A/N: This is my first fic for this fandom, and it has been delightful to read all the other wonderful fics here and draw on them for inspiration. The other writers for this 'ship do a wonderful job—I can only hope that I do Gaby and Illya similar justice.
One of the things I like best about this pairing is all the subtext that the movie implies but does not have time to explore—particularly the difficulty these two would have in trusting each other, given their respective backgrounds and the time period. Illya in particular seems as if he would struggle to see himself as a good person, one capable of honour, despite what he has seen and done in the KGB.
A final note—the Soviet atrocities committed during the occupation of Germany are real and have been extensively documented. German women were subjected in large numbers to rape and murder at Soviet hands, and it is completely plausible (in fact, very likely) that Gaby would have either experienced abuse at Soviet hands or watched it happen to someone else.
She has discovered over the course of the past six months that one of the primary disadvantages of being a spy is never, ever getting to have a private conversation. Even when she doesn't know that she's been bugged, she suspects it. She's become hyper-aware of the possibility of hidden cameras, hidden microphones, trackers located in the most improbable places. For a girl whose chosen profession was hiding under cars in a dark garage, this level of scrutiny is nearly unbearable.
The worst part, though, is when her partners are listening in during moments that would best go…unrecorded. She doesn't know if they would understand—after all, they are men and professional secret agents—but it often makes her job twice as difficult, knowing that they are monitoring every word she says, every move she makes. She is grateful for their protection, and there have certainly been times that it has saved her life. There are times when it has saved all their lives; she knows it. But there are also times when she wonders if death would be preferable to surrendering every last scrap of privacy.
This is one of those times.
They are on an op in Paris, trying to catch an international arms dealer in the act of acquiring illegal weapons so they can provide Waverly with probable cause for an official arrest warrant. Compared to some of the jobs they've done, it's relatively tame. The arms dealer, an extremely corpulent Frenchman named Brabante, is not unusually vicious for a man in his profession. Nor is his organization is particularly well-organized. In fact, if Gaby has read the situation correctly, they should be finished by the end of the week, and they've only been in Paris for three days so far. What is currently irritating her is not the job. It's what comes with the job.
At the moment, what comes with the job is her forced friendship with Brabante's daughter, a particularly flighty girl named Amélie. They're about the same age, but Gaby is hard-pressed to find anything they have in common. Amélie is spoiled, shallow, and most of her thought processes seem to revolve around designer clothing, beaux, and whose party she's planning to attend next. To a woman who survived East Germany without a father, made her living as a car mechanic, and escaped over the wall and lived to tell the tale, it is all remarkably boring. Incredibly, annoyingly, tediously boring.
The boredom is threatening to swallow her whole as she sips her cocktail and wishes desperately that the chair under Amélie would give way—anything to stop the constant flow of meaningless chatter. They are at the Comtesse de Larrocque's garden party (which, according to Amélie, is the social event of the season), and Gaby has never wished harder to be somewhere—anywhere—else. She has been stabbed, shot at, nearly drowned, and occasionally groped in the last six months, and she would take all of it twice over again if there were even the slightest possibility right now of escape.
She's ignoring Amélie for the most part—just murmuring "Mm-hmm" and "Mon Dieu!" and "Bien sûr" when there's a lull in the conversation. Her fingers are tapping out a rhythm on the table, a rhythm that looks like idle movements but is actually a coded message. It's meant for the very tall and extremely taciturn bodyguard positioned across the lawn, sunshades hiding his eyes and the late afternoon light glinting off his blond hair. Over and over again she taps it, mostly because she can feel his eyes on her and she knows he has a hard time refusing her anything she wants. (Occasionally she uses this for evil purposes.)
I'll give you anything you want if you'll get me out of here, she keeps tapping. She varies the message a little each time—sometimes funny, sometimes bordering on the provocative. She does love to tease him. It's so easy to make him nervous, make the tips of his ears go pink and his voice dip into that husky register that makes her insides quiver a little.
Right now he's tapping his fingers against his leg, in a message of his own. Not happening. It might be her imagination, but he seems to be tapping a little faster, a little harder than he was a few minutes ago. She's getting to him, finally. Good.
She thinks she's about to get her wish and he'll create a diversion so that she can finally, finally get away when Amélie suddenly breaks into her reverie.
"Is that your bodyguard over there?" Amélie asks, and Gaby almost gives herself away with a guilty start. Her heart is thudding uncomfortably in her chest, the pulse in her neck throbbing a little too hard. Why is the girl interested in Illya all of a sudden?
"Yes," she says languidly, trying her best to sound bored. "Father hired him a few years ago to guard me when I'm travelling. It's dreadfully inconvenient."
Amélie is inspecting Illya carefully, her eyes running appraisingly over his figure as though she's inspecting him for purchase.
"I wouldn't mind being…inconvenienced by him," she purrs, apparently liking what she sees. Gaby is suddenly very aware of the bug that is securely nestled in her brassiere. Illya can hear every word they say, and even though she's not the one assessing him like a slab of meat, she's embarrassed all the same.
"You would like it less than you think," she retorts, thinking that she cannot let Amélie become too interested in her partner. Either her true connection to Illya will come out somehow, or Amélie's fascination with him will overcomplicate the mission. Regardless, she wants Amélie to stop staring at him. The depth of her possessive streak surprises her a bit.
"Really?" Amélie breathes, still staring at Illya with undisguised interest. "He looks positively delicious. What is he—Scandinavian or something?"
"He's Russian," Gaby answers, and she can hear the edge in her own voice. "And, like all of them, a loutish brute. He can barely speak English, chérie," she says witheringly, the endearment sounding forced. Even across the lawn, she can see Illya's lips thin ever so slightly. I don't mean it, I don't mean it, she repeats like a mantra in her head. Don't listen to me. Please.
"I'm not thinking about talking to him!" Amélie giggles, and for a moment Gaby just wants to punch her in the mouth and be done with it. She is a stupid, careless girl who understands nothing, and Gaby is being forced to say awful things over a microphone straight into her partner's ear because of it.
Amélie, however, is not finished with the subject. "Do you think I could borrow him for a day or two?" she coos, batting her eyes in Illya's direction. "Father's making me go along on his business trip to Marseilles next weekend, and the Soviet Adonis over there would be the perfect distraction."
Gaby tries to ignore the fact that the woman just asked to borrow Illya in the same fashion one would ask to borrow a portmanteau and tries desperately to think of a way to make her lose interest.
"Darling," she murmurs, stirring the paper umbrella in her drink with a slightly unsteady hand, "I promise you don't want him. He's an idiot. He barely understands 'come here' and 'get my bags.' And to make matters worse, he's built like a gorilla." Amélie's eyes light up with something Gaby can only describe as lust, and her stomach twists. "You'd think that would be an asset, but trust me, it isn't. Look at those paws of his. Do you really want those all over you?"
Amélie still looks intrigued, and she decides to deliver the coup de grâce while she still has the nerve.
"Look, mon amie, if I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?" Amélie looks delighted by the prospect of a scandalous tidbit, and Gaby feels sick. It is now or never, she thinks, and forges ruthlessly ahead.
"A year ago, I was travelling to Venice, and we were delayed in Ravenna because of the the trains—très stupide, the Italian trains. Anyway, I was stuck in Ravenna, and terribly bored, and—well, one thing led to another with Anatoly over there, and…" She trails off, hoping that the implication is clear. Apparently it is, because Amélie lights up like a Christmas tree.
"Suzanne Dupont, how perfectly wicked of you!" she squeals. Gaby winces as heads turn. Cover name or no, she'd rather not have it broadcast over the entire soirée.
"Shhh—keep your voice down!" she hisses. "It's not something I want getting around."
Amélie nods excitedly and squeezes her arm in a show of faux sympathy. "Of course, of course," she replies breathlessly. "But tell me, ma chére, how was it? Is he as good as he looks? Tell me everything!"
Gaby swallows hard and tells herself it's for the sake of the mission. She would give anything, anything at all, to be able to turn that bug off. But she cannot, and this has to stop here.
"My dear," she murmurs in a show of embarrassed disappointment, "he was dreadful! So clumsy and boorish, you wouldn't believe. The worst night of my life, really. I know he looks wonderful, but once you get him in bed, it's a terrible let-down. Trust me—he can't even kiss well. You're better off with someone who has a little class."
She can't look at him. She doesn't want to know what she could read in his face, although he must be controlling his emotions well, because Amélie is still staring at him (albeit with regret instead of desire). The other girl finally shrugs and looks away.
"What a shame, chérie," she sighs, dramatically. "Ah, well. Speaking of beautiful men, have you seen Raquel Favreau lately? Those muscles! I hear that he won the tennis championship in Nice last week."
Gaby tries to make the appropriate noises, but she is no longer succeeding at even the pretense of listening. More than anything, she wants to walk over there—run, even—tell him she didn't mean a damned word of it, that she was lying to protect their cover. That he shouldn't believe it, any of it. And instead she is forced to sit and endure Amélie's idle prattle for another twenty minutes. It is sheer, unendurable agony.
At last, at long last, Waverly appears, walking across the lawn towards her with purpose in his stride. He looks as though he has had success with Monsieur Brabante, and she is flooded with relief at the idea of her imminent escape. Perhaps because of this, she rises to greet him with more enthusiasm than a paternal relationship might warrant.
"Papa!" she cries delightedly. "Papa, you remember my dear friend, Mademoiselle Brabante? Amélie, you have met my father before, I think."
Everyone exchanges the usual pleasantries, and then Waverly cups her elbow firmly.
"Excuse us, mademoiselle, but I must speak to my daughter for a moment. Forgive us," he murmurs with his usual impeccable manners, and then he is drawing her away from the crowded veranda to an arrangement of large, leafy potted ferns.
"I have what I need," he mutters in her ear. "Are you making progress with the daughter?"
Gaby's fists are clenching and unclenching, a habit she has picked up from Illya.
"I suppose," she grouses. "She's a damned idiot."
Waverly chuckles. "I won't argue with you there. But are you managing to gain her trust? That is the crucial bit, you know."
Gaby huffs out an exasperated breath. "I suppose. She's very interested in Illya," she says as quietly as she can. He's still listening. At least, she thinks he is.
"I hope you put a stop to that," Waverly interjects, his eyebrows snapping together. "The last thing we need is her becoming familiar with him. He needs to be able to move quickly and without being detected, and he can hardly do that if he becomes her tame lapdog."
She winces. Waverly can't possible know how horrible his words must sound in Illya's ears, but she does.
"Yes, I convinced her to…erm, look elsewhere," she says, her voice strained. Waverly nods, his mind already elsewhere.
"I think it's time to go," he says distractedly. "Solo has already cased the safe in the upstairs office, and I have the knowledge about Brabante's schedule to intercept the weapons drop tomorrow. If you or Kuryakin have anything of importance to report, it's best you do it back at the hotel."
She nods and goes to make her goodbyes, her thoughts racing and her stomach knotted with dread. As much as she wants to get out of here, she can't bear the thought of sitting in a car with him, not after what has just happened. She would vastly prefer stealing one of the sleek racing cars parked 'round the back and making her own getaway, but she has a feeling that Waverly would very definitely disapprove.
The ride back to the hotel is even more awkward that she had envisioned, which hardly seems possible. Waverly discusses methods of cracking Brabante's safe with Solo, who is flushed with the excitement of what he terms "a challenge worthy of my considerable skills." As befits a bodyguard, Illya drives, utilizing what can only be described as a stony reserve. And Gaby sits miserably in the back seat, staring at the unresponsive back of his head and wishing she could quietly sink into the Seine and disappear.
He doesn't speak to her the rest of the evening—not on the elevator ride up to the their rooms, not during their hastily eaten meal, not even during their briefing that night. She's used to him being quiet, but this is different, this icy silence. She hadn't realized how much she had come to depend on his presence, big and reassuring by her side. She misses the little things—his hand ghosting over the small of her back in the elevator, the weight of his blue eyes on her skin as she walks in front of him, the brush of his coat sleeve against his arm as he opens doors for her, the murmur of heavily-accented English in her ear. Without him, she feels cold and somehow exposed, as if a crucial piece of her armour against the world has been stripped away. It is a deeply unnerving sensation.
Finally, despairing of any efforts to apologize with the other two men present, she retires to her room for the night. A shower and a glass of her usual vodka are not enough to calm her nerves, though, and she ends up curled like a cat on the deep window seat of her room, arms wrapped around her knees, breathing in the soft scents of Paris that drift in through the partially opened window. The sheer curtains are enough to disguise her presence, and she leans her head back against the window casing and sighs a little. She doesn't know how to fix this—isn't sure it can be fixed.
After a few moments, she hears something outside her window, on the balcony she shares with the room next door. She can detect two sets of footsteps, one much heavier than the other, and low, masculine voices. A minute later, she smells the luxurious aroma of one of Solo's hand-rolled cigars, mixed with the sharper odor of Illya's cigarette. A part of her thinks she should move, get into bed and stop spying on her own partners, but she cannot make herself get up.
Just then the breeze shifts in her direction, and their voices become clearer. If she shifts just a bit on her perch, she can see their outlines against the brightness of the skyline, the lights of the city penciling in their figures in sharp delineation. Illya is leaning on the balcony, face turned away, the lines of his body tense as he smokes. Solo, in contrast, is utterly relaxed in one of the ironwork chairs beside the matching table, his feet propped up in the other chair, the picture of insouciant calm.
"What's bothering you tonight, Peril?" he asks off-hand, although Gaby knows him well enough to read the concern in the lines around his eyes. Illya says nothing, merely taking a deeper drag on his cigarette.
Solo tries again. "You're more morose than usual, my Russian friend, and that's going some. You having trouble with our little German spitfire again?"
Hidden behind the curtains, she flinches. Illya continues to ignore him, but after a moment he stubs out his cigarette and flicks the ash off the edge of the stone wall of the balcony with vicious accuracy.
"What do you think it means, Cowboy, when woman calls you a brute?" he asks, so unexpectedly that Solo starts a bit.
"A brute?" he echoes. Illya nods, his face impassive in the dim light. Solo frowns, clearly racking his brains for some sort of point of reference. "Which woman called you a brute?" he asks at last.
Illya's shoulders tense visibly. "Who do you think?" he mutters, big hands clenching. He looks as though he wants something to break, and there is very little on the balcony that will suit his purpose.
Solo is deeply puzzled. "I know the two of you fight like cat and dog, but I can hardly see her saying that and meaning it. Perhaps you made her angry—you do tend to do that, you know."
"Did not say it to me." The Russian accent is becoming thicker by the moment. "Heard her say it to one of her friends at garden party. Over the wire."
Solo scoffs. "Ah, you know how women are. Part of her cover, no doubt."
Gaby has never wanted to kiss anyone in her life as much as she wants to kiss Napoleon Solo right now. God bless the man and his brilliant insights.
But Illya is shaking his head fiercely. "Woman does not call man brute and lout as part of cover," he spits, his jaw working. "Does not call him gorilla and boor and idiot unless she—unless she believe it."
Gaby closes her eyes, willing her breathing to even out, willing the pressure behind her eyes to subside. She should have known, she thought wretchedly, should have realized that she was the one person whose words he would always believe, even when they were patently false. And how to convince him now, now that he's had all evening to turn them over and over in his head, repeat them to himself in the worst light possible?
Solo rises and goes over to his partner, leaning against the balcony alongside him. Even though they're facing away from her, the stiff breeze blows their words back to her waiting ears.
"I would not believe everything I heard, Peril," she hears Solo say gravely, and he actually gives Illya a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "I do not think that our little chop-shop girl would have agreed to work with you if that were truly what she thought."
"You don't understand," Illya grits out between clenched teeth. "I am Russian. She is German. You have heard stories of Russian soldiers marching into Germany, yes?"
Solo nods. Of course he has. Everyone in Europe has. The stories of women raped over and over, civilians tortured and left for dead, brutalities too terrible to be spoken of in polite company—he knows it all.
"I do not see you doing such things," he replies finally, the words coming slowly, carefully. He too was a soldier—he, too, had to make choices that were not choices, see horrors that he cannot unsee. Gaby knows that this is a bond they share that she cannot. She also knows that they share a deathly fear of knowing what might have happened to her in those chaotic years. Even little girls were not immune to the brutalities of East Berlin, and they have never asked what she saw, what she experienced. She knows they never will.
"She sees me as monster," Illya says after a long silence. "To her, I am monster. Russian monster who she is forced to work with. She—you did not hear over wire today, Cowboy. You know what чудовище is, da?"
Solo nods. "Der Unmensch," he murmurs under his breath. "Ogre, fiend, beast. La bête terrible."
Even in the darkness, she can see Illya swallow, hard. "Was what the women of Berlin screamed at the Russian soldiers," he says, so quietly she can barely hear him. "They called them not men—animals. Brutes." He raises both enormous hands to his face, rubs at it harshly. "That is what she think of me, Cowboy. Animal. Not man. Beast."
She can't help it. She hates herself for it, hates the weakness, but she can feel the moisture on her cheeks. He isn't wrong in some ways—she was raised to fear and loathe every Russian on sight. But if the last six months have taught her anything, it is that the man out there on that balcony is so much more than his nationality, his history. That he is a good man. And that he believes this of her hurts more than she thought possible.
"You are wrong, my friend," Solo says, his voice sharp and comforting all at the same time. "I know women, and that woman does not think you are a brute or…an animal. I don't pretend to know exactly what she thinks of you, but it's not that. Stop tormenting yourself over something she never meant for you to hear. It isn't true. It never has been."
For the second time that night, she wants to kiss Napoleon Solo with everything she has. She couldn't have said it better herself, certainly not in this state, and she is ridiculously grateful to him for knowing just what his partner needed to hear. He drives her mad on a weekly basis, but he is a good friend. She has never forgotten that.
Illya is still leaning against the balcony, despair in every line of his figure. "Does not matter," he says despondently. "There is no way to know what is truth and what is not. I should not have said anything. Is pointless."
She can see the flash of white as Solo rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, don't get philosophical on me," he snarks, and grabs Illya by the coat sleeve. "Come on, Peril, there's a bottle of truly excellent Scotch in my room and two glasses. Let's drown your sorrows for the night, hmm?"
They move together towards the French doors that open onto Solo's room, and she hears the snick of the catch closing a moment later. She's still frozen on her windowsill, the telltale wetness staining her cheeks, the chill of the breeze ignored as she wonders frantically what to do, how to fix this. She cannot simply ignore it and hope it goes away. Something must be done.
Three glasses of vodka and several hours later, she thinks she has a plan. It's not a good plan, but right now anything is better than inaction. Fueled with liquid courage, she stands up from the armchair beside her bed and goes to look for a robe. Showing up at his door in her nightgown somehow doesn't seem to strike the right note.
She slips out her door, shivering in the cool air of the corridor, and pads barefoot down the hall to his room. For a long moment, she hesitates in the hallway, all her carefully practised speeches running through her head. She hopes desperately that he's still awake, that he isn't so hammered from the Scotch that he won't fully understand her. She hopes even more desperately that he won't slam the door in her face. She doesn't think she could stand it if he did.
Fingers shaking, she taps on his door in the rhythm only the three of them use (even Waverly doesn't know it) and waits for him to answer, a wave of nerves threatening to choke her as the moments pass. Finally, she hears heavy footsteps and the sound of the chain being removed. Then the door is open and she sees him, huge and hulking and blocking the light spilling through the doorway of his room, so she can barely see his face in the dimness.
He doesn't speak, just stares at her uncomprehendingly until she thinks she will scream with the tension. Finally, she manages to choke out, "Please, can I—can I come in for a moment?" in a voice that doesn't even sound like hers. He hesitates for a moment, then moves aside to let her in. She notices with a pain like the cut of a whip that he takes care to move so that her body will not brush his.
Inside, the first thing she notices is the large bottle of vodka, mostly gone. This is rare for him, so rare that it kindles a spark of fear deep in her chest. She's never dealt with drunk Illya before, and it occurs to her that this may not be a good time for a deeply emotional conversation about how much he thinks she hates him.
Before she realizes it, she opens her mouth.
"Did you drink all this by yourself?" she hears herself asking, and wants to give herself a swift kick. That is not what she came here to say.
She can hear him move behind her, and looks over her shoulder to see his arms folded over his chest like a granite statue. He's in his undershirt, his pants buttoned but with no belt, and in his sock feet. If she hadn't been quite so nervous and tipsy, she might have appreciated the view.
"This is what you come to tell me in middle of night?" he rasps, and she notices that his command of the English article, always tenuous at best, has now escaped him entirely. It is oddly endearing.
"No," she says quickly, and suddenly she feels a bit unsteady on her feet. She sways a little, and he unbends, moving towards her a few feet. Before he can reach her, she grabs the back of an armchair and forces herself to stay upright.
"I—I came to talk to you about this afternoon," she says in a rush, the words tumbling over each other in their eagerness to come out. Not for the first time, she wishes she were fluent in Russian. Maybe it would be easier to say this in a language that is not her native tongue.
He has frozen again, eyes boring into her, and she wants to hide, cringe under the coffee table and stay there until he promises to stop staring at her. With an effort, she forces herself to go on.
"I—I didn't—I would never—" She's babbling, and she can't stop herself. "I didn't mean any of those things, Illya. It was for our cover, to keep her from getting too close to you. I would never say those things about you and mean them. And I—I came here to say—"
He still hasn't moved, and she feels small and foolish and stripped of all dignity. Still…
"I came here to say I'm sorry," she finishes very quietly, looking down at the floor beneath her bare feet. It's not enough, she knows. Not enough to salve that anguish she saw in his face on the balcony. But it's all she has, and she hopes it at least counts for something.
The ragged breath he sucks in is loud in the absolute stillness, and her head jerks up to look at him. He walks closer to her, remarkably steady on his feet for a man who has singlehandedly consumed a bottle of vodka in the last two hours, and she stays perfectly still. In the back of her mind, she wonders if this is what it feels like to be predator and prey—this helpless inability to move, no matter what comes. As he gets closer, she can see in the glow of the single tableside lamp the heavy flush of his cheeks, the glitter of his eyes, and she doesn't know whether it's the spirits or her words. Maybe it doesn't really matter.
"Woman does not say such things unless she means them," he rumbles, and he's close enough to her now that she can almost feel the vibration of his chest.
"No," she protests, and his blue eyes are burning into her own, fevered, anguished. "No, she doesn't—I mean, I didn't. I just wanted her to leave you alone, Illya, I swear. I have never thought of you as—as a brute. A beast."
It occurs to her at this point that she has to be very careful, since he has no idea she overheard his conversation with Solo. She prays that the vodka blurs it all together, covers over her slip of the tongue.
He reaches out for her, finally, and his fingers are hot and dry, closing around her forearm with surprising gentleness.
"You are German woman. I am Russian man. I understand," he mutters, and for the first time, he drops his gaze, staring down at his enormous hand wrapped around her delicate bones as if he's terrified at what it might do next. Her heart clenches.
"It's not that," she whispers, and one hand seems to rise of its own volition to cup his cheek. His skin is so warm it feels as it her hand will be burned by it, and she looks away for a moment to gather her wits, her strength. "Illya—"
He surprises her by leaning into her touch, almost as if he cannot help himself. When she looks at him, his eyes are closed, and there is such naked yearning on his face that her breath catches in her chest.
"Illya," she whispers again, and his eyes flutter open, fix on her with something akin to desperation. "You're wrong. It doesn't matter—what you are, what I am. I know you, Kuryakin, better than I've ever known anyone in my life, and you are not capable of being an—an animal, a beast. You are the most—" The ridiculous sentimentality of the moment makes her throat close for a moment, and she fights her way past it.
"You are the most honourable man I have ever known. The most intelligent and capable. And the most tender—at least, to me. It killed me to say those things today to her, because they were such lies. We lie for a living, I know, but we do not lie to each other. Not now, not ever."
She finishes speaking, and he is still staring at her, silent, unresponsive, and finally she begins to feel that she has made an utter and complete fool of herself. She can feel the painful blush rise in her cheeks, and with gritted teeth she moves to take her hand from his face.
He catches it with one of his own and holds it there, his eyes wild and unreadable. He seems to be struggling to find words, and she feels a sudden nonsensical surge of tenderness for her Russian giant who is never glib, never quick to speak. It will always be hard for him to find the words to tell her what he thinks, what he feels. She doesn't mind.
"This is truth?" he asks her at last, and his voice is thick with some emotion she does not dare put a name to. She nods fiercely, and something moves across his face, something that looks very much like relief. "You do not think I am animal, brute?"
She shakes her head. "Never," she whispers, because her voice doesn't work right now. "Never."
He moves so quickly she almost squeaks in shock. (Although she doesn't actually do it, because MI6 agents do not squeak. Ever.) In a fraction of a second she is wrapped so tightly in his arms she can barely breathe, her face crushed into the fabric of his shirt so that she is surrounded by the smell of bay rum and man. He has stooped to accommodate for the differences in their heights, for she can feel his cheek nestled in the curve between her neck and shoulder. If she's not mistaken, there's a suspicious dampness that transfers to her skin.
She doesn't know how long he holds her like that. After a moment, she raises her hand to stroke his hair, winding her fingers through the short strands at the back of his head, soothing him with every motion. She feels rather than sees him release a long, shuddering breath, as if all the tension of the last twelve hours leaves him all at once.
Finally he stands, looks at her for a moment, and then simply scoops her into his arms. She doesn't protest (she doesn't even think about it) when he carries her into his bedroom and sets her very gently on the bed. He sits beside her and those big hands gently frame her face.
"Could not bear to have you think of me as animal," he confesses, and she knows how rare it is for him to be so brutally honest with her. He has laid himself bare, and it touches something deep within her.
"Sie sind alles, was gut ist," (1) she murmurs in reply, falling back on her native language because there is nothing in English that will do. The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of his mouth, and she cannot stop herself. She leans forward, and, very gently, kisses him.
He sucks in a sharp breath. "Gaby," he pleads, a world of desire and devotion in his voice, and she throws caution to the winds.
"Kommen her," (2) she commands, and in a quick, fluid motion she straddles him, sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck.
"Gaby," he says again, and this time there is a definite note of begging. She smirks at him.
"I will show you who you are," she whispers, and then there is nothing but his mouth on hers, his hands sliding under robe and nightgown to worship her, skin and flesh and bone, and her helpless gasps of pleasure as she lets him prove to her who he is, who he wants to be.
It is much later, when they lie in his bed, bodies dappled with moonlight, that she stirs from her lassitude. Her head is pillowed on his chest, his arms wrapped around her, and she thinks that it is criminal to feel such happiness.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs to her, and she shakes her head, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
"Nein," she says softly, and she lifts one of the hands wrapped around her to play with it, marveling at how powerful it is, and how gentle.
"You do not like my big hands, nyet?" he mutters, and it takes her a moment to figure out that he is teasing her. She looks at him sharply, and sees the telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
"Du bist sehr schlecht," she huffs, and pretends to push him away. "Geh weg." (3)
The hand she is holding folds around her fingers, pulls her toward him so that he can press a kiss to her hair.
"никогда не заставит меня оставить тебя," (4) he murmurs, and even though her Russian is still not very good, she understands every word.
"никогда," (5) she tells him, and for the first time since she has known him, she sees him smile—a full, joyful smile, his eyes filled with light, utterly happy.
"Meine Geliebte," (6) she whispers to him, her hands small and ardent on his face, and she kisses his smile as if to brand it on herself, sear his happiness into her skin. It is enough, she thinks.
More than enough.
They sleep long past their normal time, and when they walk into Waverly's room fifteen minutes late for the morning debriefing, they are red-faced and abashed. Solo gives them a cheeky wink, Waverly coughs demurely, and they quickly turn to business. It is not until the meeting is breaking up and Solo is walking with them to the elevator that he turns to them with a truly disgusting leer.
"I assume everything worked out well last night?" he enquires without a shred of embarrassment. Illya flushes crimson, but Gaby simply laughs.
"I do not like being bugged," she says, and Solo's eyebrows shoot up at the apparently non sequitur. "But I think now—I think now it will be all right to be overheard."
Illya's lips twitch, and, chancing a glance at his partner, he cautiously slides an arm around Gaby's waist.
"Want to get breakfast, Cowboy?" he asks, daring him to say something about the caress. Solo looks at them for a long minute, as if pondering something deeply important, and then grins.
"Why not?"
And they walk towards the elevator, Illya's arm firm and comforting around her waist, towards the smell of bacon and coffee and eggs and new beginnings.
Translations:
Note: All translations are from Google Translate, so if I have butchered the language unforgivably, I apologise.
1 – You are all that is good.
2 – Come here.
3 – You are very bad. Go away.
4 – Do not ever make me leave you.
5 – Never.
6 – My love.