VI. Green-Leafed Clover

...

Gaby enters the world with luck on her side, but what she doesn't know, in that moment when she opens her mouth and breathes for the very first time, is that luck is just another name for fate.

The early days of her life are idyllic and happy. She wants for nothing, she has a nice home, she is loved. But sometime during her fifth year, the switch flips abruptly from good to bad and everything goes downhill after that.

Her mother falls ill in the spring and is buried in the fall.

A year later, her father leaves one night and never comes back.

It could be worse, says the old woman next door, with the irritability of one who has lived a long, tumultuous life. At least you didn't get sick too. At least you're not going to the orphanage.

It could be worse, the crone says. Consider yourself lucky.

Somehow, it sounds like a curse.

...

Gaby grows up rebellious.

Her reasoning is simple – her life has not followed convention, so why should she?

So while yes, she does attend ballet lessons like a good girl, she also insists on learning the fine art of automobile and motorcycle maintenance, and divides her time evenly between school and the garage. She ruins – perhaps by accident, perhaps not – more than one good leotard with grease and gasoline stains.

Why do you spend so much time in that garage anyways? The old woman asks her. Look at you, you're meant to be a dancer!

The thought unnerves Gaby, that her life has been decided long before she has had the chance to live it, that she might be following a path that was already paved before she even took her first step.

It unnerves her, and then it angers her.

She does not want to be pressed into a neat, ordinary mold. She does not want to follow the path that is expected of her.

And so she trades her pointe shoes for a pair of dirty boots, her leotard for faded coveralls, and goes to work in the garage full-time.

And just like that, Gaby does what so many before her have failed to do.

She fights fate.

...

Gaby never thinks of herself as lucky, but even she can acknowledge that is not her driving prowess alone that helps her escape East Germany that night. It is luck, and more than a little bit that keeps her from falling into the clutches of the menacing KGB agent hot on her heels.

And it can only be luck that throws him back into her life a few weeks later as an ally, with a name to his frustratingly handsome face.

Luck.

In other words…

Fate.

Because Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man you meet at a corner store and strike up conversation with. He is not the kind of man you meet by accident, going about your everyday life. Illya is the kind of man you meet with intention, when the skies are clear and the stars align, and only if you are meant to.

Yes, it can only be fate that threads her path with his.

And this time, it doesn't feel like such a curse.

...

The first gift Gaby ever buys Illya is a tie.

It's an impulse purchase, not for any occasion, just something she sees in a shop window one day that reminds her of him. It's such a beautiful color and she can see it pairing well with his shirts and jackets and before she knows it, she's strolling into the shop and back out the door a few moments later with a small bag in hand.

Later, she wonders what it was that spurred her down that particular street instead of the one she usually takes, what it was that turned her head just so as the light catches the fabric through the glass. It must be more than a coincidence, but she dismisses the notion as quickly as it came. Surely the universe and its machinations have more important things to worry about than Illya's wardrobe.

He doesn't have much of a reaction when she presents it to him, not that she was really expecting one. By now, she has learned to read between the lines, and from his quiet thank you to the way he stiffens when he picks up the fabric, she can already hear the words she knows he's too polite to say.

You don't like it, she murmurs. She had thought her fashion sense was getting better, but it looks like she was wrong.

No, it's not that, he responds quickly. It's just… he hesitates and looks endearingly embarrassed. I don't really like this color.

That is not the answer she was expecting. She was expecting him to say it's not the right width or length or the pattern is all wrong. Because those are things she can learn so that next time, she'll know better.

The problem is, green happens to be her favorite color. And no matter how hard she tries, she's not sure she will ever know better. She's not sure she will ever not want to share it with him, because that's what you do when you care for someone - you share the things you like with them and hope that they like them too.

Illya doesn't like green. And if Gaby were a different kind of woman, she might have seen this as a sign of their incompatibility. Instead, she simply picks up the bag and fishes around in her purse for the receipt.

I'll return it in the morning, she says.

But to her surprise, he takes it from her and wraps it back up. No, Illya murmurs, I'd like to keep it. In case I change my mind.

It is a perfectly ordinary thing to say, a perfectly ordinary moment. But it feels significant, a heavy stone dropped into an otherwise clear pool.

Perhaps this is fate – not the tie she gives him, but his acceptance, and what that means. Or perhaps this is how you fight fate – not with grand, life-altering gestures, but through these small decisions, like keeping a gift despite its color.

Gaby watches carefully as Illya places the fabric back into its bag, handling it as if it were something delicate and precious.

And she knows then that she will not forget this moment, no matter how many have come before it, no matter how many are still to come after.

It is this one that is special, this one she will carry with her always.

It is in this moment that Gaby falls in love.

...

It's not until later that she finds out what colors mean to him. It's not until later that she finds out about green.

If it were her, she would not have kept the tie.

If it were her, she would have burned it.

Luckily, Illya is a better person than she is.

...

After their second mission, Solo returns to America and Illya to Russia and Gaby is left adrift with no country and no home. It is the first time she has been without the comfort of her dark, dusty garage, and suddenly, she feels uncertain, like a bird struggling to fly the first time it leaves its cage.

She is not a real agent, not like the other two. In fact, after Rome, during her debriefing with Waverly, she makes it clear that she has no desire to join him in the field.

But, Gaby, you've got the skillset, he implores her, and you're a natural at it. With some training, you could be a valuable asset.

But that's just it. She doesn't want to be his asset. She does not want to belong to England, sitting at the end of a leash, waiting for her master's orders. But a small voice in the back of her head sneers that the leash is already in place, that it just has a different name. She pushes it down and hopes she is not being naive.

It's not the same with UNCLE. Perhaps it's only a matter of semantics, but it feels different to her. When she's working with Solo and Illya, the lines between CIA, KGB, and MI-6 blur until it's like they're not even there at all. When they're working together, they're not serving their countries, they're protecting the greater good, they're protecting each other.

And that is different. And that is important.

You know, she says thoughtfully, combat training isn't a bad idea. But I won't join MI-6, no. UNCLE is enough for me.

This still leaves her in her current predicament – homeless.

Solo suggests she move to America, and even offers to marry her to help her get a green card.

Why do I feel like you've said this before, to other poor, vulnerable girls? She asks, half joking, but genuinely touched at his offer. She turns him down, of course. She has grown fond of the Cowboy but is certain she will not be able to endure a country full of them.

Illya knows better than to suggest she make a home in Russia. He knows as well as she does that it would just be another prison for her. Besides, she's almost certain they wouldn't let her in anyways.

Ironically, it's Waverly's suggestion she finally accepts. He assures her there are no strings attached, she is not in his debt, and despite her initial suspicion, she eventually believes him. She's never been to London and knows nothing about the city, but it seems as good a place as any to live, so she packs up her few belongings and boards a plane without ever looking back.

Her new flat is situated on a quiet street in a quaint part of town and it's all so charming Gaby wonders if she's fallen into a fairy tale. She scopes out the neighborhood as soon as her feet hit the ground, mapping out a grocery store and the post office and a cafe.

On her way back, she takes one too many right turns and discovers, by accident (or perhaps some other stronger force), a flower shop.

The vivid yellow door catches her eye immediately, and it takes her a moment to notice the abundance of green in the window. It's striking and lush, and when she steps inside, she swears she's entered a rainforest.

It is so different from anything she's ever known - bright and sunny, with the scent of earth filling her senses - yet it feels familiar all the same. Inexplicably, it reminds her of her old garage, with that same hum of life and energy jolting her in her bones.

Can I help you, dear? A woman's voice brings Gaby out of her memories, and she sees the elderly shopkeeper watching her curiously.

I was just looking, Gaby murmurs, brushing her fingers on a nearby fern. You have a beautiful shop here.

The woman smiles warmly. That's very kind of you to say. She sets an armful of flowers down on the counter and starts arranging them in a vase. After a moment, she looks up at Gaby. I don't think I've seen you around before, are you visiting?

Oh, I just moved to the neighborhood recently, Gaby replies, stepping closer to the counter and watching the woman work. They lapse into a comfortable silence, as if they are old friends, and before Gaby realizes it, the sun has set and the woman - Charlotte - is closing up shop.

She gives Gaby a warm hug and thanks her for the company. If you're not busy, why don't you come back tomorrow? I could use some help around here and you look like you're good with your hands.

And there it is again – luck.

Fate.

And that's how Gaby becomes a full-time florist and part-time spy.

...

In the language of flowers, it is the colors that transform a bouquet from a group of plants into a message, rich with meaning.

Red is for passion.

Yellow is for happiness.

White is for peace.

And green…

Well.

Gaby has always liked green.

...

It takes her nearly a year to fully furnish her flat.

She sleeps on a mattress laid out on the floor and leaves her clothes draped over the back of a chair for eleven months before she lets herself feel comfortable enough to unpack. Before she stops looking over her shoulder, before she stops lying awake at night, waiting for someone to drag her back to Germany.

Her mattress gets upgraded to a real bed with a frame and headboard, and her clothes hang up in her closet. She brings plant cuttings back from the flower shop and arranges them in their own pots, watering them until they grow and envelop her kitchen in leaves and blossoms.

It's a perfectly soft and warm and domestic life, utterly befitting of a florist.

But every home has its secrets, and hers take the form of two suitcases tucked deep in the back of her closet.

One is a polished leather duffel, filled with clothes and toiletries, in case she is ever called unexpectedly for a mission.

The other is a small, worn overnight bag, with cash sewn into the lining, and a few personal mementos tucked inside – photos, keepsakes, precious memories of her childhood. Her father gave it to her shortly before he left.

If you ever need to start over, he had said. She didn't know what he meant then, when she was young, but now, she knows all too well.

And now, no matter how comfortable she feels in her new life, she still can't let herself forget his words. More than once, she considers taking out the photos and setting them out on the mantle, but she always stops herself. No matter how comfortable she feels, she never lets herself forget the fear that one day, she will wake up and have to leave everything behind.

She doesn't unpack that second suitcase.

Not until the day Illya moves in.

...

Of course, he settles into her life more easily than she herself did. He sets his own baggage down in the closet next to hers – just one suitcase that holds all his worldly possessions – and it feels somehow like he has always been there.

Maybe he has.

Maybe he is just now filling the space that she had instinctively left for him, all this time.

It's such a cliché, but his presence makes her feel safe. Because he is stable. Sturdy.

He reminds her of the old tree that stood in the yard of her childhood home. On the best of days, it would bend and groan under the weight of its own branches, and during stormy days, it would thrash about in the rain and wind and she would lie awake at night, listening to the sound of its branches scraping against the windows, wondering if this would be the night it finally toppled over. Yet somehow, every time, after the storm had passed, under the light of a new day, it would always still be standing.

She asked her father once, right before he disappeared, how it stayed upright like that, and his answer is one that she has never forgotten.

It has deep roots, he had told her. Roots that keep it steady, roots that nourish it and keep it tied to the ground.

Gaby has never had roots. She may have spent most of her life stuck in Germany, but she is not beholden to it, she is not bound to it. Not in the way that Illya is bound to Russia, a bond forged by blood and sacrifice and obligation.

Illya has roots, but sometimes, Gaby worries that instead of fixing him to the ground, they are dragging him down underneath it. It keeps her up some nights, the dread that one day, he'll bend so far that he snaps in half, the dread that one day, he, too, will leave and never come back.

Yet, he always does.

Despite the odds, despite the danger, despite everything that could keep them apart, he always finds his way back to her and their cozy little home.

Her fears never come true.

And perhaps this is fate – that he always comes back.

Or perhaps this is how he fights fate – by always coming back.

...

Perhaps having luck on her side means that it is on his side too.

...

The day after Illya moves in, Gaby decides to stop wearing green.

Over the course of a few months, she purges countless items from her closet, not because he asked her to, but because she knows he never will.

It's not that Gaby is the kind of woman who gives up her own interests for the sake of a man. She's not. But this is different. Knowing what that color means to him, how it pains him, it doesn't seem right to flaunt it about, not when he's seen enough of it already. It is a very small thing she can do for him, and it does not make her feel like any less of her own woman to do so.

But.

There is one item she can't get rid of: the green dress he picked out for her in Rome. It's not because the day she wore it was particularly eventful, because it wasn't, not by a longshot. It's not even because it's one of her favorites, because she has plenty more pieces she likes more than that one.

The reason she can't bring herself to give it up is because that was the first time it began to feel real. That was the first time she realized that they could be real.

And now, it is. Now, it is real, the two of them, together. And saying goodbye to the dress that started it all won't change that. Call it a foolish sentimentality, call it an unnecessary attachment – she still can't bear to get rid of it. But she can't bear to wear it either.

So the dress sits in the back of the closet, condemned to a life of sartorial purgatory.

Somewhere nearby, on a bed of tissue paper, still with its tag, lies a green silk tie.

...

In the language of flowers, green symbolizes life.

It represents health. And wealth.

And hope.

...

Illya proposes to Gaby on the last day of spring. He takes her out to her favorite restaurant and presents her with the ring right after dessert. She shrieks and throws her arms around him as the rest of the restaurant bursts into applause.

So she is told. By Solo, who relishes in re-enacting his imagined version of events every time he sees her.

The truth is, that night is more or less a blur. She doesn't recall much of what they ate or what music was playing or what kind of champagne they were drinking.

It's not the proposal she remembers, but what happened before.

Illya had come home early that night and was waiting for her when she walked through the door. There was a twinkle in his eye that delighted her.

Let's go out tonight, he had said, I've made reservations.

She had hurried over to the closet, running her fingers through her clothes, struggling to decide what to wear. Somehow, her hand had found its way to the back, pulling out a dress she had tried time and time again to forget.

She remembers feeling a fervent need to wear it.

Just for fun, she had told herself, as she slipped it off the hanger. To see if it still fits.

And it did, just as well as on the day she first wore it, as if no time had passed at all. She had stared at herself in the mirror, remembering what her life had been like back then, so lost in thought and memories that she hadn't heard Illya come up behind her.

Perfect, he had murmured with a smile.

She remembers turning around to look at him, startled that he caught her, then startled again by the tie around his neck, new and familiar all at once, the green fabric a perfect match for her dress.

But Illya, she had said, with a slight waver in her voice. I thought that you didn't like this color.

His answer had been four words.

I changed my mind.

And this is what Gaby remembers most about the day she agreed to marry Illya.

The gentle look in his eyes as he smiled down at her.

The softness in his voice as he spoke those words.

The way her heart sighed in response.

...

Perhaps this is fate, when you find your way home.

Perhaps this is how you fight fate, by finding your way home.

...

Fin