Work Text:
NEW YORK, 1889.
Illya hates america.
He hates the fog of dour capitalism. The smoke. The rattling buildings that lean like crooked drunkards. The taste of ash on his tongue.
He hates how the inhabitants grate on his nerves. How you cannot see the stars for all the lights and smoke. How you walk, and walk, and walk and nothing seems to change.
It is a place of gloom, nothing like the pristine white snow of his homeland. The icy rivers and frosted cobble streets. Fires burning in hearths and the scent of wilderness on the air.
The people are uncouth. Sour. Rude. They make Illya bristle. He tries not to speak too much. His accent draws sneers and words spat like sour grapes onto the cracked pavement.
Why he had ever agreed to come here is beyond him.
He and Gaby had been happy in London, in their little flat above the old picture house. Warm and safe, full of laughter and a steady if rather demanding job.
But Director Waverly seems to have it in his mind to join forces with the Americans on this next mission. Their target has fled to Brooklyn and neither of them know the rules here. Nor the lay of the land. Trying to navigate this strange world is like trying to make it through a maze in the dark- blindfolded and walking backwards.
So they need one of the natives. A fact that has angered Illya to no end.
Except it seems that what Waverly wants is more of a one-off guide than working closely with the American government.
Which makes their job even harder, because now they need to find a very specific someone who will not only help them track down a fellow capitalist, but who will agree to work with a Russian and a German-born Englishwoman.
Success seems impossible.
Illya and Gaby have almost given up and are debating sending a telegram back to Waverly to tell of their failures. It seems they will not find their target. Not this time. Not without help.
That all changes with a sudden rainfall.
Gaby would call it fate. Illya would say that was nonsense.
He meets Napoleon Solo on the street outside a slowly swinging sign embellished with a woman clad in flames and the name, The Hellfire Club.
Illya knows it for what it is- a den of iniquity. It is rather obvious. And trying a little too hard, in his personal opinion. But he is waiting for Gaby, and she’s late, as usual, so he loiters on the street outside and pretends that he cannot hear the sounds bleeding from the smoked glass windows. Maybe the owners do not know they are open.
Or they just don’t care.
“No shame, huh?”
Illya jerks a sharp glance over his shoulder, spine stiffening. He does not like strangers. Even on his best days. And he certainly has no time for them now. “Da,” he says flatly. “Virtue is dead in this place.”
The man smiles a small, crooked smile. He’s handsome, even with the red silk blindfold bound over his eyes. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, curls a dark, velvet black. And when his smile broadens, a glint of pearly teeth just the slightest bit too sharp has Illya worried that he might have bitten off more than he can chew.
“Virtue died along with truth, justice and dignity. You’re clearly not from here,” says the man in a smooth voice, laced with the faintest hint of an American accent. “Europe?”
“Yes,” says Illya stiffly. “What is it to you?”
The man laughs. He is well dressed for a blind man. Clad in a smokey navy-blue suit with a waistcoat the color of congealed blood.
Gaby would probably have turned away and flounced off. No matter how vehemently she might protest that fact. Or perhaps she would have stood her ground and begun to sass the man for daring to sneak up on her like that. That he scared her- and how dare he do that to a lady? But Illya finds that he’s not scared. Merely... curious.
The man tracks Illya’s movements in eerie accuracy. And that’s when Illya realises.
He’s not blind.
Why pretend then? Perhaps his eyes are sensitive.
“You sounded lonely. Thought I might keep you company.” The American leans against the wall beside Illya. He’s shorter than the russian, about a head or a half, or thereabouts.
Illya grunts. “I do not need company.”
“Oh, just ‘till your ladyfriend gets here, then I’ll be gone. Like dust in the wind.”
It sounds like a promise. But under the lighthearted tone lurks something that Illya recognises full well. He’s felt it enough before he met Gaby. Before the job with Waverly. He’s even felt the shadow of it here, in the land of the free. It’s an old friend.
Loneliness.
Something scratches at his throat, like a trellis of thorns. A lump forces him to swallow. Is this pity? No. He doesn’t even know this man. Still... what harm could it do to tolerate him for a while? It is after all only until Gaby arrives.
And then the man says, “Napoleon Solo.” Holding out his hand to shake.
Illya obliges, “Illya Kuryakin,” he says, tone polite but not interested. Until Solo adds,
“I hear you’re looking for someone to hunt a man down?”
Illya freezes. They have been trying so hard to keep this news out of the circulation of gossip. They have been so careful. Almost painstakingly so. Perhaps his dismay shows, or the man feel the tension in his hand because he says, “Oh, don’t worry. No one else heard. I just tend to know things that others don’t.”
What is that supposed to mean?
Illya narrows his eyes, suspicion rolling off him like the charge before a thunderstorm. He fists his hands, giving Solo a cool look through ice-blue eyes. “How?” he enunciates slowly.
Solo’s lips quirk into a little grin and he tilts his head, almost as though he is encouraging Illya to do something. Surely not...
Suddenly hesitant, Illya hooks a finger under the red of the blindfold. He waits for the small nod, then lifts it away gingerly, half scared of what he might find. The silk cool and rippling around his fingers.
Solo smiles lazily, eyes gleaming. They shimmer claret, the colors sifting through the entire possible spectrum of red, swirling like smoke, like a nebula. His skin is inhumanly pale, almost carved from marble.
He’s beautiful.
“What...” Illya swallows, taking a step closer. His heart does a strange little half-leap up into his throat. “What are you?”
Solo laughs. “Surely you’ve seen a demon before?”
“A... demon?”
“Well... half-demon. My mother was human.” Solo shrugs, looking vaguely sheepish for a moment. “So I don’t have the wings or the horns.”
“Are you magic?”
“To an extent. I can curse people, blight crops, grant your darkest wishes, that sort of thing.” Solo drums a hand against his thigh and Illya notices for the first time that his nails are painted the red of old blood. So dark they are almost black. “But I, uh... can’t open portals to Hell or bind souls to Satan or anything.”
This is when Gaby finally arrives, out of breath with her skirts bunched in one small hand. Her dress is a deep hunter green, free of frills and puffs, her boots sturdy and worn. She doesn’t wear a hat and her flyaway hair is coming loose from her hasty bun. It makes him want to smile in fond exasperation at this small whirlwind of a woman.
“I’m sorry I’m late, schatzi. These people are absolutely ridiculous and the streets are a maze! And as if that was not enough-“ she breaks off, narrowing her dark hazel eyes at Solo. Takes in his, and the pallor of his skin.
“On d'yavol?” she asks Illya in his mother tongue.
“Nyet. Demon.”
“Oh.” She sizes Solo up with shrewd contemplation. “Found us by coincidence, have you?”
He looks embarrassed. “Nah. I heard you were recruiting... I need a way out of the States.”
Gaby exchanges a glance with Illya. Waverly would hardly turn down the addition of someone like Solo. It would broaden their abilities... mean they could reach further on missions. Raise their number. They will need to speak with him, but bringing Solo with them to London isn’t out of the question.
And they do need him now.
“We will make deal,” says Illya slowly, thinking it over one last time.
“You know what they say about deals with demons,” says Solo with a half-smile, but he’s nervous. Waiting for the verdict, knuckles whiter than before. Gaby is studying him, curiously. Again the thought strikes Illya of how beautiful the man is.
“If you help us find this man, we will take you to London.”
“You can meet our boss,” adds Gaby. “We’ll see what he says. He’ll probably take you on without complaining. He’s not one to turn down talent.”
Solo’s shoulders relax, his strange eyes simmering with relief. Illya gives him a moment, waiting to see what he will do.
He is not disappointed. Solo nods to himself once, then grins like a razor.
“Who exactly is it you’re looking for?”