Illya and Gaby - The Frenchman (The Man From U.N.C.L.E)

Chapter 6 - Makeover

Sorry this chapter took sooooo long guys! It's a little short, but I'm working on chapter 7 now. I hope you enjoy it! <3

........................

Illya stood on the platform, an elderly French tailor bustling around him, checking the fit of a black wool suit. Solo sat nearby, an amused expression on his face as he watched Illya grit his teeth. The turtleneck lay on a small table off to the side, and Illya gazed at it longingly.

"Are we almost done?" He sighed, fidgeting restlessly. "We don't have time for this."

"Be still." The tailor ordered, smoothing imperceptible wrinkles in the trousers.

The Russian glared down at the balding head of the elderly man as he tugged on the bottom of the jacket. Solo chuckled at how offended Illya was by being told what to do, having been on the receiving end of that irritation many times. Finally, the tailor stood back and nodded skeptically at his work.

"You can get down now."

Illya stepped down quickly, immediately pulling off the jacket and beginning to unbutton the shirt.

"You might as well leave it on." Solo said, rising from his chair. "We'll find you a hat and you'll all but unrecognizable."

"The suit needs adjustments!" The tailor grumbled. "He is too tall, it does not hang right."

"Oh, we'll manage." Solo chuckled. "I don't think he's planning on wearing it for long."

Illya pulled the jacket back on and tugged at the shirt collar irritably. "Is very uncomfortable."

"Yes but it looks so much better than that perpetual turtleneck." Solo grinned. "Come on, Peril, doesn't it feel nice to look smart for once?"

Illya drew back, insulted. "I am smart."

Solo closed his eyes. "No no, I mean... more well dressed."

"No, does not feel "smart", feels stiff." Illya shrugged, trying to find a good place for the jacket on his shoulders. "Why do you dress like this, is very confining."

"Well..." Napoleon glanced up at the ceiling. "It just looks so good."

"This should not be priority for spy."

"Come, we should get moving." Solo stepped up to the tailor and handed him a wad of bills. "This should cover it, yes?"

"Oui, oui." The little man said, moving away as he counted the bills.

Solo nodded to Illya and they exited the little shop, coming out onto the street. Illya held his old clothes close, as if he was afraid Napoleon would snatch them away forever.

"Now what?" The Russian asked.

"Now we go back to the hotel, collect our guns, and start looking for The Frenchman."

Illya and Napoleon walked quickly down the Parisian streets, so focused they barely saw the beautiful architecture and variety of people. Finally, they reached the hotel and raced upstairs, both to their respective rooms. Ten minutes later, Napoleon knocked on Illya's door and stepped inside, jacket slung over his arm, a pair of pistols resting in side holsters above his hips, and a wide-brimmed black fedora in his hands.

Illya walked out of the bedroom, sliding his own pistols into matching holsters, as well as what appeared to be a rather large dagger in his boot, visible below his rolled up pant-leg.

"What is that?" Illya asked, gesturing to the hat.

"This is part of your disguise."

Illya shook his head sharply. "No." He bent down to roll the pant leg down over his dagger and boot.

"But this isn't even the best part." Solo smirked, stepping forward to set the hat atop Illya's head.

Illya leaned back in disgust, but allowed Solo to adjust the hat. "This is ridiculous." He grumbled.

"Just wait." Napoleon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small strip of hair. Then he carefully reached out and plastered the strip below Illya's nose.

Illya jerked away, walking into the bathroom to look in the mirror. "No." He reemerged, gingerly touching the little strip of dark-blonde hair above his lip. "This is ridiculous."

"But effective." Solo chuckled. "And amusing."