COMPARED TO WHAT
the man from u.n.c.l.e. gaby & napoleon.
gen. 1459 words. ao3 link.
summary: Her first instinct will always be to crack things open and figure out how the insides fit together, determine what makes them run. What makes Napoleon Solo run, outside of self-interest?
note: For![]()
ms_mmelissa! I hope you enjoy it! :)
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They get drunk in New York on New Year's Eve. No missions, no covers, no responsibilities, no parties – just drunkenness. Gaby likes vodka on the rocks; Solo's an old fashioned man.
"There is a word for you," she says, slurs. "With your sharp suits and your slick hair and those gaudy watches. That ring. They would call you a snake oil salesman. A man like you, they would take one look and say, he is selling something."
"That's very harsh, Gabrielle," Solo replies mildly. The only sign in him of tipsiness is a slight loosening of the collar, a hint of red in his cheeks. One strand of black hair dips over his forehead and tries valiantly to curl. "That's also more than one word. And who exactly are the they of this scenario?"
"Everyone. Anyone. Me and Illya," Gaby says stubbornly, ignoring the conventions of grammar, and jerks her chin towards Illya, who is by now dozing on the chaise lounge, his legs hanging off the end. They have passed the evening in Solo's luxury penthouse, an ostentatious collection of rooms in a rundown neighborhood at the top floor of a derelict-looking building. Gaby found it very strange place to find him, but Solo only remarked that the rent was negligible and hadn't he done a wonderful job of fixing it up?
He fed them too, fussing around the kitchen with an apron tied over his shirt while Illya critiqued his cooking and Gaby helped herself to the wine. Solo was a good cook, but Gaby and Illya made a point never to compliment him for anything because it went directly to his already overstuffed head.
Now Gaby reaches for one of the leftover canapés, gone cold but perhaps more delicious for it. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Now hold on, I'm not off the topic of my alleged swindling – "
Gaby gives him a pointed, pursed-lips look.
"Oh, alright. I learned because if one doesn't learn to cook, one generally doesn't eat. Isn't that the way?"
"It's different. You enjoy it. When I have to feed myself, the best I can do is toast with butter or a potato in the oven. You make prime rib for people you still won't call friends."
"You're co-workers," Solo says.
Gaby rolls her eyes.
"And did you know it's quite rude to interrogate your host? Do I pepper you with personal questions, hm, Gabrielle? No, I do not."
"No, only because you think you already know everything."
Solo smiles then, just a quick flash of teeth behind the amber liquid in the glass he holds to his mouth. "I don't mind being told I'm wrong. In fact sometimes I rather like it."
"That sounds like a challenge," she says.
Solo's grin lingers. "I'm certain you could rise to it."
"You know, Teller, I've been rather bothered about something."
Solo sidles up to her casually at the museum gala they're attending today, speaking more to the painting than to her so they won't look too involved.
"Speak now, or…" Gaby says, lips against her cocktail and eyebrow angling upwards slightly.
"Well, it's just that business about the snake oil," he says. "Whatever would make you say that?"
"Because you're a thief and you're working off your jail time as we speak," she says. "And also you stole my bracelet within ten minutes of our arrival."
Guiltily, Solo's hand slips into his pocket and emerges with said bracelet, which he then drops so effortlessly into her purse that she probably would never have noticed if she wasn't looking. "It wasn't because I wanted it. I was trying to help you."
Amused, "Oh?"
"The thing was just terribly ugly," Solo says, and Gaby actually lets out a startled, affronted laugh despite herself. "I don't know who chose it, you or Peril, or which would make it better. But honestly, Teller, just because you're a mechanic doesn't mean you have to accessorize like one."
"Are you just being mean because you're upset I called you a thief?"
"I have been called a great deal worse," Solo says, unperturbed – at least on the surface. "I am merely a connoisseur of style. Don't tell me you wouldn't wear those horrible coveralls every day if you could."
There is truth to the idea that Gaby is more at ease in her jeans and jumpsuits, scarf tied around her head, engine grease smeared over her cheek. It's the life she knows best, after all, and as much as she may enjoy the stylish dresses and heels they never quite stop feeling like a costume.
"They are both comfortable and functional," Gaby tells him. "Now leave me alone, I'm working. That diplomat will never come anywhere near me with a man like you hovering."
The idea seems to please Solo immensely – he is such a peacock, after all – but before he confirm that Gaby is very indirectly implying that he's handsome, Illya has appeared to wrap an arm around his bicep and haul him off.
"Honestly, cowboy," Illya grumbles. "You have attention span of child."
"I suppose you don't make sense to me," Gaby tells Solo.
"It does seem very debonair to be considered an enigma," is his reply.
They've spent the better part of the afternoon perched on a bench outside the Greek Embassy, marking the comings and goings of key figures while they pretend to read the paper or share lunch, just two attractive strangers on a midday date.
Solo follows up his remark with, "Let's play a game. You can tell me something about myself, and I'll tell you if it's true or not."
"You're so conceited that a game of Napoleon Solo trivia is your idea of a good time," Gaby says sardonically, giving him a mean smile. She likes being mean to Solo just to see if he really is unflappable. It's like skipping a stone across the placid surface of a lake.
He returns the smile, but without the sarcastic edge. "True."
Satisfied that he will be honest as long as he also thinks he is being funny, couching the truth in that toothpaste advertisement smile, Gaby really considers her next statement. Her first instinct will always be to crack things open and figure out how the insides fit together, determine what makes them run. What makes Napoleon Solo run, outside of self-interest? Is he like an elegant sports car that breaks down the first time you take it out of the garage, or is there something more to be found in him?
"You crave luxury because you grew up in poverty," she guesses next. After leaving Berlin, she herself had gone a bit mad with consumerism and now she has trunks full of gorgeous things she no longer cares about.
"Hard-hitting, Miss Teller," he says. "But false."
Gaby frowns. "You grew up pampered, lost your money, and are now trying to regain the life to which you were accustomed."
"False again," he says. "You're really not very good at this, are you?" He leans slightly closer. "I've heard that the real truth usually lies in the middle of such extremes."
She gets a new picture of Napoleon Solo then: young and impossibly handsome and always in trouble for some charming little indiscretion, a perfectly ordinary upbringing, the son in cereal commercials surrounded by his happy family. He probably got away with a lot because of his looks. He probably got used to that.
Seeming to sense the cogs turning, Solo offers up information about himself for the first time in Gaby's memory. "I was raised by my mother, who was a schoolteacher, in my grandparents' home in Queens. I have a younger brother; we no longer speak."
It all seems rather too ordinary, put forth in his clear, well-modulated voice. She studies him, attempts to make all the pieces fit together. "True or false?"
Solo grins at her, but the next words out of his mouth aren't connected to the matter at hand. "Our man, twelve o'clock." Gaby casts a glance sideways to just in time to see the man they're tracking round the corner in the opposite direction. "Best get a move on."
He rises, dusting off his trousers and folding his paper before extending a hand to her. Gaby takes it, getting lightly to her feet. "Now, my turn," Solo says, almost softly. "Gaby Teller is capable, terribly pretty, terrifically short tempered, and has abysmal taste in clothes when left to her own devices."
"Don't angle for a slap," Gaby tells him, and she makes sure to step on his foot as she passes, hopefully scuffing the expensive leather. "If we lose him, it's on you."
She can feel Solo's amusement as he follows her. "I take full responsibility."
the man from u.n.c.l.e. gaby & napoleon.
gen. 1459 words. ao3 link.
summary: Her first instinct will always be to crack things open and figure out how the insides fit together, determine what makes them run. What makes Napoleon Solo run, outside of self-interest?
note: For
ms_mmelissa! I hope you enjoy it! :)
They get drunk in New York on New Year's Eve. No missions, no covers, no responsibilities, no parties – just drunkenness. Gaby likes vodka on the rocks; Solo's an old fashioned man.
"There is a word for you," she says, slurs. "With your sharp suits and your slick hair and those gaudy watches. That ring. They would call you a snake oil salesman. A man like you, they would take one look and say, he is selling something."
"That's very harsh, Gabrielle," Solo replies mildly. The only sign in him of tipsiness is a slight loosening of the collar, a hint of red in his cheeks. One strand of black hair dips over his forehead and tries valiantly to curl. "That's also more than one word. And who exactly are the they of this scenario?"
"Everyone. Anyone. Me and Illya," Gaby says stubbornly, ignoring the conventions of grammar, and jerks her chin towards Illya, who is by now dozing on the chaise lounge, his legs hanging off the end. They have passed the evening in Solo's luxury penthouse, an ostentatious collection of rooms in a rundown neighborhood at the top floor of a derelict-looking building. Gaby found it very strange place to find him, but Solo only remarked that the rent was negligible and hadn't he done a wonderful job of fixing it up?
He fed them too, fussing around the kitchen with an apron tied over his shirt while Illya critiqued his cooking and Gaby helped herself to the wine. Solo was a good cook, but Gaby and Illya made a point never to compliment him for anything because it went directly to his already overstuffed head.
Now Gaby reaches for one of the leftover canapés, gone cold but perhaps more delicious for it. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Now hold on, I'm not off the topic of my alleged swindling – "
Gaby gives him a pointed, pursed-lips look.
"Oh, alright. I learned because if one doesn't learn to cook, one generally doesn't eat. Isn't that the way?"
"It's different. You enjoy it. When I have to feed myself, the best I can do is toast with butter or a potato in the oven. You make prime rib for people you still won't call friends."
"You're co-workers," Solo says.
Gaby rolls her eyes.
"And did you know it's quite rude to interrogate your host? Do I pepper you with personal questions, hm, Gabrielle? No, I do not."
"No, only because you think you already know everything."
Solo smiles then, just a quick flash of teeth behind the amber liquid in the glass he holds to his mouth. "I don't mind being told I'm wrong. In fact sometimes I rather like it."
"That sounds like a challenge," she says.
Solo's grin lingers. "I'm certain you could rise to it."
"You know, Teller, I've been rather bothered about something."
Solo sidles up to her casually at the museum gala they're attending today, speaking more to the painting than to her so they won't look too involved.
"Speak now, or…" Gaby says, lips against her cocktail and eyebrow angling upwards slightly.
"Well, it's just that business about the snake oil," he says. "Whatever would make you say that?"
"Because you're a thief and you're working off your jail time as we speak," she says. "And also you stole my bracelet within ten minutes of our arrival."
Guiltily, Solo's hand slips into his pocket and emerges with said bracelet, which he then drops so effortlessly into her purse that she probably would never have noticed if she wasn't looking. "It wasn't because I wanted it. I was trying to help you."
Amused, "Oh?"
"The thing was just terribly ugly," Solo says, and Gaby actually lets out a startled, affronted laugh despite herself. "I don't know who chose it, you or Peril, or which would make it better. But honestly, Teller, just because you're a mechanic doesn't mean you have to accessorize like one."
"Are you just being mean because you're upset I called you a thief?"
"I have been called a great deal worse," Solo says, unperturbed – at least on the surface. "I am merely a connoisseur of style. Don't tell me you wouldn't wear those horrible coveralls every day if you could."
There is truth to the idea that Gaby is more at ease in her jeans and jumpsuits, scarf tied around her head, engine grease smeared over her cheek. It's the life she knows best, after all, and as much as she may enjoy the stylish dresses and heels they never quite stop feeling like a costume.
"They are both comfortable and functional," Gaby tells him. "Now leave me alone, I'm working. That diplomat will never come anywhere near me with a man like you hovering."
The idea seems to please Solo immensely – he is such a peacock, after all – but before he confirm that Gaby is very indirectly implying that he's handsome, Illya has appeared to wrap an arm around his bicep and haul him off.
"Honestly, cowboy," Illya grumbles. "You have attention span of child."
"I suppose you don't make sense to me," Gaby tells Solo.
"It does seem very debonair to be considered an enigma," is his reply.
They've spent the better part of the afternoon perched on a bench outside the Greek Embassy, marking the comings and goings of key figures while they pretend to read the paper or share lunch, just two attractive strangers on a midday date.
Solo follows up his remark with, "Let's play a game. You can tell me something about myself, and I'll tell you if it's true or not."
"You're so conceited that a game of Napoleon Solo trivia is your idea of a good time," Gaby says sardonically, giving him a mean smile. She likes being mean to Solo just to see if he really is unflappable. It's like skipping a stone across the placid surface of a lake.
He returns the smile, but without the sarcastic edge. "True."
Satisfied that he will be honest as long as he also thinks he is being funny, couching the truth in that toothpaste advertisement smile, Gaby really considers her next statement. Her first instinct will always be to crack things open and figure out how the insides fit together, determine what makes them run. What makes Napoleon Solo run, outside of self-interest? Is he like an elegant sports car that breaks down the first time you take it out of the garage, or is there something more to be found in him?
"You crave luxury because you grew up in poverty," she guesses next. After leaving Berlin, she herself had gone a bit mad with consumerism and now she has trunks full of gorgeous things she no longer cares about.
"Hard-hitting, Miss Teller," he says. "But false."
Gaby frowns. "You grew up pampered, lost your money, and are now trying to regain the life to which you were accustomed."
"False again," he says. "You're really not very good at this, are you?" He leans slightly closer. "I've heard that the real truth usually lies in the middle of such extremes."
She gets a new picture of Napoleon Solo then: young and impossibly handsome and always in trouble for some charming little indiscretion, a perfectly ordinary upbringing, the son in cereal commercials surrounded by his happy family. He probably got away with a lot because of his looks. He probably got used to that.
Seeming to sense the cogs turning, Solo offers up information about himself for the first time in Gaby's memory. "I was raised by my mother, who was a schoolteacher, in my grandparents' home in Queens. I have a younger brother; we no longer speak."
It all seems rather too ordinary, put forth in his clear, well-modulated voice. She studies him, attempts to make all the pieces fit together. "True or false?"
Solo grins at her, but the next words out of his mouth aren't connected to the matter at hand. "Our man, twelve o'clock." Gaby casts a glance sideways to just in time to see the man they're tracking round the corner in the opposite direction. "Best get a move on."
He rises, dusting off his trousers and folding his paper before extending a hand to her. Gaby takes it, getting lightly to her feet. "Now, my turn," Solo says, almost softly. "Gaby Teller is capable, terribly pretty, terrifically short tempered, and has abysmal taste in clothes when left to her own devices."
"Don't angle for a slap," Gaby tells him, and she makes sure to step on his foot as she passes, hopefully scuffing the expensive leather. "If we lose him, it's on you."
She can feel Solo's amusement as he follows her. "I take full responsibility."