The first gift Illya gives Gaby- the first gift exchanged between either of them, actually- is what Illya believes all gifts should be. Practical, useful, well made. He'd found it in a small store in his hometown while reporting back to the KGB. He'd been walking by swiftly, his collar up and his head turned down, when sunlight reflected off the shop's windows, catching his eye.

He'd felt ashamed that his first thought that night had been to call Napoleon.

"Cowboy," was all Illya had said on the phone when he heard the American pick up.

"Peril," Napoleon had quipped back.

"It is Gaby's birthday in several weeks."

"And?"

God, Illya really hated the American sometimes. He clenched his jaw on the phone and mentally categorized the list of ways he would have hurt Solo if they'd been in the same room.

Illya waited a few moments before clenching his teeth together and responding. "I am getting her present."

"Ah, young love. I always relish those early months in relationships." Illya could feel Napoleon smirking on the other end, and wished silently that there weren't several continents preventing Illya from hitting his partner in the head. Illya tuned back to realize Solo was still talking. "Everything's exciting, everyone's all atwitter."

"I am not atwitter." Illya's voice had been steely, his finger tapping against the receiver. He noticed how he didn't deny Napoleon's "young love" comment.

"Well, Peril, I must say I'm shocked at the sentimentality of it all. I didn't even know they acknowledged birthdays behind the Iron Curtain. What'll it be for Miss Teller, then? A collection of Shakespeare's sonnets? Perhaps something more intimate-"

Illya had stopped him right there, a selection of curses streaming out of him in his mother tongue. With Napoleon waiting patiently on the other end, Illya had finally confessed his idea about the shop.

Napoleon had laughed.

"My God, Peril, you may as well gift the girl a set of eyeglasses!"

Illya acknowledged the sarcasm but responded anyway. "Gaby does not need glasses."

Confiding in Napoleon had been a mistake, and since the purchase Illya had wondered what impulse had caused him to call the American in the first place. As was typical, Illya ignored Solo's advice anyway, completing his purchase the next morning before reporting to Oleg. He'd kept the gift in its original box, tucking it away in his suitcase beneath one of his dress shirts. He'd taken the box out on his flight back to London, to U.N.C.L.E headquarters, and turned it over in his hands repeatedly for the duration of the flight. Upon getting back to London, where Oleg had negotiated with Waverly to release Illya for an undisclosed length of time, he had shown it in secret to Solo after several hours of his pestering.

"Not bad at all, Peril," was all Solo had said, and Illya had snatched the box out of his hands and stowed it back in his bag. For days leading up to Gaby's birthday (March 14th, a date seared into Illya's brain since the moment he'd read her file in secret), Illya had taken the box out, debating whether or not to give it to her entirely. Illya had never been this nervous to give someone a gift before, had not given anyone any gift in many years. On March 13th, he'd almost dumped the box in the waste basket and settled with a bouquet of flowers and jewelry at Napoleon's suggestion.

Solo was right on the flowers, Illya now thinks to himself. He and Gaby sit in the park after a long walk, "a stroll through town" her only birthday request besides eating something sweet (they'd settled on sugar-coated strawberries). Under moonlight, Illya had held her hand, running her skinny, warm fingers through his. He'd led her to the bench where they now sit, the night air crisp and, for once, not rainy, and presented the gift to her, mumbling a "happy birthday" and nothing more. Gaby had opened the small package and simply looked at its contents, saying nothing.

"Do you like it?" Illya finally asks, breaking the silence, his brow furrowed.

"It's a watch," Gaby says. There is no judgment, no sound of disappointment in her tone. To Illya it almost sounds like a question.

He swallows back the anxiety he has not felt in many years and responds. "Yes. The same man who made it also made my father's watch."

Gaby simply looks at him, moonlight flickering in her wide brown eyes. With no words she removes it from the box, laces it around her tiny wrist and fumbles with the fastening.

"Let me," Illya grunts, taking her hand in his and notching it comfortably around her wrist. He leaves her hand in his long enough for her to turn it over, palm down. Gaby looks down at it, with a face Illya frustratingly can't place.

"It's lovely," she finally says, looking up at him. Quickly, she moves closer to Illya, throwing her arms around his neck. He feels her face pressing into his shoulder, feels her hair tickle his cheek, and releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Happy birthday, my little chop shop girl," is all Illya says to Gaby before he kisses her.