Chapter Text
DAY 4 - 22:05
Target enters apartment shortly after 2200 hours with large purse and grocery bag, Agent Kuryakin quickly writes in his little black notebook. He has been monitoring this woman for the past few nights: this small, secretive car mechanic whom the KGB has taken a keen interest in, thanks to her unfortunate relations. The USSR's best chance at stopping nuclear destruction and simultaneously ensuring its own victory in the arms race, Oleg had told him, lies with finding the girl's scientist father.
So Illya has taken up the decrepit flat across the street from this woman, Miss Gabriela Teller, and watches her evening routine through high-powered binoculars in the hope of gaining any useful information regarding her father's whereabouts. After three days he hasn't found out anything, but prepares for his fourth night with the same determination and precision he brings to every mission.
After three days, what Illya has learned is the woman's little habits. Miss Teller never returns home before the sun has gone down, spending every waking hour at the garage or the market; she turns her many lamps on — too many, as if the shadows frighten her and she must make the rooms blindingly bright to keep them at bay — in the same order when she arrives, and off in the same order when she goes to bed; she leaves her possessions scattered and cluttered around the rooms, but always arranges her shoes perfectly in the corner by the door. He deduces that it's a dancer's habit: Oleg had informed him that the woman was once training as a ballerina.
As always, Miss Teller places her little flats carefully, then crosses the room to her kitchenette and proceeds to empty her bag's contents onto the counter.
Target removes items from grocery bag: fruits, bread, package wrapped in butcher's paper, vodka bottle, Illya jots down. He then sees Miss Teller pull another bottle from the bag.
Vodka bottle. Two vodka bottles.
And another.
Vodka bottle. Two vodka bottles. Three bottles of hard liquor, he corrects, and raises an eyebrow. For such a petite woman, she must have an impressive tolerance for alcohol.
Target pours a glass of vodka, then takes a seat on the sofa and opens a magazine.
He wonders if observation of Miss Teller is truly worth the effort. She seems to be a fiercely private person: does not invite friends over, does not socialize very much. It's doubtful the woman is even in contact with her father. In fact, she doesn't seem to have any family connection left at all. Illya supposes that isn't unusual for many East Berliners.
Though for such a private person, Illya is surprised the woman always leaves the curtains to her large window wide open, making his job much easier.
Miss Teller idly flips through the magazine (something about automotive parts, perhaps a catalogue), which is one of her few pastimes. Since Illya has started his surveillance, he has seen the woman do only three things in the time she spends at home: reading, talking to friends on the phone, and listening to the radio. She never seems particularly interested in any of them, which might explain why drinking is always an accompaniment, no matter the activity.
Illya has been halfheartedly watching her slender fingers turn page after page for nearly half an hour, when suddenly she slams the booklet closed and tosses it away, getting to her feet. He grabs his notebook, alert and studious.
Target searches in closet for several minutes. Emerges with ballet shoes.
He watches curiously as Miss Teller slips into the shoes, ties the ribbons around her ankles. They don't exactly match her black pants and dark green pullover, but she doesn't seem to mind as she places one foot on her bureau, and stretches.
After a minute she ties her hair up in a bun and pushes her coffee table out of the way. She stands in the center of the room, eyes closed, and begins to move.
There is no image of the fragile, porcelain ballerina doll when Miss Teller dances. She's a graceful dancer, but powerful. She moves with purpose, but Illya thinks he can tell that she's a little distracted, contemplative. Dancing must be a way of working through the thoughts that busy her mind, an outlet like chess is for him. Her movements are unabashed and unrestrained, as she dances only for herself. And, though she doesn't realize it, tonight she dances for Illya as well.
He follows her movements, rapt with interest. Illya has had a weakness for ballet since his mother and father took him to the Bolshoi Theatre for their fifteenth anniversary. It's one of his happiest memories of his parents, and one of the last.
Miss Teller isn't as skilled as the professionals he remembers of course, but he imagines she could have been if she continued training. He wonders what drew her away from dancing, something she clearly enjoys, even if it's only for the sake of relaxation now. He gradually accepts the fact that he will probably never know.
DAY 6 - 21:10
Miss Teller has been home for about an hour when her telephone rings.
Until that point, Illya has barely made two notes about her: Miss Teller enters apartment at 2000 hours precisely wearing a weekend outfit of dark red dress and purple flats and Miss Teller brushes her chestnut brown hair 32 times before putting it in loose ponytail. It might be more detail than necessary, but there isn't much else to write, and Illya is nothing if not thorough.
(Of course, what he refuses to admit is that the exhaustive detail he uses to describe her is more for himself than the mission objective; so he can rebuild the unique image of her when the job is done, and all he has left is his notes.)
She's the most fascinating subject he has ever been assigned to monitor, even though she does almost nothing of consequence. He finds her to be vibrant in a place where most people lost their fire years ago. She's brave, talented, utterly comfortable in her own skin. As someone who has spent his entire adult life atoning for the sins of his family and proving his worth to men he can hardly stand to look in the eye, he envies that more than anything. Maybe she could teach him how to feel like that, he thinks indulgently, if they ever had the chance. If the circumstances that brought them to the same space were different. He knows they will never have that chance, but he satisfies himself with the easy daydream as if it were possible.
When she crosses the room to her telephone, Illya is prepared with his notebook and pen, German-to-Russian dictionary to his left. She answers, and he begins to rapidly translate the words to his native tongue as he transcribes the conversation.
"Hello?"
"Gaby, it's Analiese."
"Of course," Miss Teller says easily as she settles down on her sofa with a drink. "How are you, dear?"
"I'm alright, I suppose. Raoul is driving me absolutely crazy, so I locked myself in the bedroom to call you."
Miss Teller laughs lightly. "What's he done this time?"
"It's the fall, so all he can talk about now is football. You know how he is. This player and that team, I can't even remember the names."
"You knew how much he loved football before you married him," she points out, and studies her nails.
"Yes, but I hoped being married would expand his horizons at least a little. We honeymooned in Barcelona all those years ago, you know. How does someone spend two weeks in Barcelona and not come back more cultured? We ate things we'd never even heard of before."
"Maybe that's part of the problem. The Spanish love football more than he does."
Illya laughs under his breath and nearly misses the other woman's next words. "Well, when I ask him to talk about anything else, you know what he says? Guess what he says, Gaby."
"I'm sure I have no idea."
Analiese scoffs. "He goes off on a rant, saying I never listen to anything he says, even though he always listens to my 'nonsense' about the latest novel I read. As if you can even compare talking about books to talking about football! At least reading is intellectually stimulating."
"Mm. I'm sorry, dear," she mumbles.
"And his mother! She calls at all hours of the day, just to criticize what I'm doing and how I look. How she can possibly know that I'm 'dressed like an Italian widow' through the telephone is beyond me."
"That's really quite awful," Miss Teller offers halfheartedly. She spends the next fifteen minutes flipping through her catalogue as her friend lists every grievance she has with her husband, throwing the occasional 'hm' or 'you don't say' into the conversation. Illya has trouble focusing on the dull complaints, and his mind wanders as he watches Miss Teller play with the ends of her ponytail.
Eventually Analiese runs out of anecdotes (or perhaps breath) and changes the subject. "What about you, love? How's work?" her tone goes up a note, an edge of condescension in her voice.
"Work is fine," Miss Teller answers. "Though yesterday was frightening. Heinrich came in bruised and bloodied."
Illya's ears perk up; he flips the page and continues writing hurriedly.
"Poor Heinrich! What happened?"
"A Stasi officer stopped him on the way to the garage. I guess his copy of 'The Murder of Roger Ackroyd' is considered proof of Western sympathies. So they roughed him up, and took the book," she says bitterly.
"The poor thing. But he should have known not to keep a book like that. It could only lead to trouble."
"It was a first edition. His grandmother gave him that book before she died. Of course he would keep it," Gaby snaps, anger rising in her voice.
"I know, Gaby. I do. But keeping those things just isn't worth the risk."
"A person is allowed to keep their childhood memories, no matter what some officer drunk on his own power has to say about it!" Gaby is nearly yelling now, and Illya hopes for her sake that she can control herself before she says such dangerous things at a volume an official could hear.
"Really Gaby, I don't know why you can't be happy with what you have. It's better than most."
"It's not better than anything. Why would anyone be happy to live everyday under censorship and threats of violence? You used to be brave, Analiese. What happened to you?"
The other woman's voice frosts over as she says, "You shouldn't talk like this. You know better."
"Talk like what? A Russian soldier came to the garage yesterday and I considered cutting his brakes."
Illya's pen stutters to a stop.
"Talk like that, you mean?"
"Gaby!"
"And maybe if I did it, he'd crash the car right into the Wall and break through to the other side. And then we'd be free, and at least he'd die doing something worthwhile!"
"If you're going to be this way, I'm hanging up."
Gaby beats her to the punch, slamming the phone into the receiver. Her little fists are shaking with rage as she grips her glass and takes a sip. In the next moment, she stands and whips the glass at the wall, and there's an explosion of shards and vodka that rains down on her rug.
Gaby looks instantly exhausted and collapses back into her seat on the sofa, and when Illya sees her face fall into her hands and her little shoulders heave as she sobs, he feels the ridiculously strong urge to blow his cover, run across the street and knock on her door and tell her…something. He doesn't know what he could possibly say to her. Words of sympathy and caring aren't exactly his strong suit. But as he watches her helplessly, he realizes he truly and dangerously cares for this little East German car mechanic, and they've never even been in the same room.
Then Gaby jerks her head up in response to something and Illya curses whatever agent decided to plant bugs only near the phone, because he can't hear what it is. She wipes her eyes roughly on her sleeve, then goes and opens the door.
There's a little old woman there, talking to Gaby in what looks like a panic, waving her arms wildly as she speaks. She must have heard the glass crash from another apartment, and came to check on the young woman. Gaby pats her neighbor's arm reassuringly and points at the mess, making up some explanation for the noise. She hugs the woman goodbye before closing the door and slumping against it.
Suddenly her red eyes are alert, staring out her window directly at Illya. He ducks under the window, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. She couldn't possibly have noticed him, through the total darkness and silence that shrouds him. Slowly he peeks back over the windowsill and sees Gaby looking out of hers, scanning the buildings across from her. Then, as if she senses something that spooks her, she pulls the curtains shut, and Illya's evening of observation is cut short.
He looks down at his notes. The things written here would be considered treasonous even to the most merciful of Stasi officers, not to mention Russian authorities. People have ended up jailed — or worse — for lesser crimes, even if the threats were empty and fueled by anger and alcohol. The little chop shop girl is going to endanger herself if she can't control her temper.
Illya runs his thumb along the edge of the page — then tears it out of the book, shreds it in his hands, stuffs the pieces in his jacket pocket, and tries not to think about it again.
DAY 7 - 23:30
It's nearly midnight and Gaby still isn't home, so Illya busies himself checking and rechecking his equipment. After she left this morning, Illya had gone across the street and snuck into her apartment to bug the rest of her rooms. He didn't want to risk missing another conversation because some other agent failed to do his job thoroughly.
It had been strange to see her apartment in person and in daylight, rather than through binoculars several hundred shadowy feet away. It felt more like a home up close; he could see her sitting on the sofa, falling asleep while reading. He could see her preparing a meal in the kitchen, smells wafting through the rooms, Gaby dancing as she moved between the pots and pans. He had glanced at her large and pillow-covered bed, surely the most luxurious item she owned, and could imagine a few other scenarios that made him immediately ashamed. He had squashed the thoughts and returned to his work as coolly as possible, placing the devices everywhere he discreetly could: on appliances, under tables and counters and furniture, behind bookshelves, in a crack in the doorframe. He stopped himself short of her bath and bedroom. Ironic as it was for someone spying on her, he felt that would be too great an invasion of privacy. So he left again after ten minutes, ensuring the door locked behind him.
His heart had nearly stopped when he left the building and quite literally ran into her on the sidewalk.
She must have forgotten something and returned home almost as soon as she left, and he thanked the heavens he had been so fast with his work. When they bumped into each other, her shoulder brushing his arm, she looked up at him with such a strange expression he had to consciously avoid staring. He excused himself politely, the German words falling from his lips in a mutter, and she quickly switched to a light smile, a refreshing sight after she had been so distraught yesterday.
He hadn't realized how small she would be in person. He towered over her, by a foot at least, and she seemed absolutely miniature in comparison. Gaby had nodded at him and then marched right on to her building, but once Illya rounded the corner he stopped and lingered against the wall, needing a moment to breathe, out of sight.
What had she just seen when she looked at him with shocked, wide eyes?
More importantly, why had she smiled at him?
His appearance could pass for German, certainly. But something in her face had told him she didn't mistake him for a local. She must have identified him as Russian, he's sure. And yet she smiled. The thought had lingered for the rest of the day and he had let it settle comfortably in the corner of his whirring mind as he set up his binoculars and sound receiver for the night.
Illya frowns when she finally enters the apartment tonight and he sees she is dressed all in a blue so dark it's nearly black. Gaby is so clearly made for color, for the bubbly blues and sweet pinks and dazzling whites he has seen in the windows of French boutiques, and it seems impossibly cruel that she is stuck in her little East Berlin apartment when the outside world would welcome her so easily.
He realizes as she kicks off her shoes and lines them up, that he no longer looks, but stares at her.
Then Gaby wastes no time: as soon as she's settled, she crosses the room and whips the curtains shut.
Illya glares at the covered window, but at least he'll have a chance to hear what's going on this evening.
After a few minutes he can hear the low crackle of a record starting. It's a dramatic, classical piece. Probably a German composer, some dusty old thing that she would have inherited from a relative. She doesn't strike Illya as the type to like very old music full of traditional, orchestral sounds, even if she was a ballerina. Gaby is a very modern woman, after all.
The music reaches a crescendo and then cuts out abruptly, unnaturally. The record is probably broken, he thinks — but quietly a different song starts, the kind that would be playing in shiny new discotheques, and a singer chimes in with an obviously American accent.
Illya is honestly stunned. Someone — perhaps Gaby herself — figured out a way to record the American song and disguise the beginning as something innocuous. It's a very crafty trick, if a Stasi officer ever came knocking, but a complex one. It must have taken a great deal of determination to make this song her own. He wonders what is so special about it, and if she has others like it.
Illya sees a vague shadow playing on the curtain and assumes Gaby must be dancing to the music. He can just barely hear her humming along.
"Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain. Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain," the singer cries out. It's sappy American nonsense but even Illya has to admit that it's a pretty song, and a fitting one.
It has been half an hour since Gaby arrived home and put the record on, but Illya has forgotten to take a single note. He stares at the blank page, trying to find the words to explain what he sees and hears. Miss Teller listens to music in her main room, he finally writes, and that's all his superiors will need to hear on the matter. Then absentmindedly, he scribbles the some of the English lyrics in the margins of his book.
The record fades and crackles out, and Gaby starts it again immediately. She sings along this time, not very skillfully, but nonetheless it's pleasant to listen to.
"The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here. My Sunny one shines so sincere. Sunny one so true, I love you," she sings throatily, sounding like an aspiring little cabaret singer. Illya shifts in his seat and adjusts his collar, suddenly feeling a little too warm in a sweater and suede jacket. He pulls off the jacket and casts it away, onto the cot a few feet to his right.
The song repeats several more times, after a crackle and a few seconds of the protective classical music. Gaby continues to sing, and Illya continues to listen.
He's starting to imagine sitting in the room with her, watching as she no doubt dances and sways. He remembers the sensation of her arm accidentally brushing his on the street below, and wonders what it would feel like to touch her on purpose.
It's at this point in the evening that Illya decides he is not in control of his own mind today, and shuts off his equipment, resolving to go to bed early. If he's lucky, he won't dream of Gaby Teller. Especially not of that smile, or that voice.
DAY 12 - 19:45
By his second week of intrusion into Gaby's life, Illya is forced to deal with the fact that he thinks she is captivatingly beautiful. Even during the hours spent on other work, distantly removed from Gaby Teller and her charms, he finds himself thinking about her. He really would like to meet her properly, to hear her voice without the static hiss of his listening device. That is, if she could ever see him as something other than one of the architects keeping her penned in. He isn't one of them, really. His responsibilities are far removed from the foolish occupation of half her city, her country. Worthwhile, he'd call them. Somehow he doubts she'd buy into that way of thinking.
Then just before eight o'clock:
Miss Teller arrives home, with a male guest.
Illya recognizes him from the garage: a tall but skeletally skinny man, with brown hair so pale it's nearly grey. Not what he imagines would be Miss Teller's type at all.
"Thanks again for having me over," he says almost nervously. He remains standing by the door while she crosses to the kitchen and pulls a bottle and two tumblers out of the top cupboard.
"Of course. You're my best friend, Erik. I'm happy to help you." Illya sneers. Erik is a horrible name, he determines; all jagged, edged syllables that don't fit with hers at all.
"Drink?" she asks. Erik nods appreciatively, and Illya decides that if this man tries anything, if he doesn't keep unwanted hands to himself, then there won’t be anything to stop Illya from bursting into the apartment and snapping Erik's scrawny neck.
"Everyone at the garage keeps asking about women. I was running out of excuses." Miss Teller hands him a glass and he takes a sip. "Believable ones, anyway."
She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "Do you think they know?"
"I doubt it even crosses their mind. It's not like we're allowed to talk about it, anyway. I bet some of them don't even know people like me exist."
Miss Teller shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Erik," she whispers. "It's not fair."
Her guest shrugs. "Nothing is, not in this place."
"Well, if it'll help you, you can stay the night. I'll make up the couch for you." She winks, and Illya bristles, but continues transcribing the conversation.
Erik laughs. "No, that's alright. David waits up when I'm out late. He worries."
Illya blinks, eyes widening in understanding.
"How is David? I haven't seen him in so long."
Erik, he amends, is a decent name — so long as it's paired with David, and nothing else.
"He's fine. You should come over for dinner, next Tuesday. He'd be glad to see you."
"I'd be delighted."
They sit on the sofa while they continue their conversation, and Illya thinks this is the most at-ease he has seen Gaby when talking to another person. He's glad then, to see she has a friend like Erik.
"So what about you? Any men in the picture?" Erik whispers conspiratorially.
"No," she says, swirling her glass lazily. "I can't think of anyone." Illya pretends he isn't relieved to write that down.
"What about that Josef, from the restaurant? He's good looking, and he seems fond of you."
"Oh, I don't know. He read some books on nihilism and now all he wants to talk about is the 'nothingness of it all'."
"But that face — those cheekbones. You could put an eye out on those and be happy that you were blind," Erik teases, and Gaby giggles, and it sounds as sweet and bubbly as champagne.
"How have you been otherwise, Gaby?" Erik asks and reaches over to squeeze her hand.
"I'm fine. But—" she starts, then the words seem to catch in her throat.
"What is it?" Erik sounds concerned.
"I just—I feel so strange recently. The hair rising on the back of my neck kind of thing."
"What, like someone is following you?"
Illya holds his breath.
"No, not that. It's more like...something is going on. Something big, and it's happening all around me but keeps going on without me." Gaby sighs. "I'm so bored, Erik."
"Gaby," Erik says after a moment of silence, sounding very nervous again. "I have something I've been meaning to tell you."
"Good news, I hope?" She reaches for their glasses and refills them.
"Yes, I think so," he answers slowly. "You—you remember that David was a journalist for the Morgenpost before the Wall went up?"
"Of course, he was brilliant. He still writes, doesn't he?"
"Yes, and—well, that's the point, actually, he—" Erik stumbles. "I don't know how to tell you this."
Gaby looks at him seriously. "He's safe, isn't he? Did something happen?"
"Well, his—his old editor is an influential man on the other side. And it seems like he wants David back, writing for them."
Gaby's eyes widen in shock. "What—you mean—"
Erik nods. "He had a very powerful string to pull, I guess, and he's getting David a visa."
"Oh Erik, that's wonderful!" She cries out, and throws her arms around his neck in an embrace. "But what about you?"
"That's the thing, Gaby. He—he's taking me with him."
Illya searches Gaby's face: she looks stunned, and her eyes are glistening, but she still smiles.
"Oh! I'm so happy for you," she says breathlessly.
"Gaby, we begged him for a third for you, but two was nearly impossible. I tried everything—"
Gaby waves her hand dismissively. "No, no. Don't worry about me. Really, I'm so happy for you two." She reaches out to hug him again, and he holds her tightly.
The words are a little muffled, but Illya can still hear Erik as he mumbles thickly, "I'm going to miss you so much, Gaby."
"I'll miss you too," Gaby sniffs.
For the second time, Illya watches helplessly as Gaby cries in her cramped little apartment. He thinks impulsively that he could offer her a visa, through the Russian authorities. It might not be her ideal situation, but it could get her out. Then he'd volunteer to escort her as they looked for her missing father. On the way, he'd show her all of the fashions and museums and cities around the world that he has imagined she would love. It isn't his personal feelings getting in the way, Illya assures himself, but it could be the way to finally find the man they've been looking for. He makes a note to mention the potential plan to his superiors in the morning.
Erik pulls away and wipes his eyes. He smiles sadly at her, but quickly it changes to a grin. "What about Kristoph? He's handsome, in his own way," the man teases.
"Erik!" Gaby laughs, and smacks him lightly on the arm. "I don't need you to play matchmaker with me. I'm my own woman."
Illya smiles, and agrees.
The subject quickly changes to happier ones and after a while Gaby seems to feel better, and the two of them talk and laugh the way old friends ought to.
By the time Gaby bids Erik farewell and she goes to bed, Illya's opinion of him has changed from negative to indifferent to cautiously favorable.
And, before he forgets, he makes a note to look into any Josefs who work at local restaurants — just in case. He mentally thanks Erik for the warning.
DAY 13 - 05:45
By the end of the second week there is no surveillance to do, because Miss Teller is gone.
Four hours after he watched her fade away into the depths of West Berlin, four hours of standing deathly still while rage simmered beneath his surface, the authorities manage to clear a path for Agent Kuryakin to escape the minefield between the walls. He immediately returns to his decrepit hideout to gather his equipment and leave this godforsaken city, but before packing his notebook, he decides to complete his observation notes.
Miss Teller Target meets the American and flees in car. After pursuit, target has disappeared over the Wall with the obnoxious American, whom I will kill if I see him again.