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Gaby is keenly aware of the date. It has been looming over them for years now, edging closer and closer. A few years ago she didn’t think it would actually come; the CIA would just pull another string, or maybe even UNCLE would make an offer too good or too dangerous to refuse.
But somehow nothing happened and now here they are, on the last day of Solo’s sentence. Tomorrow he would be a free man. And it’s not like Gaby isn’t happy for him, she is, but Solo has made it very clear from the beginning that this is it. He’s been very happy about his permanent loan to UNCLE and getting away from Sanders, but not happy enough to keep up the spy work any longer than he technically has to. UNCLE waits for nobody, so Illya and she are flying out tomorrow on their first mission as a duo. Waverly has been looking for a new third agent to pair them with. So far they’ve turned down the candidates, but in the long run it’s going to happen. They will have to replace Solo. Gaby still can’t imagine it and she refuses to think about it until she absolutely has to.
Waverly had even organized a little see-off gathering at the office for him. It’s been pleasant and Gaby might have taken a few glasses more champagne than advisable, because even if she was happy for him, she can’t pretend to be happy herself without a little help. She is selfish like that.
It’s strange that apart from the see-off the evening is just like any else. It’s very anticlimactic, almost disappointingly so. Napoleon cooks dinner for them, humming alongside to one of Gaby’s records, while Illya sits on the couch with his chess set spread out on the coffee table playing against himself again.
Dinner is great and they go to bed early, as usual for a night before a mission. They don’t have a fixed sleeping arrangement, but Solo ends up in the middle. Gaby slots herself to his side. Over Solo’s chest she can see Illya lying closer than usual as well, even when he tries to be stealthy about it. Gaby thinks about letting her hand wander on the chest under her head, maybe letting it wander a little lower even, climbing on top of Solo while Illya distracts his clever mouth with his own, but it would destroy the normalcy of the evening. It would make it feel too much like a goodbye and Gaby doesn’t want that.
Instead she opens her mouth.
“Any plans for your first day in freedom?” she says, not asking the question she’s been avoiding for as long as the day has been coming closer. Are you going to stay?
Solo hums. She can feel the vibration against her cheek.
“Not really,” he says, turning his head a little towards her and winks. “Maybe I’ll just decide spontaneously.”
It’s an evasion and somehow she doesn’t feel like pressing further. There are only two ways this could go: either he actually plans to leave and they will fight the whole night about the inevitable, or he doesn’t, but counters with the question why they would think he’s leaving without a warning after all this time. There’s no winning this without it ending in disaster.
Of course she could just ask for herself, demand he tell her he’s staying, but that would mean showing her hand, saying out loud how much this all means to her, and she can’t have that for obvious reasons. It’s probably just her own problem and she refuses to entertain the lingering fear of someone else disappearing from her life and leaving her behind. And it’s besides the point anyway. Asking won’t make Solo change his mind. Nothing probably will at this point. It’s definitely not worth losing sleep over unlaid eggs, so to speak.
So she takes it at face value, and closes her eyes.
*
It really should sting less, when she wakes up on the next day and Solo is gone.
He didn’t even pack anything. He just vanished, the only things missing is his wallet, his jacket and his shoes, leaving them with everything and nothing meaningful but a single note on the table.
It reads Good luck on the mission.
Nothing else. No apology, no regrets, not even a signature.
This is not a goodbye letter, she decides on the plane. She refuses to accept this lousy waste of paper. And if it was meant to be one, she’s going to hunt Solo down and shove it down his throat.
So it’s fine. She’s going to see him again either way. No need to overthink it, when she has a drug ring to burst.
Gaby still glares at it on and off during the mission, but only strictly for mission purposes. Their cover is “husband and wife who not-so-secretly want each other dead” and looking at the note really helps with her acting. They are effective nonetheless, even though there is an American-sized hole in their dynamic and it’s bleeding on every edge.
They deliver their target on the last day to the local law enforcement, just as planned.
As soon as they are back at their hotel room, Gaby pushes Illya against the door and yanks his head down. It’s less of a kiss and more of an attack, but she doesn’t know how to be playful anymore. There’s just anger and a subtle fear that Gaby doesn’t want to look at too closely.
Illya goes through the motions just like she does, his arms stiff as they close around her, and it feels wrong. She breaks off the kiss and curses. Illya looks at her, half curious, half resigned. She wished he was just as angry as her, so that they could clash and fight it out and patch each other up and back together, tighter than before, so that Illya would never even get the chance to slip away.
But no, this has to be the one time Illya isn’t angry, just nervous and vaguely sad.
Gaby huffs out a laugh that’s entirely to breathy and lets her forehead sink against Illya’s chest.
“How can he still interrupt us, when he’s not even there?” she says, glancing up at Illya.
Illya’s arms relax around her as he hums in agreement. “Not spy anymore, but still terrible.”
Gaby can’t help but snicker into Illya’s chest and press a little closer.
*
Gaby watches Waverly close the file on his desk with a satisfied hum and fold his hands over it, ending the meeting a lot earlier than she’s used to. Debriefing is pretty straightforward without Solo here to converse with Waverly about the local cuisine or art or whatever unlikely special interest they just happen to share. It’s efficient, but strangely unsatisfying.
“Well, thank you for your brilliant work once again,” Waverly says with his usual smile. “While I still regret having to let Mr. Solo go, I am convinced you will not disappoint until we will find you a new third.” Waverly pauses for a moment. “Do you mind me asking, how you’re dealing with the separation on a personal level?”
The question makes her halt in her tracks. Waverly has never been one to beat around the bush with them. It’s only ever clear directions or no comment, no guessing games. Only now Gaby isn’t too sure, if he’s asking after their team dynamic or their break-up. They haven’t broken up, though, or have they?
For the first time since she woke up without Solo in her reach, she considers that Solo truly might have left them.
“We’re fine,” says Illya, a touch too snappy. For a spy, Illya is sometimes so bad at lying when it comes to himself, it’s almost funny. She might have laughed, but then, to her horror, Waverly’s smile softens in sympathy.
“I’m very sorry that I left you no time to –“ Waverly makes a vague gesture, “- adjust to the new situation, but sadly the mission couldn’t wait. I personally arranged for you to take the rest of the week, of course barring an international emergency. I hope you understand.”
Gaby nods mechanically, still too caught up by his earlier words.
She didn’t want to believe it and she still doesn’t. Good luck on the mission is not a goodbye and Solo wouldn’t do that to them. Except maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t say anything, didn’t take anything, to leave them clueless how to find him but plenty to remember him by. Maybe he’s truly gone.
Illya says something, probably telling Waverly goodbye, because a moment later he’s leading Gaby to their car. Did Waverly know Solo was going to leave or did he only find out after the fact? Could he have warned them? It’s better that she’s stayed quiet, because she doesn’t know how much ugliness would have slipped out with the questions.
She gets behind the wheel as usual and she appreciates the distraction of London traffic and the radio.
It only lasts only until they reach their apartment. They will have to get rid of Solo’s stuff and there’s a lot of it. She’s not going to live with a ghost. What a bastard, really. She’s going to start with burning all of his boring suits. There will be so much free space in their closet. Gaby is looking forward to pocketing the profits of selling Solo’s collection of shirtcuffs.
She braces herself as Illya opens the door. What hits her instead is the scent of sizzling onions and white wine. It’s such a distinctive smell that it makes her freeze on the spot. Illya is doing the same.
It smells like someone is making risotto.
Illya unfreezes first and inches into the apartment, like he’s on a stealth mission. There’s a record playing and a familiar voice is humming along, barely audible over the sizzling of the pan.
Gaby follows Illya deeper into the apartment and stops in the doorway to the kitchen.
Solo is standing at the stove, in slacks and a white dress shirt with his dumb apron over the top. His hair is an unstyled mop of curls on his head and he’s missing both socks and shoes. He turns his head at them and smiles.
“Welcome back,” he says, wiping his hands on the apron and turns off the heat, before he turns towards them. “I thought the debrief would last a little longer. Dinner’ll be ready in thirty.” He looks the same, but somehow different all the same. She doesn’t remember his smile being so carefree, or maybe it’s the lack of tension in his jaw, or the absence of their perpetual sleep deprivation that only happens once every six month.
“So? How was the mission?” he says and steps up to Gaby, pressing a kiss on her cheek like he usually does, then she watches him get on his toes to repeat the action with Illya.
Solo looks happy. And he’s standing in their kitchen, making risotto, like nothing has happened.
Gaby’s stomach is clenching again, but for an entirely different reason. She’s so stupid. At least Illya comes out of the stupor a little faster than her.
“Where were you, Cowboy?” Illya ask, his voice deceptively rough.
Napoleon glances at him curiously at his tone, but goes back to the stove. “This week? Oh just around the neighborhood. Did you know we have this little French café just two streets over? I need to take you tomorrow. You have the day off, right?”
Gaby blinks a couple of times. Illya seems to be at loss as well, so she takes over.
“He means, where were you when we left?” she says, hearing the wavering in her voice all too clearly, which means Solo hears it as well. Sadly, retiring from spy work doesn’t make you automatically oblivious.
Solo’s hand hovers over the dial for the stove burner again, considering turning it off again and confronting them in a more serious manner.
Gaby feels relief when he decides not to. “At the fish market, actually,” he says. And it makes so much sense Gaby feels like she’s going blind for a moment. He’s been talking about it on and off for years now, lamenting the early hours that he doesn’t have, if he wants to catch up on sleep on the precious few days they had.
“I think I missed you by only a few minutes. Traffic was awful on the way back,” he says, now sounding so casual that Gaby knows he would rather avoid the topic as well. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see you off.”
It doesn’t even cross his mind that they thought he’d left them. Gaby would feel bad about assuming he did now, if she didn’t need all her willpower not to throw herself around Solo’s neck and not let go until she absolutely has to.
“It’s fine,” she says, almost dizzy with relief. “You did leave a note for us.”
Illya doesn’t seem to have that kind of willpower left, so he closes the distance between him and Solo and captures Solo’s lips with perfect aim. It’s a short one, but only because Solo pulls back, ever so serious with his cooking safety, but he doesn’t push Illya out of his space.
“Well, someone is happy to be home,” Solo says with a smirk, then quirks his brow. “Did something happen while you were away?” He glances between Gaby and Illya back and forth. “You two are acting a little off.”
Gaby forces out a chuckle and tiptoes around them, so she can take Solo’s other side. “Maybe we just missed you a little,” she says, awfully close to confessing what’s actually going on, but it’s the only way she can still fool Solo from time to time.
She distracts him with a kiss, before he can question her.
If they stick a little closer to him the following days, Solo doesn’t complain.