I still don't own any of them.

For visual reference, please see a picture of Alicia Vikander in "Anna Karenina."

Gaby wandered from the briefing in a daze. What Waverly had suggested was nothing she had been prepared to hear. The idea had never so much as crossed her mind; now, though their handler's tone had been mild and offhand as he mentioned it, she would have to do it, like it or not. A mirror hung between the two lifts in the hallway, and she could not avoid looking in it as they waited.

It was a decent enough reflection, she thought. It had high cheekbones—nothing like Victoria Vinciguerra's, but they cut the babyish look of the face—and thick eyelashes framing coffee-colored eyes. Some men thought it pretty, even when it'd been covered with axle grease instead of makeup; in fact, one young man had been so taken with her that his car had broken down in a series of mysterious yet regularly-occurring circumstances.

But while men had always been eager to remark on her mechanical prowess or her figure, women had always complimented her on her hair. She bit her lip now as she studied it in the mirror. Though she did not lavish it with any special care it was thick and long, and healthy in spite of the time she spent under cars. She'd had no reason to be dissatisfied with it before now, nor any desire to alter it. Even now it was not her own choice, but rather the preference of some man. It seemed there were those who thought so highly of their own opinions that others were expected to change to suit them. More surprising was the realization that the burden of embodying that preference now rested on her.

"He likes his women blonde," Waverly had remarked, and unbidden she had remembered a deeper voice expressing a preference for something she had already proven to be.

Strong was not a hair color, to be chosen and changed on a whim.

The smile that had crept onto her face with the thought was dashed away by Solo's face appearing in the mirror behind her. "Worried about the change?" he divined, tone as light and crisp as always. Surely it was his career that allowed him to so easily read people; she hated to think that she was the only one who was so transparent. "Don't be. Remember, they do say that gentlemen prefer blondes."

"How would you know?" she snapped in reply. Heedless of the slight, Solo's smile remained roguish, and if anything took on an even more knowing slant. She was aware of his eyes on her reflection, as if reading her thoughts through the glass; the idea of him in her head made her feel even pricklier.

A wig wouldn't do, he'd already explained. A wig would be too easy to dislodge, particularly in a moment of passion—like a scuffle, the kind she'd been in plenty of times before, he clarified innocently, eyes twinkling damnably. In order to sell the image she'd have to go the whole nine yards and submit to having it dyed. She very much hoped that this little operation was as important as Waverly and the rest of the unseen U.N.C.L.E. brass thought.

Now, somewhat more gently, Solo said, "It won't change who you are, you know."

"Of course it won't."

He went on, ignoring the acidity of her tone. "We all do what we have to for the mission. No one will think any different of you for it—well, none of us will. After all, it's not as if you're doing this out of vanity."

"You know all about vanity."

Rather than attempt to deny it he preened in the mirror, and not for the first time Gaby thought about how handsome Solo was. With that cleft in his chin and that strong profile he could be a film star. It was a testament to his skill as a spy: surely someone less attractive would have found it easier to work undetected. The same was true of Illya, though his height was the greater handicap—not that he wasn't handsome; it just wasn't the first thing anyone noticed about him, nor his most memorable trait.

Illya. She suppressed a sigh. He'd been briefed earlier and was now out fetching a part needed to repair one of his gadgets; she had no idea whether or not he'd been apprised of the change to come. What would he think? Would he like it? She cursed herself for caring, hoping that Solo wasn't truly able to read her mind. Then, in defiance of all men and their opinions, she raised her chin. It didn't matter what Illya thought, anyway; it was for the mission, and it was her hair, and it was none of his business.

"I know a little salon that's chic and, more importantly, discreet," Solo said, and she rolled her eyes. Of course he did. "I'll book you an appointment for first thing tomorrow."

If the truth were told she was glad to have left the arrangements in Solo's ever capable hands, glad her only duty was to slide into a taxi in the morning after a night of restless sleep and arrive at a salon whose name flowed across the front window in an elegant script. It hadn't been necessary for him to make the appointment on her behalf, not from a mission standpoint at least, and she really ought to thank him for it—or not; it all depended on the results.

In spite of the pastel color scheme and the presence of fluffy towels the place seemed almost like a kind of torture chamber, where one was supposed to pay for the privilege of sitting in a chair for hours on end, surrounded by ceaseless chattering, having noxious chemicals applied to one's head. She would have fallen asleep if possible, but being herded from one station to the next, culminating in being deposited under a dryer that whirred noisily overhead, precluded sleep. And yet it wasn't all bad; the women in the salon, stylists and clients alike, were gentle and soft and harmless, in the best sense of the word. Against her will, Gaby found herself relaxing.

Relaxed though she had been, when it finally came time for the results to be revealed her nerves returned in full force. Belatedly she remembered classmates bemoaning the effects of chemicals on their hair, the horror stories of how it turned dry and brittle, or how a hoped-for golden color instead turned out as something more carroty. But these were professionals, she reminded herself, being paid what was likely an exorbitant sum for their works; and she steeled herself and raised her eyes to the mirror.

No matter what, professional opinion was overwhelmingly positive. "You look superb!" cooed the stylist behind her, her hands clasped beneath her chin. Gaby managed a smile that she hoped came across as self-effacing rather than shocked and thanked the woman.

Whether or not the color suited her she could hardly tell when different was the only thing she saw. All her life she'd been little brown-haired Gaby but now someone else had appeared in the mirror, someone just barely recognizable. After a moment she realized that beneath the surprise and disorientation there was a ripple of relief at the fact that her hair was in fact blonde, not orange, and as thick and soft as ever. That relief allowed her to study the woman in the mirror with some detachment. The color was not the cool Dietrich blonde she'd apparently been expecting; it was warmer, richer, deep and glowing. She looked…younger, Gaby decided, and somehow more innocent. Except for her eyes. They were still old. There was a wall in them, in her, as solid as the one she'd escaped over.

That it remained when all else had changed was cold comfort.

As she was stepping out of the taxi outside the hotel Solo was just leaving the building. The timing couldn't have been better if they'd worked it out beforehand and done a dry run in preparation; she narrowed her eyes, wondering which of the women at the salon had called to let him know when she left. Ever the gallant, Solo held the door open for her, murmuring a "Good afternoon, miss." The gallantry was seriously undermined when he tipped his sunglasses down and regarded her over of the top of the frames—the better to see the dye job, she assumed. His only response was to grace her with a wink before returning the glasses to their proper position; when she had entered he let the door go and continued on his way. It seemed her hair met with Solo's approval, at least.

That was all well and good, she reminded herself, but it was not Solo whose approval mattered. All that mattered was whether or not their self-important mark fancied it. The reassurance did little to calm her nerves.

In her room, not far from the one Illya and Solo were sharing, she'd just had time to slip her shoes off when a businesslike knock sounded on the door. When she opened it Illya glanced down at her, mouth open as if to speak, and then frowned.

After a moment's pause he said, politely, "Excuse me, miss. I must have the wrong room." Then he turned to go.

Before he took more than a step she reached out and seized his arm to haul him into the room. "Illya!" she hissed, in exasperation and trepidation and something too much like affection, as he stumbled after her. She shut the door behind them and turned to see his brow knit in confusion.

So he hadn't known. How much would Solo have given to see this reaction? she wondered. And more importantly, where had he hidden recording devices in her room?

"Gaby?" At any other time she would have laughed at the perfect double-take Illya executed; right at the moment, though, she was more concerned with his reaction. With a critical expression he assessed her: right size, right voice, just wrong hair. Her stomach was in a roil at the inspection, one that failed to decrease when comprehension dawned on his face. "So this is the surprise Cowboy said you had for me."

Wherever he was right now, the jackass was laughing. "I didn't do it for you," she said, too quickly, "I did it for the job."

He inclined his head. "Of course. I did not mean…" He trailed off and an ungainly silence loomed between them.

This was not going as she'd hoped. "So…what do you think? Do you like it?" She cocked her head, coquettishly.

"It…is different," he said carefully. "I am glad you showed me now, rather than during mission. I would have been distracted by it."

"You didn't answer my question."

His eyes stopped studying her hair and dropped to her face; she was satisfied to see his gaze bore into her with the same intensity he employed while at work. "You are very beautiful always." He did not embellish or elaborate the way some men would have, listing her various graces, but she heard his sincerity in the way his voice had lowered, as if the compliment were a secret between them, intimate and dear. "Always," he repeated, even more quietly, and she wondered if he knew he'd spoken aloud.

The faint flush in his cheeks said that he did. He swallowed, though he did not retreat. More loudly he began, "This…" and gestured to her hair.

The niggling in her stomach returned. "Yes?"

His frown returned as his attention went to it again, and she resisted the urged to smooth her hair, though it was still perfectly set. Then he shook his head in an economical movement and declared, "This is not practical."

Wasn't that just the Soviet way, to privilege practicality over beauty. She cocked her hip, shifting her weight in a smooth slide that she noticed his eyes follow. "Oh, really? How's that?"

"Brown hides engine grease better, yes?" His grin, sudden and sunny, made her feel lightheaded, but didn't hinder the swat to his arm.

"This woman is beautiful," he said, "but when we are done, I will be glad to see the chop shop girl again."

As luck would have it, Solo knew a chic, discreet little salon in Johannesburg, too.