She's not quite sure what to think of him.

He's a specter at first. A kind of vicious, one-track minded KGB monster on their tail. Strong enough to slow down a car with his body weight, to pull off the back of the car like one would pull the flitting wings off of a fly. Quick enough to evade every last one of Solo's shots.

It's only slightly funny to see him hanging above the mine field inside the Wall. Only slightly.

Like a chuckle buried in a silent scream.

That damned Waverly should have warned her about this, she thinks to herself as she digs into the strange-smelling risotto Solo has placed before her.

–

And then she's standing in the boutique in shoes that don't quite fit right, in clothes she'd trade for her work jumpsuit in an instant, for something that feels like home, whatever that means. Solo is sitting beside her unruffled as always, legs crossed, all movie-star good looks and the voice of a matinee idol, appraising her and she knows she's supposed to go along with this and play the ingenue role but when that same beast, nearly half again as tall as a normal man and a full two heads taller than she, this man uttering something in broken English–"my woman would never wear this"–and she stops breathing.

Something further from the "Red Peril", as Solo calls him, about being her damned fiancé of all things, and then she's gasping out something broken in response, cursing Waverly in her head once again as she storms out onto the pavement.

Solo follows her out and attempts to smoothe the whole ordeal over, doubtless hoping the dimple in his cheek and that unnecessary cleft in his chin will make this all more palatable. Like he's used to talking people into things. To getting his way on charm alone.

And then she's parading before the brute in a swinging little white dress, those feathery fake eyelashes weighting down her lids. His massive, calloused hands nearly wrapping around her upper arms as he pulls and prods at her, looks her over. Liking what he sees. A ring is slipped onto her finger, something old and nondescript that weighs more than it should.

And they are engaged.

–

She's on the phone with Uncle Rudi while Illya sits on the couch, that massive body hunched over a chess set with pieces small enough for tip to crush them between two fingers with very little effort. Getting in a few digs on her end of the line about Illya's apparent lack of combat skills, knowing full well the man across the room from her understands German. Getting in her fun while she can, despite all this. Despite that aftertaste of fear still seeping into her throat.

The bottle of alcohol and two small glasses clink merrily in her hands as she hangs up the phone and sashays on over to Illya, whose brow is furrowed and thoughtful over the black and white pieces. One drink slides down her throat without a second thought. The second glass–Illya's glass, which he has rejected–goes down less easily. Eyes watering. Head light and and drowning as she utters something saucy to Illya and takes the whole bottle into the bedroom.

Music from the radio sinks into her bones. The lights of the room already too bright, she slips on her round sunglasses that make her look like a bug and allows the zesty sounds to ooze from her limbs as she waves them around. Lets them drag her, and then Illya is standing before her saying something about wanting to go to bed.

Before she thinks better of it her hands are wrapped around his, and she might just be drunk but she could swear he's smiling down at her in a fond, embarrassed sort of way as they move awkwardly from side to side. Two slaps across his cheeks later, something boils within her that she doesn't quite understand.

His words are menacing and icy and send a thrill down her spine that surprises her as much as it shocks her with the sentiment of it. "Don't make me put you over my knee."

She fiddles with the sunglasses before taking them off entirely, trying to look coquettish. "So you don't want to dance–but you do want to wrestle."

She barely even notices the strain on her muscles as she tackles him headlong. Only a distant corner of her mind registering the shocked grunts issuing from Illya's lips and the sounds of furniture breaking as they tussle, and then she's breathing harder than she means to, and everything is spinning and spinning until it's not.

Until she's got her legs wrapped around his waist, poised on top of him as if to strike. Yet that can't be, because he's got those overlarge hands wrapped around her wrists and then she notices with a muddled yet visceral pleasure that he's breathing just had roughly and heavily as she is and suddenly she wants more, as if this touch alone as inflamed her senses and whetted her appetite.

She finds herself lowering towards him, tendrils of hair escaping from her coiffure and fluttering around her face with her thick breathy sighs, and all she can feel is the strength of his body between her thighs, and she's within a centimeter of his face, close enough to see those icy blue eyes turn warm and soft again. As if almost fearful at what she will do next. As if she has all the power despite his advantages in size and strength.

And she wants to moan aloud as she feels his hand snake up the side of her body to hold her close to him, as if he has done this sort of thing before, and it's delicious, and this is happening and it's happening and it's so desperate and so much–

Then her lips are barely brushing the corner of his mouth, sliding down his cheek, and everything fades.

–

She grits her teeth to suppress a mild cry of displeasure as his hands move onto her thigh. Too cold, until they're not, because her skin is getting warmer and warmer and then she feels those careful, tentative fingers brushing against where she only just remembered she wanted them, and she can only mask that yearning sound of frustration with exasperation as she asks what he is doing beneath her skirt because he's as far away from the tracker as he could be.

She remembers what Waverly told her, and allows her leg to shake slightly under his palms. As if she's frightened. Playing her role. As if the gooseflesh rising on her skin is from fear alone and not a result that same strange feeling she'd felt so well and fully the other night in the hotel room when she'd nearly–

"You're trembling…" That gentleness in his voice again. A soft, concerned look his those eyes as he gazes up at her. Hands clasping her thigh almost tenderly as she plays it further.

"That's because I'm scared!" she snaps back, allowing her words to sound like a slap.

"It's going to be okay."

"How do you know?" His resoluteness startles her more than she wants him to know.

He hasn't stopped looking at her that way. As if racking his brain for that exact thing that he thinks she needs to hear.

"I'll be close by."

And then she's feeling that longing, melting feeling again despite it all, and finds herself leaning towards him and inhaling that clean, simple scent–nothing like that expensive, ostentatious cologne Solo wears–that's all Illya and only Illya, Illya who is trying to calm her down because he thinks she needs comfort, Illya who is thinking only of her in this moment, Illya who is still looking at her like this, like he wants this as well–

She wants to laugh aloud at the absurdity of it. The way their heads split apart as Solo reruns from the balcony, a knowing air to that perfectly calibrated voice as he speaks.

"All turned on?"

–

"I'm sorry."

The words hang between them like a curtain. Thin. Torn. Ragged. He pauses from where he's bent over, finishing some last minute touches on his suitcase, and turns his head to look at her. The sting from her false betrayal still fresh in his eyes–she can see it–but it's gone as quickly as she's caught it.

As if it was never there to begin with.

"I wanted to tell you."

She thinks back to the previous day, when his hands had been on her leg and her lips nearly brushing against his. How she'd wanted to tell him all of this. Everything. He'd looked at her so innocently and openly, so trustingly for a hardened Russian spy that she can hardly believe he is the same man she first encountered chasing her and Solo with the strength of ten men in East Berlin.

She finds herself having moved closer to him once more. Those soft blue eyes meeting here, those eyes that are so cold towards nearly everyone else, this side of him only she is privy to making her heart feel too big for her chest. The tracker ring replaced onto her finger, the pearl in the center gleaming with a dark milky light as they lean towards one another. Her eyes close automatically with anticipation, eyelashes brushing her cheeks as their lips almost touch, and it's everything again, it's that feeling of unmaking and destruction and tenderness all over again–

Then the bellhop interrupts them. Then the phone rings.

Then it is all lost.

She smiles sadly to herself, something bitter and keen rising in her throat, waves a delicate goodbye to Illya, and walks out the door.