Chapter Text
Illya reasoned it was probably ok to be in love with two people at once when neither of them knew he existed. This reasoning was not particularly comforting when one, or both, of them walked by his bookshop, the cold winter air forming ethereal clouds around the handsome man as he hurried on by for the early morning commute, or the way the streetlights made the beautiful woman’s hair shine in the icy evenings. She was rarely with him in the mornings and Illya couldn’t decide if she worked nearby and therefore didn’t need to take the tube anywhere, or perhaps didn’t work at all. Some evenings she would walk to the tube stop at the end of the block to meet the man and they would walk somewhere - probably home - together.
Those were Illya’s favourite moments to steal; watching them stroll down the street, hand in hand, sometimes chatting, sometimes in comfortable silence, but always seeming utterly content with their lot in life. Illya envied them; he smuggled those glances away for himself, wrapping them around his heart to bolster hope that perhaps someday, there might be something like that for him.
Though Illya would never admit it out loud, gaining a reputation as a grouchy second-hand bookshop owner was probably not the best way to go about making friends, let alone any other kind of connection, but the whole reason for opening his own shop had been to avoid the awkward situation of physically assaulting one’s boss (again) or a rude customer (not again but too many close calls were going to lead to the inevitable). In fact, the only ‘friend’ Illya had made in the months he’d been in business was the fat orange cat left behind by the previous owner. The cat’s tag insisted her name was Waverly but Illya had taken to calling her Vinnie Pookh, or Winnie the Pooh in Russian, due to her overly round and particularly optimistic nature.
Illya would also never admit out loud that his only friend was a cat.
Loneliness aside, he didn’t… hate London as much as he had expected. The English were a strange people, and treated him strangely a lot of the time, but the old ladies and gothy school kids that frequented his shop didn’t seem to mind him all that much. Other shop owners along the street were another matter; the quietly cool clothes outlets, cafes, and expensive tchotchke shops all seemed to be run by twenty-somethings of clearly affluent means desperate to appear much more humble and ordinary. The artifice confused Illya so he avoided them as much as possible, adding to his cranky aura.
All in all, Illya did his best to be content with stolen glances out of his shop’s huge windows, and the purring of a fat cat who insisted on sleeping on top of books at every opportunity.
*
This plan began to unravel in spectacular fashion one morning in late winter when one of Illya’s secret crushes paused outside the shop window, right as Illya happened to be watching him rush by.
Illya quickly turned back to the pile of books he had been inspecting at his counter and tried very hard to pretend like he wasn’t there. He thought he heard a muffled curse and looked up again, just in time to see the handsome man rush into the shop.
The bell above the door chimed.
Illya froze.
The handsome man’s brows were furrowed in an unusual scowl, and still he was beautiful as a marble statue. “Excuse me, terribly sorry-” oh no he’s American- “do you have a landline phone I could borrow?”
“What?”
“Or a cell that’s not Tesco?” The man held his cell phone aloft. “I’ve got zero service and that never happens on this street, so something must be up with the towers, and I need to make a call. It’s urgent.”
Illya stared. His good manners duelled with his racing heart and quickly ganged up on his ability to form sentences. There were no winners. “Yes.” He paused for a moment before remembering that he’d have to actually provide the phone he’d just confirmed existed, and abruptly knelt behind the solid counter to retrieve it. He set the lime green Bakelite phone onto the scant spare counter space.
“Does it work?”
“Yes,” Illya answered gruffly. “Would not offer if this was broken.”
“You’re Russian,” the man said with a faint tone of surprise.
Illya fought to stand still under the man’s gaze. He’d never realised how blue his eyes were until now and the timing of this discovery was not at all ideal. “Yes.”
“Hm.” The man gave a small shrug and approached the counter.
Illya was often too aware of his size when compared to the rest of the population. He loomed without meaning to and took up too much space for people to ever really be comfortable around him. With the handsome man so close, and in his shop, in his space, Illya had never wanted to disappear so badly. He did the next best thing and legged it to the back of the shop, collecting a random stack of books in his arms on the way, leaving the handsome man with a phone that Illya had once found charming but was now embarrassed of.
From his ineffective hiding place, Illya could still see over the shelves; he was, after all, uncomfortably tall but the shop’s previous owner had not been, and she had invested in shelves appropriate for an old woman in her seventies who was five foot five in her orthotic shoes. Illya turned his back on the handsome man and concentrated on- well, nothing, as focus was somehow impossible, and did a bad job of not eavesdropping.
“Sanders, it’s Solo. My phone crapped out but I was watching the auction and it looks like we’re about to be outbid, you need to get Witherington onto it now or it’s going to slip through our fingers.”
Knowing the handsome man’s name made Illya’s heart squeeze dangerously. He dearly hoped ‘Solo’ was a last name.
“If we lose another goddamn map my client is going to-” Solo broke off and scowled. “Yes, sir. I’ll be in the office by nine.” He placed the receiver down carefully. Almost too carefully. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath and seemed to shake it off, looking around for Illya. “Thank you,” he called out.
Illya slowly returned to the front of the shop but kept a healthy distance. “No problem.” Solo smiled briefly and turned, and Illya could not help the desperate words that fell from his lips. “You buy maps?”
“Yes,” Solo answered warily. “I’m an antiquities dealer, mostly specialising in books and paper objects these days, though you wouldn’t know it- sorry. My boss doesn’t exactly respect the value my clients place on these things.”
Illya didn’t even pretend to understand what that meant, but he nodded anyway. “I have something.” He set his distraction books down and rifled through the shelves hidden from customer view beneath his counter. “This is collectible, I think. Worth more than my customers would pay.” He handed over an awkwardly sized leather bound book, several inches wider than it was tall with fraying binding.
Solo pocketed his cell and took the book from Illya only to promptly set it on the counter. He slowly opened the cover and if Illya hadn’t been staring, he would have missed Solo’s flash of surprise. “Where did you get this?”
“I go to estate sales and flea markets for stock to sell at markup. I found this last week at deceased estate in Alfriston.” Illya pronounced the town’s ridiculous name as crisply as possible. “Mostly was average old people things - some nice editions of classics, some pulp crime shit - but this is more than nice, according to my research.”
“This,” Solo said quietly, “looks like an atlas, printed in the early nineteenth century, with all its engravings intact.”
“Yes.”
A slow smile spread across Solo’s face, making him even more handsome. Illya hurriedly looked away. “I’ll give you three thousand pounds for it.”
“No.”
“It’s more than fair-”
“I saw nothing like this get more than two thousand five hundred in auctions.”
Solo’s gaze softened as he looked up at Illya. “Three thousand. I have a buyer in mind with more money than brains. You wouldn’t be ripping me off, and I’d still make a healthy commission.”
“I have no provenance documents for it,” Illya warned.
“Those aren’t always as important as they should be.” Solo closed the atlas carefully and opened his leather satchel. “Who should I make the cheque out to?”
“Illya,” he said, and hoped he didn’t sound as thoroughly awed as he felt. “Kuryakin.”
Solo scrawled across the cheque and tore it out, placing it on the counter. “Do you have a bag I could put that in?”
“Yes.” Illya finally had command over his actions and cleared enough space to unroll a ream of paper across the counter. He swiftly wrapped the atlas in the sturdy brown paper before placing it inside a plastic carry bag. “Is good to protect the corners and the binding.”
“Thank you.” Solo smiled widely and after barely a moment’s hesitation, he gave Illya his business card. “If you find anything else interesting, call me. Or if your car needs fixing.”
“What?”
“My girlfriend’s a mechanic,” Solo explained, as if that actually explained anything. He smiled at Illya’s continued confusion. “You have saved my ass. In the likely event I lose that auction, I’ve still got something for my client, which means he’ll stay my client.”
Illya walked his mental map of the neighbourhood. “Your girlfriend works at Teller’s auto shop?”
“She owns it, in fact. You live around here?”
“Upstairs.” Illya clenched his fists out of sight, frustrated with his own abruptness. “There is my apartment upstairs.”
Solo just smiled, bemused. Or at least, Illya hoped that was the case. “I should get going. Thanks again for your help.”
“It is no problem.”
“Right. I’ll see you around.” Solo took his leave, atlas in hand and a possible spring in his step.
Illya carefully tucked the cheque into the cash register drawer. He’d just made almost his entire month’s budget in five minutes, but more importantly… he picked up the fancy business card. “What kind of name is Napoleon Solo?”
*
A week or so later, Illya was minding his own business rearranging the back shelving when the bell above the door tinkled. “Hello,” Illya called out, still with his back to the door. “I will be-”
“Well, who is this handsome man?”
The American accent was more than a shock to the system. Illya leapt to his feet and whirled around to face the door only to find Napoleon Solo- patting the cat. Illya froze as his brain attempted to recalibrate at the speed of light.
It did not go well.
“She is Vinnie Pookh,” Illya said. His face flushed bright red.
Solo grinned at the purring cat. “Winnie the Pooh, hm? Seems right.” He found the spot Vinnie Pookh liked best, right behind the ears, and the purring intensified. “Making your bed on a most extensive Agatha Christie collection, are you?”
“There is no accounting for taste.”
Solo snorted. “Been to any estate sales lately?”
“No.”
“Relax, I haven’t just come for your books,” Solo said easily.
Illya’s heart attempted to fight its way out of his ribcage.
“I wanted to bring Gaby by to say hello, only…” Solo looked out the window.
Illya’s heart changed course and headed for his bowels instead. Flicking through the sale table outside the shop window was her, the beautiful woman with shining dark hair and a rare but dazzling smile- “Gaby?” It very nearly came out as a whisper.
Solo, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. He abandoned Vinnie Pookh, much to her disappointment, and stuck his head out the door. “Find anything?” The woman shook her head and came inside at last. “Gaby, this is Illya, bookseller and life saver. Illya, my girlfriend, Gaby.”
Hello. Illya cleared his throat and tried for out loud this time. “Hello.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Gaby smiled politely and it was obviously several shades short of the bright grin she gave Solo when they walked together but Illya treasured it nonetheless. “So you’re the one who took over from Gladys?”
“Yes.” Illya grimaced. “She left the cat behind.”
Gaby’s eyes fell on the cat, clearly waiting for more attention, and her smile grew. “I remember Waverly-”
“Vinnie Pookh,” Solo corrected her.
“You renamed her?” Gaby frowned at Illya.
“No, is just nickname. Because she is fat. And always hoping for sweets.”
Solo reached out to pet the regal cat in question, telling Gaby, “It’s Russian for Winnie the Pooh.”
“Oh.” Gaby’s eyes glowed. “I suppose that will be alright.”
“You are German?” Illya asked, finally remembering how to participate in a conversation but Gaby’s suspicion quickly made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Yes.”
Illya hurriedly constructed the sentence in a language he hadn’t used properly for months. “There is German selection along the far wall, mostly paperback fiction but a little real literature is also there.” It was worth it for the soft smile Gaby gave him.
“You speak German?”
“Some. I was in Berlin for some time.” Illya’s throat closed up at the admission and he looked away.
“How long have you been in London?” Solo asked, either ignoring or not understanding Illya’s embarrassing display.
“Not long. Six months, almost seven.”
“How do you like the English?”
“I don’t.” Illya winced at his social ineptitude. “They are… English.”
Gaby snorted. “I know what you mean. He has no idea.” She looked meaningfully at Solo. “That American accent gets him everywhere.”
“I like to think it’s my charm and good looks.”
Gaby rolled her eyes. “If you ever need someone to yell down the phone on your behalf, use him. Where did you say the German books were?”
Illya showed her the couple of shelves in the expanding ‘international’ section. He kept his voice steady as he asked about her reading preferences, which was no mean feat when she confessed that her favourite books were generally romances. Gaby was becoming more real to him with every word she said, just as Solo was, and Illya was beginning to understand he was about to be in real trouble.
“Are you one of those stuck up book people?” Gaby asked guardedly.
“No.” Illya did not like his new and terrible ‘one word per sentence’ habit. “Read what you like. Life is too short to read books you do not enjoy.”
“Say, Peril, do you have anything in Russian?”
Illya turned slowly to look at Solo. “What?”
“Do you have any Russian books?”
As Illya fought through too many confusing ideas in too many languages, he thought he saw a hint of a wince on Solo’s face. “What did you…”
“Napoleon,” Gaby said tiredly even as she poured over the spines on the shelf. “He has a bad habit of giving people nicknames. They’re not always flattering.”
Solo shrugged, his effervescent charm back in place. “Sorry, won’t happen again.”
“Is fine,” Illya said eventually. “I never… no one has given me this name before.”
“Probably out of fear of being punched. I have no fear.”
“Not always a good thing,” Gaby reminded him.
Illya was pretty sure he hadn’t been clear enough - no one has given me ‘nickname’ of any kind before - but saying it aloud in English was too much to bear. In Russian, maybe- “You can read Russian?” He stared at Solo, yet again.
“I’m a little rusty.”
“He had to look up a word in the Russian-English dictionary yesterday,” Gaby volunteered gleefully. “He’s been in a terrible mood ever since.”
“You would be too if you didn’t understand a word so simple as ‘potato’,” Solo muttered in Russian.
Illya abandoned any heart-related metaphors. His gut was calling the shots now and it wanted out, though it seemed undecided on the mode of exit: his mouth or his ass. Neither appealed. “I don’t have any Russian books to sell because there is no one here to buy them, but… I can loan you some of mine. If you are interested.”
“Really?” Solo smiled at Illya with some kind of warmth he hadn’t seen before. “That settles it: would you like to come over for dinner?”
“What?”
“Dinner, a meal, to share,” Solo tried in Russian.
“Why?” Illya did a bad job of swallowing his panic.
“I can’t just borrow books from a man I hardly know,” Solo said in the tone that Illya recognised as one of explanation, though nothing was any clearer to Illya. “It only seems fair to repay the kindness of book borrowing with a home cooked meal. I am quite the amateur chef.”
“He’s right, unfortunately,” Gaby said. She stepped away from the shelf with a few books in her hands. “I haven’t found better bienenstich outside of Germany.”
“What do you say, Peril?”
Illya had been fluent in English before arriving in London, and had barely spoken any Russian aloud to anyone other than Vinnie Pookh in the months since, but for a panic-stricken moment, he could not remember a single word of English, which was ridiculous. Eventually he managed to croak out, “Yes.”
“Excellent! How about Friday?”
Another excellent effort at human conversation fell from Illya’s lips. “Yes.”
“Great. You’re usually closed up by six on Fridays, right? I’ll swing by after work and pick you up on my way home, let’s say six thirty?”
“Ok.”
“Friday it is,” Gaby said warmly. “We should get going, but can I grab these?” She hefted the books in her arms.
“Yes.” Illya took the books and ran them through the register, took money from Gaby’s dainty, if not slightly grease-stained hand, and managed not to screw anything up. “Thank you. I will see you on Friday.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gaby told him. She smiled brightly at him and Illya tried to smile back.
Gaby and Solo left, each bestowing a last pat upon Vinnie Pookh on their way out.
Illya had to sit down for a very, very long time.
Perhaps being in love with two people at once was only bearable when they didn’t know you existed.