Stuck In the Middle With You

by diadema

Summary:

5 times he uses her language and one time she uses his.

Notes:

• For rebelliousrose, MollokoPlus.

In honor of UNCLE's 3rd 'birthday', I wanted to celebrate two, very special members of our fandom family. They are always quick to share their encouragement and expertise and I have looked up to them both since well before I decided to join AO3. It might be their Illya profile pictures, but I've always thought of them as the Dynamic Duo, haha, and it's been such a treat getting to know these Big Name Fans better. I appreciate everything that they do for us as readers and as writers. <3

Rebelliousrose, thank you for adopting me as your 'fandom padawan' all these months ago. You were among the first to welcome me, and to have you as my friend, mentor, and fellow research nerd means more than I can say!

MollokoPlus, I am so thrilled to see you writing for us! Your love of the film and the original series inspires me, and it's always a joy to hear about your experiences/personal connections to our work. Thank you for the perspective and support you provide us!

I hope you enjoy! Comments always welcome. :)

Chapter 1: the middle distance

The first time he speaks to her in German, it catches them both off-guard. It is instinct—strange instinct—that has him using her mother tongue, there on the balcony of their hotel room. The language feels clumsy in his mouth, stilted and oddly formal, somehow… wrong for what he is trying to communicate.

Illya had never been taught the endearments, the words of comfort and consolation when he had first learned the language through the KGB. He’d had no use for them and certainly had never been on their receiving end during the handful of missions he’d been sent on to Germany.

Now, as he holds the mechanic close, mumbling the same, halting reassurances into her hair over and over again, he wishes—almost desperately—that he had.

Illya had returned from his evening run to find the French doors open, the long, white curtains fluttering wildly on either side. He was reaching for his gun when he had caught sight of her: a forlorn figure leaning against the railing. Barefoot and pajama-clad, the image was far more alarming than endearing.

Gaby was staring out into the middle distance, a half-empty glass dangling idly from her fingertips. She was lost to him, to the wind whipping through her hair and the dark clouds gathered ominously overhead. Withdrawn into herself or to another world entirely.

He had padded cautiously into the room. A quick glance at the discarded dossier on the coffee table had told him everything he’d needed to know. Illya had approached her, calling her name softly, trying to coax her back to him.

Ist alles in Ordnung? he’d asked. Only then did she acknowledge him, head swiveling slowly to look at him with unfocused eyes. He’d swallowed, wondered if he were making a mistake. For her, for him, this could very well be sacrilege.

But then he saw the expression on her face—startlingly open and so very young in the moonlight—and that made his decision for him. The German words scalded his throat, harsh to his own ears, the same way they always did, the same way they always were, but he persisted.

Are you okay?  He repeated. Ever so slowly, she shook her head. It was a rare confession that left him feeling inexplicably tender. Heart seizing in his chest, Illya had gentled the glass from her hand and set it aside, turning back to open his arms for her.

An invitation.

She accepted—numbly at first, then with a ferocity that startled him—hands fisting in the back of his shirt, slight frame shuddering against him. Holding onto him as if her life depended on it. As he has always held her.

By the time the rain starts to fall, Illya’s throat feels raw, ragged from wear and worry. He can only hope that he has done enough. That the low, steady rumble of his voice, the warmth of his chest, the weight of his arms around her will soothe that wild, tragic thing behind her eyes.

When she has calmed enough and is shaking more from cold than emotion, Illya takes her by the hand and guides her back into their suite. He lingers in her doorway after she brushes past him, waits until she has crawled under the covers before his hand moves to the switch on the wall.

The familiar phrases ramble through his mind, rendered nearly meaningless from how often he has said them in the last half hour alone. You are safe. It’s okay. I am here. She looks at him and then through him, and Illya can see as well as feel the exhaustion overtake her.

“Gute Nacht,” he murmurs, finally turning out the light. “Schlaf schön.”

He is heading towards his own room when he thinks he hears her speak. It is so faint as to be imagined, so unexpected as to be impossible. Illya’s breath catches in his throat, and he freezes, though his heartbeat is rabbiting away.

“Gaby?”

When only silence greets him, Illya turns back around and wonders if he’d actually heard anything at all.

Notes:

So, I decided to try something new by writing a 5 Times fic. The second one is written and all the rest have been outlined, so it shouldn't be too long of a wait, I hope! Many thanks to SydneyMo for providing the German translations and to her and Somedeepmystery and Festiveviolet31 for looking things over for me.

I would also like to thank guest user "Uncle" whose comment on "The Red Arrow Affair" prompted me to reconsider how I think of Illya and his connection/feelings regarding the Germans in light of all that his country had suffered at their hands. The comment thread is on Ch. 3 (too lengthy to post here), but if you're interested in hearing more of our thoughts and/or weighing in, please feel free to check it out!

"Ist alles in Ordnung?" - the literal translation would be along the lines of "is everything in order" which has a very Soviet sort of flare to it. More loosely, it would be "are you okay?"

"Gute Nacht. Schlaf schön." - "good night" and "sleep well"

Title from the Stealers Wheel song of the same name. :)

Chapter 2: middle of conversation

Notes:

Happy Fanfic Authors Appreciation Day!!! Please take a moment to thank your writers... a little love really does go a LONG way! You never know just who you might inspire to keep going or to finish their wips or to come back to us if they haven't been active in a while. Thanks for helping make the fandom a little more cozy. <3

To my fellow writers, thank you for letting me share in your ideas, and to my readers, thank you for sharing in mine. You are all loved and appreciated more than I can ever say. Readers and writers, guests and users, your voice is so unique and needed and *necessary*. Please keep engaging and celebrating and encouraging one another, and remember that your content and your comments matter. So much. Thank you.

“You’re looking like hell this morning,” Cowboy quips. “Late night?”

“No later than yours,” he snipes back. Illya had known the instant when the American had returned to their hotel room. He’d been wide awake long before he heard the soft click of the lock, felt the weight of that familiar footfall padding noiselessly through the suite.

The man raises a hand to his heart. The infuriating image of innocence. All, of course, cast in a halo of mock-sincerity. “Why, I didn’t expect you to wait up for me, Peril. I hope you weren’t... worried about me or anything, were you?”

Illya’s glare could kill a lesser man. As it is, it glances harmlessly off the imperturbable American. “I didn’t. And I wasn’t. ” A huff. Childish. His gaze skitters away as he mumbles, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“And I take it you’re not going to go for your usual run?” Cowboy graces him with a particularly graceless (and shameless) smirk. “If you’re not more careful, I might actually have to believe you’re human.”

Illya would scowl if he’d had the energy. As it is, he drags his hand roughly over his face and all but collapses into the nearest chair. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, the American is standing over him with a concerned look and a fresh cup of coffee.

“That bad, huh?” There is no trace of bravado, no hint of innuendo in his voice as he continues. “How is she, by the way?”

Illya accepts the peace offering with a grunt and takes a long draught of the still-steaming liquid. When he finally comes up for air, he sets the mug aside, jerks his chin in the direction of Gaby’s still-closed door. “You saw the mission brief, yes?”

“I was there when Waverly delivered it.”

Illya startles to attention, almost spilling coffee on himself in the process. “He came personally? He didn’t use dropsite or send courier?”

“I think he wanted to make it clear just what we were all getting into with this one.” There’s a measured pause before Solo continues. “He offered her another assignment, you know. Told her they could send in another agent, no questions asked. He even went so far as to suggest she use some of her vacation time.” He shrugs. “She sent us both away soon after.”

Illya hums. He can picture the scene so clearly: Gaby’s brave face falling the second the door closed behind the men. The deliberation, the desperation, and then the retreat to the balcony with a drink in hand.

“Did she say why?”

“Do you need to ask?”

He shrugs, enigmatic. He knows Gaby. Her stubborn determination, her commitment to her team and to their line of work. And maybe, just maybe, Illya thinks, part of her decision had to do with him too.

His thoughts flash briefly back to her last words to him. The ones he thinks he heard. He practically growls into his coffee with frustration. Those words had haunted him well past the morning light.

“She said she would never go back behind the Curtain.”

Cowboy tips his head to the side. “Well, she’s not going alone.”

Illya nods absently. He knows this, yes, but the thought does next to nothing to comfort him. He can understand—can empathize even—with how the mechanic feels, being sent into what is ostensibly ‘enemy’ territory.

There, she will be the face, the embodiment of every atrocity ever committed by her country. A nation’s collective suffering complicated and colored by the individual pain, the scars and the memories, all heaped upon her slim shoulders. He should know.

It happens to him every time he sets foot in Germany.

But Illya also knows that Gaby is infinitely more vulnerable in Moscow than he would ever be in Berlin. At least when he travels, he has the mantle of KGB agent and soldier. He wears a uniform that commands fear and demands compliance. He is loath to think of it as respect.

Gaby has no such safeguard. In the public eye, she is a civilian at best. A defector, at worst.  A pretty, young Ossi woman where she doesn’t belong and where she isn’t welcome. Even worse, the mechanic is known in certain, dangerous circles as the blood relative of two major players for the Nazis.

All Illya can think is how, if things go south, there is only so much that UNCLE, that he can do to protect her. This could be like leading lamb to slaughter.

“I still don’t like th—” his words cut off with Gaby’s sudden appearance. She shuffles groggily out of her room, sporting pajamas and dark circles around her eyes. Illya immediately softens. “Guten Morgen,” he says gently. “Wie geht es dir?”

Gaby reaches for a cup, and Illya automatically grabs the coffee pot to fill it for her. “Danke,” she mumbles. “Ich fühle…” An odd look crosses her face then. She hesitates. “I’m fine, Illya.”

An unconvincing nod. A tepid smile. Illya doesn’t miss the way she seems to be edging away from him, curling almost protectively around her drink. “I’m fine,” she repeats.

The abrupt shift in language has Illya’s heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. What had he been thinking? He curses to himself, opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Gaby hastily retreats to her room again.

Her door eases shut, and he exhales heavily through his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya can see the American sipping delicately from his drink. “Was it something you said?” he deadpans.

When Illya makes no move to answer, the man’s expression sobers. Cowboy pinches the bridge of his nose, steeling himself to have an honest conversation. “You know, with the German, it’s probably… complicated for her to hear it from you.”

“Is complicated for me to speak it,” he snipes back.

“And here I thought you were fluent.”

Illya rolls his eyes at the thin attempt at raillery. “That is not what I meant.” He scoffs. He can’t believe he’s going to say this out loud. “I am fluent, da, but I do not have the right words to say to her. No soft words.”

“Soft words?” the man repeats. He doesn’t even try to cover his smirk.

Illya ignores him. “My attempts to comfort her last night were… inadequate. I need to do better.” He leaps to his feet, fully intending to go out and do something. He is at the door when Solo’s voice stops him.

“That might not be such a good idea.”

He grits his teeth. “Why not?”

“All I’m saying, Peril, is that you could learn the words, lose the accent even, but maybe… maybe she doesn’t want that.”

Not from you, Illya adds bitterly.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Notes:

“Guten Morgen” - Good morning.

“Wie geht es dir?” - How are you?

“Danke” - Thank you

“Ich fühle…” - I feel...

Thank you again for reading! <3

Chapter 3: middle of a fight

Notes:

Thank you to everyone for the well-wishes on my AO3 anniversary!!! You've made the occasion just so special, and I'm so, so grateful for all of you. <3 Beta thanks to SydneyMo (and for her German translations) and Somedeepmystery (good to have you back, friend)!

Please enjoy! Comments always welcome. :)

After that morning in the hotel room, Illya had vowed never to use German around the mechanic again. But, as Fate continues to remind him, his ironclad resolve is not what it used to be… especially when it comes to Gabriella Teller.

Gaby has been cooped up in their Moscow safehouse for the past 72 hours. She is not allowed to leave by herself—an injustice she hasn’t surrendered to lightly. Not that she would have wanted to go out on her own anyway. It is simply the fact that she can’t that has her desperate to.

Nothing inspires the contrarian inside her like being told ‘no’.

And ‘no’ is what has landed them in their current predicament. Illya sighs, watches the German woman turn sharply on her heel and begin her latest lap across the room. Barely-concealed fear manifests as open hostility as she stalks back and forth. She is restless. Relentless. It is exhausting and almost… painful to witness.

Cowboy has long since made himself scarce in an effort to give the mechanic some space, and, more accurately, to remove himself from her line of fire. Illya, in contrast, has elected to stay behind with Gaby, a gesture of chivalry—or martyrdom—bordering on the masochistic.

To put it mildly, Illya has worn out his welcome faster than Gaby has worn out the floorboards.

His hands thrum with the energy radiating from her. The pressure is building in his chest and in the base of his skull until he thinks he’ll go mad with it. He grits his teeth against it. The threat of impending explosion looms over him, and Illya has to cross his arms very tightly to keep himself from doing something foolish.

Like comfort her.

Or apologize.

Instead, he keeps his eyes trained resolutely before him and accepts the brunt of her pent-up fury as his due. Gaby has been muttering mutinously and murderously in her native tongue for the last twenty-three minutes: a steady tirade of scathing curses and shockingly below-the-belt insults aimed at him and his fellow countrymen.

All the old wounds between them are flowing freely once more, their histories dredged up, flung in his general direction—she stopped speaking to him a long time ago—like so many buckets of acid.

It makes Illya’s blood boil, but he forces an aura of calm indifference. He knows better than to engage her when she’s like this and focuses simply on outlasting her. He can be patient when he needs to be, and the mechanic will tire herself out eventually.

But as the minutes continue to tick past, all of the anger and anxiety—his and hers—begins to crowd him, clouding his vision in shades of red. Clouding his judgment as well, at least as far as Gaby is concerned.

Illya breathes through his nose, slowly in and out. He uncurls his fists and flexes his aching fingers. This is for her own good, he reminds himself.

The plan Gaby proposed—the plan he had rejected outright—would have put her in much more danger than Illya (not to mention Cowboy and Waverly) would ever have been comfortable with. The mechanic was willing to burn her cover, reveal herself as the niece of Rudolph von Trulsch, the man who had tortured and experimented on thousands upon thousands of Soviet prisoners of war and then offer herself up as… as bait if it meant going home sooner.

A honeypot, she’d called it, with a laugh so bitter it seemed to burn. “Not that it really matters,” she said. A flash of dark, haunted eyes. A calculated shrug. “I just have to breathe the word Ossi , and it’ll be the Fall of Berlin all over again.”

Illya had shut her down after that.

He’d pulled seniority as the ranking agent and all but growled that they would stick to the original plan. It was the lengthier option, the strategist’s choice. The one that had Illya assuming the lion’s share of the risk. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. And, besides, he had ‘home field advantage’, as Cowboy would call it.

Illya will be going undercover as an arms dealer. He will infiltrate the THRUSH cell, insinuate himself into their inner circle, and then bring the whole outfit down from the inside.

It was not an indefinite assignment, he’d tried to assure her. She would be back in London before she knew it. And he… well, he would still be adhering to the original timeline. Give or take a couple weeks.

Gaby, of course, hadn’t listened.

She hasn’t forgiven him either.

Illya crushes his fingers back into a fist in order to keep them steady. Gaby’s latest barrage is louder now, amplified by the fierceness in her scowl, the harshness of her language. She accuses him of jealousy. He doesn’t deny it. She calls him arrogant and pigheaded. He doesn’t deny that either.

He surrenders himself to her inspection, a quick, dismissive once-over. She is nearly vibrating with rage as she lays the last charge against him. That he thinks himself superior to her by virtue of being Russian, just like all of his—

His composure finally snaps. “Und du bist unmöglich!” he barks.

The flood of German cuts out abruptly. Like a radio being switched off. She swivels her head to face him, fixing him with a cold, blank stare. Surprised that he would challenge her. Especially in her own tongue.

Illya swallows.

Part of him tells him he’s gone too far.

Part of him tells him he’s not gone far enough.

Illya advances on her, chest heaving with emotion, breath stuttering from him in increasingly erratic bursts. Gaby doesn’t back down—not that he’d expect her to. Even when he is this close to losing control, even when he loses it, she doesn’t fear him.

It warms him, then scalds and burns. “Unmöglich,” he repeats, enunciating the German word with a surgeon’s careful, cutting precision. And she is to push at him like this. How could she possibly think, how could she possibly dare to say that he sees her as the unworthy, the inferior one?

She arches an eyebrow at him. “I am impossible? You are—”

“Nein,” he roars. If she can talk about him in her native language, she can confront him in it too. “Kein Englisch.”

Gaby goes deathly, dangerously still a moment before she shrugs. “Genau,” she concedes. It doesn’t feel like victory.

She smiles. Sickly sweet. All narrowed eyes and razor teeth as she prepares to pick up right where she’d left off. Her outburst is smothered by his own.

Illya meets her measure for measure in her mother tongue, the words ripping from his throat like a spray of bullets. If this is what she expects from Russians, if this is what she expects from him, then that is exactly what he will give to her.

It is caustic. And cathartic.

It is not enough.

He is in the middle of a blistering diatribe about how her stubbornness is making her short-sighted where the mission is concerned, how she can’t see that her plan would—

“Was, Illya?” she asks, and he can see the fight draining from her small frame. Finally tired out. “Du kannst nicht sehen, dass es dich beschützen würde?”

He blinks, startled. He can’t see that it would protect him? Protect him? He frowns. Her plan… all of it was for his sake? Illya opens his mouth, but the words won’t come. He stares beseechingly down at Gaby, a plea for understanding. To read between the lines of his silence the way she always does.

His hands fall uselessly at his sides. They are so close that their breaths are mingling, and he can feel the heat radiating in waves from her skin. A sudden cold leeches into his bones when she backs away from him. His heart seizes in his chest.

Illya reaches out for her on instinct, but she raises her hand, stopping him in his tracks. Gaby shakes her head fiercely, tears welling up in her eyes. “Dummkopf,” she scoffs. There’s no real heat in it. Just pain enough to steal his breath away.

He watches dumbly as she locks herself back in her room. He’d been half-expecting her to make a run for it, a last bid for freedom.

He’s not sure he would have stopped her if she did.

The door slams so hard that the whole house seems to shake with it. Or, maybe, he is the one who is trembling.

When silence descends once more—an artificial blanket of peace, of calm—Illya is left with nothing more than a dull ringing in his ears and the phantom taste of blood in his mouth.

Notes:

Und du bist unmöglich! - You are impossible!

Nein. Kein Englisch. - No. No English.

Genau - Fine.

Was, Illya? Du kannst nicht sehen, dass es dich beschützen würde? - What, Illya? Can't see that it would protect you?

Dummkopf - Dummy/Idiot. [for a more sophisticated German insult, SydneyMo recommends "Gehirnverweigerer" (someone who refuses to use their brain).

Chapter 4: in medias res

Notes:

At long last an update, haha. There have been some big changes in my life recently, so I'm trying to settle back into my usual writing routine. MANY thanks to Somedeepmystery for talking through this vignette with me (and talking through it some more) and, of course, to Miss SydneyMo for her German help.

ALSO - signups for the Winter Holiday Gift Exchange are going on from now until the 30th! Spread the word (especially on AO3)! Drop your favorite authors a line and share the link! Let them know you'd love to see more from them this holiday season! That's actually how I first got started in exchanges... trust me, we love to hear from you and the personal touch DOES make a huge difference. If you want to signup and/or read more about it, here's the link.

Thanks, lovelies! Comments always appreciated. :D

Illya shifts his weight on aching knees, loose grit and gravel rolling unevenly beneath him. The ropes sear into his wrists as he flexes his bloodless fingers—a desperate demand for sensation. Even the pain has faded into numbness.

He swallows a low groan, tongues at the ragged, copper-coated skin on the inside of his cheek. His ears are ringing, eyelids heavy, head fuzzy with the white noise of semi-consciousness. Distantly, he registers shouting, then the none-too-gentle press of something cold against the back of his head.

A gun?

There is a slight twitch in the set of his shoulders as he rouses himself. Illya eyes skate dully over the assembled crowd before him: a mix of THRUSH agents and KGB operatives. Fragments of memory assault him in a colliding, jarring blur, piecing together with a nearly audible click.

Though that could very well have been the Makarov.

Definitely a gun then.

A strangled smile spasms across his face accompanied by a broken, burbling chuckle. How could he have forgotten his own execution?

Illya takes a sharper look at the faces in front of him. He has trained with these men, fought against them as often as alongside them. There is no way of telling just who among them have gone rogue and who are simply there undercover. He won’t risk any more lives or operations by trying to find out.

It is not for their sake, though, that he will die.

He bows his head again, but not before catching the barest flash of movement in the periphery. He blinks. It could simply have been a trick of the light, the greediness of his own imagination, but Illya could swear he’d seen the scope of a rifle fringed by a familiar set of bangs.

His heart lurches unsteadily at the thought. Illya nearly pitches forward before a rough hand steadies him. His fingers flex again, much more insistently this time. A new motivation has shattered his apathetic martyrdom, igniting his bones until his veins begin to sing with it.

She came back for him.

After everything that had happened between them, she still found him worthy of saving. Illya would like to think that Cowboy is close by, that he can sense Waverly’s hand in this sudden turn of events. All that matters in this moment, though, is that Gaby is here.

His chop shop girl come to rescue him like a knight in shining armor. He’d laugh if he could remember how to breathe.

There’s only one problem though.

Illya tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing to confirm that yes, the mechanic is aiming at the scar-pocked face of his would-be executioner.

“Shoot me,” he growls. The Russian words scrape up his throat like a dulled razor. The unexpected pronouncement is met with a harsh bark of laughter. The other man rasps in sardonic disbelief.

“Begging for death, Kuryakin?”

Illya ignores the snub, tunes out the taunts and smug, hateful faces of the men surrounding him. He rolls a shoulder back, little more than a twitch, and prays that Gaby will get the hint. “Shoot me,” he repeats.

His gaze flicks over to the mechanic. Her gun is still stubbornly trained on the other man, though Illya is certain her Russian has progressed to understand that much. If not—and if he survives this—they’re going to be stepping up their lessons together.

He stifles a huff of frustration, Above him, the leader of the THRUSH cell is continuing his grandiose posturing, though Illya is quick to mark the growing intent, the finality behind his showmanship.

They’re running out of time.

Or, more accurately, he is.

And so, Illya grits his teeth and tries a different tactic. One the mechanic can’t possibly ignore. It takes every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes trained forward and his voice steady. He can’t, won’t compromise her position. “Nein,” he says. Forceful. Insistent. “Erschieß mich.”

He wonders then if she will ever know just how much it costs him to use her language, here before his countrymen. It is a fitting betrayal, he thinks bitterly. The traitor’s son speaking the traitor’s tongue.

“Erschieß mich,” he demands when still she hesitates. And then, despite it all, he softens. “Bitte.”

Please.

And that is what gets through to her. He bows his head in a grateful nod when she reluctantly shifts her aim.

All around him, the men are erupting in obscene tirades. Illya accepts them all numbly, the litany of threats and insults, the wreckage of the reputation he has spent his entire life rebuilding. When the man prompts him, however mockingly, for his last words, Illya could almost weep from the tainted relief.

He nods, swallows past the clawing tide of emotions. A sharp inhale. A steadying breath. “Wir beide wissen, dass es der einzige Weg ist." he begins. He imagines a pair of fathomless, dark eyes flickering in challenge, then steeling with determination.

The only way, he tries to say again, but his throat seizes around the syllables. Illya squeezes his hands into fists, composes himself. Each word is carefully weighted. A measured cadence humming with feigned innocence. “Aber ich vertraue dir.”

There is no room for fear when he trusts her like this: infinitely and intimately. Before him are men of his country but home, home is just outside his field of vision. Illya straightens, craning his neck in hopes that he can see her one last time.

Another breath. His roaring pulse is slowing to a dreamlike waltz as he thinks of her. His strong woman. Waverly and Cowboy will look after her, he knows. There would never be any question of that.

They will look after his mother as well, and Illya thanks them for it with whatever piteous blessing he can offer over their heads. Peace, or at least, acceptance, begins to settle over him. He nods, more to himself than to anyone else.

He is ready.

It is not his life that flashes now before his eyes, but that of an architect traveling in Rome with his German fiancée. He holds onto the image of his ring on her finger, the weight of her hand on his arm, the dwindling infinities between their lips, and how he, too, had almost lost her.

The words he wanted to say then are the same ones he wants to, needs to say now. Illya doesn’t care if they make their way back to his superiors. He doesn’t care that his allegiances could never again be trusted, that his loyalty to Russia could never again be considered pure.

If this is the last chance has has, then he is going to take it.

Illya braves the briefest glance in her direction, a gesture so subtle as to go unnoticed. But he sees her, feels her presence and that is more than enough for him. More than he probably deserves.

Illya closes his eyes, whispering her name in a silent prayer. The gun shifts against his skull, and he opens them. He will give Fate the rapt attention She deserves.

“Ich liebe—”

He doesn’t finish the rest.

It is a thunderstorm in miniature: a lightning strike chased by an echo of gunfire. There is pain and warmth too quick to register... and then the darkness overtaking him.

Notes:

Nein - no

Erschieß mich - Shoot me.

Bitte - please

Wir beide wissen, dass es der einzige Weg ist. - We both know that this is the only way. [Many thanks to Rena for the correction!]

Aber ich vertraue dir. - But I trust you.

Ich liebe - I love

Thanks so much for reading! <3

Chapter 5: middle ground

Notes:

I guess there is one more after this. I wasn't sure if the +1 would have enough to warrant its own chapter, but I feel like I've left all you lovely readers in suspense for long enough. Stay tuned for the final installment! Still need to, you know, actually write it, haha, but I hope that you still trust me after all the angst I've put you through.

Big thanks again to Miss SydneyMo for her feedback and German translations! <3

Comments, as always, are infinitely appreciated, my loves. Thanks so much for reading! Please enjoy. :)

He is cold and weightless, shrouded in bright, white light. It seeps beneath his eyelids and sinks deep into his bones. A soft voice calls his name, and Illya fumbles towards it, swimming up through the depths of his consciousness.

He breaches the surface with a gasp and a wild flail of limbs. Pain blazes through him, all-consuming, purifying in its potency. It eases with a gentling touch and low, soothing tones. You are safe, she tells him. Everything is okay.

And he believes her.

The warmth of her hands lingers long after she removes them. Illya groans in protest, trying to reach for her again. A short tsk, an empty admonishment, and then slender, calloused fingers are sliding along his jawline and pushing into his hair. His eyes close at the sensation.

“Illya,” she calls again. He hums idly in response. His own hands are uncurling from their fists, falling open at his sides. He can rest now, now that he knows that she is here. The surety of her presence is a balm for every ache inside of him.  He eases back into the darkness.

“Illya!” Sharp and urgent, it shakes him from his stupor. Illya’s eyes fly open with a jolt. An ill-tempered angel stares back down at him. Gaby’s expression shifts from fear to fondness before she manages to mask it.

She is braced over him, dark hair falling loose from its braid. Illya raises a hand to tuck it back into place. The starburst of pain before his eyes stops him even before Gaby can. “Your shoulder,” she hisses.

Illya manages to grunt an acknowledgement. He blinks past the agony and the harshness of the fluorescent lighting. A hospital.

“You hit your head,” she adds quickly, “after I… after you were hit. Do you remember?”

He can only recall the impact. The momentum that carried him out of the path of the other bullet. The rest is, perhaps mercifully, lost. “I remember enough.”

The mechanic shifts her weight on her feet. Her eyes suddenly skitter away from his. “I’m sorry.”

“It was difficult shot to take,” he says. “In more ways than one.”

She nods. A rare concession of hidden meanings. Illya stops her when she begins to edge away from him. A smile ghosts across his face though his chop shop girl has never looked more serious. “Besides. It is much better than the alternative.”

She forces her lips to respond in kind. There is an unusually upbeat quality to her voice: a bracing tone to accompany the grimace. “The doctor says you’ll make a full rec—”

“Gaby.”

She goes terrifyingly still, staring at him with expectant, frightened eyes. For once, Illya can read every shade of childlike vulnerability within her.

“Gaby,” he repeats, her name lodging in his throat. “Is okay.”

The nod she gives him is even less convincing than the first. Her hands twist mindlessly in the hem of her blouse—a nervous tic he’s never seen before. She catches herself, exhaling her words in a rush. “You trusted me.”

“I did,” he says. “And I do.”

Illya’s good hand carefully moves to cover both of hers. Her fingers spasm once beneath his, but she doesn’t withdraw them. “Willst du wissen, warum?” he asks, German laced with a teasing lilt.

Gaby’s head is bowed, eyes shadowed, so Illya cranes his neck to get a better look at her. He offers her a fraction of a smile and waits for her to respond. If she doesn’t want to know, then he won’t force the issue. Though he has a feeling that she does.

Her voice is a tiny, broken thing, but it feels more like hope than surrender. “Warum?”

“Denn ich wusste, du schaffst das,” he says, giving her hands a gentle squeeze for emphasis. His chest swells with emotion. “Du könntest mir niemals wehtun.”

You could never hurt me.

She searches his face desperately. For the lie, for the resentment, for any hint of platitude. The truth is plain, yet still she is unsatisfied. “Doch habe ich,” she stresses. “Ich…”

Her words trail off when he shakes his head. “Nein. Du hast mich gerettet.”

The mechanic can’t argue with that, though Illya half-expects her to try. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. Illya’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of her hand as he works up his own courage. It is not the imminent threat of death, but the indefinite promise of life that looms before him now. “Ich liebe dich.”

All the air seems to leave the room. Gaby’s eyes widen at his confession, glisten in the overhead lights. Something like a grin spreads across her face. “Du bist unmöglich,” she scoffs, though there’s no heat behind it. “Illya, ich—”

A sharp rap of knuckles cuts her off with all the subtlety of an air raid. Illya has to stifle a laugh at the way she jumps. Gaby glares at him, and he obediently schools his expression into a more serious one as the nurse sweeps in.

She checks his vitals, portends the arrival of their superior. As she leaves, Illya silently lifts Gaby’s hand to his lips, eyes never once leaving hers. He thrills at the way she blushes for it.

“Ah, Kuryakin. You’re awake.”

Illya gently releases her before Waverly can make his way over. “You’re looking well,” the man continues. “How are you feeling?”

He steals a glance at Gaby as he answers. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep a straight face, to maintain some semblance of professionalism. He coughs to cover his laugh. “Much better, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” Waverly turns to the mechanic then. “You did excellent work, Miss Teller. I’m sure we’re all very grateful to you.”

“We are,” Illya agrees as soberly as he can. He can’t resist chiming in, not when the tips of her ears are starting to turn pink and her eyes are conspicuously trained on everything but him.

The Englishman lays a paternal hand on her shoulder. His features soften ever so slightly as he looks her over. “Go get some rest, Gaby. You and Solo both.”  

As if on cue, the American appears in the doorway. He and Illya exchange a nod and their customary, one-word greeting. Then he is draping his arm around Gaby’s shoulders and steering her out of the room, whispering privately to her.

She nods absently, looks back at him with one, last time. He holds the image in his mind: the mechanic, blushing and bewildered. His lips quirk into a smile as he returns his attention to his superior.

“What were you saying, sir?”

Notes:

Willst du wissen, warum? - Do you want to know why?

Warum? - Why?

Denn ich wusste, du schaffst das. - Because I knew you could do it.

Du könntest mir niemals wehtun. - You could never hurt me.

Doch habe ich. - But I did.

Nein. Du hast mich gerettet. - No. You saved me.

Ich liebe dich. - I love you.

Du bist unmöglich. - You are impossible (because call-backs, hahaha)

Thank you again for reading! <3

Chapter 6: +1 - meet me in the middle

Notes:

And here we are! The +1 of my first 5 Times story. Exciting stuff, haha. Thanks for sticking around. :) As always, a million thanks to SydneyMo for her German translations (and a very special shout-out to Rena for the assist on an earlier chapter) and to Somedeepmystery for looking this over for me... and *speaking* of Sdm, she's celebrating a year since she posted her first TMFU fic on AO3!!! Why not stop by one of the sixteen INCREDIBLE fics she's written for this fandom and let her know how much you love her work? She is such a gem and so kind and humble (and I am DETERMINED to make a fuss over her since she won't, lol). I know it would mean the absolute world to her if you reached out. So, pretty please, my loves? Your favorite chess piece is BEGGING you.

We're moving into Winter Exchange season, but I do hope to be back on here (Real Life and mental health permitting!) in the near-ish future. Sending lots of love to all of you! Thank you all for reading and for your incredibly kind words and support. To MollokoPlus and rebelliousrose, I dearly hope you've enjoyed this surprisingly angsty fic I've ambushed you with. :P Thanks again for all you do for us! <3

Please enjoy! Comments always welcome and appreciated more than I could ever say.

The shadows are pressing in, midnight-chilled and suffocating. They lie heavy on her chest, pin down her limbs—the wrong kind of anchor for a bed that feels too large and cold and weightless with only one person in it.

Gaby fights against it. The sudden paralysis, the scream that rises voiceless in her throat. She falls, falls, falls into the abyss, thrashing the whole way down. Then, she is being wrenched away, caught in the undertow of turbulent, dreamless sleep.

Her mind is a singing bowl for her anxiety: one high, shivering tone after another. Shrieking and relentless. Almost like a…

Telephone.

It blares at her bedside, bleeds into the dimmest corners of her consciousness until it completely overtakes her. Her body jolts awake, though her head is reeling, still drunk with siren song and the intoxicating relief the shipwreck promises. Gaby tries to shake off the darkness, the grasping hands that threaten to pull her back under.

Eyes half-closed, she focuses on that sound—that obnoxious, strident sound. Her fingers are clumsy as she fumbles for the device on her nightstand. Somehow, she manages to lift the phone to her lips. Gaby is blessed with a split second of silence before her partner speaks.

No pleasantry or preamble. A flat, American accent. So different from the rounded, rumbling voice she hadn’t realized she’d been hoping for.

“Put Peril on, won’t you?”

Her pulse skips at the mention of Illya. “I don’t understand,” she manages through a yawn she doesn’t bother trying to hide. Her words are slightly slurred, hoarse from the lateness of the hour.

“Don’t be coy, Teller,” comes the admonishment. There is a sharpness in his voice that rouses her. Gaby sits up straighter, rubbing at her eyes as he continues. “I know he’s with—”

“Solo,” she barks. “He’s. Not. Here.”

It is his silence then that does it. Fear sluices down her spine, the adrenaline both flood and forest fire to her system. “He’s in the hospital,” she says, as if that could somehow make all her uncertainty disappear. A little quieter. A little more desperate. “He’s in the hospital.”

“No, Gaby,” her partner says. The gentlest deathblow ever delivered. “He’s not.”

She is on her feet and barreling towards the door without a second thought. Solo’s voice cuts out abruptly—had he still been speaking?—just before her momentum does. The phone’s cord yanks her back, and she curses, tucks the receiver tighter against her body and pulls.

The cradle crashes noisily to the floor, upending her lamp in the process. Gaby doesn’t bother to assess the damage. She throws the handset unceremoniously to the side and races into the living room. Her feet slip on the rug, her hips knocking into the sofa, but she keeps going: all blind determination and single-minded purpose.

Her keys clatter in their ceramic bowl as she shakily fishes them out. Gaby throws open her apartment door and charges headlong into the darkness.

Her shoulder slams into the wall, and she ricochets off it. Stumbles backward as she tries to regain her footing. Her gasp of pain shifts into a scream when the wall reaches out to steady her. A hand forms on her upper arm, and she swings wildly. A sharp hiss, a muffled groan, and then she is extricating herself.

Gaby gears herself to fight. Her eyes are still adjusting to the gloom, to the single, watery light at the other end of the hall. She has a key slotted securely between her fingers, ready to jab her late night intruder.

A low, rough voice addresses her, and she barely catches herself from attacking on reflex. “Illya!” she shouts. First in shock. Then in bristling outrage. His presence here is more gasoline than balm for her sparking nerves. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”

His silhouette shrugs in response, clearer now in the shifting shadows. Gaby can just make out the outline of his sling. “They wanted to keep me for observation.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, expectant.

“I am fine,” he huffs. “Is not the first time I have been shot.”

Gaby’s lungs flatten with the reminder. Her chest empties, expands instead with guilt and shame and sorrow. Her insides burn, her stomach knots, and she can’t meet his eyes. One time is too many, she wants to yell, but then she feels the ghost of a rifle’s recoil, her finger on the trigger, and sees him fall by her own hand.

She keeps her mouth shut.

Illya’s hand is a gentling grip on her shoulder, and then there is that low, soothing voice, like thunder in the distance. “Besides. I wanted to see you.”

Gaby almost forgets to be angry with him. His thumb strokes idly over her sleeve. A reassurance, a mercy she doesn’t deserve. She shakes him off, clings to the broken shards of her emotions. “You couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Is not so late,” he responds, and Gaby can hear the smile in his voice. “You were leaving just now, no?”

A token scoff, a roll of the eyes. “To look for you.”

“You did excellent job. Very efficient,” he praises as he invites himself into her apartment. Gaby trails after him: a little lost, a lot perturbed. He navigates his way to the end table by her settee, reaches for the chain on the table lamp. The light clicks on, casting the room in soft, sleepy shades of gold.

His voice is warm, gaze heated as he turns back to her. He looks her over, a smile quirking the corner of his lips. “Without coat?” he teases. “Or shoes?”

Gaby glowers at him. “I thought it was an emergency.” She tosses her hair back, tilts her chin up in barely-convincing defiance. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”

Illya settles against the back of her couch. He folds his good arm over his chest, far too confident, too knowing for his own good. “Should I leave?” he asks.

He doesn’t make any effort to do so.

Gaby narrows her eyes at him before her hand curls around his forearm and she hauls him closer to her. He comes willingly. Her fingers slide down to his wrist. “The only place you are going, Illya,” she growls, “is to bed.”

“To bed?” he repeats. The words are carefully weighted… meaning that there’s no weight to them at all.

Her stomach cartwheels, but she suppresses it, turns away to hide the rising color in her cheeks as she begins to pull him along. “I am going to sleep. And seeing as you are supposed to be in the hospital, I have no choice but to keep you with me.”

He hums. Indulgent. “Is probably for the best.” Gaby shakes her head, presses her lips in a thin line to keep from smiling. She has almost decided to forgive him when he stops short. “Why is your phone on the floor?”

Her shoulders twitch with irritation at the undisguised mirth in his voice. “Du hast Glück, dass ich dich liebe,” she grouses beneath her breath. She tugs on his wrist again; only, this time, he doesn’t budge.

Gaby’s pulse stutters, then skips a beat entirely as she slowly turns to face him. The point of no return. Rather than the soft, stunned look she’d been expecting, Illya’s expression is noticeably smug.

“Ich bin,” he agrees, and quite sincerely too. The silence stretches between them, Illya’s grin continuing to widen. “Das hast du mir schon gesagt.”

She blinks. When had she told—ah, she recalls. The night on the balcony. The moment is a haze in her mind, a murmured confession blurred somewhere between dream and memory. Exhausted and overwhelmed and feeling so safe because of him, Gaby had let her guard down. The cracks in her soul had let the honesty peek through.

“I didn’t know,” he says then, and the sudden switch back to English snaps her out of her reverie. Gaby finds that she is almost… disappointed by it. When had she grown so accustomed, she wonders, so comfortable with hearing her language in his mouth?

“Didn’t know what?” she prompts, surprised by her own gentleness. “If I meant it?”

Illya ducks his head, nods. The edge taken off of his bravado. “Da,” he admits, and it is that vulnerability that undoes her.

She takes a deep breath. “Then let me tell you again.”

Gaby interlaces his fingers with her own, her free hand moving to clasp his to her chest. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

The Russian words are strange on her tongue, the language so much more alive than in any lesson she has taken.

Strange, she thinks, but not unpleasant. An acquired taste. Like vodka and truffle risotto... and like Illya himself. A Soviet spy who is more than the sum of a hammer and sickle, the past he has inherited.

And from the fevered kiss he gives her then, it’s one she’s already beginning to crave.

Notes:

Du hast Glück, dass ich dich liebe. - You're lucky I love you.

Ich bin. - I am.

Das hast du mir schon gesagt. - You have told me this before.

Ya tebya lyublyu. - I love you.

 

Thank you again for reading! Don't forget to say hi to Sdm for me. <3