Chapter Text
"Do we have to stay here?" Gaby asks, in a bit of a sulk, eyeing the New York skyline as they fly in with more indifference than Napoleon thinks anyone should be able to manage for their first time seeing it. "It's so...American."
"Still beats East Berlin, right? And besides, I'm so American," Napoleon points out, giving her a little nudge with his elbow. Gaby rolls her eyes, huffing back a smile. "And you seem to like me just fine."
"I tolerate you. Why couldn't I work in Paris instead? I always wanted to go to Paris."
"You speak French?”
"No. I hate French." She turns her gaze out the window again, her expression sliding into something contemplative. "You're from here, yes?"
Napoleon shakes his head. "No, Rochester."
"What state is Rochester in?" Ever since Napoleon told her they were coming here, she's been trying to learn American geography. It's rather endearing, just how terrible she is at it.
"It's in New York."
With a frustrated noise, Gaby looks back at him. "I thought you said you weren't from New York."
"I'm not from New York City. There's the city, and there's also New York state. The city is inside the state. It's like..." He tries to think of a European equivalent. "I don't know. That's just the way it is."
"Americans," Gaby mutters, rolling her eyes.
Having Gaby roaming around his apartment is strange.
Intellectually, his plan for getting her out from behind the Berlin Wall had been an easy one. Marry her. Pretty much the only legal way, no jumping of barbed wire fences or digging of tunnels involved.
(Though sometimes he wonders if a zipline would've worked. The guards probably wouldn't have seen that coming, at least.)
And to keep up the pretense so no authorities, Soviet or American, get suspicious, of course she has to live with him for six months or a year or whatever before they can quietly divorce. They'd agreed on that back in East Berlin. Yet knowing that while he went back to his nice hotel in West Berlin and she her awful little flat above the garage is different from having her here, hearing her pad barefoot across the hardwood floors and rummage through his kitchen cabinets while he's making phone calls.
Her head pokes around the doorway to his office, soon to be her bedroom, just as he's calling Illya.
"There's no food in the fridge," Gaby tells him, peevish.
"Yeah, because I've been in Europe for six months. Try the cupboard, there's probably some pasta and–"
"Hello?" cuts in Illya's voice, interrupting Napoleon.
"Hey, Illya, one sec." Pressing the mouthpiece to his shoulder, Napoleon turns back to Gaby. "–maybe some tomato sauce. Or you can wait until I'm done and we'll go out."
Grumbling, Gaby says she'll wait, though he gets the sense that she'll turn mutinous if he takes too long. But she's disappeared down the hall before he can voice his concerns, so he picks up the phone again. "Sorry, you still there?"
"Da. Is that her?"
"Yeah."
Illya clucks his tongue, chastising, making Napoleon roll his eyes. "You've gone to much trouble for this girl. She must be good. How did you get her out?"
"I, uh, married her."
"You married her," Illya repeats flatly.
"It was the easiest way. Practical," Napoleon insists, bristling at Illya's tone.
"Okay," Illya says, not sounding remotely convinced. "Cowboy, are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"You don't always need to mother me," snaps Napoleon to his own immediate regret. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and reminds himself that Illya isn't out to get him. "Anyways," he sighs, "I'll bring her over tomorrow?"
They confirm a time and Napoleon gets Illya's new address, signing off with brief 'goodnights'. He only gets ten seconds of silence before the office door swings open again.
"Are you done? I'm hungry."
That settles it, no more time to wallow in the past. Napoleon pulls himself up and leads Gaby out to get pizza, determined that he'll make his fresh start work this time.
The next morning, Gaby is grumbly and irritated. She didn't sleep. Insomnia. At breakfast she turns her nose up at the toast, claiming she can't stand white bread.
Sometimes Napoleon really wonders why the hell he decided on this new venture for his life. Or why he decided on her. She's not looking model-ready slouching at his table in an oversized sweater and cigarette pants with a hole in the knee. She looks crabby and tired and like she might snap one of his fingers in two if he told her to clean up a little.
Not like she's about to meet the person who could make or break her career or anything.
But he gets her caffeinated and out the door only fifteen minutes late, which normally wouldn't bother him much but he knows Illya is picky about punctuality. Napoleon has seen him send models away without a look because they arrived late.
This morning is off to a great start.
Illya doesn't send her away without a look.
He does, however, only give her one look before turning his back on her and speaking to Napoleon, at full volume.
"She's too short. You didn't say she is this short."
Behind him, Gaby bristles. She does look rather absurdly short next to Illya. Like a Chihuahua rounding on a Great Dane. Still, Napoleon gives her a look, enough to keep her quiet while he tries to reason with Illya.
"She's not that short. C'mon, put her in some heels and she'll be fine. Besides, I know you. I know that she's exactly what you wanted."
Still skeptical, Illya pauses, searching his expression. Napoleon returns his gaze. Bringing up the fact that he knows Illya is a bold choice, one that will either have Illya backing down or throwing him out.
"Hmm," Illya says. Then he turns away, back to Gaby, eyes scanning her body with dispassionate assessment. "Not bad."
Gaby rolls her eyes, glaring at Napoleon as if this is all his fault. Which it is in a way, he supposes, but he just smirks at her and she goes back to glaring at Illya. He steps closer, reaching for her elbow, and Gaby twitches back, reminding Napoleon that she's never done this before. She finds his eyes again, her expression questioning, and Napoleon nods to her. It must be reassuring enough, because Gaby allows Illya to tug her through a slow pivot.
Though she doesn't look too far from murdering him.
"Yes, yes, I can work with this," Illya murmurs.
"Wow, thanks," Gaby says, drippingly sweet. If Illya senses her sarcasm he ignores it.
Then Illya reaches for her face, to tilt her chin up, and for a fraction of a second Napoleon is certain that she actually is about to murder him.
"Don't," she hisses through her teeth, tossing her head like a spooked horse, dark chocolate mane rippling down her back.
Freezing, Illya's eyebrows jump in surprise. Then he frowns. "Stop being so difficult. Just stay still. I have a hundred girls I can get to take this job."
"Fine, then get one of them."
"Gaby..." Napoleon begins in a harried sigh, even as she storms past him out the door.
His great morning continues.
"God, he's such an asshole," Gaby mutters mutinously on the cab ride home. "Why did you think this would work?" Her chin bobs down as she affects a comedically deep, comedically Russian voice. "'I have a hundred girls for this job.' What a cunt," she adds, back to her own voice.
"Wow. Language, missy."
His teasing is met with some German profanities of rather astonishing creativity. Despite being on the receiving end of the insults, Napoleon is impressed.
"Look, I know Illya comes off a bit..."
"Infuriating?"
"Abrupt," Napoleon offers placatingly, "but trust me, once you get to know him he's a good guy. And he's the best photographer in the city. If you work for him for six months, you can work anywhere you want. Assuming he'll give you another chance, after today's little...rebellion."
At the chiding Gaby sighs, staring out the cab window at the rainy, grey streets of Manhattan, misery painted all over her face. Somehow, despite his annoyance, Napoleon feels a sudden wash of pity for her. He says nothing, though, sensing that she's busy in her own head. A long silence blankets the cab.
"I'll fix this," Gaby vows. "I can...I don't know, I'll go back tomorrow and talk to him. Or something. But I won't go back to East Berlin."
Startling, Napoleon glances over at her, finding her still staring out the window. Her shoulders are tight, like she's forcing herself not to look at him.
"Why would you go back?"
She shrugs. Still won't look at him. "You brought me over to work with him. If I can't, then why wouldn't you send me back?"
She's serious. Napoleon shakes himself, reeling. "You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to go. We'll figure something out. I'll figure something out; I'm the one who dragged you out of that garage and into this mess in the first place."
Finally Gaby looks at him, expression wavering with something that might be confusion, might be surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah, of course. Even if this doesn't work out, I'm not just going to ditch you."
She blinks, as if she can't quite comprehend what he's saying. For what is not the first time, he wonders about her history; wonders what caused this twenty-four-year-old to be a mechanic of all things, what caused her to ferociously bat away all questions about her family. All he knows for certain is that someone hurt her. Badly. And he doesn't know that because she told him, he knows that because she has carefully fenced herself off with miles of barbed wire and barbed retorts.
She's still looking a bit stunned, though, so Napoleon tries for a joke. "I mean, after all, we're married, right?"
Gaby's expression shutters. "Oh, right." Then she goes back to staring out the window. In his head, Napoleon swears.
At this point, he just wants this morning to be over.
Illya calls him that night, after Gaby is already asleep on the pull-out sofa bed in the office, which is now mostly her bedroom.
"This morning did not go...well," Illya says blandly.
"Really? Never would've guessed."
The snort that carries across the line tells Napoleon all he needs to know about Illya's feelings towards his sarcasm.
"She...You said that she's what I wanted. Why? Her looks are good, but not exceptional. Not exactly jolie-laide, is she? More just jolie. So must be some other reason."
Napoleon takes a moment to sort out his thoughts; how much he is willing to tell Illya. "Look, Illya, remember what you told me six months ago? When we met up and you told me you'd just ditched your last attempt at a muse? You said that you were sick of models who just acted like dolls. Pretty girls who wear pretty clothes. You wanted someone with spirit. 'Heart', I think you called it. And I can tell you, after spending a couple of months in East Berlin getting to know Gaby, that she is all heart."
"I know someone else with a lot of heart," adds Illya, pointed.
Napoleon sighs. "You need a girl. This girl."
A skeptical hum emanates from Illya.
"C'mon, Peril. Just take her picture. Give her a day. I swear to God, you'll fall in love with her. The two of you are just both terrible at first impressions. You're a matched set."
Illya snorts, this time amused. "After all of this time, you should not still be able to talk me into your crazy plans. But fine, one more chance."
The next morning Illya comes over to their place.
Gaby invites him in, both a bit stiff. Napoleon says hi but then disappears into his office so they can chat, though it won't be his office for much longer, since Gaby's stuff is all moved in and he has to climb over the sofa bed to get to his desk.
About twenty minutes later, having mostly managed to ignore the low conversation from the other room while he tries to catch up on organizing his finances from the Europe venture, Napoleon is interrupted when Gaby wanders into the room.
"How's it going?" he asks as she rummages through the suitcase she still hasn't bothered to unpack.
"Good. I think. He's very..." Gaby pauses, grasping for a word, and Napoleon laughs softly.
"Yeah, Illya is unique. You two going out?" He nods at the clothes in her hand.
Gaby shakes her head and resumes digging. "No, he wants to do some pictures here. Now. But he didn't say what he wants me to wear. Just 'not that'."
"Try your white dress."
Pausing again, Gaby eyes him. "Why?"
"Just trust me. I know what he likes."
With an indifferent shrug, Gaby pulls out the white shift dress. While she changes Napoleon goes to the living room, finding illya loading his camera.
"She's still too short," Illya says without looking up.
"So why are you still here, then?"
Illya scowls. "Doing you a favour."
"Since when do you do favours? Admit it, I was right. You like her."
"I did not say that," Illya insists, but in a weak mumble. Napoleon grins.
"So, what do you want me to do?" Gaby asks as she returns, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Napoleon looks to Illya, sees his eyes drop in a survey of her dress, and can tell by the way Illya scowls again, deeper, that he was right; Illya likes the dress. And doesn't want to; doesn't want to give Napoleon the credit. Some things never change.
"Just sit," Illya tells Gaby, indicating the arm chair against the wall. It's not hit by the direct sun of the windows or skylights, but those beams of light instead bounce off the walls and diffuse into a golden glow in the shadows. When Gaby settles into the chair, the lighting is perfect; flattering. Napoleon had almost forgotten how good Illya is at picking lighting. Then Gaby gives Napoleon a look, quizzical, which he returns as an encouraging smile.
In her first real moment of modelling, instead of casting a demur glance off to the side, as most models would, she stares right at Illya in naked challenge.
"Why are you doing that?" Illya emerges from behind his camera to ask.
"I'm just sitting like you said!"
"No, why do you look at the camera like this?"
Gaby huffs, a bit indignant. "You're looking at me. Why shouldn't I look at you?"
That gives Illya pause. He stares at her, confusion warring with surprise and sparring with incredulity. This is not what models do, Napoleon knows. Certainly not the first time, with a photographer they barely know. The model is supposed to be the observed, not the observer.
Illya makes a small "hm". His eyes narrow at Gaby. Then he lifts the camera back to his face and starts snapping, even as Gaby's gaze shoots straight down the barrel, her expression all fire and spit.
In between shots, she catches Napoleon's gaze. He grins. She smirks, pleased.
Maybe there's some hope left after all.
Illya calls him the next day.
"Bring her to the studio around ten," he says gruffly before rattling off an address in Manhattan.
Then he hangs up.
Napoleon sets the phone back in the cradle. Pumps his fist in a brief celebration.
Illya has definitely upgraded his studio since Napoleon last worked with him. The space is the top floor of a commercial building, with high ceilings, a flock of assistants and stylists buzzing around as Napoleon trails Gaby into the space.
"You're finally here," Illya greets them distractedly before swinging around to ask one of the assistants where his light metre is. Then he leads them over to a rack of clothes, what must be the latest couture. "Wear this," he pulls out a violently yellow shift dress, "with these," oversized geometric earrings, "and these," flat white sandals, "and this belt," bright orange, and utterly hideous. "And then go see Kenneth, he will do your hair."
"You can't be serious," Napoleon demands, eyeing the oversaturated ensemble.
Having already begun to turn away, Illya whips around, glaring at him incredulously. "I'm always serious."
"Are you always this wrong?"
"Are you always this opinionated?" Illya shoots back. Despite the argument, Napoleon grins a little. He'd almost forgotten how much fun it is to get a rise out of Illya.
"Me? You are the most stubborn person I've ever met."
Illya scoffs. "I'm passionate. And I'm right."
"Oh really?"
Illya steps closer, about to open his mouth when Gaby cuts in.
"Are you two going to stand around and flirt all day? Or can I go get changed?"
When Napoleon whips around to look at her, she appears caught between boredom and amusement. Since Illya just gapes at her, she snatches the clothes from his hand and disappears to change.
Napoleon glances back at Illya, who jolts, startled, and then scowls. Without another word, he goes to prepare his camera.
The shoot is a success. Even though Illya tries to downplay it, Napoleon can tell he's pleased. And because it's him, he gives Illya shit about it until Illya kicks them out in a huff, but he also mutters that they should come by the next afternoon if they want to see the contact sheets.
"How do you know Illya?" Gaby asks the following morning as she stands at the stove, flamingo-legged, making omelets.
"We've always run in the same circles," Napoleon answers as he slides around her to grab a cup of coffee, not the full truth, but not untrue. "Also, is that my shirt?" he asks, glancing down at her wearing a t-shirt which is decidedly too large for her and which rather resembles one from his closet.
"I need to do laundry," Gaby produces by way of explanation. "And stop evading about Illya. You two seem very close."
Napoleon's heart briefly stammers. "Do we? I called him an insufferable jackass the other day."
"Yes, but you didn't mean it."
Sighing, he meets Gaby's gaze. She's not going to let this one go. "We met when we were both young and foolish. And we..." How does he begin to sum up that? Does he even want to? "We became friends."
Gaby's eyes narrow slightly. "Friends?"
"Friends are a thing where people enjoy spending time with another and don't steal the other person's clothes or burn their breakfast. You may have heard of it."
"Oh please, I never burned your—oh Scheiße, fuck."
Laughter overtakes Napoleon as Gaby pulls the faintly smouldering pan off the burner, earning him a vicious elbow in the ribs after she sets everything aside. Then she turns back to the pan, prodding at the browned eggs with a spatula.
"They're not that bad," she declares in what has to be extreme optimism or extreme contrariness.
"They're inedible. C'mon, I'll buy you breakfast on the road."
Gaby appears torn between stubborn insistence that she hasn't screwed up and desire for a good meal. As Napoleon expected from her, she chooses the good meal, abandoning the failed omelets with a shrug and going to fetch her purse.
Illya's darkroom has gotten a big upgrade too. It's spacious, with deep trough sinks for tray processing, capable of black and white and colour processing. Ventillated, too, which is a nice touch. Napoleon wouldn't be surprised if he has brain damage from spending so much time in Illya's old bathroom darkroom, huffing processing chemicals all day.
Shooing out his assistant, Illya begins plucking contact sheets from the drying racks, grabbing a dozen or so before he leads Napoleon and Gaby over to a light table and spreads out the first few.
Napoleon and Gaby both lean down to look. He's seen enough of these things over the years to be unmoved at the parade of tiny prints on the sheet, shots of Gaby from yesterday in that hideous dress. But Gaby makes a small noise next to him, getting closer still as she stares at her own image on the thick paper, still warped from the baths in chemicals.
"I've never..." she begins before seeming to catch the awe in her own voice and tamping it down.
Looking again, trying to see it through her eyes, Napoleon gazes at the sheet. The first row of pictures are just test shots, with imperfect lighting, the earliest ones featuring some assistant rather than Gaby. But then Gaby appears and fixes that stare of hers on the camera, the eye contact humming with electricity even when it's tiny, unenlarged. She looks...elegant. Proud. Sophisticated in a way that jars Napoleon after weeks spent with the girl who sings tunelessly, terribly along to the radio while she burns his breakfast. He'd almost forgotten that he'd brought her here in large part because of her looks.
Gaby's still looking at herself as seen through Illya's lens, her brows crinkling, like she can't quite reconcile the elegant woman on the page with her own image of herself.
"As you can see, turned out pretty well," Illya says, interrupting the moment. He reaches past Gaby, arm brushing hers, and pulls some of the other contact sheets into view. A parade of tiny Gabys fills the table, looking left, looking right, smirking, frowning, turning away. "Will show Diana later. Editor," he clarifies when Gaby gives him a blank look.
She just nods, turns back to the photos of herself. After a moment she huffs, a little incredulous, like she can't quite believe that's her.
Later, once they've seen all of the photos and are preparing to leave, Napoleon catches Illya by the arm and holds him back just outside the darkroom.
"Why did you do this, Peril?" Napoleon asks in a low voice. "Show us these photos? You didn't need to."
Illya makes a noise like a shrug, eyeing Gaby as she gazes out the window at the street below. "She should see. She needs to understand what she's getting into. I wish you..."
"Don't," Napoleon cuts in, not wanting to hear it. "Just..." he sighs, "just don't. Okay?"
Giving him a too-knowing look, Illya shakes his head. Somehow it's just like the way Illya used to react five years earlier. Napoleon still hates it. Still hates that Illya is probably right.
"She knows, yes?"
"She knows what she needs to," Napoleon grunts, fiercer than necessary based on the way Illya frowns. He’s not sticking around for any more disapproval, though, so he strides out the door, trusting that Gaby will follow him.
"C'mon, we're going out," Napoleon tells Gaby a few evenings later, making her glance at him from where she's sprawled out on the living room sofa. "Celebrate how well things are going. Illya is thrilled."
"He’s thrilled? Most of the time he still seems annoyed at me."
Napoleon shakes his head. "No, trust me, he likes you. If he didn't he'd be lording it over me. Him being quiet means I was right."
"You two have a very strange relationship," Gaby comments drily, yet with an ember of curiosity burning beneath it.
"So I've been told," Napoleon deflects. "How much modern dance have you seen?"
Gaby squints at him. "None? I did ballet."
With a grin, Napoleon begins moving for the front door. "Oh man, you're in for a treat. C'mon, there's a new performance on at Judson. It's wild stuff; improvised. I don't really get it, to be honest, but all the dancers I know are either in love with it or outraged."
Turns out Gaby is a bit of both. Intrigued, more than anything, by this strange form of dance. Napoleon still doesn't quite understand it, but he learns a lot as Gaby whispers in his ear, telling him about things he only half understands, but doing it with such enthusiasm that he can't bring himself to stop her.
After the performance, Napoleon loses Gaby in the crowd while she disappears to talk to the dancers. He gazes around the old church, converted into a performance space for the night, with its Italiante arches and columns. For a moment he considers joining Gaby, but he's not certain whether his presence would be an asset or not. So he sits back and amuses himself people watching until Gaby is suddenly in front of him again.
"Meet some people?" he asks her.
"Yeah, I was talking to, uh, I think her name was Simone? She invited me to a party they're having after. Do you want to come?" She's bright-eyed with excitement, still buzzing from the high of the performance, already looking like his agreement is a sure thing. She's almost blinding.
Napoleon's eyes slide away from Gaby's, eyeing the crowd again. This set is different enough from the fashion scene he used to occupy that there probably isn't anyone who would know his past, but still.
"Nah, think I'm going to pack it in," he says, jerking his head towards the back of the church. "Head home." At the way Gaby's expression falls, Napoleon gives her a reassuring smile. "You go, though. Have fun."
"Oh. Okay, if you're sure." She turns away then pauses, looking back at him and biting her lip like she wants to say something else. But she just shakes her head and slips off into the crowd.
It's the first evening he's been alone in the apartment since they returned.
As he gets ready for bed, Napoleon reminds himself of how much he always valued living alone. The peace, the ability to come and go as he pleased, the lack of scrutiny. For once there's no one banging on the bathroom door telling him to hurry up because she needs to take a bath, no one singing along terribly to Beatles songs on the radio, no one chatting with him about what they're doing for lunch the next day.
It's quiet.
Napoleon tells himself he doesn't hate it.