[ What is it about her that attracts men in finely tailored suits sitting in a car giving her directions as she speeds away from a crime scene (or hail of bullets/bazookas, angry Russians, or something along those same lines)? This must be some kind of record. And for a woman who is employed in espionage with partners that are cut from the same cloth, there's a serious lack of subtlety in most of her missions that makes her think they're all in the wrong business and really ought to stick with haberdashery.
Except her. She knows cars, not clothes. And she knows this one very well, has admired it from afar, ridden in it but rarely been allowed behind the wheel. Likely because the Jag isn't hers, but Eggsy Unwin's. Who, incidentally, is yelling and cursing a blue streak at her side and she is very resolutely ignoring it as much as she ignores the scrape of the undercarriage on cobblestones and sidewalks, the paint on the doors on walls and lamp posts. It's a beautiful car, she is sure Waverly will hate her for making UNCLE foot the bill, but they'd all probably be better off with an expensive scrap heap than two dead agents. And she'll fix what she can to spare the expense — assuming they make it to the safehouse.
But they do. It's Kingsman's; she managed to decipher the directions from the expletives from her partner-in-crime along the way. The garage doors shut behind them and Gaby slumps back in the driver's seat with an exhale, relaxing for only a second or two before she climbs out, rolling up her hypothetical sleeves. (She's in a cocktail dress. Of course she is.) She's already inspecting the car, meaning to get to work. ]
I don't know what you're upset about, [ she says breezily, cutting into whatever tirade the other spy may or may not be in the middle of, or gearing up to launch into. She rests one hand on her hip and the other on the hood, still hot from their pleasure cruise through the city. ] We got away, didn't we?
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every thread is gonna start in a car
Except her. She knows cars, not clothes. And she knows this one very well, has admired it from afar, ridden in it but rarely been allowed behind the wheel. Likely because the Jag isn't hers, but Eggsy Unwin's. Who, incidentally, is yelling and cursing a blue streak at her side and she is very resolutely ignoring it as much as she ignores the scrape of the undercarriage on cobblestones and sidewalks, the paint on the doors on walls and lamp posts. It's a beautiful car, she is sure Waverly will hate her for making UNCLE foot the bill, but they'd all probably be better off with an expensive scrap heap than two dead agents. And she'll fix what she can to spare the expense — assuming they make it to the safehouse.
But they do. It's Kingsman's; she managed to decipher the directions from the expletives from her partner-in-crime along the way. The garage doors shut behind them and Gaby slumps back in the driver's seat with an exhale, relaxing for only a second or two before she climbs out, rolling up her hypothetical sleeves. (She's in a cocktail dress. Of course she is.) She's already inspecting the car, meaning to get to work. ]
I don't know what you're upset about, [ she says breezily, cutting into whatever tirade the other spy may or may not be in the middle of, or gearing up to launch into. She rests one hand on her hip and the other on the hood, still hot from their pleasure cruise through the city. ] We got away, didn't we?