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Prompt #3 - Imagine Illya kissing Gaby for the first time.
It was too warm and too vibrant. The city breathed and fidgeted beneath, taunting her with its restless energy. She jittered and twitched with each minute noise, each flickering of light from a late night traveller. Toss. Turn. It's too hot for sheets. They are rumpled to the end of the bed, covers drooping to the floor. What time was it? A breathy groan cuts through the smokey darkness of the hotel room. It's barely passed 1 a.m. A long sleepless night yawns before her. Again.
Gaby swings her small feet to the floor, ruffling the plush carpet between her toes. Pushing herself up unsteadily, she groggily heads towards the lounge. This feeling of semi-lucidness is cruel; too tired to be awake, too restless to sleep. Perhaps a strong nip from the cabinet will help her nerves settle.
She fixes herself a short tumbler, shutting her eyes to savour the sounds. The clink and swish of mixing the liquor is familiar and comforting. A snippet of a memory cuts across the tight blackness of her closed eyes; her father, brown eyes crinkling, warmly watching his toddler dance around their family lounge. Her eyes snap open, her head briskly shakes, and the glass is thrown back. It slides down, the warm burn stroking her throat.
Walking to the heavy, plush curtains, she draws one aside slightly. Rolling the tumbler against her lower lip, she peers with interest towards the dark hours of Istanbul. Her presumptions of a sleepy, old fashioned city were quickly dashed after arrival. It is a bustling, shoving, crowded mess of a place, yet beautiful in its movement, design and construction. It was a city with a tumultuous past, it's history braided together from different faiths and cultures. It was a city of contradictions, yet stunning as a whole. From the hotel she can see the dim outline of the Hagia Sophia, it's impressive dome like an eye looking heavenwards. The four minarets surrounding the museum stand like tall, strong guards of the beautiful Byzantine architecture.
The architecture.
Her thoughts skip to the click, clack of her short heels against ancient cobblestones. The feel of the fountain's stream trickling through her fingers. The usually cool blue eyes flicking towards her with sudden warmth and humour as she pointed out the flaws in the historical account of the 'Russian made' Italian steps. A strange warmth rolls through her, unusual and foreign - it is not the familiar warmth of the vodka. A slight tug pulls at the corner of her mouth.
Perhaps the others are awake.... Maybe there was someone she could talk to.
She was exhausted, apprehensive, irritated and lonely. Gaby knew from experience there was no chance of sleep tonight. Tomorrow, well, today now, was important, she had volunteered for a key role in their mission. Waverley had called her into his apartment that evening and asked if she wanted to be a driver, or seducer. Irritated by the condescending way he had implied her inferiority as an agent, she has chosen the latter. She had a feeling that had been his strategy to get her to willingly choose the more dangerous part to play, yet her pride held fast. She was stronger than she looked. She could do this.
The target was Ahmet Kaya. The Turkish businessman and socialite was intelligent, attractive, and their key to understanding more about the secret organisation T.H.R.U.S.H. Waverley had debriefed the team on the little they knew of the cruel and deadly organisation. Kaya was rumoured to have connections to the Middle Eastern branch. In fact, they had been informed he had sold one of his many properties to the branch as their base. If she could achieve her mission with this suave, ruthless businessman... It would help the whole team move forward on this mission. It would be her way of giving of herself, of doing something for her teammates, to redeem herself after she had revealed Napoleon and Illya's true identity on their previous mission. She knew they had honestly forgiven her, but she had not forgiven herself. They had put themselves in danger, even after her 'betrayal', to save her. It was now Gaby's turn to put herself in danger's way for them.
The excitement and unease coursed through her, and her glass shook slightly in her grasp. Her mission in Rome was just as dangerous, if not more so, yet she had managed to rest her nerves and catch snippets of sleep in her last hotel room. Small things had given her comfort. The gentle tap of his razor against the bathroom sink. His chin tilting upwards as he changed his tie. His elbows resting on his knees as he leaned over the chess board. His gravelly accent reassuring her he would be close by.
Gaby grabbed the bottle of Vodka and the fluffy white dressing gown provided by the hotel. Shrugging them on, she hesitantly walked out into the dimly lit hallway. Waverley was on a different floor, his three team members one level below in rooms next to each other. She quietly tip-toed along to the next door; no light, no sound. She knocked... No answer. She had glimpsed an elegant local woman whispering into his ear across the lobby when she had checked in. Perhaps Napoleon had taken up the beautiful foreigner's invitation. She took a sharp breath. Paused. Stepped towards the next door.
There was no noise... Yet, a faint light creeped underneath the door, beckoning her to raise her knuckles to the frame. Her hand hovered, mid air. Perhaps just a quiet knock, in case he is sleeping. She willed herself to leave, go back to her room, her bed, and lie there, eyes wide shut till morning. But her hand would not move.
Suddenly the door was wrenched open, and he was there. She froze, fist close to his chest, and looked up. Illya's brow was furrowed, angry, ready to fight. She watched as he glanced over her, his expression softening, and then quickly turned serious.
"Everything is ok, yes?"
"Yes. Can't sleep. How did you know someone was here?"
"Two feet leave shadow under door. Also, when I listen, breathing. I think Englishman upstairs will have sleeping tablets. Should I get?"
"No, they don't help. Why are you still up? What are you doing?" she asked as she squeezed past him without invitation. Grabbing his arm with her free hand, Gaby gently dragged him into the room with her. She could feel the heat radiating from him and let go, stepping towards the centre of the lounge.
He linked his arms behind his back and stepped closer to her. Her neck tilted back as she looked up, just in time to see his mouth twitch up at the side. "Chess. I think you will find to be 'no fun'."
Gaby glanced over the room and could see the board set up, pieces scattered around the board in Illya's battle against himself. She looked back at him, tilting her head on a slight angle. "Maybe we could make a compromise."
"Meaning?"
"An agreement."
"I know word. I ask what you are meaning."
"Well, you like to play chess. I like to drink. I will play a game if you..." She held up the bottle and shook it, eyebrows raised.
He turned his head and looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, his eyebrows knitted together. Walking towards the cabinet, Gaby grabbed two glasses, dropping them on the small coffee table next to the chess board. She flopped onto the couch, tucking her legs up and under, wrapping the robe over them. Leaning over, she poured two glasses before grabbing one and easing her back against the couch. She sipped and looked intently at him. He had not moved or changed expression. Gaby pointedly looked at the spare glass, then at him.
He cleared his throat. "I think maybe this is not good idea."
Still watching him, she pointedly swirled the liquid around her glass. She took another sip and started moving the pieces back into their start positions.
Illya sighed, unhinged his hands from behind his back, and moved towards the couch. "Is definitely not good idea", he mumbled as he leaned his elbows on his knees across from her, moving his pieces into position.
"Yes. It would be embarrassing to loose to a 'chop shop girl'", she quipped. He looked up sharply. "Again", she added, with a small grin. Illya shook his head and looked down to keep her from seeing his own smile.
Memories of a similar evening in Rome flooded his mind. The feeling of her arms and waist tingled on the tips of his fingers as he picked up each piece. After setting up quickly, he leaned back slightly for a better view of her, his eyes flicking over Gaby's features as she concentrated on the board. Her eye makeup had smudged on one side, she never bothered to remove it, and several strands of hair had come loose of her ponytail. He itched to tuck them behind her ears, to run his knuckles over her cheek, to wipe his thumb alongside her eye to tidy the smudges. No, this was definitely not a good idea.
Abruptly, he picked up his vodka and walked to the balcony doors, leaning against the frame. Cowboy was right, he was 'starting to go soft' towards this tiny brunette, and it had stung him once. He needed to be more careful, more guarded. He was constantly trying to build up walls around himself, yet when she was near, those coffee coloured eyes melted them away. He found himself caring despite himself.
He let out a short huff. The KGB's best? He was weak. Weak to this girl, when he had promised himself long ago never to care for anyone again. People always betray you. People always leave.
He took a quick, efficient gulp, and closed his eyes against the taste of home. Against the memory of his father. Folding his arms, his finger tapped, tapped, tapped against the glass.
A small hand curled over his and stilled the ticking. He opened his eyes and looked down over his shoulder. Gaby's warm brown eyes drew him away from his memories, and towards the present, and her. Concern, comfort and a challenge weaved together in her glance, and her hand tightened over his. "Come", she said, tugging him towards the board. He was mesmerised by her, connected by some invisible thread, and found himself letting her lead him despite his better judgement. Just like when she had urged him to dance, to wrestle. She had a power to move him. And, looking down at the small, calloused hand covering his own, he did not know whether he wanted to fight the pull of this tiny car mechanic from East Germany.
She returned to her seat and gently tugged on his hand, urging him to sit also. When he did, she let go and he instantly felt the loss. She readjusted herself for a more comfortable view of the board and the tip of her knee touched his own. He watched her face; Gaby's eyes flickered to the point of contact, but she did not move.
"Ladies first", Illya said pointedly, his blue eyes shining. She gave him a warning glance and moved a pawn.
They played quietly at first, a comfortable silence weaving itself around them. The only sounds were the sipping of drinks and the clink of pieces against the wooden board. The alcohol spread through them both like a warm blanket, heightening awareness and loosening thoughts. His rook captured her knight. He cleared his throat. "Englishman say you have important role in mission tomorrow... I mean today." She kept her head down, concentrating on her next move. She moved her bishop and captured his rook in return. Illya continued. "Maybe we add wager to game."
She leaned back into the couch, arms folded. Tilting her head, she raised her eyebrow in question, urging him to continue. He straightened his back and looked down at her. "If I win, which I will chop shop girl, you are driver."
Her eyebrow twitched, her gaze hardened. "Leave the 'real' spy work for you and Napoleon huh?' she said tightly.
"This is not reason", he said quietly.
"Then why? You do not trust me? You think I will fail, like in Italy?" Her words were clipped, her volume rising slightly.
"No, Gaby."
"Then why? What do you care?"
"The role you have chosen is too dangerous. It will be difficult to keep you safe." He looked at her intently, blue eyes willing her to believe him, willing her not to go.
Her own gaze and voice softened slightly. "We are in the wrong job to be safe, Illya."
"I realise this. But you have option. I ask you to be driver."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "Is that the only reason, Illya?" She asked, watching him carefully.
His cool composure left him somewhat. His eyes darted to the left, he swallowed quickly and shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. Only safety", he spoke to the wall.
"You do not think I can seduce Kaya?", she asked, brows raised in challenge.
He averted her eyes still. "I think..." There was a minute of silence. "It is your move."
She glanced down to the board, then back at him. Her hackles were raised, she was never one to ignore a challenge. She picked up her second knight by the base and pointed it at his chest. "I accept your wager." The knight was placed on the board, tipping over his pawn protecting a passage to his King. Her eyes never left his.
Illya watched her carefully. "What if you win? What are your terms?"
She dropped the pawn in the box of captured pieces. "You have said it is not possible. But, perhaps, if the unthinkable happens - I will decide then, and you will agree. No backing out then, Kuryakin. Deal?" She held out her hand towards him.
He smiled. His queen knocked over her second knight. His other hand grasped hers, and shook it firmly. "Deal, chop shop girl", he rumbled, adding the knight to the captured pile.
She poured them both another glass, and the game continued. There was a simmering intensity in the air now, each move was carefully thought out and executed. She knew he was better, and had the advantage of a stronger start. She had to think of another strategy to get the upper hand. The alcohol wasn't helping their concentration, it was making the warm evening even hotter. Unusually, Illya, in a moment of focussed concentration, had run his hand through his neat hair, ruffling it out of place. Next, he had undone the top buttons of his shirt. He had been oblivious to her stare as his hands had deftly unhooked them and tugged open his collar. She could see the hollow at the base of his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, usually hidden under sweaters... Her body burned to sidle up next to him, tuck her knees against his hip, slide her hand under the collar and over his chest... Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she knocked her glass back.
"Check!", he said, a triumphant grin on his face, suddenly making him look more boyish than a 6'5 hardened KGB spy had the right to look. He sat back, rolling the liquid round in his glass, raised it to her with a kinked eyebrow, and took a confident swig. "I think you will not escape Russia this time, little one", he said, winking.
One thing Gaby was exceptionally good at was her game face. She cocked her head and smiled at him knowingly, given him the impression she had planned this all along. His expression quickly changed, his brow furrowed, and he leaned forward to study the board. Behind the scenes her mind raced frantically. She had been distracted, and had paid for it. Wait... She had been distracted... A warm nervousness spread through her. She knew what she could do. Be cool, clinical. This will be good practice for later.
She moved her rook into the path of his knight. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Then, with a show of nonchalance, she stood and walked to the record player. Music had unsettled his focus with the game last time they were together.
"Don't even think about it", she heard from behind her. She selected a record, and started it up. Flicking through the others, she spoke towards the machine.
"This game is a compromise. You like silence, I like music. We have had silence long enough." A slow, steady beat started up. She twirled in her robe and moved towards the cabinet, dropping ice into her glass. She weaved and stepped and turned in loose patterns back towards the couch, plopping down onto it haphazardly.
Her rook was still there, betraying him. His eyes had not left her since she stood, and they continued to take her in. Thanks to her dancing, the robe had loosened a little. She was glad for her lazy carelessness for once. When she had finally been settled in her hotel room for the night, she had been too exhausted to do anything but unzip her dress and fall onto the bed. All she had on under her robe was her white dress slip and underwear. It was a far cry from the pyjamas of Rome.
He had filled his glass last, and she leaned across him to grab the bottle. Illya froze as her arm slid past his own, the brief skin contact like electricity passing between them. As she poured, she gestured to the board, "Your turn."
Illya glanced down quickly and tried to focus. She was humming to the music and he found it difficult to see the familiar patterns of the game. Previously, she had sat with her legs tucked under herself. Now she sat with crossed legs, robe askew, her bare foot tapping to the beat of the music. The cream silk of her nightgown moved with the slight movement of her leg. Her tanned skin looked so fresh, so soft... He could remember the feel of her thigh when he had checked her tracker in Rome. His body ached to reach out and slide his hand around the same leg, pulling her towards him. He shook his head slightly, captured her rook, and got up. He needed some ice too. This city was too hot.
She smiled inwardly as she moved her next piece. It was working better than she hoped.
Except... for her own feelings. When his glance had slid over her bare legs, she had trembled inwardly. A warm flush had spread over her skin as he had gazed at her. Her pulse, or maybe his, rang in her ears. Gaby was excited by his reaction, and confused by her own involuntary response. Far from being cool and clinical, her muscles and nerves ached to touch him, to hear him speak to her, watch her, pull her to him.
Illya glanced over from the cabinet. Her sweating glass was cradled in the crook of her neck, beads of water sliding onto her skin. He looked away. Shut his eyes tightly. Breathed deeply. Walked back to the couch, sat, and made his next move quickly. Why had he let her come in? It had been difficult and confusing enough in Rome. Why had he agreed to this game? This had been such a bad idea. He felt suddenly trapped, but did not want to escape.
They continued to play. She continued to make small, seemingly innocent seductive movements. He, in turn, struggled to tear his eyes from her. The air crackled with swirling music, awareness and possibility.
With one arm resting on her knee, she leaned over the board, carefully thinking about her next move. Her robe had gaped slightly, he could see her small, smooth shoulder and the cream strap of her slip. "This game, sometimes it mirrors life. At the moment, you are hunting my queen, yet you keep skirting around her, slowly attacking her defences", Gaby said softly. His eyes watched her eagerly, gazing intently at her lips as they moved, forming her words. She looked up at him now. "Me, on the other hand, I know what I want, and go straight for it." She inched along the couch, moving closer to him. Her eyes draw him in. Gaby smiles knowingly as she leans in. She is inches away now.
"Checkmate, darling."
Suddenly, she is standing, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture over the board. Then she is twirling, and drinking, and laughing, and dancing in time to the music.
Illya looks at her, shocked, then down at the board. She was right. He had been so focused on her queen, he had neglected his King. Her small pawn had moved in and trapped him. Incredulous, he picked up the King and tried different moves. Each way was bared. He checked his other pieces, none could rescue him now. Illya ran his hand through his hair, his emotions turbulent. Shock, humour, amazement, frustration, all rolled together. "Not possible", he whispered. The music and her laughter twirled together with her. He gazed up in disbelief and admiration.
"You, chop shop girl... You have done well. Bad day for me. Not used to playing so early in morning", he smiles at her.
She laughs joyfully and beams at him. Her moves no longer slow and seductive, she steps sideways energetically. Twirling to the table, pushing the board to the floor, bouncing up onto the surface, she curls her fingers in a playful 'come here' gesture towards him. He stands and she grabs his shoulders, rocking him to the music. "Illya, you are a much better chess player. I just helped... distract your focus a little", she winked at him.
He suddenly realises what she means, and he stops still. She had known exactly what she was doing when she was dancing, crossing her legs, loosening her robe, leaning in to him.
He had lost the bet.
Later today she would be doing exactly the same with Kaya.
His blue eyes turn cold. Shrugging her hands off his shoulders, he walks quickly to the stereo and turns it off. He grips the sides of the machine and struggles to maintain his control, red heat sweeping through him. Squeezing his eyes tight, he fights to control his temper.
"I think you go now", he grinds out.
Gaby was taken aback by his sudden mood swing. She steps down and moves towards him. "Illya, what is it? Are you mad I won? For heaven's sake, it's only a game."
Suddenly, he picks up the stereo and throws it against the wall. Her eyes widen as she takes in the smashed pieces on the ground. Suddenly he is so tall, too tall, looming over her, hands tightly against his sides. He shouts some garbled Russian, then squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head violently to remind himself of the English words. He grits out, too loudly. "This is NOT a game Gaby! People are not a game. It is cruel to do this! You know my feelings, and you play with this to win chess game? And later today, you do same with Kaya? I am not punching bag practice for you!"
She can't breath. She has seen him angry, but never like this, never angry at her. His eyes bore into hers, radiating anger, and she has to look away.
He turns abruptly and walks to the other side of the room, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. He leans a fist against the wall above his head, fighting to control his anger. His ears are ringing, his blood pumping. He is angry with her, with himself. Never let anyone in, he knew that was how it needed to be, and he had let his defences down. He bashes his fist against the wall. Regains a level of control. Speaking quietly, assuredly, Illya repeats his earlier statement. "I think you go now."
Minutes tick by. He wills her to leave, to go. He needs to smash something. The only sounds hanging in the air are his own ragged breathing and the ringing in his ears. There is no door clicking shut.
Hesitantly, small arms creep around his waist, linking together at the front. He can feel her cheek resting against his back, her small body pressed against his. She breaths slowly, deeply, urging him to do the same. Gradually, the rise and fall of his body falls into step with her own. In small movements, never leaving contact with him, Gaby twists around under his arm. He can feel her body close to his, knows her back is against the wall, one arm still hovering at his waist. Her other arm gently reaches up alongside his chest, and then cradles the side of his face and tugs lightly, willing him to look at her. He opens his eyes but looks straight ahead at the wall.
"Illya."
"Illya, look at me."
He glances down. Gaby's eyes bore into him, strong and sure. "Illya, I'm sorry, you are right. It was perhaps unkind of me to... 'distract' you. But you are also wrong. I do not know your feelings, and from your outburst before it seems you don't know mine. You are no Kaya. And you are certainly no punching bag." Her hand strokes his hair into place, then cups the side of his jaw, her eyes never leaving his. Gaby gently tugs on his raised arm, pulling it down around her waist, and rests her hand on his forearm.
He hesitantly reaches for her cheek. She does not move, or flinch. Her gaze remains locked with his, reassuring him. Gently, he tucks the loose hairs behind her ears. He runs his knuckles over her beautiful, soft cheek. With his thumb, he wipes the smudges from the corner of her eye. She sighs, her eyes gently close. Turning into his hand, capturing it with her own, Gaby gently kisses his palm.
Illya lets out a small groan and bundles her towards him, his tight embrace a mixture of tenderness and relief. He buries his face in her hair, breathing her in, the familiar scent a strange mix of lavender and motor oil. His hand cradles the side of her head, holding her against his chest, his other arm easily wrapping around her back to pin her to him. His whispers are muffled as he speaks into her hair. "Gaby, Gaby... Zvyozdochka... Krasavitsa..."
She squeezes her eyes shut, holding onto him tightly. His warm breath against her hair and the gentle Russian words roll over her. She can feel the anxiety, the tension, leaving both of them. They stand still, locked into place against each other. A clock chimes three times. A car screeches as it turns a corner below. Light rain starts tapping on the windows. A gentle pressure touches her chin.
She opens her eyes, and his hand rests there, his knuckle lifting her face. She turns, titling her head up to see his expression. Illya's blue eyes are warm and bright, searching her own. "Moya krasivaya odna, you are so lovely." He slowly draws closer to her. Gaby's head instinctively tilts to the side, her hold on his forearms tightens lightly. The tip of his nose traces the side of her own, his warm breath mingles with hers. A surprisingly soft, gentle pressure meets her lips. Her eyes flutter shut, her lips part. They explore this new territory lightly, uncertainly. His large hand tenderly cradles the back of her head, tilting it back further for easier access to her mouth. Her own hand slides up and tightens at the back of his neck. He moves closer, more confident now, deepening the kiss.
Gaby lets out a small breathy moan. It was so good, so sweet. He captures her lower lip and her sighs deepens. Her tongue traces his lips and she feels the pressure of the wall at her back increase. It is a gentle, passionate mess of their long suppressed desire for each other. Simmering banter, electrifying contact, near misses have all rolled them towards this one moment, and she savours it, savours him.
She wants more, but even on her toes she is too short for him. He senses her need and, without releasing her lips, bends and slides his hands around the back of her knees. Effortlessly, he lifts her, supporting her against the wall. She wraps her legs around his chest and tugs at his hair, tilting his head back. Gaby relishes in the new height and kisses his eyelids, the inside line of his nose, his cheekbone, nips his earlobe.
Illya lets out a small grunt and runs the tip of his nose along the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses in its wake. Still holding his hair tightly, she tilts her own head back and he kisses her jawline, then the inner curve where her neck joins her shoulder. His hands tighten around her thighs, the rough touch against her bare skin is delicious.
Gaby's hands run down his neck and grip the collar of his shirt, pulling his lips back towards hers. The secure grip of her legs around his waist encourages his eagerness. His fingers spread and his palms move upward along her sides, skimming over the soft silk of her slip. Tightening just above her waist, his thumbs rest near the tender skin of her underarms, and her body tingles with anticipation. Releasing his collar, her hands slide down his chest towards the next secured button and starts to loosen it.
Illya stills. There is a moment when he does not move at all. Then he moves slowly, releasing her waist and lips. It is difficult, and it requires a mental battle to prise himself loose from her. His hands slide away from her body and cover her own as she opens his shirt, stilling her actions.
She lifts her eyes up from their hands to meet his own. Her deep brown gaze is languid, questioning. His is smokey and passionate, slowly clearing to the usual piercing blue. Illya lifts her hands and kisses each palm, his eyes never leaving hers. He then places her hands on either side of his neck and reaches behind him to gently untangle her legs. Supporting her, he lowers Gaby to the ground.
With tender movements, his expression full of affection as it slides over her, he tugs her robe up and over her shoulders, folding it across her front. He tightens the sash, tying an awkward bow with his large, calloused hands.
He clears his throat gruffly. His accent is thicker than usual and he choses his words carefully, speaking slowly and seriously. "We both have... too much vodka. You have no sleep and important mission today. When tired, agent make mistakes."
Gaby looks at him, taken aback. Colour rises to her cheeks. When she speaks, her voice is small, it lacks its usual assuredness. "Did I... Do something wrong?"
Illya looks surprised, then his expression softens. He opens his mouth slightly, then clamps it shut. His hands raise to her face, cupping her cheeks gently. He rumbles, quietly, "No, Krasavitsa, unfortunately you do too much right."
He sighs and kisses her lightly again, taking his time. He releases her lips and speaks quietly against them. "I want more, Gaby. You mean more to me than this." He pauses and draws back slightly. His thumb traces her cheekbone, his gaze seems to imprint each detail of her face in his memory.
"You are... hum... vazhnyy, chop shop girl. Special to me. Important."
Gaby tilts her head, watching him, considering. His words echo in her mind as she tests them out. Her head nods once in understanding. Their foreheads touch, eyes close, breath mingles. Suddenly, she feels the nervous energy she has carried around for days leave her. She is worn out, exhausted. Her body goes limp against him.
She can feel the vibrations from his chest as he speaks quietly to her. "I worry for you today, with Kaya. Important you try sleep."
"Can I..." She hesitates. Considers. Decides. "Can I ... stay here? To sleep? I found it easier... in Rome. With you near."
His grip around her tightens. Again, he bends and catches her at the knees with his arm, this time holding her sideways against his chest. She loops her arms around his neck, examining the stubble of his chin through half lidded eyes as he looks straight ahead, walking her to the bedroom. When he reaches the bed, he flicks the corner of the sheets and lowers her onto the mattress, pulling the blankets back up and over her. He sits on the edge of the bed and tenderly strokes her fringe out if her eyes. The room surrounds them with a comfortable darkness. His presence and touch is restful, and her eyelids start to droop. She hovers on the edge of consciousness when she hears his voice, distant yet close. "You did not say, little chop shop girl, what your terms were. The wager for the chess game, yes?"
She remains still, breathing deeply. The only sign she has heard him is a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She groggily mumbles a reply. "I'm keeping it for another time... A time which is... vazhnyy... You will have to wait and see, Agent Kuryakin."
In the darkness, one eyebrow rises and a smile spreads across Illya's face as Gaby finally drifts towards sleep.