Chapter Text
"So why do you have this?" Gaby plants a full-lipped kiss over the ink on the inside of Illya's wrist and for a moment he forgets to breathe, forgets his own name, let alone the reason for his tattoo.
"W-what?"
Gaby actually giggles, which is rare. A testament to the half a bottle's worth of champagne on her breath.
"Your tattoo, Illya. What does it say? Molotok? "
He sighs as she refocuses her attention on the sharp line of his jaw, and confesses at last. "It means hammer."
"Why 'hammer'?" she mumbles into his neck.
"Is a nickname."
"Because you're so heavy? Blunt? Hard-headed?"
He exhales a laugh and pulls her closer by the hips. "Why not?"
The truth of the nickname is that it's more of a label, not for endearment but to describe his use in a single, uncaring word. But Gaby, as always, manages to make it affectionate.
Breath hitches and skin blushes as kisses grow deeper. So far clothes remain in place, though Gaby in pajamas is hardly a chaste sight for Illya. So far, clothes have always remained in place. He's always the one to put the brakes on, even when he wants nothing more than to surge ahead, Gaby encouraging him almost cruelly. But he can’t take that final step, past the point of no return. Something yanks him back, like a parachute when he's in freefall.
He often is, around her.
But tonight feels like progress to Gaby, like they're journeying a little farther than normal, and she doesn't play fair. Slipping warm hands under his shirt, she whispers sinfully, "You know, we have all night. Just the two of us…" One hand leaves his bare torso to travel dangerously close to his belt buckle.
Illya's head is spinning. He doesn't say anything, just breathing hard against the shell of her ear, and Gaby takes the invitation to slide the leather out of the first few loops.
He finds his voice then. "Wait — Gaby, wait."
She pulls her hand away and sits back on his thighs. "What is it?"
"Not now. I — I can't."
He hates himself for not being able to give in to her, give in to himself. He wishes he had her confidence, her surety. He has wished for that since the moment he first saw her.
Gaby leans back in and kisses him soothingly. "It's alright. Maybe tomorrow." She kisses him once more, on the forehead, then makes her way to the bathroom to prepare for bed.
Illya stays where he is, on the sofa in their hotel room reminiscent of their first night together, and tries to cool himself down. Gaby is always understanding. She never pushes him, though sometimes he wishes she would. Remove the choice from his hands and leave it to her. Take exactly what she wants from him.
"Do you have aspirin?" Gaby calls after a few minutes, prompting him to get up.
Illya walks into the bedroom and answers, "In my case, liebling." The word sounds odd but awfully nice, and Gaby's lips quirk into a smile at the sound of it.
"Can I get them myself?"
"Yes. If you'd like." She smiles a little wider. It might seem innocuous to anyone else, but it's significant that he trusts her to look through his private things.
Illya lays out tomorrow's clothes as she searches for the pill bottle. He isn't exactly sure what an anthropology professor is supposed to wear, but he decides it would finally be an appropriate time for a bowtie, Cowboy be damned.
"Illya, what's this?" He turns, and Gaby is holding a far more interesting find.
"It — is photograph," he answers dumbly.
"I can see that. But it's of me. When did you take this?"
"That day at the racetrack, in Rome. I took it accidentally, but it was beautiful. So I kept it."
"Oh." Gaby seems a little flattered, to his relief. He worries sometimes that his infatuation would not seem charming, if she knew the full extent of it.
Gaby replaces the photo and continues to search the case for the medicine.
"It's in the left pocket—" he instructs, but words die out when she holds up a notebook with her name on the cover.
"Why is my name on this?" Illya's breath catches in his throat. Instantly he regrets teaching her the Cyrillic alphabet.
"No, that's—" In one long stride he's at her side and trying to grab the book away. Gaby holds it behind her back and puts a hand on his chest.
"It's confidential," he tries. Wrong answer; he's penalized with an icy look and quirked eyebrow.
"It has my name on it. I have more right to know than anyone."
"It is…notes."
"On me?"
"Yes. On you."
"From Rome?"
Illya squares his shoulders. No turning back now; he may as well confess to it all.
"A bit…before that."
Her eyes widen. "In Berlin?"
He nods automatically. "You figured out I was keeping track of you, before?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Keeping track—very closely."
"Illya, what are you trying to tell me?"
He thinks frantically that maybe he doesn't need to be as nervous about sharing this with Gaby as he is; after all, she has been an active agent for months now. She knows what watching a mark entails.
"I watched you. For surveillance. At home, at night." He doesn't mean to speak in broken little fragments, but that's what he manages to say.
Gaby is quiet for too long, so Illya speaks again. "I've wanted to tell you, but I was — nervous. Didn't know what to say."
"What's so difficult to figure out? You were spying on me," Gaby says, tone hardened.
"Gaby—"
"How long? How long were you watching me?"
"It was—two weeks. Before Cowboy came." That's strike two.
"Two weeks? "
"I feel guilty. That's why I'm telling you now," he tries.
"How did you watch me? Did you break into my home to plant your—your damned little devices?"
"Another agent planted bugs," he starts, but can't stand to hide any more of the truth. "I added a few more, one morning after you left for work."
Chancing a look at her face, he sees it take on the same shade and expression as the time Napoleon shoved her into the koi pond at a garden party, creating a diversion while he pilfered the host's office keys. Betrayal, rage. He braces himself for combat.
"You know what it means to tail someone. You knew I was following you. Does it matter now?"
"Of course it does, it matters because of this! Because of us!" Her arm gestures wildly between them and smacks him in the chest.
Illya tenses. "I did not know then. How could I have known one day I would get to talk to you, listen to you, touch you?"
"You certainly took your time to admit it, didn't you? Is that why we haven't done more? You've already had it all on display, no permission needed. So what's the point?"
"That is not true," Illya speaks through clenched teeth. "Stop this. You're being cruel."
"Cruel? How am I ever supposed to trust you now?"
"You really want to talk about trust? I suppose throwing me to actual dogs makes you trustworthy," he snaps. Yet another downside to having an American partner: all this time spent with Solo has enhanced his capacity for sarcasm. The tone feels wrong in his voice, like wearing an ill-fitting suit.
Gaby goes from hot rage to frosted over. "I thought you forgave me for that a long time ago."
"I did. I have. I understand you did what you had to do."
"Don't you dare turn this around. You were spying on me! You invaded my privacy, like — like my life was just a show for you! You had no right."
"If I receive orders, I carry them out. You should be able to understand that."
"Will that always be the excuse? Orders? You can do whatever you want to me, cast me aside when you're done, if it's in the name of following orders!"
Illya is close to shouting now. "What would you ask of me, Gaby? Insubordination, for the East German car mechanic girl I didn't know?"
Gaby is frighteningly quiet for a moment, her breathing shallow. "You're right. Thank you for telling me Illya, because at least it proves one thing. This ," she waves her hand between the two of them again, "is doomed to fail, isn't it?"
Illya shakes his head violently. "Don't say that."
Gaby looks at him with wide eyes, then whispers, "I think I'd like you to leave."
"Gaby—"
She ignores him and walks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Illya ends up at the front desk feeling far too exposed in an undershirt and pajamas, trying to find another room.
At least bickering newlyweds is a realistic cover.
"Is the room not to your liking, Monsieur Sokolov?"
"No, the room is fine. I'm afraid Madame Sokolov is upset with me."
The man behind the desk makes a pitying face. "My apologies, Monsieur. I will see what we have." He disappears into the back room.
"Evening, comrade. Trouble in paradise?" Illya's fingers, tapping on the counter, increase their speed when he hears the condescension in that voice.
They can at least acknowledge each other this time, as professional colleagues; professor of anthropology and classics scholar come to Paris to witness the grand opening of an historic antiquities exhibit. But at this moment, acknowledging the Cowboy is the last thing he needs.
"You were at the bar this whole time?" Illya scoffs, not looking up at him from the front desk.
"Just a few drinks with some exciting new friends. Since you and Gaby retire as early as an old married couple, I have to find entertainment elsewhere."
The manager returns then with his head bowed. "I am so sorry Monsieur, but we have no other availabilities."
"Sokolov, old friend. If you need lodging, I'd be happy to offer you the sofa in my own room." Solo smiles while Illya tries not to growl outwardly.
That's how Illya is rescued by the charitable American colleague. What a happy coincidence, they leave the night manager to think. Illya is less than thrilled about spending the night on Solo's sofa, but at least he doesn't seem to have any other guests this evening. He doubts it's from lack of trying; yet he also has trouble believing that the man would sacrifice an evening with attractive company for the sake of helping him.
Illya settles on the sofa while Solo pours himself another drink. He hopes his partner will have the decency not to pry, but respecting boundaries has never been the man's strong suit.
"What happened?" Napoleon asks, "Gaby kick you out?"
"It is none of your business." Illya says tersely. He fiddles with the gold band around his finger. He has never been one to wear a ring and after a few days he still hasn't gotten used to it.
"Go on. What happened?"
Illya sighs heavily. "She found out I was watching her in Berlin. Doing surveillance."
"Well, of course you were."
"Not so obvious to her."
"I'm sure she'll get over it."
"Even if she does not — how can I blame her?"
He knows how she feared and hated being monitored. How can she look at him now and feel anything other than black boots against her throat, see anything other than the hammer-and-sickle insignias on unwelcome oppressors in her home?
Napoleon seems to read his thoughts. "Gaby's cleverer than you give her credit for. She can tell the difference between her enemies and…well, whatever you are to her at this point."
Illya almost laughs. Whatever he is to her, indeed.
Napoleon bids him goodnight and goes to his room, leaving Illya to study the ceiling in the dark. His mind wanders to her affectionately, even if she wounded him less than an hour ago. That tattoo on her shoulder blade of a little tree, the black lines so crisp against her bronzed skin. It's a honeysuckle, modeled after the tree outside her childhood bedroom that always sent its beautiful perfume into her room in the morning. He was right that it was sentimental and had tried not to gloat. Now he studies it often, when she tucks her little arms under her head and sleeps on her stomach. When he sees it, he always wants to pepper the skin with kisses but fears waking her.
He wonders if she's sleeping now. How she could, he doesn't know. But she always has had a unique talent for sleeping through anything.
They meet at the taxi the next morning, not having spoken since their tumultuous evening and now thrust into role of the academic and his new wife.
"You look beautiful in that dress," he offers, holding the door open for her.
"You look like a mortician in that suit," she snips and slides into the car. Illya frowns and follows her in.
Gaby leans forward in her seat and directs the driver to take them to the Louvre, then addresses Illya in her native tongue as they drive away from the hotel.
"Your notes are in Russian." His woman wastes no time getting to what's on her mind.
He stares at her blankly. "Of course they are."
"Well, I can't read it. I stared at them all night but I couldn't understand it." She takes the book from her purse and tosses it in his lap. "Tell me what it says."
Illya accepts the demand, in part relieved that she didn't sleep either. He starts each sentence slowly, carefully translating the words in his mind. He reads and she watches him as he does, expression indecipherable.
"You spent a lot of time describing my appearance," she accuses after a few entries.
"I paid close attention to everything about you," he answers quietly. She doesn’t say anything, so he continues reading.
He watches her fingers tap on her knee when he begins the conversation with her friend Analiese. It's long and trivial, but he reads every line of it until the missing page, the moment that Gaby is clearly anticipating.
She looks at him skeptically when he stops there. "You're missing something," she says, and glances at the torn page.
"I know," he says firmly.
His meaning seems to hit her, and she mumbles, "What happened to not risking insubordination?"
"I guess I'm more foolish than you thought." He swallows heavily when she leans closer to his shoulder.
He finishes on the note about Solo and she scoffs. He waits anxiously for her to say something.
"Well?"
"It's all — facts in there."
He stares at her. "What did you expect?"
"What did you think of me, while you were watching? Where were your impressions?"
"KGB does not care for editorializing."
"Well, I'm asking now," she says with arms tightly crossed.
"I thought — that I could understand."
"What — me?"
"The anger, frustration. The — the loneliness."
Her eyes were downcast. "I'm sure you could," she says sharply.
"You looked so beautiful, even from a distance. You shone in a dark place. I just wanted to meet you. I was obsessed with the idea. And now I have." He shifts closer to whisper the rest. "For the first time...I feel lucky. I don't want to lose this."
"Illya," she breathes, almost defeated. "I don't want you to have seen me that way."
"What way?"
"Furious, out of control!"
He brushes the hair from her face and tucks it behind her little ear. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know. But you have seen me that way, too. You—you help me, when I feel that way."
Gaby sighs, but her posture softens. She touches Illya's hand resting on his knee.
"I ran into you once, do you remember?" he asks.
"No, remind me."
"It was on the street. I bumped your shoulder. You looked at me and smiled, even though I was like soldiers you hated."
She looks at him blankly. "I don't remember this."
"You don't?" He can't believe she doesn't remember a moment so brief yet meaningful to him. He had studied that moment in dreams, imagined more self-indulgent and private versions.
"No. Illya…I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I think it's just habit to smile when you apologize for running into someone."
He shakes his head sharply, embarrassed now. "Of course. You're right."
She smiles at him for the first time today, and places a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I know who you are now, and I do more than smile at you. Isn't that more important?"
Illya feels the tips of his ears redden, to his chagrin and her delight. "I—yes. That is true."
The taxi eases to a stop in front of their destination, and Gaby's breath catches when she sees the stunning landscape of the Louvre. She has never been to Paris and Illya remembers how thrilled she was when they received this assignment.
When they leave the taxi, she wraps her arm around his elbow and says, "Shall we, Mr. Sokolov?" He can't help but feel the true affection seeping through their cover, her anger gone. It's all too easy to pretend to be Gaby's husband.
He places a kiss on her other hand.
"You, Mrs. Sokolov, I would follow anywhere."