(In which Illya has emotion-evoked synesthesia.)

I. Red Woman

...

Of all the English phrases Illya has learned over the years, the one that makes the least sense to him is "seeing red." He's heard Solo use it more than once when describing him - from the American's tone, he's certain it's not a compliment - and in a rare quiet moment after their latest mission, he finally remembers to ask Gaby what it means.

You've never heard that phrase before? She asks him incredulously, eyes widening slightly as she unties the scarf around her neck, a remnant of her latest cover. It's nothing bad, just means you're angry, that's all.

As if getting angry is not bad, as if it's no big deal, though he supposes, for most people, it's not. But he is not most people.

Ah. He nods, taking the fabric from her outstretched hand and folding it neatly. But why red?

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut quickly, her brows furrowing as she thinks. After a second, she shrugs, her reply short. Anger is red.

It's a simple statement, and the way she says it makes it sound like fact. Five plus five equals ten. The Earth is round. Anger is red.

But it's not true.

Because for Illya, anger has always been green. Not the bright verdant color of Gaby's dress the day they went to the racetrack so many missions ago, but a sickly olive hue, the shade of vomit and decomposing bodies.

He has seen many of those bodies. He is responsible for many of those bodies.

For Illya, anger is a deep shade of chartreuse, like an artichoke left out to rot. It's the color he sees most frequently, bleeding into his vision as his hands tremble and his ears buzz, the color he sees when he loses control.

No, he wants to say, it is not red.

Anger is green.

...

Illya has seen the world this way for as long as he can remember.

The first time he tastes a slice of cake, he learns that happiness is yellow by the golden swirls dancing in front of his eyes. It's been a long time now since he's felt that color.

He sees anger during every street yard brawl, a dark shade of olive overtaking him and not letting go until the other boys stop moving and the police drag him away.

When he buries a childhood pet on a cold winter day, the world bleeds violet, and his mother tells him to stop crying, to be strong.

The day they take his father away, Illya sees black.

For a long time after that, it's the only color he sees.

...

Shortly after his father's exile, and perhaps as another side effect of it, Illya begins seeing colors in other people.

It doesn't happen all the time, and not with everyone, just a flash here and there. A flicker of green as two neighbors argue. A woman sitting alone in a cafe, drenched in indigo.

For Illya, who doesn't much like people to begin with, it's exhausting being constantly bombarded by the cacophony of colors, seeing strangers' true feelings, learning their deepest secrets. It's not until the KGB recruits him that he realizes how useful the colors can be.

Within his first few months, he uncovers a mole within the organization and saves the lives of two fellow agents in the process. It's the bright orange hue surrounding the man that exposes him as a liar, but to his superiors, Illya passes it off as intuition, that he's just good at reading people. He makes his way up the ranks rather quickly as a result, and in a few short years, he's become one of the KGB's top operatives.

Too bad it's all built on a lie.

It bothers Illya more than he cares to admit. Yes, he has saved lives in the process, and yes, he is helping his country, but living in the shadow of his father's shame has made him acutely aware of the impact of lies, and knowing that his career is now built on one leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He joined the KGB to repay his father's debt, but it seems he's just following in his footsteps.

And now, when he looks into the mirror, he swears there's an orange tint that only he can see.

...

Solo is blue, the sort of bright cerulean Illya has only ever seen in advertisements for beachside resorts. It's a color that's confident and boisterous and more than a little obnoxious. Which, it turns out, accurately describes the man himself.

Illya doesn't like the color and he doesn't like the man either. Too loud, too arrogant. But he finds his opinions changing after Solo saves him from drowning in Rome and even more so later, when he tosses him his father's watch.

It's in Istanbul when he learns that he actually works quite well with the man, with Solo's charm acting as a diversion to Illya's preferred method of brute force. What a pair they make, the Cowboy and the Red Peril.

Maybe blue isn't such a bad color after all.

...

Gaby's color is harder to pin down. The first time he meets her in that boutique, she's a fiery crimson, but later that night, when they get mugged, she takes on a burnt copper hue, and when she's lying injured in the rain, she pales to a light pink. She's a chameleon, taking on the characteristics of her surroundings, maintaining her cover, blending in. It makes her that much harder for him to read accurately.

She never makes it easy for him, either, always poking and prodding and pushing, trying to get a rise out of him, luring him into a dance. But he knows better now. He knows her better now and sometimes, he indulges her, and sometimes, he even takes the lead, because he can play games too, and there's nothing more amusing to him than her perpetual surprise when he always knows exactly what she's feeling.

How do you always do that? She asks him one night, sprawled on the hotel room couch, after he hands her a bottle of aspirin for the headache she never said that she had.

He shrugs his shoulders, taking a seat opposite her. I have good intuition.

Oh, really? She murmurs, sitting up, suddenly mischievous. What am I feeling right now? Her voice drops to a purr and when he lifts his head to look at her, she's a deep mahogany hue, the color of desire and almost-kisses. There she is, the real Gaby, not a cover or a mask, and it gives Illya a certain selfish satisfaction knowing that only he gets to see her like this.

Do you want to dance, Gaby? He tries to keep his voice neutral, but it comes out huskier than he intended. She bats her eyes at him, slow and steady, and nods as she takes one, two, three steps closer until she's standing in front of him. When he breathes, she closes the distance between them and he tastes fire on her lips and sees crimson behind his eyes and maybe gold too.

When they break for air, both breathless and flushed, she lays her head against his shoulder and asks again. But really, how do you always know what people are feeling?

And this time, the lie lodges in his throat, refusing to be spoken. Instead, he says the truth, what he has never admitted out loud. I see them as colors. It's not until after the words are out in the air that he realizes how vague that is, but he's not sure how else to explain it. This is the first time he's ever tried.

Gaby lifts her head and angles her body so she can look into his eyes. He waits for her laugh, her disbelief, but it never comes. Instead, she just mutters a soft hmm, and taps a finger against his chest. He notices idly that her hand rests on his heart.

What color am I? She breathes, looking at him expectantly.

And Illya pauses for a moment, thinking of every shade she has ever been, wondering how he is supposed to choose just one.

The tapping on his chest speeds up - she's impatient, waiting for his response.

Ah, he says finally as he pulls her closer, smiling against her lips.

You are my favorite color.

...

And that is why anger cannot be red.

Because Gaby is red, and she is light and good and hope and all the things that anger is not. And every time she holds his hand when it starts to shake, every time he returns to her after a mission, every time he falls asleep by her side, he feels the green recede, dissolving further and further away into his past.

The anger's hold on him has finally faded, replaced with a new urge - to protect, to love.

Now, the color he sees most is red.

And Illya wouldn't have it any other way.