Chapter Text
Gaby had wonderfully steady hands.
He hadn't asked for her help. She'd watched him remove the lampshades and bring two lamps over to the tiny writing desk provided by the hotel and then struggle to get his tools and the lamp stands and the UNCLE-provided communicator all on the desktop. Then, without a word, she'd turned up the radio and come over, plucking the one lamp off the desk and angling it expertly.
She followed his hands, tilting the light so that it shone on exactly what he was working on.
"Spasibo," he said.
Gaby huffed and the light didn't waver at all. "It's not hard," she said dismissively. "I used to do this for my father."
Illya made a sound low in his throat and kept his eyes fixed on his work. He was trying to miniaturize their communicators without sacrificing range; he'd been having limited success.
"That's how I learned how to fix cars," Gaby continued. "Watching him."
He wanted to say something about how her father must have been proud of her, having a beautiful daughter who followed him into his trade. Prouder still of the woman who escaped East Germany. But he had the right to say none of that, and those words would be unwanted and disbelieved coming from an officer of the KGB. Instead Illya narrated what he was attempting. He was lacking in some of the technical vocabulary (in both English and German) but Gaby caught on quickly though - she'd rewired cars before and her understanding of circuitry gave her the background needed for this task.
The evening was pleasanter than Illya deserved; quiet, companionable. Occasionally Gaby would abruptly abandon him, throwing his work into shadow just to change the radio if she didn't like the song, or to dance around the room when she did.
It was during one of those periods of dancing, Gaby moving about the room as if her blood was music, Illya's hands still while he watched her through his eyelashes, that Solo sauntered in.
"This is not your hotel room, Cowboy," Illya said. He and Gaby were on support; Solo wasn't supposed to make contact with them unless the situation was dire.
"The situation is dire," Solo said, as if he had read Illya's mind. Illya narrowed his eyes at the man.
Solo reclined on the couch.
Gaby twisted to look at him and then laughed at his dramatic posture, and kept dancing.
"I am beginning to think we have been fed bad information," he informed the hotel walls, since Gaby didn't appear to be paying him any attention and Illya certainly wasn't. "There is nothing in our mark's head but goshawk pedigrees and boring sex positions. I am about to perish of boredom."
The song ended, Gaby struck and held a pose for a brief second and walked over to hold the light for Illya again.
"Espionage takes discipline and patience, Cowboy," Illya informed him.
"You know, Peril," Solo said, straightening up and then stopped, staring at Illya's hands. "What are you doing with my tools?"
"Not your tools any longer," Illya turned his back on Solo and focused on his work. "They have been requisitioned."
At the Vinciguerra warehouse, after Solo had tripped the alarm, Illya had shoved Solo's thieving kit into his inner jacket pocket, and then forgotten the tools until, after the thumping and moaning from upstairs had subsided and Gaby had crawled back into bed, he'd gone to shower off the briny residue from the harbor. When he'd undressed, he'd found the tools. He'd intended to return them, but between the danger they were sending Gaby into, and then his orders to kill Solo and retrieve the tape, and then the sudden formation of UNCLE, the tools had remained, forgotten, in his case. By the time they'd flown into Istanbul, Solo had a brand-new, identical lock-picking set. Illya had been so disgusted with the carelessness and lack of consequence - to lose such a vital piece of equipment and suffer no repercussions - that he hadn't bothered to return the tools. Not when they - with a few modifications of course - ended up being so very useful for maintaining and modifying the surveillance equipment that Illya took impeccable care of.
"WHAT did you DO to my tools, you soviet thief?" Solo accused, staring at the modified tools in horror.
Illya surged to his feet, knocking his chair back.
"I would never inconvenience a lady - except upon request - " Solo started, "but I cannot help but notice that the bed is rather large for a single occupant."
Illya clenched his fists, his already blooded knuckles stinging.
Gaby shot Solo a withering look over the brim of her glass, legs already tucked under the covers.
"You got us thrown out of our hotel," Gaby said, shortly, "I should make you sleep in the alley outside."
Illya shot Solo a smug, pleased look.
"I hope you both enjoy your night on the floor," Gaby continued and Illya felt his smile drop away.
"I-" he started and then was silenced at Gaby's furious expression.
He dropped his gaze, lay down on the floor. He took a tiny bit of pleasure in the fact that he lay directly next to the bed, while Solo was right next to the door. Maybe a maid would come in early and open the door right into Solo's side, he thought pettily.
Gaby knocked back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass down on the bedside table, slapped the lightswitch off, plunging the room into darkness.
"Gaby, really? Not even a pillow?"