys done? Uhhh, Waverly is going to be here in the next five minutes to prep us for the next mission and the suitcase is not gonna pack it self, so...“
They both turn to see Napoleon's face peering around the door.
„I am terribly sorry for interrupting though. Peril, good to see you've got some colour back in your cheeks, you'll be back to your old self in no time.“
Gaby glances at Illya, only to see him blushing even more furiously, and she can't help but smile.
As they exit the hospital, some thirty minutes later, and wait in the sweltering heat for their car to pull up (taking them to Rio de Janeiro, where there is a Chinese drug smugglers chain that needs to be broken down), he reaches out and grazes the back of her hand with his knuckles.
She watches him smile almost imperceptibly; and she knows they will be alright.