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The first makes his heart jump and his throat close, because they almost did in Rome, but it’s two missions later that Gaby strikes home.
It’s not how he wants – never how he wants – as she poses as a prostitute at a drug thug’s local club in Rio de Janeiro, he as a patron. Gaby’s wearing UNCLE appointed lingerie, she grimaced when she saw Waverly bring it out, looking distinctly uncomfortable, though she’s wrapped up with a jeweled lace shawl and not showing as much skin as half the girls prancing around in feather headdresses and colourful undergarments. The black lace is wicked and lovely on her skin.
Illya takes a seat in the back corner, placing his hat on the table, briefcase on the floor, and surveying the room as well as he can. It’s smoky from cigars and packed with rich men and thugs and dancers. The band is playing loud and he can’t hear what the people are saying at the table over. He can see the back of the American’s head, seated much closer to the stage, with a blonde and a brunette on each knee and a table of thugs hanging off his every word.
Yes, it’s better that Illya drew this job. He needs only to sit in silence until the time is right, then throw a couple of bodies into the getaway car. Not difficult. Solo is the snake charmer.
He finally catches Gaby’s eye, she’s standing in a darkened doorway with some other women, looking less than impressed at the crowd the club has drawn in. She glares at him, like it’s his fault, and he stares back unabashed, like any patron would once he’s spotted his prize.
Gaby struts over with no preamble, hands on her hips, clenching her shawl close.
“I do not like this.” She huffs.
“Are you alright?” He worries. He’s been worried since the moment she left headquarters without his tracker two weeks ago. The ring was too conspicuous, Solo pointed out, likely enjoying the way Illya’s face contorted sourly. He has it in his pocket now, as well as a quick change of clothes for her in his briefcase, for when they’re making their infiltration of the drug den.
“I’m as well as I can be.” She sniffs, clearly irritated.
She throws a leg over his knee and plants herself so that he can see over her shoulder to the room, but appearing entirely occupied with his lovely dancer. She places her hands on his chest, sliding down his abdomen, searching for the twin pistols he has hidden.
“You know layout?” He grunts, fishing in his pockets for the clips, and she quickly assembles her gun, then his.
“Dobryav is in the back room with two guards. It’s easy to get in, but once it gets rough in here it’ll be hard to get out.”
“Just hope that Cowboy has done his job.”
And as if he knows they’re talking about him, Solo looks over, smirk evident even in the dark. Do not draw attention – do not draw attention! But all the men at his table are staring now.
“Put down.” He murmurs, hands taking hold of her wrists. “Company is coming.”
She lays them in his lap and pulls her shawl tight, draping the excess fabric over the weapons. A moment later, there’s a thug leering over her shoulder.
“Hübsches ding, your man seems to be – how you say – morto na agua?” He speaks a messy mix of German, English, and Portuguese. “He does not know where to put his hands.”
The thug slips an arm around her body, gaze steely on Illya’s face, and lingers his hands on her belly and breasts. The steady thrum of his psychosis sets in and Illya squares his jaw; the ringing in his ears isn’t so loud over the band, but he doesn’t like this one bit. Gaby looks all parts uncomfortable, resting in his lap with a weapon at her fingertips and another man touching her.
“Venha comgio.” He pesters. “Come with me, beauty. I’ll show you.”
His gun has a silencer. They’re in a dark corner. Solo has recaptured the attention. No one will notice. But Illya sees the steady cloudiness entering the thug’s eye and the way he sways; the American’s drug is taking effect. He’ll drop soon enough. Illya only has to hold on, only has to keep from losing it for a moment longer… He bites his tongue and holds Gaby’s thighs tight.
But Gaby doesn’t see the thug, Gaby only sees Illya, resolute in his silence, and takes his non response as a surrender – and she’s a fighter.
“I’ve set my sights.” She says to the thug, leaning into her partner’s stunted embrace. “I’ll show him.”
A KGB agent doesn’t seduce, they aren’t trained for it. Illya in particular does not seduce, he has no need for it. A sharp hit is always most effective, he finds, he has no time for lingering kisses. But he has, on one or two or more occasions than he can count, wanted to kiss the little Chop Shop girl, as a real person does, not as the cold, calculating Russian super-agent. She shocks it out of him when she kisses him now.
She’s not gentle, and the live weapons between them don’t make things easy, but he likes the sweet tang of liquor on her tongue and the supple give of her lips as they press against his. The position isn’t ideal, but neither is the time or venue. A street corner in moonlight Paris comes to mind, or a sunny morning in a hotel suite in Rome – not mid-mission in a sleazy Brazilian club. But he doesn’t protest as she brings her fingers through his hair, and his hands slip up the shawl to hold her waist. The thug’s arm isn’t there around her anymore, but Illya is far too distracted to care. Gaby, on the other hand, has full control and manages to pull away with sultry dark eyes and full red lips – he thinks to chase her mouth for a moment, then remembers where they are, who they are.
The thug is laying prone on the ground, and beyond at Napoleon’s table, the guards are falling out of their chairs, all of them drugged. The American at the center, awake and alert, has his eyes trained on his partners, suave smirk apparent as he surveys them.
“My clothes, please?” Gaby asks, dismounting and tucking her gun in her lingerie waistband. He is almost loathe to give them to her.
But, the mission, he reminds himself, the mission.
The second is a whirlwind of kisses – Illya has not enough time to count.
They’re both sodden from the rainy London skies and ill-tempered from their unsuccessful day; after hours of following their mark through the major tourist venues under the guise of newlyweds on their honeymoon, he evaded them at King’s Cross, leaving Waverly more than a little ticked. An attack on one’s own soil always pisses an agent off more than anything. The handler excused them for the night, rerouting Napoleon – a debonair French jeweled egg collector – to track the mark by night.
Illya is far too perturbed about the day to keep up their charade. Gaby orders them a cab to their hotel, and holds his arm tight as they march up the stairs to their room, but he’s not much of a loving husband, glaring sharply and tapping his fingers steadily on her waist as he waits for her to unlock the room. A waste of the day, he thinks. An absolute waste. A man like Napoleon likes the crowd because his fingers slip easily into pockets and purses. A tiny woman like Gaby glides through the masses, small enough to find holes and passways. A giant like the Russian super-agent sticks out like a sore thumb and gets his feet stepped on and his sides elbowed. He does not like busy London, he does not like busy anything.
Gaby turns and rests her back against the door, one arm twisted behind to grasp the handle. Her doe eyes look mischievous but he does not want to play games today. He is ready for that drink she’s always offering, then straight to bed.
“Nein, Chop Shop. Not tonight.” He grumbles brutishly, preparing to take her by force.
Gaby grabs his tie and he has just enough time to gasp half a breath before she plants her lips on his, walking him quickly backwards into their sitting room. It’s done with so much surprise that Illya forgets his barriers and presses against her feverently, arms wrapping around her small form and raising her up. She grips him tightly with her strong thighs and whatever oxygen or sanity is left to him runs out
“The bed,” She murmurs in his ear. “The bed.”
And to his muddled brain that sounds like a fantastic plan. He trips over an ill-placed coffee table and upsets a vase – but they were always like this, destructive – on his way there, finally finding the edge of the bed with his knees and laying her down on the silk sheets. There’s no time for longing looks though as she hooks his legs and grabs his collar, army rolling him so that she’s on top. And just as he’s stroking the fine skin of her upper thigh, raising up to kiss her – she jumps up and away, tucking and dashing along the sideboard.
Something has spooked her, and if it’s him, he won’t dare to follow. He lays stock still, half raised on his elbows, as she maneuvers to the large French windows, peeks, then throws them open. Napoleon leaps through a moment later off of a zipline, depositing an unconscious heap of man on their rug.
“Cowboy.” Illya growls, because this must be all the American’s fault.
“Peril.” Solo greets him, surprisingly cheery. “Looks like your mark was as interested in you as you were in him. Found him on the building across the way.”
He puts his hands on his hips and toes the body, then pats Gaby’s cheek lightly and sashays over to the door to lock it. The girl pops a small receiver from her ear and Illya stares, absolutely astounded that she got that past him.
“Fantastic distraction you two. He didn’t know what hit him. Close the curtains, grab that lamp – and Peril, I’ll be needing that tie.”
“My tie.” It’s a Schiaparelli.
That doesn’t stop Solo from ramming it down the mark’s throat as he’s coming to, Gaby dancing around with torn sheets for tying, the two of them quickly wrapping him up tight. Illya is still sitting on the bed, the bed, when the little German spy looks over, lush lips smiling wide. Next time, he thinks, it’ll be him.
The third, he can hardly recall, hazed on heavy meds and lacking all clarity of the situation.
“Hey.” Gaby whispers in his ear and he can feel her calloused mechanic fingers rubbing circles on his skin. He can’t tell where, but it’s all he can feel and it’ll driving him to a short death if he can’t retaliate.
His joints crack and jump as he twitches to touch her, and he winces.
“Not yet.” She murmurs. “We’re not out yet.”
She’s right. He doesn’t know the walls of this infirmary, not Russian, not German, not British, not American – not safe. Some dive in Madrid if he’s not mistaken, and little things filter in. Screeching tires. Burning rubber. Gaby screaming.
But she hadn’t been driving.
He blinks blearily at the tapestry above his rickety hospital cot. The ceiling is cracked with peeling paint and somewhere there’s a fan whirring ineffectively. He’s very hot, very sore, and very tired.
Did someone hit him with a car? His ribs and shoulders and knees scream out yes, while his head pounds.
“Sssh.” Gaby hushes him, stroking his hair. She blots into view, hair sheltered beneath a maroon scarf, skin shallow and eyes dark. “You’ve been out a while.”
She glances up, around the room. It’s large in his peripheral, dimly lit, and there are two more occupied cots nearby, watched over by a masked doctor. Gaby bites her lip, eyes darting around to things he cannot see, and slowly leans over him.
“Sit up.” She says, putting her hands on his shoulders, tugging lightly. He’ll do as she says, if he can only muster any ounce of strength… Gaby manages to get him upright all on her own, his body slouched over her, his legs dangling.
She touches his cheeks and his hair and his pulse, muttering. He can feel the cool of her engagement ring and it roots him.
“Illya.” Gaby murmurs, gazing her big doe eyes up at him, trying to keep his attention. Her fingers are slipping down to the waistband of his pants and he’s unable to stop her as they meet the warm metal of his hidden pistol. Half the size of his hand, it holds just one bullet – and in the haze he thinks she means to use it on him. Shoot the broken stallion. Leave the dead weight.
If she’s worried about their escape, he knows. He can hardly sit straight, let alone run, like they need to.
“Malyshka,” He babbles back to her, words broken and slurred from the pain and the drugs. He fumbles with his hands, trying to keep her from pulling the trigger. “Milaya… devushka. Net.”
“Be still.” Is all she says, and she gives him the gift of one last sweet taste, her full lips gliding blithely on his.
He hears the click bang – and Gaby wraps his arm around her neck, steering him past a fallen body.
He’s still reeling when Napoleon meets them at the door. The Russian can barely stand, let alone walk, and is resting entirely on the small Chop Shop girl, nose nuzzled affectionately against her neck as she guides them across the hospital floor. If only Illya were a little more coherent, or Solo had a camera – the American would not waste this moment. It’s too great not to tease the giant with. But Gaby passes Illya off and Napoleon takes over the brunt of the work as she retreats to the dead assassin.
The room is spinning as Illya searches for Gaby. It’s the doctor she’s shot, he was on his way over, and she unmasks him to find the telling jaw tattoo of two snakes joining at his lips – a thug planted by their mark. Sent to kill, only Gaby knew, and knew where his gun was, and knows now where to look on the body. She procures several vials and two pistols, and dashes back to them, slipping under Illya’s empty arm to offer more support.
He closes his eyes as his sore bones are jarred on the stairs, but Gaby knots her fingers with his, and Napoleon lifts him a little higher, and he’s assured that his partners have him well in hand.
Stretched across the back of their sleek black getaway car, Illya takes back little and lovely.
“Dangerous girl.” He mutters softly and Gaby smiles back at him from the driver’s seat.
And he vows to repay her.
The fourth, she shouldn’t have. She really shouldn’t have. They had a plan.
She’s here with Napoleon. She’s touching him, hanging off his arm, kissing him. Four times. Four times she has kissed him. Illya doesn’t bat an eye as he watches Solo, how the American doesn’t surrender at the touch of her lips, as Illya does.
They are different, he is glad. Illya could not compete with the American’s charm.
Tonight they play at being the married couple, Napoleon a private American art collector, Gaby a rich Swedish heiress. Cowboy is, of course, in his element as he schmoozes, and the Chop Shop girl has only been improving since her mechanic days at playing the luxe and fortuned. They are a well matched pair; the dark hair, the slight disparity in height, the sultry looks, the lilt of her accent melding with his as they talk over each other. She straightens his tie and his kisses her fingers. Illya wonders, when they are coupled, Gaby and himself, do they make half as fine a match? Surely people look at them and wonder why she would be paired with him.
He can feel the hum of his dangerous psychosis leaking through – there is no fear here, he thinks, no attack. He has no need to worry, no right. But he taps his fingers steadily on his knee and surveys the room.
Illya is seated off from the dance floor, at a table with enough chairs for company, but he does not host any. People have been avoiding him for his dark looks and brooding temper all night. He’s an ex-con who made his money on the Russian post-war black market. Napoleon joked that he’s the backup honey pot, in case Gaby’s molasses eyes and Chanel gown don’t tempt the mark – an ex con himself who delights in cheating with other people’s wives.
The mark is a table away, steadily charming a raven haired woman into spending the night with him.
The night is a bust, Illya thinks. He should better have stayed at the hotel and looked over the ledgers of the mark’s factory, or gone to the market to see if he can find any counterfeits pointing back to the operation. Not here sweating his way through an expensive suit while everyone but himself enjoys the night. He has half a mind to leave, except that Gaby is wearing Napoleon’s ring tonight, and he couldn’t track her if he left.
He sighs and orders another drink. He hardly touched the last one, but he needs to look like he’s occupied. Alcohol equates to occupation. The vodka tonic arrives at the same moment as Gaby, and Illya nearly drops the tumbler when he finds his partner behind him, distinctly lacking her American counterpart.
“Good evening.” She purrs, hand on the arch of his seat. Her nails scratch the back of his neck and he barely restrains himself from grabbing her. “Are you much of a dancer?”
Is this the plan? The mark is looking over from his conquest, vaguely interested. It must be Solo’s plan. It’s terrible.
“No.” She knows that. She’s teasing.
“A drinker, then.” Gaby leans over him and takes one of the glasses, barely wincing at the double vodka as she downs it.
She comes around the table, seating herself across from him, and he wants to ask Is there problem? Is there trouble? but holds his tongue. She smiles at him and holds the empty tumbler, spinning it on the tabletop.
“You’ve been watching all night.” She announces and Illya can’t escape the horribly telling blush on his neck and cheeks. Only she does this to him. “Do you know my husband?”
“No.”
“You know of him.”
He shrugs. “The American?”
“Good.” She smirks, something she picked up from Solo. “You speak like he doesn’t matter.”
Illya continues tap his fingers on his knee, looking around darkly. The mark is watching Gaby speak, mesmerized by the red of her mouth.
“Why doesn’t your husband matter, Julia?” She mimics his thick accent, gazing at him wickedly. “Because my husband is upstairs fucking some blonde waitress he found more enticing than his wife.”
“My sincerest apologies.” Illya says, unsure of the direction this conversation is headed in.
“Oh no, sir, I think we can do better than that. Ask me how you can help.”
“How can I… help?” He repeats carefully.
“I think you would be a most diligent lover.” Gaby proclaims, and Illya feels like he has lost control of the situation entirely. “You would know how to appreciate a touch, a kiss.”
She hops seats so that she’s beside him, leaning in, warm breath fanning his cheeks and neck. She’s flushed and her lips are very red. She’d been drinking, before she’d taken his vodka.
“And besides–” Gaby runs a hand up his bicep and forcibly turns his chin so that he looks at her completely, noses brushing. She’s leaning over his arm, all the warm of her touching him, driving his mind from the mission. But he must pay attention – the mark is staring, the mark can’t know, he’ll ruin everything– “I like a little danger.”
“Danger.” He parrots back.
“Would you kiss me if I asked?”
“Your husband–”
She clicks her tongue and he watches the pink. “Danger.”
She presses firmly on the back of his neck and drives his lips down on hers. Not unwanting, and not unprepared, Illya is still thrown. This is not the plan, not his plan at least, and by now Solo must know that Gaby has a way of turning Illya on his head. The American is dangerous beyond all belief with this knowledge, and putting them all at risk by sending the Chop Shop girl over to seduce him.
He tries his best not to kiss her back, but it’s hard and he bites her lip as a warning. The deep moan from the back of her throat does nothing to help the situation, and she grips his tie to the point of suffocation as she leaves his lips for his jaw and neck. He shuts his eyes and balls his fist on the table, wishing beyond all that they weren’t on a mission now, that Solo hadn’t sent her over here to torment him. She makes her way to the lobe of his ear, bites, then whispers so quietly that Illya has to strain to hear:
“Refuse me.” Gaby has pulled out the ring from Rome, his ring, and slipped it on in place of Solo’s. “Follow in ten minutes.”
She draws back slowly, eyes dark and lips red; Illya wonders how on earth he’s supposed to refuse her.
“My room key.” She says, just loud enough to catch the attention of their mark, laying the key on the table next to his first untouched drink. “Should you feel inclined to join me.”
She saunters off, remarkable hips swaying in time with the jazz band’s tune, and not a moment after she’s out the door the mark stands, his woman from earlier long gone.
“Say, friend–” And the man’s been baited. “If you’re not up to the job…”
Illya takes up the key, flipping it around in his hand. He does not want to give it over, but eventually drops it carelessly on the table, waving the man on.
“Friend.” He grunts. “If you think you can handle it.”
Illya doesn’t wait ten minutes. He barely waits one. And then he’s up the stairs after the mark, gun cocked and ready to go.
The fifth, he’s just getting the hang of things, and she goes and changes the rules.
They deposit the mark with Napoleon in the basement of The Grande – that was the easy part, Gaby is only getting better at luring men into confined spaces for Illya to incapacitate. The tricky bit is getting back upstairs into the hotel ballroom without any of the party goers suspecting that a rogue member of the MI6 had been plotting an attack on Waverly tonight.
Waverly knew of course, but in his words, I’d just rather not have all of my best agents fighting over who gets to take him down. I do enough babysitting as it is.
According to their coworkers, Solo is upstairs breaking into the safe in Waverly’s hotel suite, dropping off a bottle of champagne and a gift from the UNCLE office commemorating another successful year of the Waverly’s military service.
“Already done.” Napoleon says at Gaby’s questioning brow, like they shouldn’t have any reason to doubt him. “Champagne, cufflinks, and card – delivered. I still think we should have gone with the diamonds–”
“Just take Allen and go.” She says, rolling her eyes at him. She’s tense. It is Waverly after all.
Napoleon huffs and heaves the unconscious man on his shoulder, moving off down the service corridor at a hindered pace – if Illya had been assigned that task, he would have no problem. He almost moves after Solo by habit, but Gaby tuts from the elevator.
She beckons him with a finger and the Russian giant pouts as he steps into the carriage. Gaby closes the cage behind him and he makes no move to help her with the buttons.
“Why could I not go with Cowboy?” He asks for the umpteenth him as the elevator grinds into upward movement.
“It’s suspicious if the American and the Russian are missing at once.”
“And this is not?” He grunts, gesturing between them. He had followed her out of ballroom with all concern for her safety in Allen’s presence, but the looks of the fellow spies and agents had not been missed. “They stare already. They have never seen KGB it seems. I do not like the party.”
She reaches out and taps the emergency stop lightly, bringing the elevator to a teetering break between the basement and lobby.
“Problem?” He asks, straining to hear if a brawl has broken out above or below them. Perhaps his blow to Allen’s windpipe had not been strong enough – but that is nonsense. He’s KGB. Maybe a fight between senior agents in the ballroom, then?
“You’re right,” She agrees, dropping her beaded shawl on the dirty floor of the elevator. “This is suspicious.”
He stoops to collect the shawl, too expensive for her to be treating roughly, but she smacks his hand.
“Rough up my dress.” She commands and he stares.
“It is Balenciaga.”
She rolls her eyes again and takes the skirt of her flattering evening gown, bunching and creasing. He wants to smack her back, but that is dangerous with Gaby Teller and he likes this suit. The silk ends up wrinkled, but she seems proud. She lunges at him then, backing him into the corner and tugging his tie loose, then unbuttoning the top of his white shirt.
“What are you–” He grumbles, on the defensive, large hands coming up to grip her arms. But she scratches down the column of his neck, then licks up, and stars burst in his eyes.
She uses his momentary paralysis to her advantage, standing up on her toes to run a hand through his hair, then pushing down on the back of his neck to drive his lips into hers. He can’t help the natural feeling, the muscle memory – he stoops to provide her a better angle and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her up to rest between his body and the mirrored wall of the elevator.
She’s rough with her teeth and tongue and he returns the attack with equal fervor, earning a tiny mewl from high in her throat, and he chases the sound. Their heads knock and noses bump, and he’s making steady work on the hem of her dress before he realises where they are, what they’re doing. With his hands on the curve of her ass, he glares down at her accusingly.
Gaby toes the emergency stop with her sandaled foot, not looking at all apologetic for the state of them. But he can’t be angry, really.
“Everyone thinks we’re doing it, anyways.” She shrugs, dropping her legs from his hips, and reclaims her shawl as the floor dings.
Her doe eyes are wide and soft though as she reaches up to smear the lipstick off his cheek. She readjusts her shawl on her shoulders and turns to exit the elevator – but the longing in her gaze is the same as his, and he takes her hand and pulls her back.
Let’s make it true – is what Solo would say, or something equally suave and charming. Illya only has his hulking figure and his piercing eyes, but Gaby is smiling anyways as he kisses her – properly kisses her – on his own terms, like he wants to.
“I’ve got–” He murmurs between kisses. “Russian vodka – in my room.”
The incentive is offered because for a moment he worries she won’t come, like he’s misread everything about her.
She only laughs and presses his floor number. Took him long enough.