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The mission hasn’t gone wrong, exactly, but it certainly hasn’t gone right. Solo is one way, ghosting through the Kockums Shipyard and drawing pursuit, and Illya is driving them grimly out of Malmö in the other direction, beyond the outskirts of the city to regroup.
He’s injured, Gaby is sure- after working with U.N.C.L.E. for this long, she knows the smell of blood, but Illya hasn’t mentioned it and won’t thank her for distracting him while he concentrates on foiling any trail. They haven’t changed cars, but their Volvo P is innocuous enough to not draw attention, they hope. The comm equipment is in good condition, and Gaby and Illya both have most of their gear, all of their clothes, and their weapons; a nice change.
Until the sheep.
Illya’s superhuman reflexes fail him this time, and as he jerks the wheel to avoid the ovine mob looming up out of the blowing snow, the car spins, shudders, and smashes snout-first into a deep gully. Gaby ignores the spate of growled Russian profanity, peeling herself off the dashboard and reaching for Illya.
“Are you okay?” he asks urgently, “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Why are there sheep in the road?” Gaby feels her ribs, deciding they are intact, rubs her bumped knee, and gloomily studies the steam pouring out from under the hood. The radiator is, of course, shattered. “Klasse Weihnachten,” she mutters irritably. Why the fascist Per Engdahl felt the need to initiate increased anti-government propaganda the week before their much-needed holiday was anyone’s guess. No matter how beautiful this country is, Gaby is freezing.
“Sounds like one of Solo’s stupid American jokes, “why is sheep in road?” Illya says, trying to force open the driver’s door. It’s solidly jammed, and Gaby sighs again and rolls down her window, grabbing the roof and levering herself out. Illya’s side is buckled against a concrete culvert, and a piece of rebar is impaled through the door.
“We aren’t going anywhere in this again tonight. We should find a place to stay out of the weather.” Gaby suggests.
“Maybe follow the sheep? Surely farm is close.”
Illya painfully extracts himself from the car the same way, clipping his head on the window frame and grumbling something darkly Russian when his leg tangles with the dashboard wiring. Gaby moves to help, and her shoulder and hands ease him the rest of the way out. She can still smell the coppery odor, but there is nothing to be done about it now.
“Stay on the road, or off?” she asks him. Neither is particularly appealing.
“On will be smoother walking, and more likely to come across a place to stop. Maybe barn. Sheep will keep it warm.”
Gaby looks at Illya with deep suspicion. “How does a KGB agent know about sheep?”
Illya shrugs one shoulder. “My cousin had a farm.”
Gaby ruthlessly suppresses the urge to ask more. Illya will only discuss his past and his family if given a long leash; questions make him uncomfortable. Solo asks, Gaby remains silent and is given more for her own Eastern European reticence.
Illya shoulders the pack containing the transmitter and weapons. Gaby considers trying to wrestle it away from him, but gives it up as a lost cause. Illya has very strong opinions on the roles they play. He’s chosen the beast of burden and she lets him have it. She picks up her valise and shoulders the grip containing Illya’s meager supply of clothing, abandoning her suitcase to the storm. There is nothing in it to trace back to them if Engdahl’s associates find the car.
Illya sets off, breaking a trail for her through the snow. She follows, daintily placing her feet in the furrows he makes as he plows through the drifting whiteness. He’s limping slightly and coughs a few times, but she has to trust that he isn’t seriously hurt. Illya’s limits aren’t like other people’s.
She hopes Solo is intact, because Waverly won’t be expecting them to call for an extraction until Boxing Day, two days from now. She was looking forward to a British Christmas on the other side of the Wall, with presents and plentiful food, wassail and Christmas crackers and goose, curling up in an easy chair in front of a crackling fire. Now she’s just looking forward to not being shot. Who says the life of a secret agent isn’t glamorous?
Illya stumbles, and she darts to his side to steady him. He’s always pale, but he looks waxy in the dim light of the snowfall. “Are you all right?”
He straightens himself immediately. “I am okay. We should keep moving.”
Gaby realizes she should watch him more closely. His injuries may be worse than she thinks, like the first time outside Rome when he broke two ribs and then threw a motorcycle at someone, but fussed like an anxious mother cat over her bruises and cuts. He’s painfully heroic.
Her increased scrutiny reveals that Illya is not, indeed, okay. His breathing is labored, and he is pausing frequently to look around. They have to find a place to stop. Gaby pushes him aside and takes the lead, ignoring his protests. “You may want to turn into an icicle, but I don’t,” she snaps crisply. “When you get your breath back, you can lead again.” He doesn’t protest, and that’s when Gaby begins to be frightened.
After a hundred feet, she’s winded. The snow that is calf-high on Illya is almost to her knees, but she keeps on grimly, more grateful than Solo will ever know for the warm tweed trousers and thick woollen tights he chose for this particular mission. After a half-mile, her legs are burning and her feet are numb.
“Listen!” Illya catches her shoulder and she crunches to a stop in the snow. They stand immobile, and she hears what has drawn his attention.
“It’s a dog barking, that way.” Gaby gestures to the left across a snow-covered field. “Do you smell that?” The faint tang of burning wood drifts against her nose. She changes direction, leading Illya toward the low stone wall almost hidden by drifting snow.
It’s an easy scramble to the flat top, and she leaps off onto the snow on the other side. It proves much deeper on the lee side, and she sinks into the snow up to her waist. Illya looks like he’s considering smiling, but settles for a grimace instead as he comes over and plucks her out of the drift with a pained grunt.
“You are hurt!” she accuses, and he shakes his head.
“I will be fine once we find shelter. Not long now, I think.”
Illya sets off in front of her again, and Gaby lets him. The dog is still barking, and then it bounds toward them through the snow. It’s small, with short legs, a dense gray coat, and a wonderfully curly tail. It pauses to bark some more, then dashes back off again. Illya follows it. He’s plodding now, one foot numbly in front of the other, and Gaby moves to his side, tucking herself under his arm and wedging her shoulder against his side to offer what support she can. They’ve had this problem before; Solo can serve as a good crutch for Illya in a pinch, and vice versa, but Gaby is about five inches too short to be of true use. She tries anyway, grabbing his coat in her fist and trying to take some of the weight of the pack.
Her hand is in slimy wet, icy and disgusting. She yanks it back and realizes her palm is covered with frozen blood, but her fingers are wet with it. “Damn it, Illya! How long have you been bleeding like this?”
He looks down at her. “Since Malmö. Worse after wreck, I think. I did not want you to worry.”
Gaby fights a fierce internal battle. Slapping him for being stupid isn’t going to help, but oh, she wants to so very much. She contents herself with a Swedish insult, byfåne, which means “village idiot” and follows up with calling him a donkey in Turkish.
He looks abashed. “I have been wounded before. I will be fine. But I would like to get out of the snow?”
Gaby growls in the back of her throat, grabs his coat and begins marching along in the dog’s wake. KGB’s finest, her ass. No wonder the KGB usually works in teams of three, since they haven’t got a brain among them.
They are making good progress when Illya hits either an ice slick under the powdery snow, or catches his foot. He goes down hard, and Gaby goes with him. He’s facedown in the snow, unmoving, as she squirms free. Grabbing his shoulders she levers him onto his back. His eyes are closed, his lips grayish blue. A red stain is beginning around his hip.
“Illya,” she says sharply. “I cannot lift you by myself. You have to get up.”
“Okay.” His lashes flutter and he rolls to his side but can’t make it the rest of the way. Gaby’s hands flutter to his face. He’s clammy and painfully chilled.
“Please, Illya!” She kneels and pushes her body under his, levering him into a sitting position. She wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls, dragging him to his knees primarily by force of will. Why isn’t Solo here? She needs him, and she misses the suave American with the light fingers with a pang that hurts her heart as she struggles with Illya in the snow.
The dog is still barking, and she realizes that she needs help. “I will be right back. You have to stay sitting up, Illya.” She takes the pack off his back, props it on her valise, and folds him forward over it like a weary child. He rests his cheek on the bag and nods weakly. Removing her coat is a blow, but she pushes on through the bitter cold and wraps it over his shoulders.
She leaves him without a look back. It’s up to her now.
This is either the deafest family in Sweden, or no one is home. The dog is still barking, running circles around her as she forces her way toward the smell of the woodsmoke. She can see buildings up ahead, what looks like a house, barn and sheds around a small central quadrangle, made from a motley array of materials; wood, red brick, stone, half-timber and thatch. Her nose tells her she has found a barnyard as well, and she stumbles into a barn, grateful to be out of the wind. A large cow looks politely at her over a slatted wall door, and a larger horse leaves the manger, drooling hay, and sticks a shaggy head out into the aisle. The dog finally stops barking. Gaby gratefully snatches up a geriatric barn coat hanging on a peg and wraps it over her shoulders.
It’s only about twenty-five steps to the house, which is dark and empty- and locked tight. Gaby curses and bangs on the door, shouting “Hello?” No one answers.
She slogs back to the barn. If she can get Illya here, she can get him warm and tend to his wounds, and maybe pick the lock to the house. She looks wildly around the barn, discarding the idea of the tractor, and settling on an old wooden sleigh, more of a sledge, really. It’s small, and battered, but seems serviceable, and there’s a harness hanging near the horse. Her grandparents had a pony cart when she was a child, and she hopes that she can remember how to attach a horse to pull.
The horse proves amiable, thank God, and most of the straps go to what looks right. It will have to do. Gaby steps into the sleigh’s box and takes the reins. The dog leaps up beside her, tongue lolling merrily. It takes her a moment to figure out how to start the horse, but once she does, the large brown beast plods out of the barn and into the snow.
She nearly misses Illya, covered as he is in snow. He hasn’t moved, still slumped painfully forward over the packs, and she drops the reins, leaps out of the sleigh and runs to him, dropping to her knees in the snow and cupping his face in her hands.
Mercifully, his unfairly long eyelashes flutter. He’s still alive, and as long as there is breath in Illya Kuryakin’s body, there is hope for recovery. She gives in to the searing relief for a moment, resting her lips against the top of his head, warming his damp crown with her hot breath.
“I need you to help me. I have a sleigh, but I cannot lift you.” Gaby speaks baldly. If he can’t help her get him into the box, she will have to drag him and she doubts she is able. It’s not the muscle, it’s the leverage.
In answer, Illya gathers himself and flops sideways, rolling to his hands and knees. The effort nearly finishes him, and Gaby scrambles to her feet and draws the horse as close as she can get. Illya locks his gloved hands against the sleigh’s box and levers up; Gaby grabs the back of his pants and pulls as hard as she can. Between them, they manage to land Illya on the passenger bench, and he sprawls out, legs hanging over the side and one arm draped off the back. It will have to do, and Gaby throws her coat back over him, covering his face, tosses his pack and her valise into the sleigh, and redirects the willing horse toward home.
The barn is quiet, and the relief from the wind is amazing. There are folded blankets in the sleigh’s box, and she takes two and puts them over Illya and one over the horse, who looks disgruntled at remaining attached to the sleigh. Illya is still alarmingly pale, and she knows she has to get him, and herself, warm as soon as possible.
The horse snorts and looks longingly toward its stall. “I’m sorry, but he has to stay warm,” she apologizes to it. “You did a good job. Thank you.”
She plunges back out into the snow toward the farmhouse. The drifts in the barnyard are deep and difficult, and she leaps like a gazelle toward the other buildings. The scent of burning wood catches her nose again, and she looks to her right. A weatherbeaten wood hut with stone fittings and two small windows seems to be the source of the smoke, and she struggles over to the small porch and opens the door. Heat billows out, and with a gasp, she flings herself in and closes the door.
She’s in a small household sauna, very simple, with two benches, a firebox, a pile of old towels, a bucket of water, and a dipper. It’s exactly what she needs, a bit of a Christmas miracle.
Buoyed by her discovery, her trip back to the barn is easy, and the horse grudgingly delivers Illya to the porch of the sauna and stands patiently while Gaby wrestles him out of the sleigh and supports him inside, letting him collapse full-length on one of the benches. He just fits, his feet hanging off only a little, and Gaby leaves him there, closing the door.
A good slap on the shaggy flank solves the problem of the horse for the moment, and the dog escorts it in the direction of the barn. She can deal with the harness and sleigh later. Illya is the most important thing. He’s the only important thing.
She slips back inside, letting as little heat escape as possible. She has no idea why the sauna has been left hot; maybe it’s easier to keep a small building to temperature in a cold climate, maybe the family will return at any moment and there will be a sauna party.
Illya is still sprawled where she left him, and Gaby removes her suit jacket and tosses it in a corner, and toes off her snow-crusted boots. Illya’s parka is next, and he rouses enough to help her, rolling to one side and then another. He’s still alarmingly pale, as Gaby tugs off his Chelsea boots and removes his pants, revealing blood soaked into his briefs and smeared down his leg. His shirt is next, and she avails herself of the small blade sheathed in his boot to cut his shirt off. It’s ruined anyway, as is his undershirt.
Now she can see the wound, and it’s not particularly pretty; two wounds, actually, one deeper and longer than the other. One crosses his waist just below his ribs, and the larger has gone through his flesh just above his hipbone. Both are still bleeding sluggishly, and Gaby folds a towel into a pad and leans all her weight on the wounds. Illya grunts in pain, and Gaby bends enough to press a kiss to his belly, the only spot she can reach without letting up on the pressure. They’ve learned a lot about field medicine from for U.N.C.L.E. since the team’s inception.
The heat is bliss, and Illya’s body is losing some of the tautness in his muscles as he relaxes a bit. His pain tolerance is incredible; she and Solo will both sob like babies at injuries that Illya will soldier through with little more than an annoyed expression. He’s too stoic for his own good, though, and she tells him so, testily, amid the stream of soothing chatter and information about the wound.
“It is the Russian way,” he grumbles, eyes still closed, but some color returning to his face. Gaby peels away the edge of the towel to check. The bleeding seems to be stopping, but she leans down again to be sure. As Illya warms up, blood will flow back from his core to his extremities, and he’s lost quite enough as it is.
“Can you hold this for a while?” she asks, and upon receiving an affirmative nod, allows Illya to replace her hands with his massive palm.
She begins to cut one of the towels into strips. This would be much easier if Illya were fully functional, since she’s seen him break a rope in half with his bare hands, but the knife will do. She’s not being graded for tidiness.
“Don’t sit up,” she orders, using a towel scrap and some water from the bucket to begin cleaning him up. She debates stripping off his briefs, but Illya is generally uncomfortable about nudity, and once she wipes the blood from his leg and thigh, she drapes a towel over the area. His body really is a work of art; where Solo is bulky and muscular, Illya is long, lean and swift. There is pleasure to be taken in running her hands over him in long, slow swipes of the cloth and she steals it greedily. He’s in no position to stop her. He wouldn’t anyway. Illya loves her touch in the same unselfconscious way a cat relaxes under stroking. He won’t seek it, but oh, he will accept if she offers.
Gaby swears to herself as she realizes all their clothes are still in the barn. While a sauna tradition to throw oneself into the snow after building up a good sweat, going out into the snow holds no current appeal. She’s left the horse, though, and if she can get the lockpicks, maybe there is something in the house Illya can eat; he’s going to need nourishment after losing that much blood.
She brushes his hand aside and checks the wound again. The bleeding has mostly stopped, and Gaby folds a thick towel pad and secures it with strips of towel.
“You stay here. Don’t move.”
The wind bites hard as she opens the door, but Illya’s parka covers her to her knees, and she’s toasty warm now. The horse seems pleased to see her, and the dog is outright delighted. She takes a minute to play with her, belly rubbing and ear tousling. The horse is easy to free from the sleigh, and walks immediately into its stall, looking inquiringly at her and rattling the manger. Gaby gives it an armful of hay, restores the blankets to the sleigh, and manages to hang the harness not at all like she found it. It’s beyond her skills, and she tucks a 500 kronor note into the collar. Waverly always gives them emergency funds, and this qualifies.
The lock on the house gives easily, and she’s in a small, tidy, wood-panelled kitchen with charmingly primitive furniture, and in the corner, a cupboard bed. Upstairs she finds a large bedstead tucked under the eaves. It will fit Illya. She wonders where the people who live here are; there is food in the cupboards and the Electrolux refrigerator, but no leftovers, and no detritus of daily living. The animals are cared for, obviously. The mystery is solved when she looks at the back of the door; there is a list of fees and rules for use of the home. It’s a vacation rental, used for getaway weekends from Malmö. Perfect. They will be safe and likely undisturbed.
Gaby puts the kettle on the stove for tea, and finds a few cans of soup and some packaged biscuits. She’s grateful to the owners for the electric stove and lights. Right now, she’s lacking the energy to light a woodstove, and just wants to get Illya sorted so she can rest. Between the adrenaline of their escape, the cold, and the physical exertion, she’s about done in.
Illya’s sitting up by the time she returns to the sauna. He looks better, and he’s sheened lightly with sweat. He’s tidied as well, wiping up blood smears and putting all the cut up clothing and towels in the remnants of his turtleneck.
“Can you walk?” Gaby asks, setting fresh clothes next to him. They don’t match at all, but who cares? Solo’s not here to play fashion editor.
He nods and stands, wavering slightly and reaching to steady himself. He can touch the walls on either side of the sauna, and braces as Gaby darts forward and wraps her arms around his waist. Her cheek rests against his damp chest, and she holds him tightly. His arms circle her in return and Gaby cuddles closer.
“I wish you would stop getting hurt. I don’t like cleaning up your blood.”
She can feel his one-shoulder shrug. “At least I was not shot.” Gaby pushes back and looks up at him. His blue eyes are tired, but clear, and he seems willing to hold her gaze for as long as she wishes. He cups her cheek in one big hand. “You make good nurse.”
The trip to the farmhouse is easy. Gaby insists on going first, hauling the bags, and Illya lets her. He carries the dog instead.
Gaby installs him at the table with a cup of hot, very sweet tea, which he pronounces repulsive, but finishes, and then powers through two cans of soup and the bulk of the biscuits.
He’s revived a good bit from the food, but Gaby is unable to finish her soup, and finally puts her head down on the table. A chair scrapes, and large warm hands land on her shoulders. “You should go to bed.”
“I know,” she tells him, “but my legs won’t move. Don’t try and carry me! I can do it. I just need a minute more.”
Illya clicks his tongue. “You don’t need to be so strong. I will help you.”
Gaby whips her head up from the table and shoots him a glare. “No. You will not carry me.”
Illya looks smug. “Of course I will not. You are awake now.”
Gaby snarls inarticulately and stomps up the stairs, valise in hand. As she changes into her pyjamas, she can hear the rumble of his voice downstairs. Is he talking to the dog, she wonders, but decides she doesn’t care if he’s talking to der Weihnachtsmann once she crawls into the soft, wide bed. The crisp linens warm quickly, and the pillow cradles her head. She’s drowsing off when Illya comes up the stairs and climbs in with her. She hasn’t left him a choice if he wants to sleep in any position other than fetal, since the cabinet bed will fit half of him. It was likely made for children while the parents slept upstairs.
He arranges himself, and Gaby smells the light woodsiness of his cologne, and the musk of his skin. He smells like the best things to her, like safety, and happiness, and she rolls toward his waiting arms, burying her face in the soft skin of his bicep. Her body is pressed against his, and he envelops her, holding her full-length against his strength.
Gaby relaxes fully for the first time that day, content to be in his embrace, and Illya rests his chin on the crown of her head, exhaling deeply. “Tomorrow, after we rest, Solo will meet us in the harbor. He stole a hovercraft and will extract us from Ribersborg beach, by the baths.”
“A hovercraft?” Gaby says incredulously.
Illya ignores that. “He says we can be in Copenhagen by noon. He’s spoken with Waverly and this is the best plan.” Illya runs his hand softly through her hair. “I know you wanted an English Christmas, but Denmark has nice customs too.”
Gaby’s voice is muffled by his chest. “I have presents for you, and Solo, but they are in London.”
“We will have second holiday, then, when we get back. For now, we make do.”
Gaby looks up at Illya, in time to see his mouth descending toward hers. She takes him in, sweet biscuits and tea, salt from the soup, and that indefinable Illya. He kisses her until she is breathless, but she still growls in protest when he pulls away from her lips enough to say quietly, “Frohe Weihnachten, liebste Mädchen.”
“Schastlivogo Rozhdestva moya lyubov.”
