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The crisp morning air was doing an excellent job of chilling any part of Illya that wasn't already padded and sheltered by his clothing. Somehow, despite his thick turtleneck and jacket, the unusually cool October of 1956 in Paris was making his insides shiver, although it was nowhere near the cold he was used to in Russia. He decided it must have to do with the general dampness, the city being far more humid over all than his home.
Rubbing his already-cold hands together, the KGB spy attempted to maintain his focus on the conversation happening across the street just outside a small bookshop. The French chatter in his earpiece was mundane so far, but he knew it any moment it could turn serious and political, something in which he had a vested interest.
A breeze picked up and swiped at his earlobes, the only bit of his ears not covered by his cap. Illya growled in frustration; this was not an ideal location for an extended stake-out, and he would need to find a more long-term location near by. Besides, he didn't think it would be long before the two men realized he'd been sitting across from them for suspiciously long.
He surveyed the rest of the street, trying to determine which of the stores or shops would present the best location; although he'd already cased the area, none of these had initially seemed ideal. Frustrated by the cold breeze, he gathered his few items with a huff and slipped into the cafe only a few steps away. He caught the door for a mother and daughter who were on their way out, arms filled with baked goods and steaming beverages. As usual, the two hurried to put distance between them and the imposing man, casting wary glances and not offering any thanks for his gesture. Illya told himself, as usual, that it didn't bother him.
Warmth and delicious aromas engulfed Illya as the door closed behind him with the tinkle of small bell. The few other patrons ignored him pointedly, or gave him similar sidelong glances of distrust. The difficulty of a six-and-a-half foot Russian man blending into a crowd in Paris was impressive, and he'd yet to find a way to overcome it. Seating himself at a table beside the window, facing his targets, Illya flattened the newspaper he carried onto the table and began to concentrate on the chatter once again, only pausing to adjust the radio signal for better clarity. They were still going on about nothing important; fashion trends of late, which he noted mentally were actually out-of-date.
"Monsieur?"
Why was it that everyone thought French fashion was best, when Russia had long been wearing the trends far before they arrived in Paris? Things moved slowly to the West, he figured, squinting his eyes to see what one of his targets was holding. Just a cigarette.
A tap on his shoulder, and Illya had to stop himself at the last minute from disabling a waitress.
"Monsieur, est-ce que je peux vous servir quelque chose?" She questioned, her note pad poised to take his order.
Illya's face flushed, embarrassed that he, a master of observation, had missed the young woman's approach. Interestingly, her dark eyes appeared to lack the suspicion he was so used to finding in strangers.
She tapped her pen on the notepad, waiting. Illya struggled to remember his French, though he'd just been mentally translating it."Un café s'il vous plaît. Noir, un sucre," he replied in correct French, though poorly.
She pocketed the pad, not bothering to write anything, and gave a slight nod before moving away.
Illya exhaled, something he'd not been doing apparently, and caught back on to the conversation in his ear. Someone had just mentioned Egypt, and now he really needed to listen.
Some time later, Illya sipped at his coffee and was unpleasantly surprised to find that it was cold. More than that, the spoonful of sugar must have settled at the bottom, for lacking of stirring, and the bitter taste felt as though it coated his teeth. He grimaced.
"-chaud."
Illya caught only the last word, as the waitress deftly replaced his cold cup with a hot one. "Um, excuse?"
The waitress scrunched her petite nose as him, thinking, then replied in decent English, "I say, it taste better when still hot."
"Oh, yes, this is true," Illya sipped the fresh roast, offering what he hoped looked like an appreciative smile. "Much better."
"Maybe you would like also something to eat?"
By the watch on his wrist, Illya had been sitting in that spot for approximately three hours. His stomach felt suddenly cavernous, and a dull ache appeared that he hadn't noticed earlier.
A grin widened the waitress' lips. "I'll get you something."
Slipping into the kitchen, Sylvie filled a plate with some pastries and various luncheon items. She wished that she had asked what he might like, but figured that she would simply make sure there was a lot of it. A man that tall must get very hungry, she thought with a little chuckle.
Corinne, vigorously stirring a steaming pot on the stove, narrowed her wizened eyes at Sylvie. "What has you so amused today, girl?" She questioned in a musical Southern-French accent, trying to crane her neck around and see out into the cafe. Luckily, the tall man was out of her line of vision.
Sylvie shook her head. "Nothing special," she said, and ducked out of the kitchen. She stopped short however, finding the tall blond's table empty, his cup still steaming and a few euros set beside.
--
Illya shoved his cold hands deeper into his pockets as he neared the cafe the next day. He was still bitter about losing track of his targets the day before; it almost never happened, but he somehow lost them in the Parisian bustle, and therefore did not find out where their clandestine operation was meeting. The string of Russian expletives he'd uttered had been long and frightful when he finally gave up.
And so it was that he stalked into that same cafe once again, hoping that the two targets would make another appearance across the street. Annoyingly, that spot was the only lead he had for the time, a fact which contributed to his sullen mood. He planted himself in the same chair and pulled out a copy of the recently published novel Nedjma, something to keep him occupied while he waited as well as suggested reading from his higher-ups. It did not make up for the fact that he was sitting in France while the rest of his KGB peers were off combating the Hungarian Revolution.
When a hand slapped down on the table, Illya kept his eyes on the book. At least his observational skills had seen the waitress coming, this time.
"So," she started, "do I bother to bring un cafe again, monsieur, or does it just get ignored a third time? Hmm?" Her tone was reprimanding, and Illya found that it only added to his bad mood.
"Do all your customers get slap on the wrist when they do not behave as you wish?" He snapped, giving her a cold stare.
Sylvie folded her arms carefully, leaning forward aggressively, and said, "Only the ones who are behaving like children."
"Sylvie."
The young waitress closed her eyes and turned slowly. Corinne had appeared briefly from the kitchen and looked less than pleased. "Pourriez-vous peut-être servir les clients sans les offenser ? Servez lui un café et des croissants. Maintenant."
Sylvie sighed, swishing away in her pale green waitress' uniform to do as she had been told. Corinne offered Illya a tight smile, the small, older woman's face mainly being defined by strained lines, and made her way back to the kitchen.
Moments later Sylvie slid his coffee and breakfast onto the table with no gentleness, spilling some of the hot liquid into the saucer. Illya groaned internally, wondering why, why did he always have to run into the infuriating women in life? And for the remainder of the day, and every subsequent day he went there, in fact, Illya found it difficult to get simple orders of food out of Sylvie as he continued his stakeout. Perhaps, he considered at one point, that might change if he were to be a little warmer toward her, but he'd be damned if he left this woman win their little war. It was not the Russian way.
--
"-seized them. With the control we now have, they won't be getting anything into, or out of, those ports for some time. It's a victory for us."
"I agree, but if we don't get a few more men down there to stabilize within the next few hours? It may not last as we hope."
Finally, waiting around in that irritating cafe produced some results. Illya took careful notes on his newspaper, recording the targets' conversation in detail to send immediately back to his superiors. It wasn't the most important thing he could be doing, but it's what his orders were.
Beside him, Sylvie slid into another chair, setting down two cups of coffee. The one with cream she raised and sipped, peering at the unfamiliar Russian characters he kept jotting down.
"Tell me, why does a man sit in the same cafe every day, trying to play a French crossword puzzle in Russian?" She tapped on thin finger on his paper, and Illya noticed where he'd been keeping his record.
He grumbled, trying to concentrate. "Is not important for you to know, little ofitsiantka," he muttered, unthinkingly using the Russian for waitress as he missed a few French words in his ear.
The paper disappeared suddenly, and Sylvie held it close to her face, trying to decipher his letters. "I do not believe this is real words. It looks like chickens' scratch to me-"
"Stop this. You are making me- дерьмо. Never mind." The chatter in his ear had shifted to lesser things. He'd missed anything else that might have been important.
Sylvie shrugged and dropped the paper, standing up to stretch out her back and survey the rest of the cafe. It was empty and quiet, after 4pm not usually a busy time for them. Illya started packing up his small number of items, folding the paper and tucking it away into his satchel. Once again, Sylvie sat back down, this time across from him. She lounged in the seat, slouching onto the table and resting one hand against her temple.
"So gospodin, what's your name? You know I'm Sylvie, Corinne shouts it enough when I balance too many saucers at once," she grinned, giving him a wink.
Illya narrowed his eyes, not trusting her sudden friendliness and apparent knowledge of at least one Russian word. "What is this? Now you are friendly girl?"
She rolled her eyes. "Your name, gospodin."
He hesitated, then settled back into his chair. He didn't have anywhere to go anyway, and the information was time sensitive but...not too much. "Is Illya. But do not think that we are friends now."
"You are too tense, Monsieur Illya, I see how you are always staring out the window, glaring down the street and frightening our customers. Everyone thinks you are big, scary giant man, glowering in the corner at his coffee."
"I see. Everyone thinks this?"
"Everyone, but I don't. I think you are just no good at having fun."
Illya laughed, a short bark with little humor in it. "I do not have time for fun," he retorted, "I have many important things to do."
Sylvie stirred her cooling coffee with her little finger, not looking up as she said, "And this is why you sit all day long in the cafe? Ah Monsieur Illya, now it makes sense."
He ruffled, a flat glare taking over his face. "This is...this is not just sitting!"
"If you say." Sylvie shrugged once more, took a last sip of coffee, and then stood and disappeared into the kitchen. She did not return until Illya had left.
--
For the next couple weeks, the young waitress repeated this routine on every day that Illya would stake-out there. She would wait until everyone else had cleared out for the afternoon, then sit and pester Illya with questions and stories about her customers that day. At first he grumbled and complained, pointing out that he had witnessed the majority of these stories in person, as he was there increasingly often. She laughed and continued anyway. Within a short time, Illya grew accustomed to this, listening with half an ear as she talked, secretly enjoying not spending each day entirely alone. She never pointed it out, but each time she caught him smiling a little she felt a little bit of pride in herself. She made sure, though, not to disrupt him when he seemed to be truly concentrating on...whatever he was really doing there.
Illya started staying later into the evening, partly because the men had begun to talk outside more frequently, partly because...well...he found he wanted to. The simple, single-room apartment he was occupying offered only his chessboard or recollections of dark days in his past.
On a particularly cold November evening, Illya listened intently to the conversation of the men across the street. There were more than before, about six of them speaking in hushed tones that it was harder than usual for him to pick up. He furrowed his brow in concentration, ignoring the background sounds of the cafe as it went on as usual behind him. Something spooked the men on the street, however, and they broke up in a hurry and shuffled away. Illya groaned, leaning his head far over the back of the chair and rubbing his eyes. He hadn't gained much that day, and soon moved forward to rest his elbows on the table, still covering his eyes.
Quietly at first, a melody started playing in his empty ear, then grew steadily louder. Music now filled the cafe, a light-hearted tune that he knew was popular currently. He peeked out of one eye to find Sylvie swaying about the floor, a mop in one hand standing in as her partner.
Here and there she flitted, light on her feet and in time with the music that perfectly fit her optimistic, care-free personality. Her dark hair had mostly come loose from the tie that typically held it up, a long day of serving customers leaving her looking flushed but beautiful.
Beautiful? Illya was unsettled to hear the thought in his own head. But...it wasn't untrue.
"Come, Monsieur Illya, this mop is not a good partner," she twirled the mop out and away, making the twisted fronds flop goofily.
Illya snorted. "I do not dance."
She pulled the mop back in and held it close, swaying. "Non, that's no excuse." Another twirl and she was across the cafe floor, her little patent-leather shoes gliding easily across the linoleum. Her dancing seemed to blend seamlessly with the music, and Illya imagined that she must have taken lessons, or she couldn't be that graceful, could she? In a few more steps she crossed back, dipping the mop, then facing away from Illya and sliding it out the length of her arm. Sylvie loved letting the music decide where she went, how she moved and what she felt. It seemed so natural to simply let go and sway.
A large, cool hand caught hers, the mop clattering to the floor. She gasped both from the temperature change against her skin, and the sudden pull that twirled her into the extremely tall man's arms.
Sylvie stopped. For a moment neither person moved, but simply held each other's gaze, soft brown eyes connecting with icy blue. Sylvie felt like she maybe hadn't actually seen him till this moment, her head tilted almost completely back to hold his stare; it was intense almost to the point of frightening, yet still somehow gentle.
"I believe," Illya murmured, "you are supposed to be moving when you dance..."
Sylvie nodded just a little, the song changing at that moment to a much slower tune, perfect for dancing slow. How appropriate, she thought. For the next few minutes the pair, one tall, one not so, swayed here and there to the rhythm. Illya's dancing was strong, if not graceful, keeping the time well enough and never letting her move farther than to perform a slow turn; Sylvie tried to think when, if ever, any of her old boyfriends had ever held her with that kind of quiet intensity.
As the song came to an end, and the radio turned to a news update, the pair stopped again in near the same spot they had stood before. Though the dance had been slow, Illya found that his pulse was nearly racing, and he could see the same speed in the blood that pulsed lightly, visibly in the soft spot of her throat.
He glanced away, overwhelmed.
"See," Sylvie breathed, "no excuse..." Her comparatively tiny hand had traveled from his upper arm to his neck, where her fingers toyed with the soft ends of his hair. He felt lost.
Illya tried to calm down, focusing on anything else there was. The announcements stated matter-of-fact-ly by the French newsman trickled into his ear. "-with the crisis still ongoing over the Suez Canal. Talks are now commencing to remove all troops, hopefully relieving tension in high conflict areas-"
He pushed Sylvie back gently, knowing that though his current mission was lower on the KGB list of important things, it did not include dancing in an empty cafe with a beautiful French girl.
"Illya.."
"Good night, ma petite ofitsiantka," he said quickly, feeling compromised and hence mixing both their native tongues into their common one. The cold-seeming agent quickly grabbed his satchel and left the cafe, the little bell signaling the end of a confusing evening.
--
Illya was nearly back to his apartment when he spotted the group of men huddled in an alley near a newspaper stand. Recognizing them as a few of the men from earlier, he slowed his walk and maneuvered into a position where he could just see around the corner and barely hear what they were saying.
Suddenly, one of them looked up sharply and made eye contact with Illya, then proceeded to shout and point directly at him.
"Hey! Suivez-le!" The cry to follow him directed a chase, the group of Frenchmen following after Illya as he dashed through the streets of Paris. He outran them within only a few minutes, but his escape did not give him much comfort. They had seen him, more importantly seen his face, and would easily recognize someone of his height and build in this city.
So much for a covert, intelligence-gathering mission. He was found out.
Back in his bare apartment Illya made the report to his superiors. They ordered him home immediately, just as he expected; what he did not expect was the shocking depression he felt at the thought of the ridiculous, charismatic French waitress he would no longer see every day. Resting on his knee, his first finger began tapping unconsciously under the stress of his thoughts: why was it that everyone he cared for he either had to leave, or left him? Why did he keep letting himself get into these situations?
His watch ticked in time with the tapping on his knee; Illya curled his hand into a fist and took a deep breath. Remain calm. Deal with the reality.
Perhaps...yes, he would stop by the cafe in the morning on his way out. He couldn't very well leave without breakfast. He'd go, detach from the place, and leave clean.
--
If that November morning in Paris, 1956 was cold and windy, Illya Kuryakin didn't notice it. While the few other people out passed him on the street pulling their layers tighter and complaining against the chill, Illya stepped lightly toward the cafe, a jumble of eager, sad, nervous and excited emotions swirling around inside him. He could count on one hand that number of times he'd taken the initiative to tell someone how he felt about them, and two of those times had been to his parents. But he also had to say goodbye.
Pausing to scan the surrounding area outside the cafe, Illya was surprised at how usual it all looked considering how different he felt.
Stepping up to the door, Illya was surprised again to find it locked, a "closed" sign hanging inside and swinging slightly, and the little bell signaling due to his effort to enter.
He panicked. What now? He didn't know where Sylvie lived, he barely knew anything about her, he only knew that he felt-
A confused woman appeared on the other side of the glass. Sylvie, still tying on her apron, hair not yet up, gave him a look and tapped her wrist. Illya glanced down at his father's watch, realizing how early it was. They weren't technically open for another hour.
The lock clicked and Sylvie pushed the door open an inch. "Monsieur Illya, isn't it a little early?"
Feeling a little embarrassed, he said, "Apologies, I didn't realize-"
"Merde, come inside, it's too cold."
The door clicked shut, closing the sounds of street and wind outside and leaving the room quiet. Sylvie suddenly felt all of the tension from the night before return in a rush. She started babbling, trying to fill the silence, and alternating between twisting her fingers in her loose hair and her apron strings.
"I'm sorry, I haven't even started coffee yet. Corinne won't be down for an hour you see, I usually some get things in order and grind the coffee beans, but the oven isn't on and the r-"
"Ah, Sylvie, this is not really why I came..." Illya said softly, hands hanging at his sides and slightly agitated with nerves. She stopped, looking up at him with her large, round, dark eyes that seemed endless.
The tall Russian spy took a small step forward, lessening the distance between them. His pulse was racing again, and he didn't know what else to do at that point, so he delicately pushed back a few of the stray strands at her chin. Sylvie shivered. "These past weeks...well I came here for a reason and you see, it is now finished so...I do not so much want to leave...but I do not have a choice in this matter..." He found it was difficult to explain without being more specific, which he couldn't do.
Confusion filled her eyes, and she looked away. "Oh, so, you won't be visiting anymore, I understand."
Illya delicately took her chin in his hand and tipped her face back toward his. Her mouth was a thin line, making a show of indifference. "I wish I did not need to leave," he said, trying to make himself clear.
"Why?"
"Because recently I have found, or well at first I did not think I would find you anything but irritating-"
"Oh irritating? I'm irritating?" Sylvie tried to sound offended but Illya was so serious, and he'd gotten closer again, resting large hands on her waist...
"No, at first perhaps but now..."
"Oui?"
Only a hair's breadth separated the pair, the tension culminating in the anticipation of the kiss only a moment away-
Shots rang out behind Illya, and he suddenly felt the hot stings of bullets in his shoulder and side, followed by Sylvie's piercing scream.
He whipped around, pulling Sylvie down with him and knocking over a table for cover. A number of holes pierced the cafe's front window. Illya's frantic eyes tried to focus on the men outside, ducking behind cars and continuing to aim inside. In a flash he removed his pistol from his jacket and shot, sending one of the Frenchmen into curses as he dropped his gun and clutched a bleeding hand. Ducked down and with Sylvie behind him, Illya continued taking shots, but even still struggled to determine his way out of the situation.
In an instant, shots coming from out of sight hit two of the men. Blood-loss was beginning to kick in, and Illya strained to see what was going on. Were those...other KGB operatives?
It couldn't be, but he recognized them. Nothing made sense, so he turned to Sylvie where she sat behind him.
No, where she lay behind him, awful, deep red blood seeping out from between her tiny fingers where she pressed them against her stomach. Rage blossomed in Illya's head like a bomb. Immediately he pressed a hand to the wound, covering it, and gathered her into his lap, cursing and repeating, "It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay." Another sound increased the noise, and Illya glanced up to find Corinne in the doorway of the kitchen, a scream tearing out of her mouth before she dropped in a faint.
Little fingers touched Illya's chin, and he turned back to Sylvie, who was somehow smiling. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear, and tried to move his head closer.
She kissed his cheek.
--
When Illya thought back on that morning, he knew that what had felt like hours had only laster a few minutes. He recalled the other operatives pulling Sylvie away even though he knew that she needed immediate attention, and that it had taken six of them to fully extract him from the building. He shouted for them to let him go, or at least look after the girl, but somehow knew they didn't care about her fate so long as they removed him. Finally, someone had pushed a needle into his arm and knocked him out.
Days later, in a room with no windows, Oleg sat across from Illya looking extremely displeased, with a KGB guard beside the door to monitor the debrief.
Under the table, Illya's fingers were already tapping.
"You had other operatives there. Why?" He asked, once again speaking in Russian.
"Because you're still young, and after some of your recent reports I felt the need to check on you. And look what I found, one of my best operatives lounging in a cafe, does not even see the men coming up behind him. If we hadn't been there, you might be dead, and a waste to me."
Illya clenched a fist, and asked about Sylvie. Oleg swiftly reached across and slapped him.
"The girl is dead. That is your fault, for being so stupid. You're hardly better than your father at this point. I allowed you to continue going to that place because it was a convenient location, but even I didn't think you'd be a big enough idiot to fall for some French slut."
Illya's attempt to lunge across the table was thwarted, barely, by the guard's aimed gun and Oleg jumping out of the way. The operative held his hands up in surrender, both of them shaking fiercely and coupled with the burning hatred in his eyes.
Oleg spat at his feet, and said, "You'll be given your next assignment in a few days. Try to complete that one with a little more honor, Kuryakin." He left.
--
Seven years later, Illya performs his mission with cold precision. His two targets have been easy to tail thus far, and he carefully follows their car as it pulls out of the garage in East Berlin. Before long they reach a stoplight and he maneuvers beside them, though only the girl is visible.
Illya turns his head to look at her, and forces himself to keep a straight face. His eyes are burning and gooseflesh covers his arms under his jacket and turtleneck.
This little chop shop girl looks so familiar, so similar to a face from his past. One looking up at him after close in a French cafe, with big dark eyes; looking up at him from the floor, eyes darkening.
The German girl's eyes flick backward, subtly, and Illya sees the American with the gun with just enough time to drop back in his seat and avoid being shot. The sounds snap him back to the moment, and he forces himself to accelerate and give chase.
He can't do anything about the past. He must focus on the task at hand, even if he already knows it's going to hurt.