Chapter Text
“You said that I was great,” he chokes out. “One day, I hope to be good. A good man to deserve this.”
He is standing in the middle of Waverly’s office, towering over his seated teammates and employer. Illya’s hands thrum with this ridiculous and utterly mortifying display of emotion. It’s not anger—that he knows how to deal with—but something else entirely.
Waverly had summoned them to discuss their new contracts with UNCLE. They would all three be staying, he revealed, much to the relief that none of them would ever admit to feeling. If not permanently, then at least long into the foreseeable future.
Got the United Nations involved, Waverly told them, and made each of you into a household name in their respective circles. Your agencies have no choice but to keep you here as a symbol of their good faith.
Illya Kuryakin now has a redeemed name and a second chance.
He had been subsumed into UNCLE with the expectation that this was a strictly temporary arrangement. The longer he worked alongside Waverly and his partners, however, the greater the panic he felt about returning full-time to the KGB.
But now, now, he has been gifted with a fresh start. A second chance to live up to the Englishman’s humane, but exacting standards and to stay. Stay here with Gaby and Cowboy—all because Waverly had put in a few good words on their behalves.
An esteemed agent, he’d called him. A great man and a true credit to his organization. Anyone should be proud to have someone of Mr. Kuryakin’s caliber working to keep them safe.
A lump had risen unbidden in Illya’s throat and—bozhe moi —were those tears in his eyes? He clamped down hard on his jaw, holding himself violently still while the unfamiliar praise washed over him.
Illya had tuned out the rest of the conversation, focusing solely on getting himself back under control.
It hadn’t worked.
He had leapt to his feet and started babbling, not caring that he had interrupted his superior mid-sentence or that his partners were staring at him in undisguised shock.
This strange outburst concluded, he clears his throat, feeling the embarrassment burning up his skin. He can almost hear a thousand Red Peril jokes being lobbied at him.
Illya trains his gaze on the floor, his breathing ragged and his heart thundering. He is beginning to mumble out an apology when two slim hands encircle his wrists. He lifts his eyes to meet Gaby’s—an infinite darkness that scorches and soothes in equal measure.
“You are a good man, Illya,” she tells him, her hands slipping into his own. “And you are enough.”
A strangled sort of sound escapes him then, and, for once, he is grateful for Cowboy’s presence. If he weren’t there, Illya might start weeping openly. As it is, though, he squeezes Gaby’s hands gently and extricates himself from her grip.
He wants to pull her close instead, wrap his arms around her, hold and be held. But he clings to that last semblance of decorum like a lifeline. He has to.
A hand claps firmly on his shoulder.
“Easy, Peril,” Solo says, with only a token of a smirk. “Or else you’re going to get me started too.”
The American breezes past him, his default smugness much more subdued. Gaby takes his hand again and Illya can see the two spots of color high on her cheeks.
She stares resolutely ahead, daring anyone to say anything. Waverly inclines his head with a wry, little smile—deference, perhaps, or maybe even approval—and merely hands each of them a steaming cup of tea.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” she declares, moving to stand before them. The loss of her touch is devastating, but Illya refrains from reaching out for her. He knows that if it were just the three of them here, Gaby would be standing on the low coffee table by now.
The thought warms him more than the scalding porcelain in his hands. He finds himself more than a little disappointed that she has chosen to respect their boss’ furniture.
The mechanic raises her teacup and looks straight at him, a shadow of a grin on her face. “To good men,” she states.
“And terrible spies,” Solo adds as he joins her. Illya huffs out a laugh despite himself as Waverly raises his cup next.
“A world worth saving.”
Three expectant sets of eyes pin him like spotlights. He swallows thickly, nodding at nothing as he composes himself. Illya’s hands shake, but his voice is steady.
“And second chances.”
They drink their tea in companionable silence: commemorating the end of an era and celebrating the first day of their new lives.