Chapter Text
Illya does not like this day.
He has anticipated this day, this day, for weeks and disliked it from the moment Waverly explained his carefully crafted plans to his golden team of three. He disliked the way the plans bounced off his American teammate and affected him little, as if this day was like any other day of the year. And now, even the weather tells Illya to turn around, to go back where he came from, and to avoid this day entirely.
“It’s not often you see a perfectly clear blue sky and a city full of fog, huh, Peril?”
Illya hates admitting it, but his American teammate is right. It is an early February day in Koblenz, Germany; above Illya’s head, a brilliant blue sky and beaming sun radiate, but around him, wispy grey clouds hang low in city streets.
From the passenger side of the car Illya says nothing, his thumb and his pointer finger folded against his chin. He flicks his eyes to the left to see the American’s smug, chipper face. Why he must always look that way, Illya will never know. Breathing away the frustration he feels bubbling in his chest, he reverts his eyes to the rearview mirror, back to Gaby. She has remained silent for the majority of the trip, and in fact, has grown increasingly silent since Waverly gave them this assignment two weeks ago. She’d spent fewer evenings out, Illya had noticed, retreating back to her quiet flat after work instead of her usual evenings spent at pubs with coworkers from U.N.C.L.E.’s translation department.
Illya wasn’t even supposed to know, as he often reminded himself, how Gaby spent her evenings. She’d made that abundantly clear to him after Rome, and Istanbul, when her soft glances had grown sharp and cold, her words to him decreasing by the day. No, Illya was not supposed to know what Gaby did with her spare time. But what was he to do on his walks back from headquarters, working late as he often did, if he took the long way to his apartment through Gaby’s corner of the city? What was he to do during the times he paused on the cobblestone sidewalk, staring up at the window of a corner flat, waiting for the shadow of a tiny German mechanic to flit in and out of sight?
All of these thoughts come to a screeching halt the moment he hears Gaby’s russet voice from the backseat. “You see it in Koblenz, sometimes.”
If Gaby sees Illya’s blue eyes in the rearview mirror, she doesn’t acknowledge him, instead retreating back to the passing scenery in the window.
“Come here often, Gabs?”
“My father’s mother used to live here. We took a few holidays when I was little,” she replies. There is something about the way her mouth moves, Illya notices, about the way the corners of her lips pull down at the mention of her father, the way her almond eyes shift between her shoes and the car window.
He wants, desperately, to know what she is thinking.
Solo’s voice, bothersome to Illya in almost every way, chimes in from the front again. “Then you’ll be an excellent tour guide for the three of us, won’t you?”
Gaby mhmms an agreement and they continue, winding through antiquated city roads that feel, to Illya, like something out of a history book. They meander through city streets, stopping for children chasing each other and hunched elderly women. The stopping and starting has Illya feeling warm, his turtleneck itching around his throat.
“Deutsches Eck,” Solo croons in German, stopped at an intersection, his neck craned to read a street sign. “What do you suppose that means?”
“German corner.” Illya sees Gaby posture slightly in the mirror. At least she’s talking , he thinks, even if it’s to answer questions that Cowboy probably already knows the answer to. “It’s the place where the Rhine and Moselle rivers meet.”
A beep from the car behind them breaks all three from their thoughts. “Turn left here,” Gaby commands. “There’s a monument you’ll probably like, Solo.”
The way Gaby says Solo’s name makes Illya gulp and ask a thousand silent questions of her. Was it a jab at Illya that Gaby intended? Or does she know so little of him that she forgets entirely his interest in history? Illya turns back to the window, cursing the questions that reverberate in his mind as the car creeps around a corner. When they turn, the Rhine river comes into view, the deep blue of it electrified by the low hanging clouds hovering just above the river like steam from a tea kettle.
They hug the river for several minutes until they reach an opening in the trees. “What is this place, Gaby?” Solo asks, putting the car in park. They swing their doors open and get out, the cool air on Illya’s face a relief from the small agency car that cramped his legs and made his back ache. Gaby turns and faces Solo, crossing her arms over the top of the car to look at him.
“Deutsches Eck is where the two rivers meet. William the second put up a statue to commemorate his grandfather in the 1800s. The statue was mostly destroyed during World War Two. Apparently there used to be a horse with wings or something.”
A gust of wind hits them and ruffles Gaby’s hair, knotted at the base of her neck, until a strand comes loose. Illya watches it float for a moment until the wind blows it against her cheek, and he fights every impulse to lift his fingers to her face and brush it away. When Gaby, still talking, brings a hand up and flicks it away herself, Illya coughs and turns from her.
“Anyway, when things split up,” Gaby says with a glance to her right, toward Illya, “President Heuss wanted the remains of the statue to represent a united Germany. He declared it a historical site, and the ruins still stand today.”
Solo nods and turns from his teammates, nestling his hands in his suit pockets and strolling, leisurely, toward the monument. Neither Gaby nor Illya follow. Instead, Illya watches him walk through the trees and towards the small peninsula that noses out into the two rivers; in the middle sits a stone platform with steps leading up to the ruins of a monument that once was. There is no horse with wings, Illya notices, only a stone table boasting robust columns on each side. He wants to remember the term for the architecture, to say something to Gaby, but any knowledge escapes him when he sees the small, German mechanic leaning against the front of the car.
Illya takes a few small, measured steps towards Gaby. He clears his throat as he comes up next to her, and a swift glance and slight nod indicate to him that he is safe to join her. He leaves several feet between them, longing to close the distance and stand beside her, to feel her weight against him. Illya dismisses those thoughts with another clearing of his throat and stands squarely, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He doesn’t look at her and curses himself for his inability to summon the right words or the right sentiment. Instead, he keeps his eyes forward and remains silent, tallying the other cars around them and the few pedestrians circling the monument.
“I’m sorry,” Gaby finally says. The sound of her voice disrupts Illya from his counting. With wide eyes he looks down at Gaby and feels himself search desperately for the correct thing to say.
“For what?”
She doesn’t answer his question. Instead, her eyes stay fixed where the two rivers flow into each other.
“It’s my first time back since…” Gaby doesn’t finish her thought. With Illya, she doesn’t need to.
“I know.”
It’s all he can think to say in the moment. He knows very well what this day means to Gaby: it is her first time back in Germany since she was rescued over the wall by an American CIA agent many months ago, chased by a KGB dog that meant to keep her there. Illya very much knows why today is unpleasant, and possibly painful, for her.
Illya doesn’t speak again. Instead, he takes a few steps closer to Gaby, coming up beside her until he feels her shoulder against his arm. They remain like that for some time until Solo wanders back to them, singing the praises of history and artifacts and other things Illya doesn’t care to hear. Later, he’ll knock on Gaby’s door at the hotel and listen while she, with a trembling voice, remembers her foster parents, remembers the Germany of her childhood. After, Illya will hold her close to his chest and hum a song against her hair, one his mother used to sing to him. He does none of that now, though. The three spies get back in the car and drive deeper into the city, and when Illya glances back, he catches a small smile from Gaby in the rearview mirror. It is enough for now.