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Uncle Illya

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Natasha let out a dramatic sigh as she leaned against the brick building. Petulantly crossing her arms, she cast a daring glance at her uncle Illya.

“How much longer are we going to have to wait?” She snapped, asking in her native Russian. The girl was usually a patient individual; she just took a strange joy out of irritating her freakishly tall relative.

Illya swiftly looked around, worried that the sound of a Russian speaker would alarm the Parisians milling around them. None looked concerned. He pursed his lips together, and slowly counted to ten in German like Gaby had told him to do whenever his temper threatened to get out of hand. “Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn.” The Russian muttered under his breath, avoiding looking at his niece – the source of his frustration. She had been relentlessly asking the same question for ten minutes.

“She’ll be here soon, Natasha.” He said in rapid-fire Russian, his voice lowered. As if on cue, the door to the apartment building opened wide and out stepped a very fashionably dressed woman. Illya’s lip quirked up ever so slightly, an affectionate twinkle in his usually cold eyes as he observed her. She was dressed like a proper Russian woman, exactly how he liked. And he spied a certain black pearl ring upon her small hand.

His redhead niece rolled her eyes as she pushed away from the wall and walked towards the newcomer. “Judging by the lovesick look on my uncle’s face, you must be Gaby. Da?”

Gaby lowered her sunglasses, pushing them down her nose to get a clearer look at the little girl. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven. The German let out a light laugh, sparing a second to look at the aforementioned 'lovesick uncle'. “Yes, I am Gaby.” She affirmed with a smile.

“About time.” Natasha said impolitely, although her youthful look harbored no malice. Instantly, Illya was at her side – glaring down at his niece.

“Do not talk to her like that. Be polite, Natasha.” He ordered, his accent attracting a few curious looks from bystanders.

“She is fine, Illya.” Gaby cut in, sliding between the uncle and niece. “I am sorry for my tardiness, little one.”

Natasha studied Gaby intently for a moment, insanely curious about the woman her uncle clearly cared for a lot – even if he wouldn’t admit it. But why else would he take her to France on vacation and then insist that they spend the day with his colleague? The young girl shrugged dismissively. This Gaby seemed nice enough, but she would have to investigate further before she decided if she was good enough for her uncle.

“Come,” Illya interrupted, offering Gaby his arm. After a momentary pause, he extended his other hand towards Natasha who grasped it reluctantly.

The odd trio traversed the streets of Paris for what felt like an eternity to the little Natasha, who struggled to keep up with Illya’s long strides. Gaby kept insisting that they were almost to the café she wanted to show them. Almost seemed to be lasting a rather long time.

They finally arrived at a picturesque café, seemingly taken right out of a painting of Parisian life. Lounging regally at one of the ornately designed iron tables outside was one of the handsomest men the young Russian girl had ever seen. Instantly, Natasha noticed she wasn’t the only one staring at the sharply dressed man. Her uncle and Gaby were looking at him intently as well – although Illya’s was a look of shock while Gaby’s was one of amusement.

“Surprise!” Gaby told Illya excitedly. “I thought Napoleon would be the perfect addition to our Paris tour. Don’t you agree?”

Before the Russian could respond, Solo was at his side. “Miss me, Peril?” He smirked arrogantly.

“Cowboy.” Illya’s voice was curt.

“Ah, you must be Natasha. Why aren’t you just the prettiest little thing?” Napoleon said charmingly, patting the girl’s bouncing red hair. “And Gaby, you look stunning as usual.” The suave American gracefully slipped his arm around the woman, giving her a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

Illya glared at Solo. He didn’t know why, he just knew that he had an extreme aversion to seeing the American touch Gaby. And act so familiar with Natasha.

“Aw are you jealous I didn’t kiss you too?” Solo asked mockingly, leaning towards the Russian. Illya swatted him away rapidly, taking satisfaction in the fact that he got to hit him.

Shrugging, Napoleon smoothly slipped his hand into Natasha’s and started heading deeper into the city. With a roguish smile, he looked over his shoulder at Gaby and Illya. “Gaby, are you and your boyfriend Red Peril coming or not?”

Gaby laughed in response, dragging the startled, wide-eyed Russian spy behind her.