Chapter Text
Napoleon Solo waltzes through the crowds, light on his feet and light with his fingers—strictly to keep his skills sharp, of course. He relocates watches and jewelry (even a scarf or two) to their owners’ coat pockets and purses, slips a few, crisp bills to those in need of cheer.
No harm done.
Just little mischiefs to dull that quiet, unnamed aching in his chest.
It is a fine December evening. The holiday season at LAX is nearing the end of its run: a grand symphony of comings and goings. Solo maneuvers through the terminal with an easy grace, the choruses of hails and farewells echoing in his ears.
Vigilance masquerades as charm as his blue eyes sweep instinctively over the sea of harried and smiling faces. He winks at a passing stewardess and lazily tracks her blushing retreat, up until she reaches the browning, but still-glittering Christmas tree.
Solo notes how her steps falter, the way she ducks her head and gives an extra wide berth to the looming figure before her. He glances at the broad shoulders, the towering height, the back of a blond head… and stops short.
A briefcase knocks into his back—a product of momentum, not malice—but the American doesn’t budge. A parade of disgruntled travelers mutter under their breath as they divert their course around him. Solo cocks his head, staring openly at this man, this apparition who, by all accounts, should still be in Moscow.
Certainly, he shouldn’t be here in Los Angeles of all places.
Tugging needlessly at his suit jacket, Solo picks his way over to the KGB’s top agent. His friend. His former partner. Potentially, his next mission.
The American is a case study in indifference as he saunters up to the Russian. “Get stood up, Peril?” he quips, before a tautness creeps into his voice, “Or are you waiting for me?”
Illya Kuryakin regards him closely, all steel-edged trepidation and narrowing eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this ‘chance’ encounter either.
“You tell me.”
An exaggerated sigh follows. Solo tilts his head back, challenging. “That,” he says, “depends on whose flag you’re flying.”
“I was sent by Waverly.”
A sense of relief begins to settle over him, but he won’t let it get too comfortable just yet. Especially when he hears the Russian’s next pronouncement.
“He didn’t say anything about you.”
Their eyes meet, assessing, sizing each other up in a way they haven’t since Berlin. Since Rome. Seven weeks apart will do that to you, he thinks.
Solo hums, considering. He picks an imaginary piece of lint from his jacket. “I received my marching orders. All phrased, of course, as a,” he pauses, smirking in the way that only he could accomplish, “well, as a solo mission.”
A scoff and a familiar roll of blue eyes. The corners of that Soviet scowl threaten to quirk into a smile. A small one, but genuine nonetheless.
The spell lifts.
Solo claps him heartily on the shoulder, his smirk softening with sincerity. “It’s good to you see, Peril.” Good to be on the same side, is what he really means. He can’t say if they are on the same team.
There is a gruff, grudging warmth in the man’s accented baritone.
“You too, Cowboy.”
Solo adjusts his grip on his suitcase, gestures out at the thinning crowds and exit signs. “Headed to Anaheim?”
Peril’s brow furrows and Solo feels his stomach drop along with it. But all the man says is, “I was told to wait.”
“For…?”
“Instructions.” Peril glances at his father’s watch, gives a small tsk of annoyance. “They should have arrived by now.”
The American catches a sudden glimpse of dark hair and flashing eyes. Something like joy radiates through him as he sees the young woman approach. Solo turns back to his partner, barely covering his grin.
“Well, punctuality has never been Gaby’s strong suit.”
He’s said the magic word.
Peril snaps to attention, eyes wide as he scans the terminal. He zeroes in on her instantly, a sharpening of focus, a softening of edges. By the time Gaby walks up to them, Solo is half-expecting him to salute.
The American gives her a split second to prepare herself before lifting her off her feet. It is shameless and sentimental and precisely what the occasion calls for.
He sets her back down with a friendly peck on the cheek and gives her his best smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Miss Teller?”
“Missed you too, Solo,” she murmurs, her slim hands smoothing down his sleeves. “You look well.”
He’s got a thousand one-liners on the tip of his tongue—each sultrier than the last—but he doesn’t get the chance to use any of them. A distinct cough and the sudden shadow behind him sees to that.
Solo and Gaby don’t spring apart so much as gently disentangle. The young woman takes in the Russian with a cautious, little smile.
“Hello, Illya.”
“Gaby,” is all the man says, but perhaps it is all he needs. Her name falls from his lips like a prayer, hushed reverence colored and warmed by nuance. Solo can hardly believe his ears.
Who knew the man to be capable of such dulcet tones?
Peril reaches for the mechanic with stilted, self-conscious movements… and ends up in the no man’s land between a bow and an embrace, between comedy and tragedy.
Gaby clears her throat and retreats back to a more professional distance. Her posture is too rigid, her eyes too bright to fool the American—she is much more affected by Peril’s touch than she would like to let on.
Solo observes this newfound heat, this newfound ice between his partners with growing interest. He can’t tell if this is one step forward or two steps back for them. Three weeks had passed since the man returned to Russia, hard on the heels of a month-long mission spent without him: just the pair of them, posing as newlyweds in a French fairytale of a town.
The perfect cover. The perfect location. The perfect opportunity.
Squandered.
Solo had been exasperated to learn that Gaby’s reticence was not attributable to coyness. He had pressed and prodded and pleaded for details, but was forced to accept that there truly had been nothing to report.
He wonders, sometimes, if they do this just to spite him.
“I wasn’t expecting either of you,” the mechanic says, cutting through his musings with an eloquent shrug. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
She turns to Solo. “Are you responsible for our transport?”
“There’s a helicopter right this way,” he informs her. Off her worried look, he adds, “Don’t worry, I’m not your pilot this time.”
“This time? You have flown before?”
They look over at Peril, an odd disconnect between them all. Solo braves a smile at him, feeling almost guilty about this experience he hadn’t shared in.
“Two weeks ago. In Turkey. Got a crash course in flying.”
“Emphasis on crash,” the mechanic says with a grin. Before the Russian can attack or interrogate him for putting Gaby’s life in danger (probably a bit of both), Solo is quick to smooth things over.
“I stuck the landing, more or less, thank you. Saved your pretty neck too, I might add.”
Peril’s expression darkens—sadness, regret maybe. His voice is brusque as he reaches to take Gaby’s luggage from her.
“We should leave.”
The mechanic steps away from him, fingers tightening protectively over the handle. “I can manage,” she tells him. Curt, but not cold. Guarded.
Gaby pivots on her heel and hurries over to Solo. They walk side-by-side in silence, a forlorn-looking KGB agent trailing close behind.
It is more by design than circumstance that they are the only passengers on the helicopter. The pilot greets them by name and the trio breathe a collective sigh of relief.
They are supposed to be here.
The minutes tick by in agonizing silence until Solo has had enough. His gaze flicks between his partners. They sit stiffly beside each other: unfathomable brown eyes stare straight through him, roiling, blue ones quickly look away.
He lounges across from them, maddeningly casual. Solo graces them both with a smirk. Anything to get under their skins. Maybe give them a common enemy while he’s at it.
“So,” he drawls, “there’s gotta be an explanation for all this. Why don’t we compare notes?”
And then, because he’s feeling just so magnanimous, he declares, “I’ll go first.” He waits for any sign of acknowledgement. There isn’t one. “Well, after Miss Teller and I parted ways in Ankara, I was sent to Canada—Newfoundland, to be precise—to provide an extraction.”
Peril scoffs. “For operatives or art?”
“Bit of both,” is his cool response. “I got our men out and chose to stay behind. Kept an eye on the local auctions. Forgeries, smuggling, that sort of thing.”
He shrugs, a lofty innocence to his tone. “I’ve been enjoying my time there ever since.”
“You got your White Christmas after all,” Gaby murmurs. Solo nods, surprised, and, somehow, moved that she’d remembered his wish. He’d nearly forgotten that conversation.
“And you got to go somewhere warm. Perth, wasn’t it?”
The mechanic hums in confirmation and Solo can practically feel the Russian’s eyes darting back and forth between them. Again, there is that reminder, that sharp, bitter pang of exclusion.
Peril’s not used to being the odd man out.
“Now, I would have been happy to ring in the New Year there as well,” Solo continues, to get them back on track, “but it seems our dear, old Uncle Alex had other plans. A surprise family reunion.”
He squares his shoulders to the man before him, tone grave, but voice light. “And, speaking of families, how is Mother Russia? Did she rejoice when her prodigal son returned?”
Peril glowers at him, arms folding over his chest. “It was not warm welcome,” he says through gritted teeth, “but I am here now.”
His partners wait for an explanation: Solo with a carefully blank expression, Gaby seeming to hold her breath. The Russian huffs, evidently put upon by their silence.
“Waverly worked out new contract with KGB, ordered me to take first available flight to Los Angeles. I came straight from Moscow.”
Solo does not miss the way Gaby’s eyes widen at the news, how her lips part in silent surprise. The quiet, shaky exhale that follows. For all the Russian’s words, there is still a wariness, a distrustfulness to her expression. A cautious, armor-plated optimism.
The chopper begins its dizzying descent as Solo turns to her. The final piece of the puzzle. “What about you, Gaby?”
Her eyes snap to his, jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. “As you know, I’ve been in Australia. No mission. Change of scenery. That’s all.”
Peril jolts, though not entirely from the landing. He frowns. “You were there on… vacation?”
“Bed rest,” she corrects. She shimmies out of her seatbelt, a scowling, Soviet storm cloud shadowing her down the steps.
Solo closes his eyes, suffers for a moment, before joining them on the tarmac. Not surprisingly, his partners are almost at each other’s throats.
“Show me,” demands the Russian.
Gaby tosses her hair, indignant, a hard set to her mouth. The glare she gives him, Solo knows, could kill a lesser man.
“No.”
Peril closes what little distance is left between them, truly towering over her now. The American wonders, briefly, if this is the moment they will kiss. It would hardly surprise him if it were. Peril’s voice is deeper than Solo’s ever heard it, unflinching in its authority.
“Show. Me.”
Unfortunately for the Russian, Gaby may be the only person who can defy him. And, unfortunately for the Russian, she doesn’t.
“Fine,” Gaby snaps and Solo freezes. Peril may not know where her injury is, but he certainly does. Solo steps forward, ready to smooth things over.
“That won’t be necessary, Gaby.”
But she is already shrugging out of her coat, tossing it onto her suitcase. The mechanic sweeps her hair aside, fumbles for the tiny zipper at her neck, never once breaking eye contact with the Russian.
Solo is aware of a tram approaching in the distance. A second look confirms that, yes, Waverly is the lone passenger upon it. His partners, however, are oblivious to anything but this challenge, this dare between them.
The cream fabric of Gaby’s dress begins to gape open in the back: an expanse of tanned skin bared to Solo’s eyes only. Heat crawls up the Russian’s neck, his eyes flaring wildly. He swallows, an unusual huskiness to his voice.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
The zipper reaches its natural conclusion, the straps of Gaby’s dress threatening to slip off her shoulders. The heliport attendants are gawking, the tram is pulling up, and Peril is too flabbergasted to do something about it.
In one, expert movement, Solo has her bundled back into her coat. His hand slips under the satin lining to pull the zipper at least part of the way up.
“Thank me later,” he mutters.
His partners jump, scarlet-faced as Waverly steps off the tram and greets them. “Good evening, chaps. Good to see you three together again.” He smiles, tactfully ignoring whatever he might have witnessed. “Take a seat. I’ll explain on the way.”
Peril needs a swift elbow to the ribs to get him in motion. He bends mechanically to retrieve his luggage and sleepwalks to the tram. He slides in beside Solo, actively avoiding Gaby’s death stare in the next row.
“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here, he begins. A wry smile crosses his face as the tram glides off. “Do keep your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside at all times.”
Waverly peers from one, uneasy face to another. He sighs. “I hope you’ll forgive me the secrecy, but this really was the only way. I doubt any of you would have come here otherwise.”
He waits.
Kuryakin is the first to break the silence. “What is the mission?”
“Ah, yes, about that,” he responds. “There isn’t one.”
The Russian opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He turns to stare at his equally bewildered partners. Solo clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.
“Excuse me?”
“If it would help you to stomach it, you can think of your objective here as light reconnaissance. Cultural immersion. Whatever strikes your fancy.” Waverly leans forward, lowering his voice secretively. “Strictly speaking, you’re not here as spies. You’re here as tourists.”
A blond head snaps up sharply, blue eyes searing with alarm.
“Where are we going?”
“Take a guess, Kuryakin. We’re in Anaheim… home to the Happiest Place on Earth.”
Like clockwork, the tapping begins: the Russian’s fingers drumming against his crossed arms with a harsh, staccato rhythm. The man himself is still reeling from shock.
“You—you pulled me from KGB to… to go to Disneyland?”
Waverly could laugh at the absurdity of it if he hadn’t had to move heaven and hell to make it happen. It had been a labor worthy of Hercules to secure Russia’s top agent. This time, on a decidedly more permanent basis.
“Consider it a celebration.”
He turns to the other agents. “You’re all well past due for a holiday—and no, Miss Teller, time spent recovering does not count.”
Waverly peers over his glasses at them. “I pulled a few strings to bring you here together.” He smiles. “Not really a vacation without anyone to share it with, now, is it?”
It doesn’t surprise him that Solo is the first one to recover. Waverly had pegged him as the most likely to be on board with this plan… if only to stir the pot when it came to Kuryakin.
“I hope they give Peril here a better reception than they did Khrushchev.”
“Unfortunate business that,” he responds, nodding, “but that’s all water under the bridge. Mr. Kuryakin should not run into any difficulties during our stay.”
“And how long will that be?”
A question or threat, he can’t tell, but knowing the German woman, it is probably both. The sternness of his tone is undercut by a fond, private smile. He really shouldn’t be choosing favorites...
“As long as I deem necessary, Miss Teller. There’s the theme park, of course, but also Hollywood and Rodeo Drive. Plenty to see and do in this corner of the world.”
Solo nods, already warming to the idea. And, judging by Gaby’s quiet hum, so is she. The lone holdout is Kuryakin, but he has sense enough to recognize a lost cause when he sees one. He keeps his mouth shut.
Smart man.
Now that the battle is nearly won, the Englishman turns to more practical matters. He gestures at their approaching destination. “We’re staying, as you might imagine, at the Disneyland Hotel. We’ll go the park via monorail come morning.”
His fingers steepled, his words carefully chosen, Waverly continues. “Given that it’s the peak of the winter tourist season, I could only secure two rooms for the four of us.”
Gaby stiffens beside him, already knowing what he’s going to ask. The Russian, meanwhile, has taken a sudden interest in his hands.
“Miss Teller, Kuryakin, you wouldn’t mind sharing, now, would you?”
“Not at all, sir,” she assures him with a pointed look at her partner. She’s tamed her scowl to something slightly more pleasant, but infinitely more revealing.
Waverly hides his frown. He imagined the pair of them would be playing it cool, but certainly not this cool. Had their plum assignment in beautiful, romantic Annecy done nothing to soften their hearts?
Oh, he knows, of course, about the two of them. Has known since he first saw them together in Rome. Their blossoming ‘will they, won’t they’ dynamic has been entertaining, to say the least, and he’s content to let them be. Even nudge them along a little.
Unorthodox, he knows, but who doesn’t want to root for star-crossed love?
Waverly wants to shake his head at their stubbornness, but settles for a thin smile instead. “Excellent. And you, Solo?”
“Striking out on my own,” he confirms as he straightens his tie, neatens his hair. “You won’t have to worry about me, sir.”
The tram eases to a stop. Solo buttons his suit jacket as he disembarks. He lopes over to an idling taxi, presumably to get to the nearest bar. Indeed I won’t, Waverly thinks dryly .
His other two agents, however, he’ll be needing to keep an eye on. Gaby and Kuryakin step off the tram… and straight into character. He can see it in the artificial brightness in the young woman’s expression, the automatic way her partner takes their bags and guides her to the double doors.
Waverly follows after them. He bids the pair a good night and silently wishes them luck. He sighs. They’re going to need it.
Illya’s hand is light on the small of her back as he ushers her to the front desk. Purely performative and purely professional. The young lady who greets them has a slightly breathy lilt to her voice. There is something like recognition in her eyes when she sizes them up.
“You must be the Kuryakins.”
Gaby’s fingers flex into a fist, while Illya jams his hands in his pockets (an unusual gesture for the man). Waverly is their unspoken conclusion. No doubt their boss is in his room smiling at himself for his cleverness. She puts on a smile, but it is Illya that answers first.
“Yes.”
The desk clerk goes through all the motions of checking them in, but Gaby doesn’t take notice of any of it. So much so that she nearly misses the flash of gold on her partner’s finger as he takes the room key.
His wedding ring.
Fake wedding ring, she corrects. He must have had it in his pocket the whole time. The thought sets off an odd sort of quaking in her chest, a gong rippling all through her with an unbidden memory.
You should keep it. As souvenir. That way I can keep track of you.
Is this what he had meant? Three weeks had passed since he went back to Moscow and was told to leave this life behind. Like his father’s watch, it seems, some ties are harder to sever.
Illya is already steering her to the elevator, a bellboy in tow with the luggage. Gaby doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare or even trust herself to—not until the door of their suite has closed firmly behind them.
Not until they are alone.
“You’re wearing your ring.”
Illya halts, swallows, as he bends to grab his case. “Was needed for our cover, yes?”
“You must be a fortune teller,” she says, brow arched, “because this cover wasn’t planned.”
“None of this was planned.”
Gaby turns to face him fully. The implication hangs in the air like swords of Damocles. He hadn’t planned to fall in love, his eyes seem to say .
Neither had she.
Illya takes a step towards her. His voice drops. “You are wearing your own rings too, are you not?”
After a long beat, Gaby finally nods and unclasps the chain around her neck. The two rings (one pearl, one gold) slide into her palm, warmed by her body heat. Gaby expects smugness, not softness on Illya’s face when she slips them on.
He hums gently in approval and Gaby huffs, shrugs off her coat. It pools at her feet, a coolness seeping into her bare shoulder blades.
Her dress is still open.
Gaby stiffens. Illya approaches her, slow, cautious, like she is a wild animal who might attack him. She still might.
“You were injured,” he whispers.
There is no accusation, no outrage this time. Just an aching sadness, a resignation that leaves her heart pounding. She nods, considers.
“Wait here.”
Gaby kneels to open her suitcase, rummages carelessly for her pajamas. She avoids Illya’s gaze as she ducks into the bathroom. A moment later she re-emerges and moves to stand before him. Gaby lifts the hem of her shirt, drawing it to the top of her rib cage.
A jagged, silver-pink scar runs the length of her side, disappearing where her trousers sit low on her hips. Illya tsks, cool fingers ghosting over the wound, the unmistakable drag of a knife. Solo had patched her up: precise, tiny sutures that even Illya couldn’t have faulted (her suggestion the man take up needlepoint, too, had earned her a glare worthy of their Russian partner).
Gaby inhales sharply, skin jumping from his cold touch and the heat it sends flickering through her. The span of three weeks erased in three seconds.
Illya gently tugs her shirt back into place, his hands settling on her shoulders. He studies her, memorizing. “I am glad you are all right,” he says. It takes her by surprise. Where is the interrogation, the revenge plots? Where, too, is the self-flagellation, his anguish for not being there with her?
Gaby regards him more steadily than she feels. “So am I,” she whispers and she can see he understands. The relief she felt upon seeing him alive and well—upon seeing him at all—had been all-consuming. Palpable.
She steps forward, catching Illya off-guard by leaning into him. Her head rests against his chest a moment before she pulls him into a proper hug.
Nothing like whatever the hell that had been at the airport. Illya stills against her, but slowly, hesitantly his arms wrap around her.
“So, you’re staying,” Gaby says. Her words are slightly muffled by his shirt, but he must have heard her. She can feel his body tensing, the involuntary tapping on her spine.
“That seems to be the plan. Yes.”
Gaby’s palms smooth over his shoulder blades, coaxing him to relax. His own hands firm on her back, warming her through the thin cotton of her pajamas. A thrill of possessiveness runs through her and she closes her eyes to it, breathing in the clean musk of her partner.
“Good,” she whispers and means it. “It’s not the same without you.”
She feels him shudder against her, his hands shaking from a very different type of emotion. He murmurs into her hair: a torrential outpouring of Russian broken only by her name. She can’t understand him, of course, and wonders if Illya even knows what he’s saying.
After he falls silent, Gaby’s arms tighten around him briefly before she breaks the spell. She retreats from the circle of his arms, the safety and comfort they bring. It is a boundary they both need, so she merely smiles at him and grabs her suitcase.
“I was going to go for a swim,” Illya says suddenly. The tips of his ears redden ever so slightly. “If you would like to join me? Might help with the jetlag.”
Gaby hums, gestures down at herself, where the scar lies hidden beneath her clothes. A warm, almost covetous look from her partner, followed by confusion. Sadness.
“Did you think it would bother me?”
“No,” she admits, shrugs, “but someone else might. And we could do without the extra attention.”
Something makes her pause though, reconsider. Gaby is halfway to offering to sit by the pool and watch him—and the idea is more tempting than she would care to think about—but her words are lost to a yawn.
Illya huffs out a laugh. “You’re tired.”
Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes, the rounding edges of his posture and the roughening of his voice, then so is he.
Gaby waves her hand. Airy, dismissive.
“I did just spend twenty hours on a plane.”
Illya regards her for a moment, a flicker of a smile on his face. “Go to bed,” he tells her and Gaby can’t help the shiver that creeps up her spine at that. “I’ll be joining you soon.”
And with that innocuous, but utterly ruinous phrase—plausible deniability, Solo would call it—the Russian steals out of the room… and her breath right along with him.
Illya spends nearly an hour swimming laps around the Olympic-sized pool. Any outlet for his thrumming nerves, his thoughts of a certain, pint-sized mechanic.
It’s not the same without you.
He wears her words like a brand, a reminder of where and to whom he belongs. Illya grins to himself as he climbs the stairs back to their room, taking extraordinary care as he enters. The last thing he wants to do is wake her.
He knows how hard it is for Gaby to find sleep.
Illya navigates the darkness to grab a change of clothes and his toiletries. A brisk shower later and he is hovering at the foot of the bed, drinking in the sight of his partner. Sleeping Beauty, he thinks fondly. Just like the ballet.
His mind goes to Rome and the press of her fingers on his wrist, her long lashes curled on her cheeks, the rhythmic sound of her breathing. He thinks next of Annecy… of their ‘marriage’ for one euphoric, torturous month.
In public, they walked arm in arm, he opened doors and pulled chairs for her, she smiled and straightened his tie, kept up an easy stream of conversation. Behind closed doors, they were colleagues, friends even—careful not to blur the lines, personal and professional, when so much had been at stake.
They had shared a bed back then, and, as the days went on, Illya could have sworn Gaby was sleeping closer to him. Near enough to touch, far enough to make him think twice about it.
On his last night before returning to Moscow, Gaby had gone to bed with her hair down, dark locks fanning out on her pillow and in the space between them. He had breathed in her perfume, the subtle scent of her skin, the rise of her shampoo.
Illya had reached out for her that night, but a sense of duty, of self-preservation had stopped him. He did not deserve her, could not be with her, and would not, could not make leaving her any more impossible than it already was. If Illya were to hold her, he might never leave.
He would risk a burn notice for her smile. He would not risk putting her in danger. In a moment of weakness, when the skies first began to brighten, he had permitted just the tips of his fingers to brush against her hair.
Illya had worn his ring until the plane touched down in Moscow. It has never been far from him since. As the Russian knows, it is nothing short of a miracle to be given this second chance.
He eases now into his side of the bed, torn between keeping his distance from her and holding her close. His internal agony is needless. Gaby makes the decision for him. Still sound asleep, she rolls over to face him, her curled hands grazing his waist, knees pressing into his hip. Illya swallows.
“Gaby?”
She murmurs something unintelligible in German and nestles against him. Encouraged, Illya draws his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. He sighs.
Exhaustion and a deep, deep sense of contentment wash over him and slowly, blissfully lets his eyes fall shut.
She is gone when he awakes.
Illya’s hands sweep over cold sheets, and, for one terrifying moment, he wonders if it had all been a dream. He sees the ring on his finger and huffs, relieved. Not a dream. His mind may still be hazy from sleep, but he can be certain of one thing.
He is married. Illya grins, giddy and triumphant. He is married to Gaby Teller.
When did that happen?
Illya brushes aside that train of thought—it’ll come back to him later—and focuses on finding his wife. He wills himself to sit up, exhaustion weighing on him like so many blankets. It would be so easy to just close his eyes again…
But then he sees her sitting on the carpet, staring out at the balcony. The curtains have been pulled back and she is luminous in the moonlight, her expression pensive. Illya frowns slightly and lumbers over to her.
He calls her name, voice gravelly from sleep. He takes a seat beside her and pulls her into his lap, gently nosing the back of her neck. A soft, low sound escapes her: a hum he chases with a kiss below her ear.
Gaby squirms, ticklish, and Illya can feel the shiver run through her, her hands gripping at his arms around her. He chuckles and presses his lips, long and slow, where her collar has shifted slightly.
“Illya,” she breathes. He smirks against her skin.
“Gaby.”
She twists slightly to look up at him. Even in the semi-darkness, Illya can’t miss the soft blush high on her cheeks. It entrances him. He brushes a stray curl back behind her ear.
“What is wrong?” he asks. “You should be asleep.”
Gaby closes her eyes a moment, shrugs. “Different time zones.”
Intoxicated as he is by her scent and her presence, Illya still has enough sense about him to tell when she’s lying. Or, at least, when she’s withholding the truth.
“What is wrong?” he repeats. Gentle, coaxing. Gaby huffs, rests her head against the crook of his neck. He begins to rub her back, drawing a sigh from her.
“I am in America,” she tells him, “going to the one place every family dreams of going. Even the ones from East Germany.”
He hums, sympathetic. Gaby’s voice quietens, almost inaudible. “My father would have taken me. Had he… had I gone back with him.”
“You are sad that you have no family to share this with.”
Gaby nods, turning her head towards the window. Embarrassed, perhaps. Evasive. Illya draws her back to him, one hand cupping her jaw and guiding her to meet his gaze.
“But you do have family. I am your husband, am I not?”
Gaby considers him for a moment, her dark eyes as indecipherable as ever. A low laugh and a slow smile. “Yes,” she whispers. “I suppose you are.”
Illya huffs. His thumb traces idle circles on her cheek and he leans in to kiss her. Gaby’s lips are soft, sweet against his own, but then there is a sudden sting, a sharpness when she nips him with her teeth.
He grins against her mouth, deeping the kiss as he picks her up. Her legs wrap around him as he carries her back to bed.
It is achingly familiar and thrillingly new all at once. Her kisses inflame and soothe and leave him breathless… even when they become slow and gentle again, a sleepy, cozy warmth to their movements.
This is, he thinks, exactly like the first time he kissed her.
With a mortified start, Illya realizes that, in fact, it is.
He pulls away from her immediately, reality dousing him like ice water. He is wide, wide awake now. He and Gaby are not married. They are not playing a part for their cover.
This isn’t a mission.
This is a mistake.
This is a mistake.
Illya is ruthless as he scolds himself. He fights against every instinct demanding he hold her close, draw her back against him, and not think so hard.
Selfish, he thinks bitterly.
Illya flips onto his side, keeping his back to the mechanic. Gaby’s eyes are already fluttering shut and she is curling into him despite all his best efforts.
His jaw clamps, his eyes slam shut, and he suffers for her warm breath on his skin, the comfort her touch brings him… though he loathes himself for letting it.
Illya curses his weakness, wills the night to last forever. He isn’t prepared to face the morning.
Gaby stretches luxuriously on the bed. She hums, sinking back into the pillows, reliving her memories of the night before.
So much for boundaries, she thinks, not at all sorry for this turn of events. They are tourists here, off the clock, beholden to their own whims and desires. Why not act like it?
There will be time enough for professionalism and covers. And when that time comes, they will find a way to make it work.
Gaby is only mildly surprised to find that Illya is not in the hotel room. What does surprise her is when she sees him at the monorail station. While Solo and Waverly greet her warmly, Illya merely nods in her direction. His features harden into a blank scowl.
Illya turns quickly on his heel and boards the train without her. She stalks in after him, anger blooming in her cheeks, and takes a seat beside Solo. He and Waverly exchange a glance, but they have the good grace (and common sense) not to say anything.
Gaby tunes out the pre-recorded narration, stares pointedly out the window, at the almost seamless switch from the real to the artificial.
They will disembark at Tomorrowland: an unlikely group of tourists. She, the blindsided mechanic, accompanied by the man who sees everything, but says nothing, the one who sees right through her, and the one who won’t even look at her at all.