She wakes around four o'clock in the afternoon. He's trying to decide whether or not he should move his rook before Solo comes back. They've been playing the same match for three hours now, and the other man is doing surprisingly well, all things considered. (Illya is convinced that this is because he is distracted by Gaby's condition. Solo is nowhere near as good as he is.)

He's frowning at the board, concentrating hard, when he hears a little noise beside him. It's very faint, just a soft exhale, but it's a change in the steady pattern of her breathing that has become woven into his consciousness over the past twenty-four hours, and he notices immediately. When he spins around to check on her, he goes perfectly still. Her eyes are open.

As soon as she sees him turn, she smiles. It's a pale imitation of her usual bold grin, but it's there and it's a start and for a moment he can't breathe with sheer happiness.

"Gaby—" he starts, but she shakes her head.

"What—what day is it?" she whispers. He has to strain to hear her.

"Tuesday," he says, after a long moment. "It's Tuesday."

He rises, pulls his chair closer to her side. Tentatively, he reaches for her hand, and she surprises him by grabbing his and holding tight.

"That long?" she asks, and he hears the fear in her voice. "How bad was it?"

He gulps back the ridiculous tightness in his throat that is threatening to spill over into a declaration of some sort and focuses instead on answering her, clinical and precise.

"Bullet wound to chest," he says, voice tightly controlled. "Collapsed lung. Hemothorax. Surgeon put a tube in your chest to drain blood, removed bullet. The nurses say you are recovering nicely."

It's all he has to offer, unless she wants him to burst into some sort of absurd show of emotion. (And if that dam breaks, God only knows what will come out.)

She nods slightly, categorizing her injuries, making a little humming noise as she registers the tubes in her arm, the ones snaking out from under the sheets, as she ghosts her hand over the bandages on her chest.

"How soon can I get out of here?" she asks next, as he knew she would, and his lips curve. Never likes to be tied down, his Gaby. She won't be happy about what he's about to tell her.

"Another five days, at least," he tells her, and sure enough, there's the quick flash of anger in her eyes.

"Another five days?" she says, sounding outraged. "This is ridiculous. Why can't I go recuperate at a safehouse or something?"

He shrugs, looks down at their joined hands.

"You endured serious injury," he says, slowly. "You should stay in hospital, recover fully. Solo and I do not have medical training to care for you."

"Pffft," she says, a furious little cat. "You're certainly capable of dressing wounds and changing bandages. And I hate this already."

He can't help himself; he lets his thumb stroke over her knuckles once, twice, his eyes never rising to hers. There's so much he wants to say, so much that needs to be said, and he can't bring himself to tell her any of it. He's never been this much of a coward.

He hears her hiss in pain, and looks up quickly to see her trying to lean forward, her other hand reaching out for him. Without thinking, he rises, his hands on her shoulders pressing her back into the pillow.

"What are you doing?" he snaps, sharply. He knows he should be gentle, speak softly, but he's just now stopped fearing for her life and he doesn't have gentleness in him yet. She gives him an annoyed glance.

"Trying to make you look at me," she explains, as if he is very stupid. He flushes and lifts his hands from her, sits down abruptly.

"Then just tell me," he says, and hates the way it comes out, terse and short-tempered. "Don't pull tubes out."

She pushes at his shoulder. "You are no fun in hospitals," she says, and he accepts the rebuke even though it stings. "Where is Solo? Surely he's here by now. He came…didn't he?"

He doesn't know what to think of the way she says it. Does she wish she'd woken up to see Cowboy instead of him? Does she wish he'd leave, send the American in here? Has he been wrong all along and there actually is something between them, something deeper than the teasing and the mild flirting and the love of all things Western? His chest suddenly feels heavy.

"He is downstairs, getting bad coffee," he says neutrally. "Should I get him for you?"

She shakes her head. "No, he'll come along when he's ready," she says, and she sounds tired. "I don't suppose they'll let me have coffee just yet, hmm?"

He gives her a look. "No."

She rolls her eyes and settles back into the pillow, wriggling a little to get comfortable and wincing as the wound twinges. Her hand flies to the bandage beneath the hospital gown, and he feels a quick stab of alarm.

"Are you all right?" he asks, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. "Have you pulled something?"

She waves a hand at him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she says, but she's a little breathless.

"I will call the nurse," he says in a tone that will brook no argument, and he's already at the door of her room when Solo breezes in, two cups of coffee carried precariously in one hand. The second he sees Gaby sitting up, his entire face lights.

"You're awake!" he exclaims, and the delight in his voice is unmistakably genuine. "My God, Teller, I thought we'd finally gotten rid of you. I was getting ready to auction off all that Chanel I bought you for your last birthday." The words are flippant, a little callous, even, but the tone is pure adoration.

She grins at him, eyes twinkling, and Illya feels a little sick.

"I don't die that easily," she informs Solo, and he chuckles.

"I knew it," he says. "Want a sip of coffee? Don't tell the nurse I gave it to you," he warns as she lifts a hand for the warm mug.

"Not even under torture," she promises, and Illya edges closer to the door.

"I think I will go get sandwich," he says casually, and slips out of the room as he hears Gaby ask, "So, did we get everything we came for?" Let Solo fill her in on the details of the mission; she clearly doesn't want them from him. Solo can be the one to tell her that the briefcase that nearly cost her life is safely on its way to England in the hands of the little blonde medic, that the mission is over and there's nothing left for her to do but get well.

He spends much longer than he should in the cafeteria and ends up eating two bites of a sandwich that tastes like refrigerated cardboard before throwing the rest away. He never wastes food (growing up in Soviet Russia tends to impress on one the importance of eating whatever is available), but right now, he can't seem to summon any sort of appetite.

She's awake, but she seems farther away than ever before.

Five and a half days later, and they're moving her into a little safehouse on the outskirts of Hamborn. It's a smaller town, quieter, and if any rumours have started about a woman with a gunshot wound coming into the hospital at Oberhausen (and then being joined by a Russian and an American), it's best that they take this opportunity to fade silently into the woodwork. Best to not draw attention to themselves, not while one of the trio is incapable of so much as walking on her own.

It's been a miserable week, at least on his side. Gaby and Cowboy seemed to be having a perfectly delightful time, when she wasn't grousing about wanting out of the hospital faster and he wasn't threatening to tie her to the bed if she didn't lie down and stay still.

That had been a fun conversation.

I can't take another minute of this, she'd snapped, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, even though she had to stop mid-motion to catch her breath and she had a hand clapped over her wound the entire time. It's like being in prison—a prison that reeks of Lysol and has coffee that tastes like a Stasi guard spit in it.

Solo huffed out a laugh, even as Illya rushed to hold her back.

You cannot move— he'd started, but Solo was already by her side, fingers curving gently over her shoulder.

You know you can't get up yet, he said, eyes warm even as he slid an arm under her knees and shifted her back onto her pillows. She gave him a nasty look.

I hate being manhandled and you know it, she'd snarled. If you don't let me go, I'll stand up the second your back is turned. Watch me. Her eyes were snapping with temper, her cheeks flushed for the first time in days, and Illya tamped down the surge of arousal it brought out in him. Not the place, not the time.

Solo just raised an eyebrow. If you don't promise to stay still, I will get my handcuffs and chain you to that goddamned bed, he answered, cool and level. Watch me.

She was outraged for a moment, and then he watched as the fury morphed into something sly and amused. Why, Napoleon Solo, she purred. I didn't know you liked whips and chains. How wicked of you.

Illya almost choked on his coffee. Whips? Chains? Dear God, what was she—

But his partner was chuckling, deep and rich. Gabriella Teller, accusing me of fetishism, he snorted. That I should live to see the day.

Illya could feel his face burning, the crimson flush seared into his skin. He knew what they were talking about, of course, had heard of the brothels where such practices were offered for those who enjoyed that sort of thing. He had never participated in it, couldn't imagine hitting a woman for pleasure, even with her consent…couldn't really imagine enjoying being beaten himself. For him, pain is a stimulant, but certainly not an erotic one. (Although the fact that he still can't stop thinking about Gaby wearing nothing but handcuffs and a smile disturbs him greatly.)

Solo looked in his direction and nudged Gaby gently. I think Peril is a bit more…conventional in his tastes, he commented drily. We're making him blush.

She'd glanced at him and smiled, almost as if she knew the alarming thoughts weaving their way through his mind. He has no idea, she said, and the malicious note of pleasure in her voice made him shift uncomfortably. He didn't want to think of her like that, certainly didn't want Cowboy thinking of her like that. Really, he didn't want anybody thinking anything at all at that particular moment.

She had laughed at him and obediently lain back down, but it was too late. He's lived in fear of the words handcuffs and tied up and chains for three days, and it's wearing on him. Really, being in that small room for hour after hour has been wearing on all of them. Time for them to get out of the close quarters of the hospital, get moved into their safe haven for the next week or two, have some space where Gaby can finish recuperating and they can find some sense of balance once more.

They help her down the flagged sidewalk and into the little living room, draw back the curtains for her so she can see the rainswept garden from her perch on the sofa. She's frighteningly pale just from the effort of leaving the hospital and driving the fifteen minutes to the safehouse, and he wonders if two weeks will be long enough to let her recover. He's willing to do whatever it takes to buy her more time (even though he's fairly sure that Waverly will give her as long as it takes).

Solo goes in the kitchen to make her tea, and Illya stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the silver sheets of rain and the dark, dripping leaves. He hears her shift behind him, trying to get comfortable.

"Is it all right?" he asks without turning around. He hears a little grunt of pain, barely audible, and spins to face her. He is immediately stunned, disbelieving—she's trying to walk on her own, holding on to one of the dining room chairs for balance, nearly doubled over. Her face has lost all colour, and for a hideous moment, he's in the cramped backseat of that Volkswagen again…her blood soaking into his shirt, her face purple-blue, his hands holding her together while he begs frantically for time, more time, just a little more time. The twist of terror in his gut is so sharp, so fast, he can't think straight.

"What are you doing?" he shouts at her, and she actually flinches. "What are you thinking? Sit down!"

She stares at him, shocked into silence, and he feels a wash of shame flood over him. He has never raised his voice to her in anger, not once. Even on missions, there's rarely cause for him to shout. He cannot believe what he's just done, and from the look on her face, she's can't either.

He hears a clatter of china to his left, and knows that Cowboy is standing in the doorway, watching, ready to step in.

"Everything all right?" Solo asks carefully, and Gaby turns toward him, very slowly.

"I want to wash up," she says, looking past Illya as if he isn't even there. "Will you help me?"

Solo doesn't hesitate as he crosses to her, but he does toss a glance over his shoulder as he goes, his expression unreadable. Gently, he takes her arm and walks her toward the small master bedroom with its adjoining bath. As soon as they are out of earshot, Illya sinks down on the sofa, head between his hands.

He has no idea how much time has passed before he hears Solo's familiar stride, soft and cat-like over the ugly patterned carpet.

"I convinced to her lie down for a bit," he says, and Illya feels the other man sink into the cushions beside him. "The fact that she nearly fainted in the bathroom made it difficult for her to argue."

Illya doesn't move, doesn't lift his head. He doesn't think he can face either of them right now.

"Peril," and Solo's voice is pitched to soothe a frightened child or a spooked horse, "what happened in Moers?"

He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to think about it. But this is Solo, his partner, his friend, and he just bellowed like an angry bull at his other partner (who is also the woman he's been in love with for over a year), and he thinks that perhaps it's time to do as he's asked.

"We were on the Kranichstraße," he begins, and that whole long, terrible night comes pouring out of him, his English becoming more broken and accented as he goes. By the time he's finished, Solo has risen to stand at the French windows, looking out at the darkening sky.

"My God," he says, after a long moment. "No wonder you're—" He pauses, seeming to search for a word that won't offend his partner.

"A mess—is how you say it?" Illya offers with a half-chuckle that comes out like he's being strangled. He presses his lips together and stares down at his hands, wondering how long it will be before he can look at Gaby again without seeing her dying before his eyes. How long it will be before he can go back to whatever his version of normal was.

Solo sighs, a long, tired sound. "Waverly would say you need to see a psychologist."

Illya's head jerks up, eyes burning. "No," he says, instantly. "No doctors. No tricks, no drugs. I am fine."

The other man is shaking his head. "It's not like it was in the KGB—" he begins, but Illya cuts him off.

"No," he says, and his voice is steel, adamantine, cutting through all of Solo's good intentions. "No. I cannot—I will not go there. No."

Solo accepts this, nods a little, and goes back to staring out the windows. It's almost fully dark by now, and Illya can see his reflection looking back at him. He almost wishes he could blot it out, draw the curtain across the pane and hide the man whose head used to be the playground of the best KGB psychiatrists, whose file is fat with reports of psychotic rages and pictures of other men beaten to a pulp. He does not want to be that man again.

There is silence for another minute, two, and then Solo finally speaks again.

"Have you told her?"

Illya jerks back into reality, the here and now of this drab little living room with its lamplight and the sound of water dripping from the gables.

"No," he says, quietly. "Why would I? She does not need to know…how close it was. How bad it was."

He can see his partner's face reflected in the window too, and he can read Solo's frustration, lips thinned and the rapid one-two blink that signals that a mark is doing something unexpected, something he's still trying to figure out.

"She doesn't understand," he says, and Illya can tell he's weighing his words carefully. "She knows it was bad, of course. She still can't stand up for very long without falling over. But I don't think she realizes that she almost died that night."

The words fall like stones between them, heavy and immovable. He finds his chest tightening again.

"And I should tell her, then? So she can live with the fear too? Nyet," he snaps, pushing up off the sofa in his resolve. "I will not do that to her. Bad enough that I live with it. That I know it is my fault."

Solo's jaw works, lips twisting in aggravation. He's looking for the right thing to say, and doesn't seem to be finding it. In the meantime, he pulls a cigarette lighter out of his pocket (it looks remarkably like the one that belonged to the Greek arms dealer they captured two weeks ago), and begins clicking it on and off, on and off, as he slowly begins.

"Peril, as much as I hate talking about anyone's feelings, particularly yours, I think it imperative to point out that there is something going on with you and Gaby. There has been ever since Rome."

Click. Click. Click. The light flicks on, flicks off, and his eyes never leave the tiny flame wavering in his palms.

"For the past year or so, the two of you have been dancing around each other, and you've been getting a little deeper with every mission. I know you're under the impression that you're both being extremely subtle, but really, it's quite obvious. And, might I add, incredibly dangerous as well."

The steady click, click continues, the only sound in the absolute silence of the room.

"So. You can understand, given the circumstances, how our darling Gaby would have absolutely no idea why the man who has been head-over-heels in love with her up until a week ago is now avoiding her, shouting at her, and snapping like a wounded bear every time she feels the slightest amount of pain."

Illya stares at him and consciously makes sure his mouth hasn't fallen open.

"You know, and I know, exactly why. But she thinks she's done something to offend you, and she doesn't know what. And I'm getting very tired of playing referee."

The words remind him of another night, this one warm and fragrant, and Gaby's defiant stare…why am I playing mother, hmm? Of course she doesn't know why he's angry. How could she? But he cannot make himself tell her.

"I—I cannot," he manages, and Solo makes an exasperated noise and tosses the lighter onto the dining room table. The clatter of metal on wood makes them both wince and glance automatically towards the bedroom, but there's no sound and no movement, and they both relax a little. Solo turns back to his partner, impatience in the lines bracketing his mouth.

"I'm done trying, Peril. If this whole thing blows up in your face, so be it. But, for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, do you think you could manage to resolve things before our two weeks are up?"

Illya glowers at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets to give himself something to do. He knows he can't go on this way—they cannot go on this way. Something will have to give. He just doesn't know what.

"Ostav' menya v pokoye," he mutters, turning away abruptly. He is finished with this conversation, finished with being lectured about his affairs like a naughty child. He knows it's petulant, but he stalks off towards the stairs in the entryway. He wants to be alone, have time to gather his thoughts. Wants to get Solo's words out of his ears.

"'Leave you alone,'" he hears Solo echo behind him, sarcasm glossing heavy over the words. "Yes, that seems like an excellent idea. A perfect solution, Peril."

"Xуйло́," he grumbles to the coat rack. "Asshole."

Sleep does not come easily that night.

Translations are included in the text, but if something is unclear, please let me know. As always, pointing out any translation/historical errors is deeply appreciated.