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With the same hand that held a smoldering cigarette, the man introduced simply as "Harlow" held up a folder thick enough to be a doorstop.
"This contains rules of conduct, confidentiality agreements, next of kin information, ethics clauses, all in need of your signatures. It also contains L101 forms, which will be how you complete field reports after every assignment. And I do mean every assignment. For those assignments you have done, you will need to complete forms retroactively. Finished forms will go to your immediate commander, who, in this case, is Mr. Waverly." Harlow nodded at the man sitting in the back corner of the room.
"This will be your gospel as long as you're working here. Any questions, this folder can answer them."
"Mr. Harlow, was it?" Napoleon asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Just Harlow," the man answered as he leaned back in his chair. "It's a mononym."
"Well that's mysterious, isn't it?" Napoleon couldn't resist the smirk that rose on his lips, and Harlow narrowed his eyes. "I'd like to be clear that these forms aren't for MI6 employment."
"Do you have a problem with the British government, Mr. Solo?"
"Merely that I am not MI6," Napoleon said bluntly. "I know I'm alone in that now, and I'd hate to have the US start to question my loyalty."
Illya shifted uncomfortably in the chair that was too small for him, and Gaby touched his knee gently. With paperwork being finalized, the USSR behind him and the bridge burnt to ash, it was difficult to deny the reality of his decision now. The word "traitor" still rattled accusingly in his head, but he tried to block it out.
"Well," Harlow sniffed, "as long as we'll be sharing a building, we'll be sharing protocols as well."
"And still, I don't think my home office would be pleased to know that I'm signing onto anything titled MI6."
"They're just the standard policies, which have been cleared with the CIA," Waverly assured him. "No Faustian deals to be had. It's not as if you're signing your soul away."
"No, I'm sure Lucifer prefers less paperwork," Napoleon muttered.
"And you're to follow every letter in it, Mr. Solo, if you're to have no problems with me," Harlow warned.
"And here I thought this was shaping up to be a beautiful friendship."
Waverly stood and buttoned his jacket. "Ahem – well, I think that's all we needed. Thank you, Harlow. And you three, let's find your office."
"I'm sorry Waverly, I thought you said you were taking us to our office," Napoleon quipped as he crossed the scuffed wooden floors. "It looks like we've walked into a broom closet instead."
"When this organization is larger than three agents, Solo, I'll see what I can do about an upgrade. In the meantime, make yourselves at home." With that, Waverly left them, presumably for a much nicer office on a higher floor.
"It's funny," Gaby said as she dropped the files on her chosen desk.
"What is?" Illya asked.
"Well, I didn't realize spy work involved so much – paperwork."
"We can't be James Bond at every moment," Napoleon sighed. "Though we can certainly try. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to search for life's meaning at the bottom of a martini glass."
He walked to the door. "Coming, Teller?"
Gaby grabbed her coat. "Certainly."
"Peril?"
"We have work to do." Illya gestured helplessly at the stacks of papers around them.
Napoleon threw a coat at his partner. "And it'll still be here tomorrow."
Gaby grabbed a grimacing Illya by the elbow and dragged him from the office.
"Come on, Kuryakin. Let's meet London."
Illya watched British rain streak down the windows next to his desk. It had been a week since the trio went out to "meet London" – which was a misnomer, since none of them remembered much of the London they had seen that night – and paper mountains still sat at each of their desks, unfinished. Interviews, field reports in need of revisions, dossiers to prepare. In front of him were the protocols he still had yet to sign.
It was rare that Illya indulged in life's simpler pleasures. He preferred to focus his efforts on the utilitarian and the necessary. Work, eat, sleep. Repeat. His partners, on the other hand, taught constant lessons in decadence, and he could feel himself changing under their pressure. Food used to be fuel, and the night was spent preparing for the next day to start. Now every liquor he savored or night spent out until 1AM was a failure of his resolve. At first it made delicacies taste bitter with guilt, but he found himself increasingly comfortable with the habits, even seeking them out himself.
He glanced at his partners' unoccupied desks, smirked at the evidence of them scattered around the office. Solo's desk had become a monument to his vanity, covered in men's catalogues and compact mirrors and a gallery of pocket squares. His files sat on the floor to create space, his priorities made clear.
Gaby's decoration was more subdued. A little plant in a clay jar, trinkets gathered from previous missions, and a framed photo of a woman Illya assumed to be her mother but never asked. A petite green sweater hung from the back of her chair. She had forgotten it last night and in the cold she wound up wearing Illya's coat home. She would probably return it today, smelling of her perfume.
He tapped his pen sharply on his desk. It was easier to resist indulgence in the field, where there was urgent and dangerous work to be done. Being stuck at headquarters made it impossible. Every temptation was harder to avoid, placed so close to him that it would be so easy to simply reach out and –
Illya dropped his pen and ran a hand through his hair. He despised office work. It made him anxious – made him think too much . His mind was whirring as he found himself stuck on the same paragraph for the better part of an hour:
Any relationship of a personal nature that may adversely affect or interfere with the organization's culture of teamwork or ability to complete assignments in an appropriate manner is considered fraternization and is hereby prohibited.
That was all the "gospel" had to offer on the subject. No subsections, no clarifiers, no room for context. It took the most complex swirl of feelings he'd ever experienced in his life and reduced it to a legal contract, as if he were simply taking out a bank loan. He hovered over the signature line, his pen dripping ink dots.
At least there wasn't the fear of the KGB finding out now, threatening his life through hers. Once his superiors had worked out what happened to Dr. Teller's computer disk, it was clear he had signed his own death warrant. When he refused to abandon and betray U.N.C.L.E, defection – he still struggled with the word – was the only option.
She, of course, was supportive. She was the only thing that made him sure his choice was the right one. And now, he thought, they could be together in some real way. They had been dancing so close to the edge for so long, and after three more near-kisses and another wrestling match, somehow tenser than the first, he was more than ready to take the plunge.
He thought his life could be simpler now, even sweet. But the champagne bubbles had burst, the glass dumped out over his head.
He threw the pen down in frustration and stood up.
Right now, he needed something goddamn decadent.
The canteen was sparse, but its backroom was reliable for one thing: baked goods. It was where the more charitable of the MI6 employees chose to leave pastry boxes or where the secretaries might share celebratory homemade sweets. Another plus was that it was rarely occupied for long, and he preferred coworkers not knowing when he gave in to such vices.
He nodded politely at the agent leaving the room with a cup of coffee and approached the cookie jar on the counter, a cute thing reminiscent of childhood. Cautiously confirming that he was alone, he reached in only to unfortunately realize that it was empty. Resolving to make a trip to the bakery across the street, he pulled his hand back out, only to find that he couldn't.
He tried again, but it remained firmly stuck at his wrist. Panic flooded his senses. The same feeling as a child caught with his hand – he didn't finish that thought, growled at the aptness of the expression. He glared at the dancing bears painted repetitiously on it, the irony of the image not lost on him. Gaby had used that as a nickname on more than one occasion: her Russian circus bear. It had been said to tease or taunt, but the possessiveness in it meant that it didn't bother Illya. It felt rather nice, at the time. After this experience, it probably would not again.
He heard laughing voices approach and panic sparked again in his chest. With impressive dexterity, he managed to shrug one arm out of his jacket and drape it over the jar stuck on the other one, fleeing the scene as quickly and quietly as he could.
By some miracle, Illya made it back to the U.N.C.L.E. office without anyone questioning the odd bulge on his hidden arm. His partners still had not arrived. Normally he would be frustrated with their tardiness, but today he was thankful to be alone.
He sat down and put the jar between his knees, trying to yank his hand out with all his strength, but all he could feel was his wrist beginning to bruise. He was ready to smash the damn jar, punch the wall and risk the possible injury from shards when the door clicked and eased opened. Illya shoved his hand under the desk and attempted to look busy.
"Good morning," Gaby greeted. She removed her coat – his coat – and hung it up.
"It is almost afternoon," he pointed out.
"Is it? I suppose I'm still not used to an office routine."
"Probably East German chop shops do not open until much later."
She breathed out a little laugh. "Not until much, much later."
Illya smirked and nodded at her desk. "There is coffee for you, but it's probably cold by –" he trailed off when he noticed her scrutinizing him. "What is it?"
Are you writing with your left hand?"
Illya cursed mentally. "I – what of it?"
"I didn't think I'd ever have to point this out to you, but you're right-handed, Illya."
"I'm, how do you say? Ambi…?" He tried to sound it out. "Not ambulance, but –"
"Ambidextrous?" she offered with a poorly disguised smirk. "Since when?"
He sighed heavily.
"Since half an hour ago." Quickly her face fell in concern.
"Illya, is something wrong? What happened to your hand?"
He closed his eyes, pushed the chair away from the desk, and raised his hand up.
Gaby's eyes went wide, and then she began to laugh, the deepest and richest sound he had ever heard her make. In fact, she couldn't stop laughing, doubling over and holding herself around the middle.
"Gaby," he snapped.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped, trying to catch her breath. "Were you stress eating?"
"I do not stress eat."
"The pavlovas in that bakery on Goding Street would beg to differ."
He hated this country. All the temptation it presented.
"If you're going to mock me, you can do it somewhere else."
"Oh, Illya." Her voice took on a soft, sweet tone, the one normally reserved for when he was injured in the field and she was attempting to patch him up.
"Come here, let me help you."
Temptation also took the form of wine red lipstick, French perfume and silk stockings. It was the thin fingers unbuttoning his sleeve and rolling it up, slowly pushing it along his forearm up to the elbow and leaving goosebumps behind. Gaby took a seat on the edge of his desk and held the jar between her legs to get a better grip. Her flowing skirt hiked up a little and he tried desperately not to notice where that placed his hand, nor the edge of lace it made visible on her thigh.
She studied his trapped wrist for a minute. He treasured moments like this. She treated him like a precious object, delicate though she knew he wasn't. Balanced with other moments where she pushed and challenged him, liked to test his strength and exhibit hers, it made him feel real and almost whole.
"What were you stress eating about?" she asked quietly, concentrating on trying to angle his hand to pull free from the jar.
"Gaby, I told you, I do not –"
"Come on, Illya. Give me a little credit. I think I know you pretty well by now."
"It was nothing. Just – paperwork."
She hummed. "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Then what are you thinking now that's making you look so lost?" She jutted her chin out, equal parts invitation and challenge. He couldn't help it; his breath left him in a soft hiss.
"I was thinking…if I weren't so humiliated, I would kiss you," he confessed, surprising even himself. It was hardly his fault. With their dizzying closeness, he could have confessed countless things, far more incriminating things.
"At the office? Agent Kuryakin, you know there are rules against that." She said it playfully, but he was reminded of the words on the page he physically could not sign, and he lurched a step back. Forgetting that his trapped hand was still in her grip, he didn't get very far before she pulled him back.
"Illya…It's just a piece of paper, you know."
"It is the rules."
Gaby shrugged. "So we break them."
"I need the rules," he whispered.
"No you don't. You've just never lived without them." She leaned in until her nose could trace his jaw, his cheekbone.
"If you kiss me, it won't be the end of the world."
He could feel her breath against the shell of his ear as she spoke and he acquiesced, dropping his head lower. She learned from each of their moments how to weaken him more in the next, always plotting his surrender. He placed his good hand on the desk, beside her hip but not yet daring to touch her there.
"It's not the end I am worried about." Their eyes met, again, for the thousandth time, and he decided that the beginning and the end did not matter, as long as they were with her.
"I think you two forgot to put up the 'Do Not Disturb' sign."
At the interruption, Illya prayed to every god, every divinity he could name to please rain down all curses and ailments and fire and brimstone onto Napoleon Solo's head. From Gaby's expression, he could tell she was doing the same.
"It's not like that. Illya needed my help." Gaby's voice came out strangled and rough, and for a moment Illya's mortification was replaced with pride. Did he really affect her that way? As strongly as she affected him? That was a powerful feeling.
"What, Illya can't help himself on his own time?" Napoleon expertly dodged one of Gaby's flats hurdling toward his head.
"No, arschloch. His hand is stuck in a jar." Before Illya could protest, Gaby held up his hand for Napoleon to see. It looked like the Cowboy's eyes were going to pop out of his enormous head.
"I think I'm having a stroke. Or am I still dreaming? How else could I be seeing something as glorious as this?"
"Otva`li, Cowboy."
"Rude. How long have you been stuck like this?"
"Same answer."
"Fine, fine. I guess the least I can do is get you out."
Gaby hopped down from the desk. "Good luck. There's no way to pull it off without breaking his hand."
"My dear Gaby, you've been going about this all wrong. You see, pottery has certain weak spots, or pressure points. A result of the way it's crafted." Napoleon flexed his fingers and took Illya's heaviest pen from his desk, tapping it along the bottom surface of the jar.
"Once you find the point, just apply enough pressure…" After a particularly sharp tap the jar opened like a flower, splitting into perfect, equal shards on the desk. He brushed them into Illya's trash basket with a flourish.
"…And voilà."
"Napoleon!" Gaby scolded. "That belonged to someone!"
"So we'll buy another and leave an anonymous note of apology. In the meantime, Gaby, dispose of the evidence."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the cute one, and no one suspects you of being devious."
Gaby picked up the basket in a huff. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or slap you."
"Flattered, of course," Napoleon called as she slammed the door on her way out.
Illya rubbed his wrist, freed at last. "Thank you," he grumbled.
"You're welcome." Napoleon smiled smugly.
"Oh, and Peril – today's English lesson will be on 'loophole.'"