Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Solo arrives at work on Thursday morning, a cardboard tray with two coffees and a tea from La Colombe in hand, the only other person in the shop is their new sales assistant.

“Morning, Charles,” he greets, and crosses to the back wall where Charles is rearranging the display of dress shoes. A glance to the left shows that the casual shoes have already been done. “Coffee?”

“Oh, God, yes,” Charles agrees, and all but snatches the cup out of Solo’s hand.

“It’s hot,” Solo cautions him mildly, but Charles is already taking a long swig. Solo shrugs, and leaves him to it. He’s a good kid, a hard worker and a fast learner, and his rapidly developing caffeine addiction really isn’t any of Solo’s business, especially since he’s started taking night classes for his master’s.

“Peril been in yet?” Illya often drops his bag in the back room then heads out again to hunt down some breakfast in the vast and dangerous expanse of the mall. He probably has a pastry dealer somewhere, since it seems to cost him next to nothing. Solo doesn’t think about it too hard.

“Don’t think so,” Charles answers, finally lowering the cup, olive skin only slightly flushed. “Door was still locked when I got here, and I’d have seen him if he came in after.”

Solo hums his acknowledgement and wanders aimlessly towards the back room, detouring through the display of ties on his way. They should have a new shipment coming in soon, either today or tomorrow. He’ll check the schedule. He unlocks the break room door, tosses his bag in one of the cubbies, and pulls the binder from the management office on his way out.

Going over the opening checklist with Charles confirms that there’s there’s not too much left to do, but they have a couple of hours before customers can be expected to start arriving, so he turns Charles loose on some of the mannequins and goes back to the break room to drink his coffee and run through the day’s goals. And also to text Illya.

you coming? he asks. The little “read” pops up under it almost immediately, but there’s no response: Illya’s text equivalent of rolling his eyes. I got tea for you, Solo adds, so if you’re getting breakfast can you grab me something?

deal, Illya texts back a moment later. the usual?

you know me so well, darling. Solo smirks, tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket, and tries to focus on work.

Illya comes in a few minutes later, while Solo is priming the registers, and does his usual tiny double-take when he sees Charles adjusting the tie on the mannequin closest to the door.

Illya always looks a little surprised to see him there, like he can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that it’s not just the two of them in the shop anymore. It’s not as if there’s never been anyone else, but they’ve managed so well on their own that the regional manager saw an opportunity to cut costs and seized it, only hiring additional hands around the holidays and letting Solo and Illya run the place as they saw fit the other forty-six weeks of the year.

Or maybe Illya’s just not used to someone being so close to his own eye level. “Good morning,” Illya says, hardly even awkward at all, but doesn’t stop on his way through the store. Solo gives him a nod but doesn’t follow. They try not to make it too obvious, after all. After he’s done with the registers, he straightens some magazines, wipes off a mirror, and heads back to the break room. Illya’s laid out their food, a banana bran muffin and hard-boiled egg for himself and a bagel and lox for Solo, but shoots him a Look when he comes in.

“You should have reminded me to get something for him,” he says reproachfully. “Now I look like jerk.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure he won’t mind. He seems to run entirely on coffee, anyway. And speaking of which—” he turns back to the shelves to pick up the last La Colombe cup, and presents it to Illya with a flourish. “One black tea, as promised.”

Illya smiles a tiny little smile, and Solo grins.

Life as an employee of Suitsupply is comfortable. It’s neither exciting nor dull, neither stressful nor relaxing. He and Illya have both been working there since before they’d met – it’s how they met after all, when Illya moved to New York and got placed in Solo’s location, and they had a cold-war-style enmity that lasted for all of a week before thawing into a friendship and continuing on into a partnership – so they’ve more or less seen and done it all at this point. Having Charles around to help with some of the grunt work is nice, and he’ll probably graduate to helping with fittings in the next couple of months, but for now his job is essentially to keep the store looking tidy while Solo and Illya charm, outfit, and encourage their customers.

They’ve had all sorts in: elderly men needing suits for funerals, sharp businessmen hoping to make a statement at a meeting, trans men looking for a friendly introduction to the world of masculine fashion, mothers searching for gifts for their sons, butch women shopping for wedding tuxedos, and everyone in between. Their store has an unofficial no-hate policy, and even if they’re not allowed to advertise that fact, it’s been made relatively common knowledge.

So it’s nice. It’s calm. They know what to expect. Most of their customers are regulars, and new clients are easily sorted into Solo’s domain – the classic suit and all its formal trimmings – or Illya’s – the contemporary, the casual, and the bold.

In all their years of working together, Illya has never once worn a suit into the store, but still looks phenomenal every day. Solo, by contrast, refuses to wear anything but a three-piece whenever he’s on the clock, no matter how much Illya teases him about looking like a Mad Men throwback. Solo gets his revenge by occasionally removing his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves, pretending all the while that he doesn’t realize he’s directly in Illya’s sightline and carefully ignoring the glare.

The other way they silently divide customers is by experience. No matter what someone looks like, or wants to look like, if they look nervous then Solo sweeps them up and carefully shows them that dressing well doesn’t need to be an intimidating prospect. Illya does better with customers who already have a well-developed sense of style, since he genuinely doesn’t believe that it’s possible to have bad fashion sense, and takes a less-than-perfect appearance as a sign of laziness.

Very occasionally they’ll work together, combining their styles in the shifting middle-ground that is high fashion, and while that’s always fun, they tend to stick to their well-trodden fields.

So yes, their job is comfortable. Their dynamic is comfortable. Their teamwork is comfortable. Their break room is comfortable.

Until one day, when the unthinkable happens.

“How can it be broken?” Solo demands, staring in shock at their faithful break room microwave, seemingly gone before its time. They’ve done everything they can think of (which is, admittedly, not much) and although the display is working, it just won’t run. “I didn’t even know microwaves could break.”

Illya snorts at that, arms crossed loosely and leaning against the wall. He’s probably enjoying Solo’s pain, the sadist. “Anything can break, Cowboy. Apparently the thought of reheating your smelly leftovers was too much for it.”

“It’s puttanesca,” returns Solo, who may or may not be cradling the cold tupperware protectively against his chest, “and as I recall you had no problem with it last night.”

“It doesn’t reheat well,” Illya says, and it’s an old argument of theirs, as worn and comfortable as a beloved pair of shoes, but still.

“It’s still better than eating it cold, which is what I’m left with.”

Illya shrugs. “Go and find something else, then. It’s not like there is no food anywhere else.”

“But I have food,” Solo protests, giving the container a little shake. “Perfectly good food, right here!”

“So go find another microwave. I’m sure all the shops have one.”

“Am I just to wander the mall, then, holding my pasta forlornly and hoping someone will take pity on me?”

“Yes, unless you have a better—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Charles says, interrupting, with his head poked around the break room doorway, "but there’s— fuck, is the microwave broken?”

“Language,” Solo scolds without thinking and gets a casual middle finger in return.

“But really, is it broken?”

“Seems to be. Unless you happen to have some heretofore unknown microwave whispering abilities?”

Charles grimaces. He’d probably been looking forward to his lunch break, as well – with winter settling in over the city, and the mall remaining brutally air-conditioned even so, everyone seeks a little respite in a hot lunch. “I wish. Maybe someone in the tech repair shop can help?”

“The tech repair shop,” Illya echoes blandly, in his ‘how did I not arrive at this incredibly simple solution myself’ voice. He and Solo share a look, and Solo obediently digs into his pocket for a coin.

If Charles notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “Yeah, the one across the hall? It didn’t look too busy just now, so do you want me to pop over and ask?”

“No,” Illya says. “Heads.”

Solo flips; the coin comes up tails, and Solo lifts it in salute. “I’ll go,” he explains in response to Charles’ quizzical look. “What were you saying when you came in?”

“Hmm? Oh, right, there’s a customer wanting a previous purchase adjusted. Probably best with you, anyway, Mr. Kuryakin,” he says before either of them have to ask.

“Good,” Illya says. “Charles, come with me – it’s time you start shadowing fittings. Solo, go tell your sob story.”

“Like you wouldn’t throw a fit if you had to drink cold tea,” Solo mutters, but it’s mostly for show.

“Cold tea is an abomination,” Illya snaps on his way out of the room. Solo chuckles; he’d also said it for that reaction.

He pockets the coin, straightens his jacket, and saunters across the hall to the tech repair shop.

It’s been there a few years, but he’s never gone inside it before. The sign over the entrance is simple – Teller Tech Repair and Recycling in modest red block letters – and the interior is small but organized and well lit. There are two customers being helped at desks off to one side, but the registers are unattended and the large counter on the other side is occupied only by the young woman sitting behind it, screwdriver in one hand and chopsticks in the other as she alternates bites of noodles out of a white carton with the re- or dis-assembly of what might be a computer. It’s so gutted, he can’t really be sure.

He’s somewhat entranced by the fact that she appears to be ambidextrous, but shakes that aside.

"Excuse me,” he says, strolling up to the counter as she glances up at him and gives him a once-over. “I realize this is kind of an odd request, but would you happen to be able to fix a microwave?”

The woman swallows her mouthful of noodles and gestures vaguely upwards with the chopsticks. “You read the sign?” she asks dryly. Her voice is a little rough and lightly accented with an origin he can’t place. He finds it…intriguing.

“‘Teller Tech Repair and Recycling,’” he recites, “unless it’s changed in the last twenty seconds.”

The woman raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed by the quip. “Precisely. If it has circuits, I can fix it. Did you bring it with you?” She looks at him, obviously microwave-less, with a deadpan expression that would look right at home on Illya.

“No, but it’s just across the hall. I work at the Suitsupply,” he explains. “It’s our break room microwave.”

“Ah,” she says, and her expression relaxes somewhat; he may be a customer, but if he also works in retail, then he’s less likely to be horrible to her. He’s seen (and given) that look many times. “A sad day, indeed.”

“Absolutely heartbreaking,” he agrees. “Would you be able to take a look when you get some time? We can offer payment in money, coffee, and/or pastries according to your preferences.

“What, not in suits?” she asks archly, and perhaps a little teasingly.

“I’m sure we could work something out,” he says smoothly.

“In that case,” she says, folding up her carton and hopping down from her stool, “lead the way.”

His first thought, when her feet touch the ground and he sees her true height, is that he can’t wait to see her standing next to Illya.

His second thought is to wonder if maybe he likes that image a little too much, and for the wrong reasons.

She’s dressed sensibly in dark navy pants and a light denim shirt, a colorful scarf wrapped around her head, but there’s a hint of something elegant and powerful in the way she walks, a bit of panther in the angle of her shoulders. Or maybe he’s just completely imagining that, who knows.

He leads her into the store and through to the lounge without seeing the other two, who must still be in the fitting room with the customer. He sketches out the situation to her as they walk – faithful appliance of many years, no history of troublesomeness, display currently on but mechanism not working – and she makes vague noises of acknowledgement while seemingly caught up in her surroundings.

“I didn’t think suits could be...fun,” she says as they pass the casual jackets, and lingers to trail her fingers across the different fabrics.

“Fashion doesn’t have to be scary,” Solo agrees. It’s one of his well-practiced lines. “It’s about making yourself like how you look, not about what other people think, so there’s always room for fun. Of course, that’s more Illya’s area of expertise. I stick with the traditional, myself.”

She turns to look at him and lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’d figured that much. Who’s Illya?”

“My partner,” Solo says. “Works the more avant-garde styles. He’s with a customer now, so he sent me over to beg for help.”

“Somehow I can’t see you begging,” she says, then shuts her mouth with an audible click. “I’m Gaby,” she says a beat later. “Gaby Teller. We seem to have skipped that part.”

“Ah, indeed we have. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Teller,” he says, offering his hand. “Napoleon Solo.” Her handshake is firm and confident. “You own the shop, then?”

“My father does, technically, but I run the day-to-day.”

“Impressive.” She doesn’t look all that much older than Charles, but it could be that he’s underestimating it based on her height, so doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m sure you’re more than equipped to handle whatever stupid thing we’ve done to the microwave, then. Shall we head back?”

“Magnetron connection’s shot,” Gaby says after about twenty seconds with the microwave.

Five minutes later, it’s been dismantled with surgical precision and laid out on the table like an anatomical demonstration. It’s kind of fascinating, in a horrible way, to see all of the tiny bits and parts that go into something barely anyone even considers ‘technology’ anymore. Gaby’s dug down to the problem area, but is looking increasingly sour and muttering more and more German curses under her breath. Finally, she sits back with a huff and tosses down the minute screwdriver she’d been prodding with.

“It’s a problem with the magnetron itself,” she says. “I could crack it open, but it’d probably be safer to order a replacement, or just get a new microwave. The part would cost about forty dollars, a good microwave a couple hundred, so it’s up to you. You can use mine for today, though. Do you have a wet wipe, or anything?”

He’s kind of just been letting the words wash over him – he’d been lost the second converters and magnetrons and coils entered the discussion – and but he comes back to himself when she stops talking and sees the grease smeared on her hands.

“Ah, no. But you’re welcome to use the sink in the restroom.”

Something in Gaby’s eyes goes calculating, and that’s the beginning of the end.

Or the beginning of the beginning. It’s not really important. What is important is that they strike a deal there in that break room, cemented in a slightly sticky handshake.

Gaby will allow them unfettered access to her store’s microwave in return for access to their restroom.

It’s the beginning of the end because things are never quite the same after that.

It’s the beginning of the beginning because things may be different, but they’re unequivocally better.

Brief, cross-the-hall trips become long, lingering visits. Gaby teaches them how to solder a circuit board and lets them test drive refurbed gaming computers, and in return they teach her the right way to iron a shirt and argue about textiles while she tries not to laugh at them.

Solo convinces her and Illya to pose together for a photograph when she’s climbed up on a step ladder and still isn’t quite as tall as he is, and it’s even better when Charles sneaks into the background and stretches up on his toes: the result is a comedically scowling Gaby, a brilliantly grinning Illya, and a hilariously blurry human giraffe.

Gaby’s there when Charles’ boyfriend comes to meet him after his shift for the first time, and Solo and Illya take a page out of his book and invite Gaby to dinner.

She comes home with them afterwards, just to talk, but no one complains when talking turns to kissing.

They all go in to work together the next morning, and find that nothing has to change if they don’t want it to. They still tease each other and teach each other about their trades, still take unnecessarily long lunch breaks together, still play the occasional practical joke on each other, and still talk shit about rude customers together.

The only thing that changes is that they’re happier, each one of them, and isn’t that what it’s all about?