d i s a p p e a r

     Sometimes she forgot that in other cultures things that people did weren’t the same. For instance maybe in Israel students didn’t haze each other. Gwen could tell by the accent that Gal had grown up in Israel probably Tel Aviv. She tried to come up with the best way to explain the words she’d used. 

     “Um hazing is like putting someone through a bunch of tests so they can join an ‘elite’ group.” She made quotations with her fingers at the word elite, if there was one thing she knew it was that frat boys we’re elite. “Kinda like basic training but more embarrassing or humiliating. Pledges are like recruits, people trying to join said ‘elite’ groups. They pledge to be honor the groups traditions.”  

    What was the last one she asked? Fantasy, how does one explain that? “Um like the lord of the rings movies. Those are fantasy movies, the ones that are filled with fairytales and monsters.”

         Recognition sparkled in Gal’s eyes as Gwen described the whole pledges and hazing thing. “Oh, that. It’s in every dumb American comedy in a college setting.” Unable to hold back the bitterness the comparison brought, she added: “I don’t see how running around naked in a campus has anything to do with being trained to march 50 kilometers in the desert wearing full combat gear.” Hava had enjoyed those movies, to Gal’s horror. Of course, it never got in the way of accompanying her beloved wife to every single one that came out, and some of her fondest memories involved kissing Hava’s neck on the couch to see for how long she’d prioritize the move over Gal’s increasingly distracting affections. 

         God, Gal wondered if it’d ever stop hurting.

         “I do admit that it sounds harsher than it should be if it involves actual weapons capable of actually hurting someone.” Maybe it was the circumstances she’d grown up in, or… well, the ones surrounding her entire life, but Gal couldn’t imagine herself having the patience to deal with any of that. The few semesters she’d done of architecture had been a dream, but that was due exclusively to the classes. She’d never been a social butterfly.

Illya’s face changed, a guilty expression crossed his face. “Not meant for you,” he insisted, trying to get her on his side - or at least not infuriated with him. 

Illya turned to Solo, holding back a scowl. He didn’t need the American’s help, or that is what he kept telling himself. He wanted to deal with Gal on his own, especially since they were meant to seem very close to each other. He watched her reactions, wondering how she’d react to the news of who Illya was meant to be to her.

Unfortunately, Gal reacted in one of the worst ways Illya had thought of - negatively. It wasn’t that his feeling were hurt, but rather than this would make things more difficult. If she didn’t like him, then this would make life difficult. At her words, Illya had to smile. “Da, understood,” he agreed, somewhat amused by her attitude. 

         There was a brief expression of guilt: so he didn’t like harming civilians, or, at least, allies, nor was he trying to earn forgiveness, merely explaining why he’d done what he did, even when faced with shouting and her breaching his personal space. He wasn’t fighting back in any way, not even verbally, and it left her wondering why. For the sake of their professional relationship, because he thought she was a civilian scared out of her mind and unequipped to deal with this or him, or because he felt she was entitled to a little freak out? They all seemed legitimate enough reasons, and Gal made a mental note to observe if any of those behaviors would repeat themselves.

Except then he was … laughing at her? Oh, Gal was going to strangle him.

         Sensing the situation would only get worse, Solo was mercifully quick to intervene, a gentle touch to her elbow getting her attention back to him, and honestly, Gal should earn a Nobel for not breaking his wrist. Respectful as he was, Gal did not take well to strangers touching her, yet another personal boundary she had to sacrifice for the sake of the mission.

         “Now that we’re all acquainted, we need to finish picking out the rest of your clothes”, he reminded. Quickly, he added: “No heels, I promise.”

Klaus had to snicker as Gal looked over at him, the perfect tableau of snark and sass. He raised a brow to mirror her expression and took a step closer as he continued to casually peel off his layers. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what skinny dipping is,” he scoffed, plucking the book from her hand to demand her full attention. “You can cuddle up with your book when it starts to snow, but it’s too damn hot right now. C’mon!”

        “Any time.” He gave her a warm smile, thinking that anyone who messed with her was really just asking for trouble.  But he’d have been a fool if he hadn’t noticed that.

     A little surprised that she’d remembered him, Rafael was pleased. There weren’t a lot of people that he could talk to about his work (for privacy or something else),  and maybe he needed a chance to vent sometimes.

      “Yeah, I put in my notice yesterday though–turns out getting shot at is a little terrifying when you’ve got a family waiting at home.” He didn’t want to scare his daughter like that ever again, the look on her face when his ex brought her to see him in the hospital scared him more than anything else. “And my daughter is the boss.” He chuckled.

        “They’re going to be safe with you around, kinda makes me feel better.” The smile was still settled on his face. “I’m Rafael.” He offered a hand forward.

         Combing through her hair with her fingers, Gal gave him an appraising look. He was friendly, perhaps too friendly, and it had been very convenient for him to be around when she was attacked. Then again, Gal was paranoid. Remembering that paranoia had served her well more often than not, she squatted down to search her attacker. The gun was a revolver – reliable, simple, far from anything high-tech, the serial number hastily scrapped off. It was old, badly cared for, and a common model for your everyday riffraff to acquire, legally or otherwise. She switched the safety on and stored it in her purse.

         The mention of a family made her stomach twist, her heart clench, her soul long for another that she’d never meet again. Could this be an attempt to make her lower her guard? Coupled with the admission of fear, it could work on someone less prepared. To be fair, it had taken her mind off of her search for a split second. Sloppy.

         “You have a daughter? How old is she?” She asked casually, as polite as anyone would be to a stranger. As she rifled through the wallet of the still unknown man, Gal tried to conjure up the most likely scenario. The Hammonds were a high enough profile to prompt some espionage – maybe the other unknown man was a spy who’d had to be pulled out for whatever reason, maybe this entire thing was a ploy to gain her trust, to dig up information on the Hammonds. This didn’t seem to be a hit, or he’d be attacking her right now.

         Still, she’d rather work with the assumption her life was at stake.

         “I hate to break your heart, but I don’t know that I will be around. I’m contacted when they need me, and then I’m gone.” I’m not worth your time, it meant. If the Hammonds had any enemies, Gal didn’t want to deal with them. She was done protecting anyone but herself and what was left of her family.

Six and a half days wasn’t ideal but it certainly wasn’t the worst he’d ever been through. The fact that Gal had rescued him was also not ideal, but he knew she wouldn’t judge him too harshly. “Does this make me a damsel in distress?” He asked with as much teasing as he could force into it– which wasn’t much, given the way he felt.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he replied trying to keep the teasing up, when she asked him not to run the first chance he got. “I’ll stay put at least until I have no wires attached or I’m discharged. Deal?” If the wires were detached it meant that he’d stabilized anyway, as far as he was concerned.

He considered the question, considered his memories, and then decided h\that if possible, even if Gal had already seen his injuries, he didn’t want her seeing them more.  “I think a doctor. I’ve made you attend to them quite a bit already, I’m sure, and… well, I don’t know where Natasha is right now, but I do know she’s undercover, so… I think I’ll need your help after I’m a free man, if… if you’re willing?” Unintentionally, he had full on puppy dog eyes, looking every inch as pleading and miserable as he felt. 

Getting hurt usually meant dealing with it on his own once he was discharged, but he had a feeling that wasn’t going to be feasible without risking infection, not unless he stayed in the hospital for an extra long time.

         “Mm…” Gal pretended to think it over, allowed a tiny, amused smile curl up her lips, teasing him right back. “I’d call it Iron Fist in distress being rescued by Wonder Woman.”

         Knowing that was the best agreement she’d get (not that she actually trusted him on honoring it – Clint seemed to hate hospitals as much as she did, and in his place, she definitely would not keep her word), she just nodded. “Deal.”

When Illya saw the look on Gal’s face, he genuinely wondered if he was going to be hit. She looked furious, and it was directed at him based on the fact her demeanor changed when he spoke. ‘Don’t poke the bear,’ he reminded himself, already struggling to not just incapacitate Solo and take care of the mission himself.

“Was aiming for cowboy here,” he said, as if it explained everything in the world, “never meant to harm you.” It was true, he needed Gal and had been instructed not to hurt her. At the whirling back to Solo, Illya was a bit relieved. The more anger directed at the American, the less directed at him. “Is team up. The Americans and the Russians,” he chuckled at the last part, finding this entire set up rather absurd. 

“We are leaving country, to find your uncle,” Illya stated, glancing at Solo in annoyance. Why hadn’t the asset been briefed already? More shotty American work, or that was what Illya attributed it to.

         “And yet, there are bullets in my car!” Gal weighed her options: which shoe would hurt the most if she hurled it at his head?

         Ready to defuse the situation, Solo stood in that graceful, controlled manner, his significant strength carefully contained, not too unlike a panther. “Miss Fedorova.” At the sound of her fake surname, she turned back to look at him. “This is Illya Kuryakin… is your fiancé. The one we talked about?”

         “Are you kidding? The man who tried to stop you smuggling me out of Russia is going to be our ally now?” Gal’s voice was sharp with disbelief. Her glare shifted back to Kuryakin, and she took a step into his space, shoulders squared. To make sure he’d get it, she switched to Russian, “<Agent or not, mission or not –>” her fingernail poked hard on his chest – “<we are not engaged and you will not treat me like I’m your woman or your whore.>”