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"Seven hours is a long time to spend heading to Marseille," Gaby laments, touching the pad of one finger delicately to her tongue before using it to turn one of the pages in her scavenged magazine. "Since we could always fly, instead."
"Da, but," Illya returns, his words slightly muffled by the pins clenched in his teeth, in the corner of his mouth to allow for speech. "Is scenic route. Plenty to see."
He continues to work pieces of Gaby's hair into braids, pinning each one just so, until an elegant looking up-do begins to take shape. Those large, thick fingers are surprisingly gentle and astonishingly adept at this sort of work. No one bothers to ask why. Probably for the best.
Gaby's lips purse.
"The 'scenic route' would be grand," Napoleon retorts from his place on the other end of the sofa, where Gaby's feet rest across his lap. "If this assignment called for sight-seeing."
She wiggles her toes, and he pauses his handiwork, not wanting the polish he's been applying to smudge.
Honestly, they could all do with a little leisure. Unfortunately, things are a little time-sensitive at present.
Not that anyone observing them now would know it.
"I was trying to look on bright side," Illya says flatly, plucking a pin from between his teeth and slipping it into place, tracing the whirl of shining, healthy hair with the end of his finger.
Gaby smirks.
How times have changed. The surly Russian has discovered optimism; the carefree American is rubbing elbows with the true meaning of urgency. There's hope for them both yet.
"Well," Gaby says brightly, lowering her magazine to peer over at Napoleon. "At least all of the seats on The Rhodanien are first class."
Illya sighs.
Napoleon looks just the right amount of smug.