Chapter Text
1970
The gymnasium was undergoing a transformation. During the last 24 hours, agents and personnel, peeking in with eager anticipation, had glimpsed the stage lights being hung, the dais erected and the dance floor laid out. UNCLE Headquarters NY had reason to celebrate. For several weeks fear had gripped the offices, but Waverly was alive and recovering. Now Napoleon Solo, their temporary acting chief, had authorized a party to relieve the tension.
Illya Kuryakin, collar open and sleeves rolled, turned a screwdriver and wondered again how he had been swept up into these preparations. He should be catching up on journals or working in the lab, not assembling the framework for questionable party activities. Napoleon swore that the Old Man had given his approval for the event, yet Illya doubted all the details had been shared in those regular meetings at Waverly’s bedside.
After tightening the final screw, he stretched his stiff back and ran his hands through his hair. Then he noticed the white smear on his palm. “The paint is still wet,” he said in frustration.
“You must have found the touch-ups Phil mentioned.” Faustina Pemberley sat cross-legged near the Russian’s feet, attaching a skirt to the base of the stall.
“I don't appreciate sloppiness from Section VIII,” Illya said. “Not when our lives depend on their precision.”
“They're just party decorations, solnyshko,” she said, fastening the last section of fabric. The profusion of red lips echoed the lettering that spanned the top of the booth: ‘Kiss Kiss.’ She leaned back on her palms to view the completed project and smiled in satisfaction. “Everyone should be cut a bit of slack right now.”
“There is paint in my hair.”
Faustina opened her mouth to remark, then, looking up at his disgruntled expression, closed it with a sigh. Her smile returned, tinged with amusement. “Let's get it out before it dries.”
She held up her hand for assistance, and Illya frowned more deeply at this reminder of the injuries she had sustained in Waverly’s rescue. He pulled her to her feet, forgetting the paint on his hand. She looked at her white-stained fingers for a long moment, then waved them in his face in mock outrage. On another day, he would have responded in kind, but he was in no mood for games. Instead he rolled his eyes and walked off toward the locker rooms. Faustina watched his back, a tiny crease between her brows, then shrugged and followed.
Emerging from the women’s locker room minutes later, Faustina found a team from Section VIII carrying in a series of large, cloth-draped panels. Her eyes gleamed in excitement as they began to set them up around the room.
Illya rejoined her, muttering to himself. “I could not get it all.”
She held up a wet cloth. “I know.”
The tight line of his lips relaxed, and he unfolded a chair from a nearby stack. Straddling it, he crossed his arms along the back and rested his chin on them. Faustina picked up a section of blond hair, long even by Illya’s usual standards, and wiped at the paint. “I thought Napoleon told you to get this cut,” she said.
“He did. I have determined not to bow to his bourgeois tyranny.”
She raised her brows. “Vive la révolution,” she said with only a hint of a tremor in her voice. “But I do see why he thinks fighting THRUSH with hair in your eyes would be a handicap.”
He slanted her a withering glance, which she met with equanimity. “All finished,” she declared moments later.
“Thank you.” He ran his hands through the damp mop, brushing it back, but the bangs immediately flopped down over one eye.
Faustina bit back a smile. “My kit’s in my office. I could take care of it right now. Just trim it up to your brows and maybe even find your ears again.”
She drew his bangs aside as she spoke, her fingertips brushing his temple and the top of his ear. Illya sat very still, not even breathing. The only movement was the pulse beating at the base of his throat. “I doubt one mission in a salon qualifies you,” he said finally, his voice rough.
“Vidal said I have natural talent.”
His traitorous mind conjured an image of her fingers buried in his hair. A surge of longing followed, and he nearly fell out of the chair in an effort to back away from both the thoughts and their instigator. “I'll get it cut when Mr. Waverly tells me and not a moment before,” he said, wincing at the harshness in his tone.
She regarded him thoughtfully, her grey eyes puzzled and wary. “Suit yourself,” she said and tossed the wet cloth at him.
Illya was relieved when her attention was called by one of the men from Section VIII. Two large panels now stood against each wall, their protective covers removed. “How do they look, Miss Pemberley?” the young tech asked shyly.
Faustina clapped her hands. “Phil, they're everything I hoped for.” She gave him a quick hug. “Be sure to pay me a visit at the booth tonight. On the house.” Blushing to the roots of his hair, Phil whistled to his team and marched them triumphantly from the gymnasium.
“Another conquest?" Illya asked.
“Don't be an ass,” she advised as she moved in a slow circle, taking in the total effect of the panels.
The gymnasium had transformed into a Pop Art gallery. Each giant canvas captured a snapshot of Sections I through VIII in Roy Lichtenstein fashion. Faustina approached the homage to Communications, in which a comic-book blonde spoke into a microphone, ‘Channel D is open.’
Illya made a circuit of the room, finishing up at Faustina’s side. “You don't find it degrading for us to be portrayed in this trivialized manner?” he asked.
“You’d prefer social realism?” she countered. “A gargantuan mural of square-jawed agents industriously at work? Seems more suited to a post office than a party.”
He frowned. “I’d prefer none at all. This whole thing is frivolous and excessive.”
“All the best parties are, solnyshko,” she said, starting to test dance steps. “We all need to let off steam, and most of us can't do that in the lab.”
“No, you're going to do it at a kissing booth.” He kept his eyes resolutely on her face and not her swaying hips.
She stopped dancing and rubbed her thigh. “Now who’s being bourgeois? The money is for Waverly's favorite charities. You’d raise a fortune, you know, if you could reconcile it with your dignity.”
First he’d need to reconcile himself to her kissing a long line of men from UNCLE. “I defer to greater expertise,” he said. “You and Napoleon are far more qualified.”
Her eyes flashed, but when she spoke her tone was light. “That's not the word around the water cooler.”
“My kisses weren't rated as ‘better than winning Le Mans.’”
“Purely Italian effusiveness,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Nicolò said that about all his fiancées.” Her smile, fondly reminiscent, faded at his sour expression, and her brows lifted. “Didn't a girl once faint at the mere thought of kissing you? That’s qualification enough.”
“She was overcome by dehydration, not by me,” he insisted. “What about the film that was delayed because the director had to be repeatedly pulled from your arms?”
She rolled her eyes. “That was a decade ago. And my scrapbooks are officially above your clearance for a while.”
“Set the production back by weeks and millions of francs. It's still in the press.”
“Only because the film’s producer just died, and they dug up his ancient feud with Armand to pad their copy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Since when do you read the tabloids?”
Illya colored. The tiny photo on the gossip rag had drawn his eye like a magnet, and he had read the story several times before forcing himself to throw the issue away. “Since when do you get your hair set?” he countered, changing the subject abruptly.
Her hand flew to her hair. The brown curls, usually worn without artifice, were teased and smoothed into a high-crowned mass of waves framing her face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re not the only one who can offer a critique.”
She stared at him in consternation. Then her lips curved, a sultry smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Fair enough. Let me guess your objections.” She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them. “Too bourgeois?”
“One could argue that.”
“I see.” She drew another step closer. “How about frivolous?”
“Certainly.”
“And excessive?”
“Without a doubt.” He stood toe to toe with her now. He could smell her familiar perfume and something new, which he guessed to be the hairspray.
“Anything else?” Her proximity was a challenge, daring him to back away again.
This was a game he would play. He reached up, and with the back of his fingers, gently traced the fall of her bangs and the stiff wave of hair skirting her cheek. Ever so slightly, he felt her lean into his touch. How simple it would be to move his hand to the nape of her neck and draw her to him. How difficult to know if that would that be a victory or a defeat.
He paused his hand at her jawline and flicked a glossy curl. “The style is hard and artificial. Like hers.” He gestured to the panel with the comic-book blonde, then let his hand fall. “Why did you change it?”
Faustina blinked and visibly gathered herself. “I was feeling restless. April suggested it.”
“Restless,” he said, giving voice to his fears, “or nostalgic?”
“What?”
She stepped back. It was a matter of inches, but the rift he'd been sensing between them seemed to widen into a chasm. He usually welcomed that distance from others, allowing very few to bridge it. With Faustina the separation was disorienting, and he didn't like the feeling.
He leaned toward her, his voice rising. “The hair. The party. The…recreational activities.” His eyes darted to the kissing booth and back. “A pattern emerges.”
“And you're so good at patterns,” she drawled, crossing her arms. “So you’ve run me through your spectrometer, have you? Just what is it that I'm feeling so nostalgic for?”
She regarded him coolly, her eyes veiled and remote. Where were the waving hands? The verbal fireworks? The colorful array of foreign epithets? Anxious, ill-considered words spilled out of him. “Life before UNCLE. You admit to restlessness. Are you bored at last? Your history suggests a change is overdue.”
“Long overdue,” Faustina whispered. “So, one moment I'm yearning for the past, the next I'm restless for the future. You have me coming and going. Very disorienting.”
“Perhaps you’re out of practice,” Illya scoffed. He barely recognized this marble figure, who stared back like a stranger yet spoke his thoughts aloud. “Best to start slowly, in that case. Revisit some past triumphs before seeking new worlds to conquer.”
“How poetic. Any suggestions?”
She should be putting him in his place, not provoking him to more acid words. A dozen responses collided in his brain. Which one would draw her out, lighting her eyes for battle and setting her off like a Congreve rocket? He answered, “Dubreton?”
“Etienne has just been married.”
“So had that French director.”
Anger lit her eyes, but it was a cold fury, chilling his heart. “This trial is over, Tovarisch Kuryakin.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
“Faustina, wait.”
“Go to Hell.”