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The Harder They Fall

Illya

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The noise and the heat assaulted his senses as soon as Illya stepped into the bar. He took a sharp breath and stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket one more time, feeling the crinkle of the twenty under his fingers.

"Drink one for me," Napoleon had said, his slick black hair barely visible from behind the stacks of papers on his desktop. "If I can't enjoy myself tonight, you're going to do it for me."

Illya would have much preferred doing his partner's paperwork for him. But he wasn't going to return his money tomorrow and admit that he couldn't sit inside a bar by himself for the duration of one drink. He didn't like people, and Napoleon knew it. Everyone in the precinct knew it, and yet Napoleon was the only one who would not give up dragging him to every social function in the tri-state area.

Someone pushed past him, and Illya found himself moving further into the bar just to escape the press of bodies by the door. Americans had no respect for personal space.

Illya looked around the venue. There were still a few empty tables, but he'd found that people took the sight of a single person, at a table alone, as an excuse to sit down and talk. Or flirt.

The bar wasn't as busy. There were three men at one end, and a couple at the other.

Except they might not be a couple.

There was an empty stool in between them, and the young woman was ignoring the man, staring studiously at the wooden counter instead. When the man beside her leaned closer her head snapped up, and even though he couldn't hear, Illya could tell she was angry. She pushed him further away, but the man persisted in leaning into her space.

Illya felt his anger flare. The little woman didn't seem to be in any distress, more irritated than afraid, but he still wanted to put his fist in the man's face.

"Come on, sweetheart, I won't take no for an answer. You're too gorgeous to be heading home alone on a night like this."

Her glare could have curdled milk. "Are you deaf or stupid? How many times to I have to tell you I'm not interested?"

"Obviously I'm waiting for you to change your mind, honey. I'm-"

The man drew back in shock when Illya calmly slid onto the barstool between them. He sat sedately, waiting for the bartender's attention, ignoring his two neighbours.

The other man leaned forward, but he couldn't see the woman he'd been bothering around Illya's massive shoulders. He hopped off his stool, sputtering in anger.

Illya turned to level him with a cold stare. "Is problem?"

Standing up, the other man still wasn't as tall as Illya sitting. His anger deflated. "No. I. I was just leaving."

Illya turned back to the counter and ordered a single beer the next time the bartender came by. He hated beer, but he wasn't going to drink vodka and try to drive home. He tapped his fingers against the counter. The young woman was staring at him, but he had nothing to say that wouldn't be more awkward than silence. If he left now, would the other man come back to torment her?

"Your drink."

Illya flinched when she spoke. He'd been concentrating so hard on acting naturally that he hadn't noticed his beer arrive. He turned to give her a stiff smile. It came out more like a grimace. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Her brown eyes were bright and amused, even if the rest of her face was calmly inexpressive. Illya fumbled to take a sip of beer without spilling it.

"You were not born here, either? Were you?"

Now he caught the lilt of an accent on her voice and looked at her with more interest. "No. I am originally from Ukraine."

She nodded. "I moved here from Berlin five years ago."

"Your accent is very good."

"Thanks. It's probably from watching too much TV as a kid." She gave a quick flash of a smile, and Illya had a hard time forcing himself to blink.

He waved one hand distractedly. "I find American television too… too busy. So much, so quickly. No time to stop and think."

She turned back to sip at the drink in her own hand. "I don't disagree with you. But I, myself, like fast.

"Oh." Illya could not think of anything to say next. He didn't think they were flirting, although the million shifting forms of English innuendo often passed him by, unrecognized. Illya was pretty sure they were just having a conversation. Was it over if he didn't reply, or was that just rude?

She had put down her drink and was staring at him again. "I'm Gaby."

The hand she stuck out was half the size of his, and he shook it carefully, conscious of how easily he broke things without thinking.

"Illya Kuryakin." He tipped his head to the other stool. "Is it alright I sit here?"

"Oh yeah." Her delicate brows furrowed. "Vince is a creep. He's engaged and he still won't leave me alone. Next time he brings his car in to our shop I'm going to wire his horn to the brakes."

"You work with cars?" he asked curiously. He'd taken every level of defensive driving the Academy offered, and Aced them all. But he knew next to nothing about how they worked on the inside.

"Not officially. But I live above an automotive shop and I tinker there some evenings and weekends. For fun, really."

They talked about cars for a long time, Gaby pleased to find someone genuinely curious about her favourite subject, and Illya delighted to talk about something real, not just bumble through the small talk that Napoleon excelled at. Then they moved on to the differences in America and their homelands. Gaby was from East Berlin, so they'd both been born under Soviet rule.

Gaby didn't smile much, and when she did, it seldom showed anywhere but her eyes. It was a relief to Illya, who believed in keeping smiles for special occasions, and found Napoleon's constant barrage of flashing teeth overwhelming. It also meant that when he won a smile from her, Illya could be sure it actually meant something.

When he next glanced at his watch over an hour had passed, and Illya was having a harder and harder time keeping his eyes open. He rubbed at them hard, and caught Gaby smirking at him as she stared pointedly at his empty beer stein.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?"

"No." He blinked and rose to his feet. "I am just tired. It was a long day. Will probably get a cab."

Gaby frowned and started fumbling coins out from her purse. "I suppose you're right. It is a work night, after all."

Suddenly feeling much too tired to wait for the bartender, Illya abandoned Napoleon's money on the counter and motioned towards the door. "Can I walk you to your car?"

"Sure."

Illya glanced down at Gaby as they pushed through the crowd. He wondered if he had done something to upset her. She had grown more serious as the night progressed, and now her face was pinched and tight with some unhappy emotion.

"Oh!" Tripping on the door step, Illya barely managed to catch himself. Gaby put out her hand, but he'd be more likely to crush her than gain assistance from it.

"Sorry. Am not usually so clumsy."

She just looked up at the confusion on his face and nodded. Gaby couldn't know that Illya had trained in gymnastics professionally as a child and a teen until his size disqualified him. He really was never clumsy.

The bar was situated at the back corner of a parking lot, with a busy road on its far edges, and industrial lots at this back. Gaby started walking towards the industrial buildings.

"I actually parked on the other side of the fence."

Illya glanced around at the parking lot. There was plenty of room right here. He blinked again, trying to remember if it had been busy when he'd arrived.

It was dark now. How long had they sat in the bar?

There were a few slats missing in the wooden fence that blocked off the industrial buildings. Gaby ducked through easily, but Illya had to turn sideways, and still bashed his head against the top of the fence emerging.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I-" For some reason he was losing complete control over his English. "Is fine. Is good."

Gaby glanced behind her. The bar parking lot and the fence had been built up on a short retaining wall, and there was about a metre's drop down to the industrial lot. Normally that would be one particularly long step for Illya, but now?

"Do you want to sit down for a minute?" Gaby asked. She looked worried.

"Is good. Just give me a minute."

No. Gaby's frown had deepened. That last bit was in Russian, wasn't it?

"Don't worry. I'm fine."

Still Russian.

"I can't understand you, Illya."

He tried to reach out to touch her shoulder, but missed by a good two feet. Suddenly there were small hands on his arm, and clutching his hand.

"My car is just over there, and then you can sit down, Illya. Hey! Illya, look at me."

"Is looking. I is- I am looking." He blinked slowly, trying to keep Gaby's face in focus.

Thud!

His back hit the fence before he'd even realised he was losing his balance. Keeping his knees locked, Illya leaned heavily against the wooden slats and tried to find his jacket pocket with both hands.

"Illya, what are you doing?"

He couldn't look up at her, afraid any movement would send him tipping to the ground. He managed to get one hand in his pocket and closed his numb fingers around his cellphone.

"Cowboy. I need t'call…C'wboy." He was slurring now. Something was wrong, and Napoleon would be able to fix it. He just had to unlock his phone.

"What?"

"Cowboy. Is my pard-partn'r. He he'ps m-me."

Finally, the call screen appeared. Thankfully he kept the cowboy on speed dial.

"Your partner. You mean Napoleon Solo? You're trying to phone him to come help?"

Yes, he was. How did she know that? He hadn't told Gaby about Napoleon.

He tipped his head back against the fence, trying to locate Gaby through his swimming vision. She was standing right in front of him. Standing very close.

Illya blinked.

"G'by?"

She pried the phone from his cold fingers. He couldn't stop her. She dropped it to the pavement between them and brought down her heel, hard. The screen splintered, and with the next two stomps it was reduced to shattered plastic.

"Sorry." Her voice was hard now, and she didn't sound very sorry. "That would sort of ruin everything if you called for help."

Illya dropped to one knee with a jarring thud. Even with the world swimming around him, and his body slipping away from his control, he had a hard time believing this was happening to him.

"Y' drug'd me?" he wobbled, bewilderment creeping into his voice.

A hand steadied his shoulder, and another pressed a hot palm against his cheek. He couldn't keep his head from lolling into her touch.

"W-why?"

Gaby sighed, "That's a complicated question, and I don't think you'll be around long enough to hear the answer."