Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Merry Christmas, Peril.”

Solo’s voice cutting through the silence makes Illya almost jump out of his skin. He looks over his shoulder to find his partner looking at him with a smirk.

“Technically, it’s the 24th December for two minutes now.”

Illya bites back a groan as he takes a peek around the corner to check if the corridor is still empty. Of course it is Solo who brings it up again. It’s not like he needled Illya about it for more than a month now. Recipes for dinner, what to choose for decoration, loudly thinking about perfect gifts, it’s like Solo doesn’t talk about anything else. It doesn’t matter how many times Illya told him that he doesn’t want to be involved in any of this. And while Gaby isn’t as obnoxious about it as Solo, she doesn’t discourage him either.

Illya doesn’t answer. Instead he waves at the other man to follow him.

He can practically feel the eye roll of his partner behind his back.

“Come on Peril, we already know you’re no fun on an ordinary day, but skipping Christmas? You can’t be serious.”

It would be too much to ask of Solo to just be silent when they were trying to sneak into a T.H.R.U.S.H. facility. Still Illya shoots him a glare over his shoulder in the vain hope he would stop talking. He knows Gaby is listening in from where she waits in their getaway car. She’s probably still angry with him for leaving her behind again, but it’s alright. It’s better for her to be angry and safe.

“Waverly assigned new mission.”

“He didn’t assign one, you asked for one.”

Slowly this whole thing starts to grate on Illya’s nerves.

“Stop it, Cowboy. I don’t celebrate.”

Solo sighs. “If you insist, we can postpone it to January and do it The Russian Way. I’m sure Gaby wouldn’t mi—“

Illya turns around swiftly. Too quick for Solo to fight back, he grabs him and shoves him against the wall. The surprised gasp Solo lets out is kind of satisfying. Illya’s fist is closed around Solo’s collar, keeping him in place.

“One last time. I am not celebrating.”

There is no point in it. He doesn’t have faith or family. With his life he can’t afford to have that, even if he wants to, even if the woman he wants to have it with is in the same business. He never had the kind of Christmas Solo is gushing about, neither will he have one and he is tired of it getting shoved in his face.

He lets his partner go and turns around again.

“Have your stupid Christmas alone.”

And just like that Solo is silent.

He stays silent until they reach the laboratory they plan to target, and even then he stays professional. It’s odd how it unnerves Illya even more than his usual commentary.

They sweep the laboratory for the files they are sent to steal, something about a new drug, a strong hallucinogen. According to their intel, they are still in the testing phase, but there is a huge glass tank filled with some sickly yellow liquid in the back. Illya inspects it further, as suddenly the door flies open. He ducks out of pure reflex, even before gunshots ring through the air. Glass is shattering, liquid pouring over him. Before he can draw his gun, he can hear two bodies dropping. He looks up to find Solo stepping over the agents in the door, a stack of documents under his arm.

“Coming, Peril?”

Illya snorts and storms after him out of the laboratory. His skin starts to itch, where the wetness soaked through the fabric of his clothes. The alarm starts to blare over their heads as they run through the corridor.

They make it out before more T.H.R.U.S.H. agents can take a hold of them.

Gaby pulls up at the front door with screeching tires. She only stops long enough for them to throw themselves inside, Solo in the front, Illya in the back. The fast turn with which Gaby takes off again makes Illya feel dizzy. The itching slowly turns into burning.

Gaby meets his gaze through the rearview mirror, her brown eyes as beautiful as ever, but her brows are furrowed.

“Illya? Is everything alright?”

A second pair of eyes appear in the mirror, icy blue and oh so familiar, but not his own. He doesn’t manage to answer before his consciousness slips away.

There are voices talking hushed over his head, familiar and oddly comforting.

“So we’re going to do nothing?”

A huff, deep, male. “I think Peril made himself clear.”

Clothes ruffling, a light hum. “We could celebrate while he’s still tied to the bed, so he can’t flee.”

Illya groans and blinks his eyes open.

“No Christmas.”

His eyes need a second to focus. He’s lying in a bed, from the look of it in one of UNCLE’s new medical facilities. London probably, as it was the closest. As he looks down at himself, he is wearing the ridiculous red pajamas his partners got him after he had to leave most of his stuff behind a few missions prior. Gaby sits in a chair next to him, Solo is leaning against the wall in the far corner. They both smile at him, as he slowly sits up, but Gaby stops him with her hand on his shoulder from rising all the way.

“The doctors said, you should stay in bed for another few hours. There’s still some residue of that drug in your system.”

Illya frowns, but doesn’t have it in him to resist the gentle push. He tries not to be disappointed, when she lifts her hand again.

“I am fine.”

Solo huffs. “You were doused in an experimental drug. We’re not taking any chances.”

Illya knows, that he won’t win this one. “Fine, I will stay here. Get me the dossiers.”

With a small frown Gaby tilts her head. “Which dossiers?”

Sometimes Illya can’t believe that they are supposed to be one of the best teams in the world.

“For next mission.”

Gaby and Solo exchange a look over Illya’s head. He’s learned to hate it when they do that. It’s never good news.

“What?”

Gaby looks back to him. “We’re not going. I called Waverly, he benched us when he heard about the drug until New Year.”

Illya just stares at her for a second before finding his words again.

“No. We are going. Call him.”

Solo sighs where he still leans against the wall.

“Is it so terrible to stay in for the holidays?”

Why can they not leave it alone? He glares at Solo.

“It is if I have to spend them with you.”

His words ring through the silence of the room. Solo’s expression doesn’t slip, only blinks once.

“Fine, I’ll call Waverly.”

His shoulders are set square as he leaves the room. The door closes silently.

Gaby just looks at him, anger sparkling in her eyes.

“Illya, was that really necessary?”

Illya looks down at his hands, his own rage fading in the face of hers. He doesn’t answer.

Gaby scoffs at that.

“Why do you hate Christmas that much?”

“Unnecessary. We are no children.”

“Christmas is not only for children.”

Illya keeps his mouth shut, knowing that anything coming out of it would only irritate her further.

He could lie, say that she’s right and suffer through the holidays, celebrating although he knows that every second of it is a lie. Solo isn’t his friend, he is his co-worker. Gaby isn’t either and for sure nothing more. Playing pretend that they could build something on their own while knowing that they could die on the next mission is nothing but cruel.

He could say that he adores her and spending time with her would even make Solo’s ridiculous plans bearable. And Gaby would laugh and call him naïve, because everyone knows that they can’t be together the way he wants it, even if Gaby was willing to give him a chance. Which she won’t anyway, because why would she?

Gaby lets out a bitter chuckle. It sounds wrong coming out of her mouth. She shouldn’t have a reason to sound like that.

“What is it with you that you can’t stand to do something nice?”

She stands up, her chair scraping against the floor noisily. Her steps are just as loud as she heads for the door. Illya stomps down on the part of him that wants to call after her. It’s better, if they stay professional. His chest still aches, but it will fade. It has to. He can’t be with Gaby, but he can still watch over her. It will have to be enough.

Gaby shuts the door behind her, letting silence spread after her. Illya exhales deeply and sinks further down into the pillows.

He’s about to close his eyes, when he sees something. He sits up hastily, making the room spin a little, but it’s gone again. Looking around he finds nothing out of place. He writes it off as an after-effect of the drug. Still he doesn’t settle back down. Someone is walking down the corridor outside, probably a woman judging from the sound it. For a moment he hopes it is Gaby, coming back with the dossiers, but it’s unlike her to just comply.

The steps stop in front of his room. Illya suspects a nurse, probably checking his medical record again before coming in, but minutes pass and nothing happens. Illya decides not to wait for her to make up her mind and turns around to try to sleep again. He feels like someone is watching him, but he writes it off again as the side effect of the drug he was exposed to. That is, until the sound of steps come from inside his room.

He sits up swiftly, ready to jump out of bed and attack if necessary, but he freezes as he sees the person standing in front of the still closed door.

He recognizes her instantly, although there is little familiar about her.

Her skin and everything about her is greyish and transparent, her dress just layers of shreds, her hair falling down her shoulders in knotted strands. Still she is smiling at him as she slowly comes closer.

“Illyusha, my sweet boy. Look at you, all grown up.”

It’s been ages since anyone called him that. He needs a few moments to find his voice.

“Who are you?”

He knows the answer, but he still doesn’t believe it. His mother is dead.

“I was your mother once, now I’m merely a ghost roaming around the face of the earth.”

A ghost. There are no such things as ghosts. This is the drug, no doubt. He’s hallucinating. This is going to pass.

His mother tilts her head slightly.

“You don’t believe I am real.”

Illya still just stares at her, unable even to shake his head. This has to be the drug. This isn’t happening.

She sits down on the chair Gaby occupied just a few minutes ago. Slowly she raises her hand and reaches out for him.

Her touch is airy and cold, but definitely there. He flinches at the contact. She can’t be real, can she?

“You look lonely.”

Still dazed, Illya shakes his head. His mother clicks her tongue at him scoldingly. “Don’t lie to me, Illyusha, I can see it in your eyes.”

He heard those words so many times. It didn’t matter how well he lied, she could always tell. But he isn’t lonely, is he? For the first time in years he works with people he doesn’t mind being around. Sometimes it’s even… nice. Although Solo is still annoying and seeing Gaby without being allowed to touch her is difficult, but it is nice being with them. He shakes off the thought.

“Why are you here?”

“I am here for you.”

Her smile is sad as she looks at him and the expression is so familiar it hurts.

“The path you are on will leave you unhappy and alone. I don’t want this for you.”

He doesn’t quite understand. He’s a spy. Essentially staying alone is part of the job. That doesn’t necessarily make him unhappy.

He serves his country, clears his family’s name. This is what they always wanted.

He’s about to say so, when she abruptly stands up.

“Three ghosts will come to visit you tonight. I beg you to listen to them. I have no power over the living, but you do.”

She leans over and kisses his forehead. The touch of her lips feels like ice.

“It’s Christmas time. Don’t stay lonely. You deserve to have someone.”

When he tries to take her hand, she is gone.

Illya lies back against his pillow, trying to make sense of it all. This has to be the drug, there is no way around it. Even if it felt real, it doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t manage to sleep after that. He lies down, staring at the ceiling, but unable to shut his eyes.

Light starts to fall into the room through the window. He wonders if the sun is already rising, when the light gets brighter and brighter. He sits up, raising his arm in front of his eyes. The source of the light seems to come nearer. Slowly it takes a shape. It takes a few moments to recognize it as human.

Illya dares to lower his arm. There’s a man floating in through the window. His skin and hair is white as are his clothes. His smile is ageless and bright as the rest of him.

Slowly he moves towards Illya’s bed, extending his hand towards him with a friendly smile.

“I am the ghost of Christmas Past.”

This is ridiculous. There are no such things as ghosts. Illya is hallucinating. His mother wasn’t really here and he’s still alone in this room. He knows that.

The ghost nods encouragingly, letting his fingers flex once before extending them again.

“I mean no harm, I am merely your guide. Take my hand.”

Illya doesn’t know why, but he takes it.

Illya stays the way he is, still clad in the annoyingly bright red pajamas and nothing more, but the room changes around him. He’s not at the facility anymore, but in a child’s bedroom. Illya looks around and all his breath leaves his lungs.

The ghost appears beside him. Illya tries to suppress the slight flinch, but the ghost seems to have noticed anyway.

“Do you recognize this room?”

Illya does. He recognizes the bed with the blue sheets, the books lining up in the shelves, the chess set in the corner of his room. This is his bedroom, before his father was taken and his mother and he were forced out. He turns to the bookshelves in awe, the titles on the spines are set in gold. As he raises his hand to run his fingers over them, he reaches through them. Startled he steps back. A light chuckle sounds from behind him.

“You are as much of a ghost as me as long as you travel with me.”

Illya turns around, glaring at him. “Why am I here?”

The ghost just tilts his head, unimpressed at his glare. “So that you remember.”

“I do remember.”

“But you don’t yet understand.”

Illya scoffs, when the door suddenly opens. He forgets what he was about to say, when he hears an achingly familiar female voice.

“So, why don’t you try out your nice, new chess set?”

Illya’s head whips around to see his mother walking in. She’s as beautiful as he remembers her, not the shadow who haunted him. Light blond, long hair artfully arranged on her head, pale skin and sparkling blue eyes. It stings unexpectedly, when she raises her head and looks right through him. Only then he notices a small blond boy at her heel, not a day older than six, his hands buried in the fine fabric of her dress. The boy looks up hopefully.

“We’re going to play?”

His mother smiles and crouches down to the boy’s eye level, carefully disentangling his fingers from her dress. “You know, that your father and I are very busy. All your father’s friends are here and he can’t look after them alone.”

He pouts, trying to keep his hold on her.

“Why can’t you send them home?”

She laughs a little. “Throwing people out on Christmas is a little rude, don’t you think?”

The boy hangs his head. “I know.”

She takes his head in her hands and kisses his forehead. “Of course you do, my clever boy.” She releases him and stands up again. “Now behave and go play. No more sneaking out.”

The boy looks up to her again, his smile a little sad. “Yes, mama.”

“Very well.” She blows a kiss in his direction, as she closes the door behind her.

The boy’s smile falls as the door closes. Still he walks over to the chess board and sets up a game.

Illya watches him as he makes the first move and gets up to change the sides, playing against himself. He remembers this, but seeing it from the outside feels different.

“Your parents were busy a lot, weren’t they?”

Illya glares at the ghost, who appeared at his side again. “Of course they were. Maintaining relations is important as politician.”

“More important than their own son?”

His hands clench into fists at his side. Yes, he was alone a lot, especially during holidays, but it was never a problem for him. They had business to attend to and he understood that. He wasn’t so selfish to demand more of their time than they could afford to give. “They cared about me.”

The ghost smile is apologetic. “I don’t doubt that.” He leaves something unspoken, but Illya isn’t interested in hearing it. “Let’s take a look at some other years.”

A bright light flashes and Illya is not in his childhood home anymore.

He’s in the living room in one of the apartments he and his mother lived in. The walls are bare, the shelves half empty. Illya barely recognizes it, they moved around too much, taking offers from estranged family or former friends and leaving again when they inevitably overstayed their welcome. They lived here, but it was never a home.

His younger self sits at the bare table with a book, his features now better recognizable but still soft in his teenage years. There is no decoration in their home, but Illya recognizes the book. It’s Молодая гвардия, The Young Guard, by Alexander Fadeyev. His mother gave it to him as a Christmas present. He already read it at the time, but he didn’t tell her.

This is the last Christmas he spent at home. He turns around to the ghost, waiting patiently in the corner with his friendly smile.

“Do you remember this as well?”

He wishes he didn’t.

The stairs behind him creak as someone descends.

It’s his mother, now older as well, the beginnings of wrinkles around her eyes carefully concealed.

She is wearing that dark red dress he used to hate.

His younger self looks up from his book, his eyes narrow as they fall on his mother.

“Where are you going?”

She doesn’t spare him a glance. “The General invited me to accompany him to a Christmas dinner.”

The teen’s fingers start to drum on the table.

“Have fun then.”

His mother stops at the end of the steps, raising her eyebrows at him.

“What is it?”

He turns back to the book in front of him.

“Nothing.”

“Illyusha -“

“Stop calling me that. I’m no little boy.”

Her jaw sets.

“Then look me in the eyes and speak up.”

Illya wills his younger self to just stay silent and let her go, but he knows he won’t. He remembers he didn’t.

The teen slowly pushes back the chair he sits in and stands up. His hands betray his calmness as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He’s already taller than his mother, almost looming over her.

“Is this dinner really worth dragging our name even more through the mud?”

She stands her ground effortlessly, her eyes narrowing.

“What are you trying to say?”

The teen snorts. He almost sounds as he does now.

“I know what those dinners are about. Everyone knows. They are laughing at us. The General and all of father’s friends call you their whore and you still go to them every time they call for you.”

Shock is written on his mother’s face. There’s a short silence. Illya can barely stop himself from shouting at himself just to let it go, even though he knows he wouldn’t be heard.

The teen glances down at the dress his mother is wearing, the way it hugs her body, revealing just a little too much skin to be really classy.

“Maybe they are right.”

The slap stings again on Illya’s cheek, as he sees it happen. His younger self freezes for a second, before slowly reaching up to his face, where a red handprint is forming on his cheek. It’s the only time his mother raised her hand against him and the shock hurt more than the actual slap.

Her hand is still half raised and shaking with anger as the words rush out of her mouth.

“Do you think I would keep seeing them, if it wasn’t our only chance to survive? Do you think I enjoy this?”

She’s right of course, but it doesn’t help. The words still cut deep. Seeing everything the second time doesn’t change anything. Illya is still helpless in the face of his mother’s anger.

This was the moment when he realized his family was truly broken.

His younger self lowers his eyes to the floor. “No mama. I’m sorry.”

She takes a long shuddering breath, before stepping forwards to pull him in her arms. “I am sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Slowly the boy raises his arms to return the hug. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not and we both know that.” She kisses his forehead and lets him go.

“Don’t wait up for me.”

He nods and smiles in her direction. As soon as the front door closes after him, the table goes flying.

Illya doesn’t have to watch anymore. He knows he wrecked the kitchen and the living room after that. They got kicked out and stayed in a cheap hotel for a few weeks before they found something again.

He turns around to the ghost, who is still glowing in his soft white light.

“Enough with this. Bring me back.”

The ghost nods. “We are not quite finished, but we can leave if you want to.”

Illya glances at his younger self, his fingers still drumming against his leg in an attempt to calm himself. He knows it won't work.

“Yes, go.”

He can see himself grab the chair and fling it against the wall, before his surroundings fade.

The next room he recognizes immediately. Greyish walls, a single bed, a small cabinet and a small desk with a chair. No personal belongings anywhere. It wasn’t allowed.

Now he knows it’s a few miles north of Petrosawodsk. He didn’t know back then, the instructors left him in the dark that time.

The room is cold, the heating unable to fight the raging winter outside.

The version of himself sitting at the desk and staring outside is only a few years older than the last one.

He knows he’s the only one left behind. He pretended he doesn’t care. He knows he did. Illya refuses to look around, staying where he is. The ghost tilts his head questioningly.

“Maybe another Christmas then.”

In a blink of an eye he’s outside, a rifle in his hand, next to him Oleg, both of them facing a row of people lined up against a wall. Their blood taints the snow red when he fires.

“Still not what you look for.”

His surroundings change faster and faster, but always enough for him to recognize. One bloody mission in Poland, Oleg backhanding him and humiliating him in front of other agents, finding a note that his father passed away almost half a year ago in the gulag that no one thought important enough to hand it to him.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught.

“Stop!”

The noise around him ceases instantly. He didn’t notice how heavily he was breathing, until the room is silent around him again.

He’s back at the UNCLE facility, the ghost hovering at the end of his bed. Not even pausing to catch his breath, he jumps out of the bed, ready to lunge at the ghost. He stops himself in the last second, his hands still balled to fists at his side, staring down at the man in white.

“Why are you showing me all this? Are you mocking me?”

The ghost looks baffled, almost hurt. “Of course not. I think it is rather sad.”

Illya snorts. “I don’t need your pity.”

The ghost nods solemnly. “Then don’t take my pity, but take my advice.”

Illya is about to cut him off, when white light blinds him. Reflexively he turns around, shielding his eyes. The ghost’s voice rings in his head.

“The past is the path you went, but not the one you need to follow. Learn from it, but don’t dwell.”

Illya turns around at that, but the ghost is already gone.

He wants to scream after him, but he knows it’s useless.

“This is not real anyway.”

The drugs made him remember things he’d rather not think of. It’s probably Solo’s fault because he couldn’t shut up about Christmas.

Muttering under his breath, he returns to lie in the bed. The memories left his insides raw. He turns to his side and draws up his legs closer to his body. With a long breath suspiciously close to a sigh he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

It doesn’t quite work, the newly invoked memories still playing in his head. He tries to wait it out, letting his thoughts slow down enough to allow him to rest, when a curious smell reaches his nose. It’s faint, but somehow familiar. Illya tries to ignore it, until it gets even stronger. Honey and garlic, fir trees and pastries.

He sits up.

There’s a woman in front of him, young and richly clothed in red and green. Her face is round and her cheeks red, curly hair flowing freely over her shoulders.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. I think you already met my brother. Give me your hand.”

Illya is already tired of this, still his hand reaches out anyway.

The second they touch, he’s in the streets. He has barely time to look around, when the ghost starts walking. He takes a few long strides to catch up to her, ignoring the people passing through them. It seems to be midday or afternoon. Most of the people are dressed in their finest, taking a stroll or are on their way to where they meet up with their family, smiles bright on their faces. The ghost watches them with a smile herself, but doesn’t stop until she turns right into a dirty alley.

Illya frowns. At first he thinks it’s empty, but then he sees a few figures huddled in the corner, covered with blankets. Illya has encountered some of these people before in his living area, homeless and penniless. An elderly man, two women and a teenager, probably combining their blankets against the cold. Stopping a few feet before them, the ghost reaches into her pocket. Her closed fist conceals what she pulled out as she kneels down before them. As she opens her hand, some silvery glitter falls on the huddled people, disappearing through their clothes and skin.

One of the women starts to sing. It’s a Christmas tune, Illya doesn’t know the words, but the melody is slightly familiar. After a few lines in, the elderly man joins in, his voice deep and rumbling. By the end of the first verse, all of them are singing.

The ghost smiles contentedly and turns around to walk out of the alley.

Illya follows a few steps behind her until he reaches the open street.

“What did you do?”

The ghost doesn’t stop to answer him. “I’ve blessed them.”

“Blessed?”

She smiles at him, as he catches up with her. “I gave them solace, eased their loneliness, let them have a little happiness.”

Illya scoffs. The ghost’s smile turns into a frown. “You don’t want them to have that?”

He shrugs. “Holidays shouldn’t be special. Nothing in their life will change because of a few happy moments.”

She shakes her head, but almost fondly, like his answer was so stupid that it was actually funny.

“You will see.”

They wander around the streets, the ghost spreading her blessings left and right, invoking cheer where she walks. Illya is already annoyed as they stop in front of an office building. It’s neither shiny nor run down, attracting no attention whatsoever. On the door sign different firms are listed, attorneys, bankers and their likes. He doesn’t have to read their names, he knows them by heart. Uhlman, Nelson, Clark, Landman and Ebony. This is the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in London.

Wordlessly the ghost enters, although the complex is closed for the holidays. It should be empty, the emergency staff kept on call, but all sent home. Nevertheless they climb the stairs until they are at the top floor. One of the doors stands open. It’s Waverly’s office. Curiously Illya follows the ghost down the corridor and inside.

Waverly sits at his desk, looking as put together as always. There’s a stack of papers on his desk that he slowly works through, making notes at the side. It could be an ordinary day at work except for the empty building. Still, this is the way it should be. Illya is glad that he’s not the only one who thinks Christmas is a waste of time. He’s about to ask the ghost, what they are doing here, when the phone rings.

Waverly looks up from his paper, watching the phone ring once, twice, before finally picking it up.

“Waverly speaking.”

A slow smile spreads over his face, completely different from the polite ones he gives every living creature he encountered.

“My dear sister, who would have thought. How are you?”

Illya hides his surprise. Somehow he had assumed that no one in their line of work has family left.

Waverly listens avidly, until his smile falls.

“No, I won’t come.”

A sigh, while his sister talks on the other end. “You know I’m no longer welcome.”

Another pause. “Yes, even then.”

The voice on the other end is getting louder, Waverly’s face turns a little annoyed.

“Splendid, I won’t interfere with your plans then.”

With a clipped goodbye he hangs up. Waverly leans back in his chair and takes off his glasses.

Illya glances at the ghost beside him, as she walks up to Waverly’s desk. The silvery glitter leaves a small trail behind her, even though her hands are still in her pockets.

With a swift twist of her wrist, the ghost scatters her blessings all over the Brit and his desk.

Waverly looks at his phone again, sighs once and dials. A few minutes pass before the other side takes his call.

“I am sorry, this is not your fault. Merry Christmas. Say hello to the little ones will you?”

Waverly closes the dossier in front of him, while he listens and nods to no one in particular. Slowly the smile returns.

Illya finds a small smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth as well.

“So having a little extra cheer isn’t so bad, if you care about the people receiving it?”

Illya schools his expression back to neutral.

“Is still absurd only doing it for date in calendar.” Waverly could have called his family on any other day.

A small voice in him says but he didn’t. He ignores it.

The ghost shakes her head at him. “Of course.”

He narrows her eyes at her, a retort already on his tongue, when he really looks at her. HIs mouth clamps shut in irritation. She looks somehow different, older. He doesn't know how this is possible to age that fast, but then again he is only imagining all this. She seems unconcerned about it anyway.

Illya blinks and they’re outside again, the last rows of the sun painting everything red. He recognizes the bar across the street from the time Gaby and Solo dragged him out to “maintain cover of course, don’t look at me like that Peril”. It hadn’t been too bad. The drinks they had were high quality, they had a table to themselves, and while Illya doesn’t dance, he liked watching Gaby dance. Not necessarily with other men, but Solo at least knows to keep his hands to himself when he wants to.

They are standing in front of the same bar right now. The sign at the door states that it’s already closed because of the holidays. Still the ghost nods her head at Illya to go inside. Illya doesn’t bother to try to open the door and steps right through it.

There is no crowd inside now. All the chairs are piled up on the tables, the counters wiped clean, the music turned off. The bartender polishes a few glasses behind the counter, serving a single guest. Illya doesn’t need to see the face belonging to the slicked back, black hair. What is Solo doing here?

Illya is about to call out to him before he remembers he can’t hear him. He slowly walks over to the bar.

Before he made it to his partner's side, the bartender sets down the last glass and throws the towel over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry sir, but I have to lock up now.”

With a silent sigh Solo gets up from his chair at the bar. He pulls out his wallet and places a stack of notes next to his glass. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

The bartender doesn’t even look at the money, instead he looks up to Solo, questioning.

“No family around?”

Solo huffs out a small laugh, while he slips into his coat.

“Nobody I’d want to see.”

The bartender throws him a compassionate smile.

“Friends?”

Illya would like the bartender to stop asking stupid questions now. Solo’s faked smile stays on his face long enough for Illya to see the remains of it as he turns around to leave. “Busy.”

He doesn’t look back again as he walks towards the door.

“Merry Christmas.”

He doesn’t wait long enough to hear the bartender return the sentiment.

Illya stays where he is, looking after his partner long after he’s gone from view.

“Why aren’t you happy?”

Illya looks up to the ghost with confusion. What would he be happy about?

The ghost nods her head in the direction Solo had just left.

“He’s having Christmas alone. Isn’t this what you told him to do?”

Illya grinds his teeth. He knows what he said, but this is not what he meant.

The ghost turns and leaves the bar, leaving Illya to scramble after her.

He passes through the door just in time to see the ghost reach into her pocket again. Heavy flakes of snow start to fall from the sky, getting more by the second. Solo is down at the curb, his hands deep in his pockets against the cold, gazing up. A little snow has already gathered in his hair and on top of his shoulders, still he doesn’t move.

The ghost holds out her closed fist, the magical dust concealed in her hands. Illya waits for her to release it, to work her magic on Solo and ease a little of his loneliness when she hums and sticks her hand in her pocket again. Illya looks at Solo, still standing alone in the snow, shivers starting to race down his spine, then back to the ghost.

“Why don’t you do something?”

The ghost raises her eyebrows at him, her forehead wrinkling. “I thought it was absurd to make someone happy just because of a date in the calendar?”

Illya looks back at his partner, whose face is slowly turning red from the cold. He still thinks it shouldn’t be about a date, but maybe it isn’t.

“Please.”

The ghost gives him an understanding smile and withdraws her hand from her pocket. Her smile stays on her face, as she opens her fist and blows the dust in Solo’s direction. The dust mixes with the falling snow, glinting silvery between all the white.

The second it hits Solo, he turns on his heels and walks down the street. Illya knows it’s in the opposite direction to his own flat. Where is he going now?

The question dies on his tongue as he turns back to the ghost. The ghost aged, now looking about fifty, the wrinkles on her face edged deep. Still she smiles at him. Before he can ask anything, they’re somewhere else.

What hits him first is the music. It’s not a Christmas song, but some pop song with some jazzy undertones.
He’s in a living room, the music blasting from a record player in the corner of the room. He doesn’t know this apartment, but he knows the brown ponytail hanging over the backrest of the couch and the slender set of shoulders clad in striped pajamas.

She brought him to Gaby’s apartment. He’s never been here before, but he walked past it often enough to recognize the buildings on the other side of the street when he looks out the window.

He glances at the ghost before rounding the couch.

Gaby sits there, a glass of liquor on the table in front of her and an album full of photographs in her lap. She slowly turns the pages, a sad smile on her face, occasionally taking a sip from her glass.

Illya feels guilty as he leans over to take a look at the photographs. The quality is bad, the person who took these obviously was no professional, but despite the missing colors, the smiles feel warm. The people in them change a lot, but there’s always one little girl with dark hair and beautiful dark eyes. Illya looks up from the pages to meet the same eyes in an older face. Of course she doesn’t look back, but somehow he wishes she would.

It’s not even the middle of the album, when the photographs stop, the pages turning up blank. Gaby strokes over one tenderly and sighs.

“Did you know, that she bought a new film for your camera just the other day?”

Illya ignores her. He knows what she’s trying to hint at, but that is ridiculous. They are not even allowed to take pictures together. Yes, he still has a few pictures from earlier missions and yes, she is on almost every one of them. But that’s only because he didn’t have the time to throw them out yet.

The knock on the door makes both of them start. Gaby looks up from the album and frowns. She’s clearly not expecting anyone. Carefully she closes it and leaves it on the table in front of her, before she goes to open the door. Illya follows her, even though he can’t do anything to help, if someone tries to harm her. She peeks through the fisheye, her frown deepening, then she reaches for the handle and opens the door.

Solo is waiting behind it, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, snow melting in his hair.

Gaby crosses her arms in front of her chest, obviously becoming aware of what she is wearing.

“What are you doing here?”

Solo raises his hands in surrender. “I know we said we wouldn’t do anything for Christmas.”

“But?"

He widens his eyes a little, adopting one of his innocent smiles. “But no one said we couldn’t have dinner while we discuss the next mission.”

Gaby hums once. “I’m not really in the mood for more work.”

The smile on Solo’s face cracks a little, even as he tries to hide it.

Illya turns to the ghost, ready to demand more of that silly magical powder, when Gaby steps aside to make room. “But having a friend over for dinner would be nice.”

Both Illya and Solo exhale in relief. Solo steps in with a different smile on his face. It’s small, but genuine, and somehow it doesn’t irritate Illya like most of his facial expressions do.

“Let’s see if there’s something we can work with.”

Gaby raises her eyebrows at him, as he hangs up his coat.

“We? If you think I’m going to do anything other than watch you work, you can walk out the door again.”

He grins back at her. “I thought rather along the lines of I handle the food, you handle the drinks.”

“Deal.”

Illya trails behind them as Gaby gives Solo a short tour through the apartment. She doesn’t bother to change out of her pajamas even now that she has company, which is nothing he would have expected but it's so typically Gaby that it makes Illya slowly believe he’s not only hallucinating everything.

The tour ends in the kitchen, which is small and a little cluttered, but homey as the rest of the apartment. Gaby returns to the living room to fetch drinks for them while Solo makes himself familiar with the cabinets.

Illya leans on the wall next to the fridge, watching his partners bustle around in the kitchen. Or rather Solo does, complaining about Gaby’s lack of decent cookware and ingredients, while Gaby sits on a high stool with her glass in her hands. The mood is light, a record playing in the background, while Solo works some kind of magic to cook something out of practically nothing. It doesn’t take long for him to fill the air with delicious scents.

They eat in the kitchen, not bothering to set a table. It’s not one of the recipes Solo fussed over for weeks, but Gaby’s eyes still widen in awe at her first bite. It makes Illya smile.

The ghost chuckles beside him. “Is Christmas not so terrible after all?”

The smile falls instantly from Illya’s face. “This has nothing to do with Christmas.”

“Hasn’t it?” He frowns at the ghost. The wrinkles on her face deepen as she smirks. “Please tell me, how many times do you and your teammates see each other?”

Illya scoffs. What a stupid question. They see each other all the time. “Almost every day.”

“And how many times outside of work?”

Illya’s mouth clamps shut. They spend so much time together and although he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it, he never took up their invitations to their homes. It didn’t seem appropriate. They are often enough forced to stay together in some hotel or safe house not to have their homes invaded as well.

Solo and Gaby dump everything in the sink, postponing clean-up for later.

Both Solo and Illya look surprised, as Gaby pulls out another pot and turns on the stove again.

She smirks at Solo, as she fetches a bottle of red wine and pours it in. “I am handling drinks, remember?”

Solo watches curiously, as she adds spices and slices of oranges. “Glogg?”

“Glühwein.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

She snorts. “Is there a difference between a Dior and a Rabanne belt?”

“Touché.”

As the wine warms up, the different spices color the air. Cinnamon, anise and clove reminding them of Christmas again. Before the wine gets too hot, she takes it off the stove. Illya almost reaches for the first mug she holds out, before he remembers that they can’t see him. Something tugs at his insides, a little regret maybe.

She urges Solo to take a sip, as she raises her mug to her lips. Solo takes another experimental whiff before doing the same.

Gaby’s eyes glint over the rim of her cup. Her lips are tinged dark red from the wine. It makes it hard for Illya to look away.

“What do you think?”

“Very good.” A smirk forms on his face as he starts to examine the cup from all angles.

“Top quality German engineering for sure.” He takes another sip. “This could maybe even warm Peril’s hands.”

Illya can see both of them pause in their movements for a second. Gaby recovers first. “Well, we won’t find out.”

Solo hums softly, his smile taking on an edge that wasn’t there before.

Gaby adds a healthy shot of amaretto to the second round. Solo doesn’t comment.

With their newly filled mugs, they wander off to the living room. Illya trails behind them.

The record comes to a stop, before they could sit down. Gaby is about to drop the needle again, when Solo’s eyes fall on the album on the table in front of the couch.

“Old photographs?”

Illya can see Gaby freeze. She doesn’t turn around to Solo as she answers him.

“Yes, of my family.”

He doesn’t ask her to show them to him and she doesn’t offer.

They sit down on the couch, listening to one of Gaby’s new records in silence. Despite the album lying before them like a reminder of their boundaries, it’s not an uncomfortable silence and they take their time with drinking up their second cup.

Three songs in, Gaby lets her head sink back and closes her eyes.

“I haven’t really celebrated Christmas in years.”

“Me neither.”

She chuckles softly. “The last time I really enjoyed Christmas was when I was six.”

“Well, I can't say that because Christmas at the front was more enjoyable than at home.”

Gaby turns her head and looks at Solo with half-closed eyes, some weird competitive glint in them.

"My first foster family sent me back to the orphanage right on Christmas Eve, because I wasn't as religious as they expected me to be."

Solo holds her gaze, almost challenging.

“The last Christmas before I joined the army I spent at the hospital. My stepfather pushed me down the stairs. No one dared to visit.”

"I actually knew already about Schnitzel, before you came to get me in East Berlin. My father sent me a card with his picture on it, five years after he left me. He promised to come fetch me for Christmas. Guess what didn't happen."

Solo hums in acknowledgement. Illya can only stare at his partners in disbelief. He doesn't need to hear more, but Solo already opens his mouth.

"In my first year with the CIA, Sanders put me in solitary confinement for two weeks, because he didn't feel like keeping an eye on me over the holidays."

When Gaby doesn't reply immediately, Illya can feel his stomach already sink. Solo senses it as well, judging from the look he gives her, ready to drop the conversation altogether.

Gaby sits up a little, drinking up what's left in her cup in one go. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and stares down at the cup.

"My mother died on the second day of Christmas.”

Before the heavy silence can settle, Gaby huffs out a dry laugh. The sound cuts at Illya's core. "Seems like Christmas wasn’t so great for both of us.”

Solo takes another sip from his mug. “No it wasn’t.” His eyes are staring at something in the distance in a way that lets Illya suspect there's more, worse things he didn't disclose. Illya doesn't want to think about what it could be.

He looks at his partners fall into silence again and just doesn’t understand. How can they want to celebrate something that reminds them of so much pain? How can they not hate it?

Gaby turns her head a little and glances at Solo through her lashes. “You thought it could be this year.”

He stares right on. “Maybe.”

After a short silence, he shakes his head in his barely noticeable way and gets up from the couch. “Refill?”

Gaby holds out her mug for him to take. As his fingers close around it, Gaby doesn’t let go. Their gaze meet over their hands.

“I thought so too.”

They share a small smile, before she lets go and Solo disappears with the mugs into the kitchen.

Illya feels a pang of guilt. This is his fault. Of course he didn’t know, but he can’t say that he stopped to think about their reasons to celebrate.

“What about next year?”

He turns and looks at the ghost leaning against the wall across from him.

“I’m sorry?”

Despite her questioning tone, the knowing smile on the ghost’s face tells him she understood. Their freshly signed contracts should tie all of them to U.N.C.L.E. for at least two years, having been drafted after the Kennedy assassination had caused the international tensions to peak.

Illya grits his teeth. “Christmas next year. They can have a good Christmas next year, no?”

The ghost turns to Gaby, her eyes growing distant. After a moment her brows furrow.

“I don’t see cheer in the next year. There is only snow and darkness. This is the path you’ve set.”

He shakes his head. He may have ruined it this year, but there must still be time.

He opens his mouth again, but Gaby jumping off the couch interrupts him. She walks over to her record player, and turns up the volume. When Solo comes back from the kitchen, full mugs in his hands, Gaby twirls around to him, waving him over.

Solo looks at her, feigns ignorance and takes a large gulp, before he sets both of their mugs down on the table. “What are you suggesting Ms. Teller?”

She levels him with a stare. “Working on your undercover skills of course, my dear Napoleon.”

Illya can’t hold back a smirk as Solo visibly cringes at the use of his first name. Gaby wears the same expression as Illya as she goes on.

“Your footwork is sloppy. Let’s correct that.”

Solo scoffs. “I beg your pardon, my footwork is just fine.”

“Prove it.”

And just like that Solo reaches for her hand and twirls her towards him. Both of their faces are mock serious as they start to dance. It lasts until Gaby not-so accidentally steps on Solo’s feet. She just raises her eyebrows at him.

“What? Maybe my next cover can’t dance.”

Solo retaliates by making her trip on their next turn.

It's fascinating to watch, both of his partners starting to lose their composure. There were only a few moments so far in their partnership when they really let down their guard and all of them were forced by stress or pain. They continue to drink and to dance, teaching each other new steps or messing with the record-player inbetween fighting for the lead and sabotaging each other.

Soon there’s nothing left of the Glühwein and they switch to scotch. Their movements get even messier, until Gaby finally succeeds in making Solo stumble over her foot. She seems to have missed the fact, that their hands are still linked, so she falls over right with him. They look at each other rather surprised on the floor, before they burst into laughter. It's surprisingly loud and inelegant and still somehow nice. Illya realizes he never really heard them laugh freely until now. Chuckle or snicker they did from time to time, but not laugh like that. He finds he likes the sound.

The ghost’s voice startles him.

“We need to go.”

Illya stays, staring at his partners picking themselves up from the floor, still grinning. He turns, “No, I-” and stops when he sees the ghost, her hair gray now, her face drawn, the bright colors of her clothing now ashen.

She smiles at him, extending her hand. “My time is almost up. Your last visitor is already waiting for you.”

In front of them his partners are right back at it, more tripping over each other’s feet than dancing now. He could have been here, eating Solo’s food, drinking Gaby’s Glühwein. He could have sat on the couch and laughed with them when they both tumbled to the floor. Maybe Gaby would try to make him dance too. Maybe he would have given in.

Maybe he could have kissed her like he wanted in Rome, like he still wants.

“Why do you only see darkness and snow next year?”

“This is not a question I have the answer to.”

“But the last ghost does?”

She nods.

“Then take me back.”

He catches a last glance at his partners before he’s back at his hospital room again, standing in front of his bed.

The ghost is still there, an old woman now but still wearing the same smile.

“Do you still think Christmas is nothing special?”

Illya lowers his head a little in defeat. “Only special because people make it so.”

Her old voice cracks with a laugh. “That doesn’t make it untrue.” Her laughter fades. “It’s easier to have an ordinary day than a special but sad one. Surrounded by happy people loneliness and loss cuts deeper.”

The ghost sighs deeply and turns around, her limbs already turning translucent. “My time is up.”

The tips of her fingers start to disappear, her arms following fast. Before she fully disappears, she smiles back at him over her shoulder.

“Christmas might not mean something to you now, but it could. It’s your choice.”

Her voice had barely faded away, when the window of his room swings open, crashing against the wall, cracking one of the panes.

Cold wind tears at Illya’s clothes, biting the exposed skin.

Outside, a black shadow hovers in front of the window. The edges of it slowly take the form of black torn fabric. Illya can’t see a face or a body, everything is just layers of black.

Out of the howling wind and flapping black shadows, the ghost extends a pale, bony hand towards him. Illya doesn’t want to go with it, but he needs to know. He swallows thickly, as he takes careful steps in the ghost’s direction and takes its hand. The touch burns like frostbite.

Illya expects darkness and snow. Instead he’s in a well-lit hallway, completely unfamiliar to him. He can feel a cold chill from the ghost beside him, but his surroundings are pleasantly warm. There’s the giggling of children, but it is muffled by the closed doors. He follows the sound until he finds a dining room.

There’s a small family sitting around the table, eating dessert from the look of it. Christmas decorations are draped over various surfaces and on the walls, some obviously made by the children themselves. They are talking Russian between bites and laughter. They seem happy. Illya has never seen them before.

He turns to the ghost, who appeared in the corner of the room, chasing away the warmth and light where it dwells.

“Why am I here?”

His question is met with silence. Illya doesn’t repeat it.

He observes the family, noting their names. They are well educated and from the tasteful and expensive decor around the dining room, they definitely have the money that speaks of success. The children are six and ten. He can see that the older boy resembles his mother strongly, light hair, blue eyes, straight nose. On his little sister's face both of their parents’ features mix, her hair dark, her nose a little stronger, but with the eyes and lips of her mother. After they finished their dessert, they remain at the table, just talking. The smiles of the children get tired within the next hour, the night outside the windows already an impenetrable darkness.

A loud knock on the door cuts them off. The parents look at each other in confusion, clearly not expecting anyone. The mother slowly gets up from the table. “Maybe it’s the neighbors?”

A shadow slides over her husband’s face, but he covers it up quickly with a smile. “Yes, maybe.”

She slightly raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

The children watch their father curiously, as their mother walks to the front door.

The door bangs open. Over the surprised screech of the woman heavy footsteps storm through the hallway.

The man jumps up from his seat as five men storm the dining room. They don’t wear any recognizable uniform or symbols, but Illya instantly recognizes them as KGB.

Then a man, about as tall as Illya with a cap pulled far down over his face crosses to the father and instantly pins him down, shoving him violently onto the table and cuffing his hands behind his back. The children, hiding under the table, start to cry.

The mother pushes into the room, past the two men guarding the door.

“What is going on? Who are you?!”

The children cry harder.

Her husband is getting pulled to his feet flanked by two other agents.

“Please, don’t fight them! I am so sorry, this is my fault!”

The children rush out from under the table into the waiting arms of their mother. She hugs and shushes them, before shoving them behind her.

“You can’t do this!”

One of the men glares at her, which makes her takes a step back and reach out for her children behind her. The men dragging the father out don’t pause.

The husband looks ready to cry.

“Please just let me say goodbye to my family. It’s Christmas.”

A bitter snort from the tall man, sounding strange but all too familiar.

“Why would that matter?”

Cold washes over Illya as he moves to face the man, who isn’t just about as tall as him, but exactly the same size. His own blue eyes look back and through him.

The two children are held back by their mother, screaming for their father, as he numbly watches himself drag the man away.

He’s back with the KGB. The possibility was always at the back of his mind even during all these months with UNCLE. Still it surprises him. What happened? A cold dread fills him. He turns to the ghost, his shape just a darker shade of black in the night.

“Where is my team? Where is Gaby?”

The icy wind picks up as the ghost moves towards him, raising its hand. For the first time, he is scared of where the ghost is going to take him. Still he needs to know. He reaches out, the touch hurts worse than the first time.

They are at a graveyard. The snow is falling thickly once again, the frozen ground covered in white. Illya is almost sick. Snow and darkness. She can’t be dead. He would have protected her. He turns around frantically,

There is a lonely figure standing along the tombstones. The heavy coat around the shoulders hides the body shape, hat and scarf covering the head and neck, but the cut is vaguely female. Illya runs towards the person, passing through every obstacle on his way, clinging to the spark of hope that it could be her.

His knees almost give out at the relief flooding him.

Gaby is standing in front of one tombstone, a freshly lit candle before it. Her hands are buried deep into the pockets of her coat. The snow already covered the engraving, but Illya remembers her conversation with Solo, her mother dying on the second day of Christmas. She shouldn’t have to visit her mother’s grave alone. The least Illya can do is stay at her side, although she doesn’t know he’s here.

The ache he feels is different than the bitterness of his memories, different than the sting of witnessing what he had tainted and what he could have had. It’s more like the cold realization that he is still going to fail again, that the bit of joy he has is going to be lost.

Her voice startles him out of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

She stays standing there in silence for another few minutes, before cautiously stepping forward. She reaches out to clear some of the snow off the gravestone. With every swipe of her hand, more of the engraving is revealed.

Her smile is sad, as she steps back, a single tear rolling down her face.

“I miss you.”

Illya’s blood freezes. This is wrong. He reads the engraving again and again, but it doesn’t make sense.

                James Napoleon Solo

                   Beloved Friend

    9th March 1929 ~ 26th December 1963

         Died in Service of his Country

His mouth opens on his own accord.

“What is this?”

Illya whips around.

The ghost stays silent and unmoving, its long coat flowing in the wind like shadows made solid.

“What happened?!”

The darkness doesn’t answer.

The silence is broken by a choked sob. It stabs right to his core. Illya looks back at Gaby, her shoulders quivering so slightly, her hands balled to fists at her side. It hits him like a slap in the face. December 26th. In service of his country. Solo dies on the next mission, the one Illya insisted on taking.

Before he knows it, he’s at her side. The hand meant to reach around her, to comfort her, slips right through. He can do nothing, just watch as she suffers, every small sound tearing him apart, the tears rolling down her face searing his flesh.

There’s no one around to hear her, to let her lean on their shoulder, to share her grief.

He should be here for her.

She shouldn’t be here at all.

This is his fault. Solo died, Gaby is in pain, the team fell apart. He can’t let that happen.

“What do I have to do?”

He turns around to the ghost. It looks like a dark hole within the white blanket of snow, the wind tearing at its robe. There’s no reaction, not even an acknowledgement of Illya’s words. The wind picks up, blowing snow in his face, as he takes a step towards it.

“The last ghost said, that this is the path I have set. What do I have to do to change it?”

Still no answer, instead the ghost seems to fade at the edges.

Illya runs at the ghost. There has to be more than this.

The world blurs around him as he claws at the ghost’s robe. “I can still stop this!” The fabric tears and leaves him with nothing to hold on to. “This is not the future!”

He hears voices coming from afar, but he can’t concentrate right now. He needs answers, he needs to know that it’s not too late. “Tell me!”

Still the ghost fades from his grasp. The voices get louder, calling his name.

“Illya wake up!”

Illya jerks upright, a scream lodged in his throat. He needs answers, something. They can’t leave him like this, but he’s back in the bed at the U.N.C.L.E. facility in the next moment. He lets out another roar of frustration, his fists threatening to tear the sheets, when he hears his name called again, close by, the voice familiar.

Gaby hovers next to him, hands reaching out to him, just shy of touching him. For a second he is strangely relieved that she didn’t try to touch him, he doesn’t know how he would have reacted. The tension bleeds from his shoulders, his breathing needing another moment to catch up.

Gaby’s hand touches his shoulder lightly.

“Are you alright?”

Illya manages to nod, his head still swimming.

Her hand wanders further up, her fingertips carding through his sweat-matted hair. He closes his eyes at the sensation.

“You don’t look alright.”

Illya doesn’t dare to move, afraid to make her draw back.

“I will be.”

Gaby is still here. She’s still here and she still cares. He will be alright.

He carefully lowers himself back down again, Gaby’s hands not leaving him. It makes it easier to breathe. He blinks his eyes open again, to take her in properly. She’s wearing one of her comfortable blouses and pants, her ponytail messy. Her face is free of makeup and beautiful as always. She looks a little tired though. He asks himself how long she and Solo stayed up last night, if they spent the evening together at all.

Which leads to another question.

“Where is Solo?”

She shrugs. “Probably at his flat packing. He’s flying out early to prepare everything.”

Illya surges up again, making Gaby jump in surprise.

“No!”

Gaby sighs wearily. “Illya tomorrow is the earliest the doctors can clear you for the field, there’s no way—“

Illya shakes his head vigorously. Solo must not go on this mission. They need to stop him. He swings his legs out of the bed and tries to stand up on unsteady legs.

Startled, Gaby slips under his shoulder to help him.

“Illya what is it?”

She stays at his side as he heads to the door.

“We need to get to him before he leaves.”

He doesn’t need to look down to see Gaby’s confusion.

“What is going on with you, Illya?”

How can he explain this, without sounding completely insane? He shakes his head, his eyes wide and pleading.

“We just need to. Please.”

He can’t possibly express his gratitude, as Gaby frowns, then just nods and tightens her grip. They grab a blanket on their way out, since Illya is still only in his red pajamas. She bundles him into the passenger side of her car and takes off with the speed only reserved for narrow escapes.

When they turn the last corner to Solo’s street, they see him already standing on the curb, waving a cab over. Gaby puts her foot down. A cab stops in front of Solo, as they close in. Illya has barely the time to hold on to something, as she pulls the emergency brake. With a horrible screeching of tires the car swings swiftly to the side and comes to a stop directly in front of the cab, with them facing the driver who looks like his heart just stopped. The driver wastes no time to take off again before they are barely out of their car.

As Illya and Gaby stumble out of their car Solo just stares at them with a longsuffering look on his face, not even pretending to be surprised.

“Why?”

Gaby shrugs. “Ask Illya.”

Instead of repeating the question, he just lets his gaze sweep up and down his partner’s form. Illya becomes painfully aware again, that he’s only wearing a blanket and those red pajamas. He swallows around the sudden embarrassment.

“You cannot fly today.”

“And why is that?”

“We are not going on mission. We have Christmas.”

Two pairs of eyes immediately lock onto his. Illya holds their gazes, until the wind picks up and makes him shiver. He didn’t realize how cold it is until now.

Solo shakes his head a little and reaches inside his coat pocket.

“Let’s talk inside.”

Illya and Gaby follow him wordlessly back to his building.

Solo's apartment is on the second floor. They all troop wordlessly up an unremarkable staircase to Solo’s door. Solo unlocks it and holds it open for them.

The apartment is different than Illya imagined. Instead of the burst of color he expected, there's mostly white and wooden furniture as far as he can see.

Solo closes the door of his flat behind them and leans against it, watching Illya standing sheepishly in the hall.

“So just for me to understand, you don’t want us to go on the mission you begged Waverly for to celebrate a holiday you despise.”

Illya ducks his head a little.

“Yes.”

Gaby frowns at him. “What changed your mind so suddenly?”

Illya fights the urge to bite his lips. What can he possibly say? That he hallucinated ghosts visiting him last night and compelling him to do so? Rationally, he knows this is what happened, but the terror still claws at him, from the guilt of ruining his partner’s Christmas down to this sudden fear of being completely on his own again. Of course, the ghosts’ predictions were probably untrustworthy, but Illya can’t risk it. He realizes now, that he is lonely, because he makes himself lonely, passing up every invitation and opportunity to change that. And he finds that he is tired of it.

He clears his throat. It’s hard to meet the curious gazes of his partners. “I thought you will like it. And maybe I will like it too.”

There is a complete silence, until Solo huffs out a laugh.

“And people say there are no more Christmas miracles.”

Gaby shakes her head, but she also smiles.

“But you are calling Waverly to blow the mission off, Illya, not us.”

Illya smiles carefully. “I will do that.”

Solo hums briskly. “In that case, I have to prepare myself quite differently. And while I still appreciate your choice of pajamas, you might want to change into something else for polite company.”

Gaby chuckles, as she takes Illya’s hand and pulls him with her to the door again. “You might be right. See you later then, Solo.”

Their partner sees them out with a mock salute and a smile. Illya can only nod, too distracted by Gaby’s hand still holding his all the way to the car.

She drops him off at his own apartment with a wink. “Do hurry, we already lost Christmas Eve.”

He doesn’t have the time to answer her as she drives off instantly.

Illya does call Waverly. The Brit sounds, to Illya’s surprise, rather pleased as Illya tells him about the change of plans. That is, until Illya tells him to visit his sister. Illya curses himself as the line turns silent. He’s about to apologize for being out of line, when Waverly says he’ll consider it and bids him goodbye.

They gather at Gaby’s in the afternoon and it looks exactly like Illya dreamed. He keeps his mouth shut about that. Solo brings two large bags of groceries, Illya, a small Christmas tree and a box full of decoration he stumbled over on his way there. It was an accident really. The shop owner was only there because he forgot a present in his office and then somehow Illya bought as much decoration as he could carry although everything was terribly overpriced. But both Gaby’s and Solo’s eyes light up when they see him and it just might make it all worth it.

Solo is quick to disappear in the kitchen with apparently big plans while Illya and Gaby start to decorate her flat. There is some soft music playing in the background that Gaby is humming to. Illya mostly just carries the decoration after her while she decides where it might look best, but he doesn’t mind doing so. The small smile playing around Gaby’s lips doesn’t falter and Illya doesn’t get tired watching it. The only times he gets to do the decorating himself is when Gaby is too short to reach her desired spot. Everytime he reaches up to accommodate her wishes, he can feel her smile resting on him. It makes him feel warm.

They are about to finish when Solo calls them to set the table.

The meal is as elaborate as Illya imagined it to be, three courses with all of them having some fancy names Illya immediately forgets, but they are all delicious. They eat way more than anyone should, Solo’s smile getting brighter every time they ask for seconds and thirds. Despite that there are still left-overs. Illya and Gaby insist on cleaning up since Solo already cooked. They put everything away as Solo wanders over to the couch, having lost that argument.

While Illya starts to do the dishes, Gaby starts making Glühwein. Solo joins them after the scent wafts from the kitchen. This time Illya gets a mug of his own. He takes his first sip and it tastes as good as it smells. They all listen to Gaby’s records as they lounge on the couch, too full to even attempt to dance. Instead they start playing card games in which Solo somehow cheats, because how else does he win almost every time. It is still nice and gets even better the more Glühwein they drink. Solo starts teaching them simple card tricks after they gave up beating him. Illya finds himself laughing out loud as Gaby flips all of the cards straight into her face when she tries to shuffle them and she smiles back at him.

The evening gets late fast. Illya can barely stifle his yawns, still tired from the previous night, when Gaby lays her hand on his shoulder.

“We still have tomorrow, there’s no need to push yourself.”

Illya doesn’t have the chance to argue, as Solo already hands him his coat.

Gaby sees both of them out with strict commands to return tomorrow at the agreed time. Solo and Illya wave her goodbye before they turn to walk away together. They walk down a few streets in companionable silence, until they stop shortly at the corner where their ways part.

He’s about to bid his partner good night, when Solo beats him to it.

“Thank you.”

Illya raises his eyebrows. “What for, Cowboy?”

Solo shrugs and glances to the side. Illya has never seen him do that. It’s odd. The Solo in Illya’s mind wouldn’t be able to look the faintest bit uncertain even if he tried.

“For all you did today, for trying to have Christmas with us although you hate it.”

Illya’s mouth blurts out his next words, before he can stop himself.

“I do not hate Christmas.”

Both of them look surprised at his statement, but now that it’s out it doesn’t feel like a lie. Illya allows himself a shy smile.

“Not anymore.”

Solo slowly smiles back.

“That’s good, Peril. We still have a lot to do.”

Illya frowns a little, though the smile refuses to vanish from his face.

“We only have tomorrow left, Cowboy.”

“Well, there’s still the Russian Christmas in January.”

For a second Illya just stares at him, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Solo just grins at him. “Did you think you would get off the hook so easily now? Of course we will do it your way as well. My presents certainly won’t wait until next December.”

Illya still doesn’t know what to say. He swallows heavily.

“I have nothing for you.”

Illya doesn’t expect Solo to laugh, but he does.

“My, Peril, I’m going to let this pass, because apparently you’re a rookie in having Christmas. I only have something for you, because I wanted to and not because I expect something in return.”

His laughter quiets into a small smile.

“So see you tomorrow, Peril. Merry Christmas.”

Illya returns the smile.

“Merry Christmas, Cowboy.”

And for the first time since Illya can remember, he really means it.

The next day they meet back at Gaby’s apartment mid-morning to bake. Illya doesn’t really understand why they would need to start that early, but he doesn’t protest. He is actually a little early, because he didn’t want to wait in his apartment any longer. To his surprise, Solo is already there.

Illya begins to understand when Solo and Gaby agree upon making only ten different kinds of cookies, or Plätzchen as Gaby calls them, because apparently in Germany cookies at Christmas time Are. Not. Simply. Cookies. Some of the batters are similar, but even if they are every single one of them requires some extra step. Illya begins to feel like he would have needed a dossier beforehand, but luckily his partners seem to know what they are doing. Somehow he is content to let himself get bossed around, kneading the batter, cutting out cookies, spreading this or that over them before or after they go into the oven. They don’t have lunch, no one is hungry from tasting everything they make. Plätzchen start to pile up everywhere, so Gaby relocates and takes her pile out to the living room table.

Illya is about to glue the third story of the Terrassenplätzchen he’s working on onto its base with marmalade, when Solo nudges him with his elbow. It’s sheer luck that he doesn’t drop the small piece meant for the top, but he smears the marmalade all over his fingers. With a sigh Illya looks up.

“What is it Cowboy?”

“I think this is your cue.”

Illya frowns at him.

“For what?”

Solo just smirks. “Look where she sits.”

Illya glances over at Gaby, who still sits at the table, smearing molten chocolate half over the cookies in front of her and half over her hands. She looks adorable and Illya can feel a smile spreading over his face, which comes to a sudden stop when he sees something green hanging over her. His smile slips completely as he realizes what exactly it is.

A mistletoe. Illya knows where they put every bit of decoration and that one definitely wasn’t there yesterday.

His head snaps back to Solo with a glare, only to be met with a light smirk. It could have been a mile wide cheshire cat grin, Illya knows his partner only holds himself back to annoy him further.

Solo takes one of the still hot Nusshörnchen he’s supposed to roll in sugar and pops it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing it with all the time in the world.

“So? Are you going to kiss her or not, Peril?”

“No.”

Solo sighs. “Fine, then I’ll do it.”

Before the thought can even form in his head, Illya’s hand closes around Solo’s arm, effectively locking him in place.

“No.”

Solo raises his brows at him, the picture of mock innocence. “You know the saying. If nobody kisses her, she will stay alone next year.”

The memories of Gaby at the graveyard race through his mind. They are not going on that mission, so she won’t be there, but maybe she will be somewhere else and still be alone. He presses his lips into a flat line. This is something he can try to prevent though.

Maybe the mistletoe-thing is stupid, but then again maybe it’s not.

If he deserves to have someone, Gaby does even more. His feet already make up his mind, as they start walking out of the kitchen towards the table Gaby sits at.

“No she won’t.”

~*~ The End ~*~

Chapter Text

Plätzchen-Trivia:

In Germany (and probably some other countries) you have ordinary, all-year cookies (="Kekse") and special ones for Christmas time (="Plätzchen"). Usually you bake Plätzchen in the Advent season and not on Christmas itself, but it's something you do with family or friends. It's not uncommon to use them as small gifts. There are of course a lot of variations when you go looking for recipes, these are just the ones my family uses.

Here are pictures of Terrassenplätzchen and Nusshörnchen. So if you want to give it a try, here is how you make them:

General notes:

Heads up, everything will be in gramm, meter and degree Celsius.

The recipes use pretty basic stuff. You should be able to do normal baking swaps (different kind of nut, margarine for butter etc.) without it affecting the recipe too much.

Plätzchen keep for a long time if you pack them away in an airtight container with a napkin on the bottom, but they're better fresh of course.

What you need in terms of utensils:

A rolling pin and cookie cutters (Nusshörnchen can do without those)

Some flour to spare

For efficiency at least two baking plates

Bakingpaper

An Oven: Plätzchen recipes usually asume a heat source from the top and bottom and no ventilation. If you have an oven in which cannot turn ventilation off, you should lower the heat by 10 to 15°C . If you have only heating from above or below, you might want to put the baking tray one further away from the middle. If you have only heating from the back, turn the tray around somewhere between halfway and 2/3 of the time. Of course every oven is slightly different so ymmv.

Terrassenplätzchen / Universal Plätzchen Dough:

Ingredients:

for the dough:

375g butter

200g sugar

500g flour

one egg, four more egg yolks

In addition:

powdered sugar

currant marmalade (if you don't like currant, pick another red one that's more on the sour side)

Cookie cutters:

three different cookie cutters witht the same form but different sizes to stack them up later

(If you don't have those, you can still follow the recipe with any cutters you like)

Instructions:

1) knead the ingredients for the dough together. It is going to take a little while until it's smooth. I usually do it by hand, because the dough is going to be rather solid and kitchen gadgets usually give up after a while. Don't melt the butter, it should be around room temperature. Spread a little extra flour on your countertop if it sticks too much.

2) Put it in the fridge for about 2 hours

3) Take it out and roll it out with your rolling pin. There's quite a lot of dough, so it's better to cut it into smaller portions, about four to six should do the trick. (put the rest back into the fridge while you don't work on it). The rolled out dough shoul be really flat, I guess about 2mm. Again you should spread some flour beneath the dough and on top of it and get some on your rolling pin, so it won't stick.

4) Preheat your oven to 180°C.

5) Use your cookie cutter and cut some out. You're going to need three parts in different sizes for one Terrassenplätzchen, so see  that you have about equal amounts of each size. (If you don't have the right cutters, do even amounts of any shape you want to use)

6) Put the cut out dough on your baking plate covered in baking paper and slide it in on the middle row. While the first plate is in there, you can roll out more dough in the meantime and start cutting out again.

7) Check after 10 minutes. If the underside of the soon-to-be-Plätzchen turns brown. If that's the case, take them out, if not, leave them for another few minutes and check again. (Follow your gut feeling here, some like them a bit darker, some don't)

8) After you've taken them out, let them cool down. 10 to 20 minutes should be enough.

9) Take the marmalade and use it to glue the pieces together, the biggest on the bottom, the smallest on top, so you have three stories. Don't underestimate the power of marmalade, you only need a little bit in between each story. (For the ones without the right cutters, just take two of the same and glue them together back to back)

10) Row them up and dust them with powdered sugar

~Done~

The dough of the Terrassenplätzchen is an universal Plätzchen-dough, so can use it for making simpler or plainer variants of Plätzchen, just spread some chocolate sprinkles or egg yolk over the cut out dough before it goes into the oven or do anything you would like to try really. If you bake them plain, you can put some melted chocolate on top or sugar frosting (powdered sugar + lemon juice) after they've cooled down, just make sure it's going to harden.

Nusshörnchen:

Ingredients:

for the dough:

500g flour

400g butter

200g ground hazelnuts

150g sugar

In addition:

about 4-6 packages vanilla sugar and twice the amount of normal sugar.

(In the picture the Nusshörnchen are simply dusted with powdered sugar, which would be the alternative)

Instructions:

1) knead the ingredients for the dough together. It is going to take a little while until it's smooth. I usually do it by hand, because the dough is going to be rather solid and kitchen gadgets usually give up after a while. Don't melt the butter, it should be around room temperature. Spread a little extra flour on your countertop if it sticks too much.

2) Put it in the fridge for about 2 hours.

3) Pre heat your oven to 180°C

4) Form small worms with the dough, about 3cm long and 5mm in diameter. Put them directly on your baking plate on top of the baking paper with some little space between them (they'll flaten and expand a bit). On the picture they are curved, so if you want that. you need to bend them a little (I usually don't do that).

5) Put them into the oven, middle row. Prepare you sugar mixture on a plate, set down and empty plate next to it for the finished Nusshörnchen to stack on.

6) Check after 10 minutes. If the underside of the soon-to-be-Plätzchen turns brown. If that's the case, take them out, if not, leave them for another few minutes and check again. (Follow your gut feeling here, some like them a bit darker, some don't). When you check the underside of the almost-finished Nusshörnchen, you need to be more careful, because they are prone to fall apart while they are still hot. It won't darken as visibly as the other dough, so if one "accidentally" falls apart, just try it and decide (please don't burn your mouth though). In my experience they usually take about 12 minutes, but that depends on the thickness of the dough worms.

7) DON'T let them cool down for long, only for about 2 minutes so you can touch them. Rroll them in the sugar mix while they are still hot or it won't stick as it should. Again be careful because they fall apart easily (and are still hot).

~done~