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She thought she had been careful.
It was a game of cat-and-mouse, a delicate situation with a target of special interest. Gabriel Parry had served in MI5's Hong Kong office under Waverly half a decade before, but - in the fallout of "irreconcilable differences," in Waverly's words - had deserted, taking two additional agents and a large amount of confidential information with him. Now, years later, he has resurfaced, and thanks to being the ones to run across him first, UNCLE got the initial crack at bringing him in.
Of Waverly's current assets, Gaby had the freshest face, the least chance of being recognized. She was to make contact with Parry alone, gain his confidence - and above all, avoid outing herself as Waverly's agent.
Illya had balked, of course - angrily and at length - but in the end, he had been forced to accept his role as distant backup, staying low-profile and roving the city with Solo, looking for more signs of Parry's associates. Both of them had a certain amount of cachet in these circles, and thus couldn't risk being associated with Gaby.
She hadn't seen either of them since moving into the flat Waverly had taken out for her for the duration of the mission. She found it unexpectedly lonely; it continually surprised her how quickly she'd grown accustomed to the endless bickering and fussing. And Illya ... she refused to admit, even to herself, how much she had been missing his presence, his constant touch. They hadn't discussed what exactly they were doing, what they were to one another. If it didn't have a name, it couldn't be real; if it wasn't real, she couldn't be disappointed when she was eventually left behind.
With nothing to otherwise occupy her, Gaby threw herself into the task at hand. She thought she had been doing quite well; three carefully-orchestrated "casual" encounters had built a lightly flirtatious rapport between them. Parry invited her to have lunch with him, which seemed to go flawlessly in every way, except securing an invitation back to his place. But she did get dinner plans from it for the following evening, so she was content to bide her time.
The dinner never happened. Parry intercepted her on a side street a few blocks from her flat just after lunch, claiming she had dropped a compact mirror from her purse at the cafe. The mirror in his hand did indeed look like hers, but when he was nearly upon her, he turned it in his palm to show her that, beneath it, he was also holding a small bug that he likely had also filched from her purse, at some point during lunch. It was one of Illya's, of course - one of the ways he frets, when she is out of his reach, is to plant extra bugs on her - particularly since, for this job, she had to give up the large ring with the tracker he had given her. She had known about this new one, rattling around in the bottom of her purse with her lipstick, and her birth control packet, and the set of lockpicks disguised as hairpins that Solo had given her last month. She had left it there, sentimental over the reminder of Illya - left it in a place that, in retrospect, was practically out in the open, when dealing with another spy.
It was a matter of seconds, after that. Gaby, knowing that her cover was blown, threw her purse at his head and tried to bolt. Parry was a little shorter than average, wiry-thin, and didn't look that physically imposing - but he turned out to be quicker than she thought. He caught her and dragged her into a shadowed doorway, clamping a hand over her mouth. Gaby bit deep and vicious into the meat of his palm, but even though she tasted blood, he didn't shout. Instead, he pulled away and hit her in the face, hard. The world tilted a little bit, pain slower to register past the shock. Before she could regain her senses, she felt a needle prick into the side of her neck. She struck out at Parry, caught his face with her nails, but then the light spiraled away without her, and she knew nothing else.
--
Now, Gaby is strapped to a chair. From the way her cheek and jaw ache and her vision is blurred on one side from swelling, she is certain her face isn't so fresh at the moment. Her lip is split, and the drugs make her mouth so dry that it's hard to work her tongue. Every breath is a labor.
She has never been formally trained in how to withstand torture. In that regard, she is alone among her teammates. Still, she has learned the basic rules - do not speak. Give them nothing to work with, no matter what they say to you.
Parry doesn't know who sent her. He may have his suspicions, but he doesn't know. He has accused her of being a Soviet asset, even, likely due to the make of the bug that he initially found on her.
The haze is lifting, and so Gaby thinks the drugs must be wearing off again. He's given her at least two doses of something, something that makes her drowsy and silly and heavy-headed. Waverly had told her that Parry had been fascinated with blending his own chemical cocktails for use in interrogations and assassinations. So far, she has only been a little sick, and she has managed to keep her mouth shut through biting on her own split lip, the sharp pain her lifeline. She swallows on nothing, her mouth cottony and tongue thick. She hasn't said anything. Her allegiances are undiscovered.
She is almost sure.
It's been at least a day, she knows that much. There are windows in the room, and it grew dark, then light again.
In all her life, no one has come to save her. She was always the girl left waiting, wondering, until she grew sick of it and took her life into her own hands. Even Waverly, who has been happy these last months to call her his own, left her sitting in Berlin for years until Solo crashed the party. Even on Vinciguerra Island, she knows that the bomb was the primary goal; she was just fortunate enough to be near it and be retrieved as well.
She has to acknowledge now that she might've been considered an acceptable loss. Acknowledge that Waverly might have left her, and called off Illya and Solo, who surely wouldn't risk their professional careers for someone who was careless enough to get captured. Acknowledge that if she wants to survive this, it may be entirely up to her to escape.
She has the will to survive this, she knows that. She just may not have the ability, and that is what worries her.
She tugs again against the straps holding her wrists and ankles. There is no give; the material has no stretch to it, and only bites into her chafed skin.
Parry will be back sooner or later, probably with another syringe. While her head is a little clearer, she takes in the room she's been kept in again. It seems to be Parry's base of operations, such as it is. She doesn't remember the trip here, or what kind of building this is. The room she is in seems like a normal office. While she was heavily drugged, things seemed unreal, disconnected, but she has some memories - Parry pacing by the window with a cup of tea. Parry reading the paper while she gagged on phantom bile. Parry sitting at the desk near the corner, working on papers by lamplight, papers that are not on the desk now, but that she doesn't remember him leaving with.
The door handle turns, and Gaby steels herself - but it's not Parry in the doorway this time.
Illya Kuryakin is standing there instead, dressed in dark tactical clothing, his pistol in his hand.
She sees the moment he recognizes her, the moment he processes the fact that she is alive and awake and looking back at him - his entire demeanor changes. Relief softens him immediately, rounds out the deadly edges of him. She could weep, to see him become the man she has shared so many nights with, and know that she isn't going to have to do this alone. The relief she herself feels is overwhelming. She knows, logically, that she is not safe just yet - that there is still information to gather, still an escape to make, that there may be much more trouble yet to come - but just to have him here, to know that he has come to retrieve her...
She wasn't going to die easy, she always knew that. She wouldn't let it happen. But to know that she wouldn't have to do it alone - that he has tracked her here, so clearly worried for her... She has no name for the feeling inside of her, and no ability to express it.
Illya crouches before her, peering into her eyes - first one, then the other.
"Hello, chop shop girl," he says, soft.
Gaby huffs, her throat aching and dry.
There are flecks of blood on Illya's face, little dark spots that could almost be freckles, but for the fact that they are clustered on the right side, from his chin to his brow. One spot that draws her attention, a little larger than the others and already drying to a rusty red, stains the two-day scruff of stubble on his jawline. She knows instinctively that this is not Illya's own blood.
Illya gets the straps off and draws her forearms into his hands, thumbs sweeping lightly over the raw chafed skin. "Anything broken?" he asks, gently flexing her wrists, checking the ranges of motion.
Just then, Parry strolls back into the room, sees Illya, and promptly drops the tray he'd been carrying. There is a moment, an impossibly long second, where Illya's attention follows the scattering implements as they roll across the floor.
When he looks back up, there's death in his eyes.
"No!" Gaby screams, hoarse, as Illya lunges. Parry knocks the knife Illya was drawing away, in a fast and stunningly lucky shot, but that's no matter - Illya has never truly needed anything but his hands. In an instant, Parry is pinned to the wall. He struggles, but Illya slams him back again, closes one hand around his throat, and starts squeezing. He's more than capable of crushing a man's windpipe; Gaby has seen him do it before.
"Stop! Illya!" she says, but her voice is failing her.
Parry is still trying to fight, though his arms are pinned, and it's clear that - though he had been able to overpower Gaby through the element of surprise - he's outmatched physically. He's kicking at Illya's legs, but it's as if Illya doesn't even feel it, just angling his body away to avoid the worst of the blows.
Gaby rises from the chair, her legs shaky and protesting. There isn't much that words can do, when Illya is like this - she has to get her hands on him. Ten steps across the room feel like a mile, but Parry's kicking is already getting weaker, and he can't answer questions if he is dead. Finally, she is able to reach out and touch Illya - on his side, and on the arm he's using for the pin. He looks over his shoulder to see Gaby clutching at him, eyes wide and blue and distant. "Stop," she says again, now that she has his attention, and he tries to shrug her off. She can see his thoughts, clear as day - that she's out of her mind, she's not thinking straight, that this man tried to hurt her, has already hurt her, and must suffer the consequences.
"Illya," she says, once more.
Slowly, reluctantly, he loosens his grip on Parry's throat, just the barest fraction. He is shaking, struggling so much to rein it in that she thinks he might come apart at the seams, but he does as she asks.
Gaby steps away on unsteady feet, retrieves the tactical knife from the corner - she doesn't quite manage to hide a huff of nauseous pain when she bends down, and Illya twitches - and puts it into her belt before investigating the desk she half-remembers Parry sitting at. Beneath it, there is a small safe. Gaby runs her fingers over the cold metal, the dial on the front. The whole thing is bolted into the concrete floor.
Illya still hasn't moved, except for the trembling of overwhelming self-restraint, holding this man pinned to the wall. Gaby looks over, blinking to clear her vision a little from her bruised eye, and says, "Tell me the combination or I'll let him kill you."
Illya turns back to Parry with a vicious purpose. Gaby does not make idle threats, nor idle promises to Illya. A combination is coughed out. Inside the safe, she finds vials and sheafs of papers, everything he has been working on lately. Gaby spends long moments looking to make sure it's all there, then gathers the intel up and walks back over to Illya, who has been watching Parry watch Gaby.
Gaby touches the hand Illya isn't using for the pin, pulls it down and open, and places the knife in it.
"All right," she says. "Now."
--
"A safe," Illya grumbles. He has Gaby perched upon the bathroom counter in a nondescript hotel room. The tap is running, warm water sluicing down the sink drain. He dabs at a cut on Gaby's cheek with a damp washcloth, then rinses away the blood. "What do we have Cowboy for, if not to open safes?"
"I didn't want to wait for him to show up," Gaby mutters. "I just wanted to get out of there."
She is exhausted now, all of the adrenaline that has kept her going ebbing away. Her mind is leaden, like she has been drugged all over again. She leans forward, forward, until she manages to lean against Illya, his chest rising and falling beneath her forehead.
After a long moment, she feels Illya's hand curl around the back of her neck, heavy and steady and gentle. "It's okay," he says, and she can feel his deep voice rumble through her. "I will always come for you."
Don't promise me that, she wants to say - but for tonight, at least, she is willing to believe.