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Of all the possibilities that ratcheted through Illya's mind about who he would find on the other side of his door when he cautiously answered the unexpected knock, Gaby had not been one of them. He most assuredly had not expected her genuinely delighted smile and the enthusiastic way she'd flung her arms around him.
"Waverly said you got in last night." She frowned. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Good morning," he said, only slightly embarrassed he'd fallen into bed in shorts and tee shirt instead of pajamas—he glanced over at the clock—four hours ago. His flight back from Moscow had been delayed by fog in London. "What is up? Is assignment?"
His grasp of American English, much improved thanks to Cowboy's instruction, had obviously suffered a relapse after weeks of speaking only Russian.
Watching her prowl nervously around his tiny one-room apartment but never taking her eyes off him as if afraid he'd disappear into thin air, he wondered why he'd been surprised to find her on his doorstep so soon. They'd all been worried when the summons came, afraid that it meant permanent reassignment. Or worse.
He wasn't used to people caring that much about him and now he realized that it felt good. Very good. "It was late and I did not want to wake you."
He looked up and down the hallway before closing the door. "Where is Cowboy?"
"He left this morning to go to… Albany? Something like that. To spend Christmas with his family. I don't think he was looking very forward to it."
"Christmas?"
At his blank look she smiled. "Today is Christmas Eve. And we have a busy day. You need to buy your Christmas presents."
"I don't celebrate Christmas." Not in December, and not for many years. Not since his father…
She scowled at him. "You do now. The office staff will be hurt if you don't remember them."
Finally she tossed her damp coat on the rumpled sofa bed and peered into the alcove that served as his kitchen. "Do you have coffee?"
"No. But there is tea. I think." He picked up her coat, shook the accumulated snow off and carefully hung it from a hook near the door. "I will fix. But first I will get dressed."
Gaby caught his arm as he reached for his suitcase. "I’m glad you're home," she said softly.
Home. Something he never imagined he would have.
He smiled. "Me too."
* * * * *
Gaby came out of the dressing room and twirled to display the dress to best advantage. "This can be your Christmas present to me," she informed Illya in her usual imperious manner.
"I have to buy you present, too?" he asked, eyes dazzled not by the coruscating black-and-silver confection she wore but by the heightened color in her cheeks and the gleam of mischief in her dark eyes.
"Yes." Her tone was firm, allowing no argument. "This is perfect for Napoleon's party on New Year's Eve."
"Should I buy tiara to go with dress?" He let the corners of his mouth curve upwards, teasing gently. "Would suit you."
Gaby stuck her tongue out at him. "You're making fun of me again."
"Never." And he meant it. Gaby was bossy and talkative and demanding, but he couldn't imagine her any other way. "The dress is pretty." And you are even prettier, he thought, but did not say aloud. "But now you need wrap to go with dress. And shoes. And… bracelet?"
"Necklace."
"No, bracelet." This time he was firm. He turned to the sales consultant. "We will take this dress. What wraps do you have?"
In the end he bought it all for her, the dress, the wrap, the onyx bracelet and the chunky heeled silver shoes that brought her head up level with his shoulder. No tiara, though. It would be worth attending Cowboy's party, just to watch his jaw drop when he caught sight of Gaby.
* * * * *
New York City suited her, Illya decided, in a way that Berlin, Rome, London and all those other places they'd visited didn't. He could do without this city's noise and traffic, its impatient and pushy crowds, but he liked how animated Gaby became, as if she siphoned off all that energy and made it her own.
They battled their way through Gaby's shopping list (he tried to substitute a Stetson hat instead of the opera scarf Gaby selected for Cowboy but she made him put it back), down Fifth Avenue from Bergdorf Goodman to Rockefeller Center. While she perused the gift baskets in the Rockefeller Plaza chocolatier's storefront, Illya leaned against the balustrade, watching the ice skaters below and commanding his treacherous memory to stop flashing images of he and his father ice skating in Gorky Park so many years ago.
"You want to skate?" Gaby asked. He hadn't even noticed her approach. Some spy he was; good thing Cowboy wasn't around to point out his failings.
"No." But he suspected she'd discerned the momentary longing in his expression. She shifted the bags she carried so she could twine her fingers with his. Her hand felt small and warm against his palm, between his fingers; so fragile and yet so comforting.
"Well, I want to." Her expression was wistful. "My father taught me to skate when I was very small. It was our special time together and when the war came and he was gone, I promised myself I wouldn't skate again, not until my father returned."
Illya tightened his fingers around hers. "I know," he said. Meaning, of course, that he understood it all, the joy and pain of fragmented memories of when life was safe and family was whole. And the long, long emptiness afterward.
Things weren't so empty for him now. He had Gaby, he had Cowboy (annoying as he was), he even had Waverly. He had a new job that afforded him more choices than he'd ever dreamed possible. And he had a long list of people he had to buy Christmas presents for.
"I'm sorry about your father." He'd seen it in her eyes back in Rome, the grief of finding and losing him again, but also the peace of reconciliation. You don't have to feel empty anymore, he wanted to say, but didn't know how, so instead he just squeezed her hand and said, "Then we skate".
* * * * *
It started snowing hard while they skated, huge wet flakes that melted and, under the lights of the great Christmas tree, sparkled like jewels in Gaby's dark hair. Illya was so enchanted by the vision that he failed to dodge an out-of-control skater and went down in a tangle of arms, legs and near-curses.
Gaby skated back to him, laughing. "I thought you said you knew how to skate!"
He grinned up at her as he accepted the helping hand she extended. And instead pulled her down on top of him. Her hair tumbled loose and he reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Now you have tiara," he said. "You look like queen."
The queen of his heart, he suddenly realized, a hollow sensation in that very region.
So he did the only thing he knew to do. He cupped her face in his hands and finally made good on all those tantalizing almost-kisses.
And knew he truly was home.