Illya's part in this new mission was much closer to his comfort zone. He was working alone, ordered to tail one of the main suspects and report any intel to Waverly, and of course passing it all along to his superiors in the KGB. He doubted the American government was quite so efficient in keeping tabs on Solo. Then again, he had entered this game willingly, where his counterpart had been obligated.
His mark was a thin man of average height, limping slightly through the crowds in an outdated suit. Kuryakin knew from the dossier he had been handed during Waverly's casual briefing (was this man really his leader?) that his name was Maxim Chernov. He was fourty-six years old, never married, no living relatives. Which had likely made it easier for him to defect from Russia some twelve years ago. He'd been a KGB agent, and was on the way to making quite a name for himself.
Before he abandoned ship like the rat he was, Illya thought bitterly. It took a substantial amount of willpower to resist strangling him in the middle of the street. The younger Russian did not take kindly to traitors.
Or really anyone.
He slipped through the crowd with skill. If anyone had been paying attention, they would have thought his movements beautiful, almost like a dance. But they didn't; he was a ghost. No one noticed him, only his absence once he had disappeared.
He hunted in the crowd, always aware of his prey, always two steps ahead while trailing behind. Maxim passed a small café and glanced nervously to the patio. The act did not go unnoticed by Kuryakin, who followed his gaze.
And there she was. The woman he had been trying so hard to keep out of his mind. The young spy tensed up immediately, as if prepared for an attack. Her back was to him, but he could see her fingers idly running along the rim of her teacup. It made him think of her hands in his hair.
His eyes shot back to Maxim anxiously, but to his relief the man wasn't looking at Gaby. He seemed to be focused on a small table nearer to the building, unremarkable in every way other than being empty when the rest of the patio was jam-packed.
His suspect began to pick up the pace, and Illya inconspicuously followed suit. He spared another glance at the woman and saw Cowboy appear before her. As he sat down with her, Solo spotted the tall man and smirked, sending him a wink usually reserved for beautiful women. Illya responded with a look that could freeze the sun before furtively glancing at the spot that had Chernov so interested. Napoleon nodded almost imperceptibly and turned his attention back to his gorgeous lunchmate.
____
"Who were you looking at?"
"Jealous?," he replied, and she rolled her eyes in response.
"It was Illya, yes?," she asked, an unreadable expression shadowing her features as she studied the pattern on her cup.
"Yes. You kids still fighting?"
"Thanks to you."
"I wasn't the one who took off his ring."
She glared up at him. "Does everyone in this city have my room wired?"
"Only the ones who care for you." He laughed, amused by the startled expression on her face at hearing that. "Don't look so surprised, little one. Didn't your mother ever tell you about men like us?"
"Violent, thieving spies?"
"No."
"Arrogant, irritating-"
"Still no," he sighed. "Romantics, my dear."
Gaby scoffed at him and put away the last of her tea. "You're no romantic," she countered scornfully. "You only love yourself." She stood gracefully from the table, clenching her jaw as he rose with her. It felt to her as though he was mocking her with false respect and charm. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to use the ladies room."
"Sweetheart," he called, attracting attention from a few diners. She ground her teeth angrily before turning back to look at him.
"Yes, Nicky?" she replied in a sugary voice, resisting the urge to laugh as his smile slipped slightly. He had told her several times it was Nick, Nick Harding. Not Nicholas, not Nickelby, not Nicky or Knickers or Knick-knack or any of the other monikers she had teased him with during the briefing.
He supposed Nicky was better than the alternatives, though.
He stretched a hand out to her, and she glided back to place hers within it. Lifting it to his lips, he looked at her with maddening smugness as a few appreciative sighs were uttered by onlookers.
"Showtime," he murmured.
