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London, December 1963
It’s not pink, exactly. It’s too dangerous to be pink, too dark. It is, Illya realises, exactly the colour that Gaby’s cheeks turn on the rare occasion that she flushes. An elusive shade that probably gets called “dusky rose” in English. The silk negligee shimmers slightly as a shop attendant brushes past it.
It’s utterly impractical, of course. Even if Gaby did prefer nightgowns to pyjamas, this thing isn’t designed for sleeping in. Like so much of the material wealth of capitalism, it exists only to be desired, and for the wearer to be desired in it.
To start with, it’s indecently short. Even on Gaby’s petite frame, the hemline would barely fall to mid-thigh. This is made worse by the slits in the side that, if she moved, would allow the observer’s gaze to travel up almost to her hip-bone. His mind’s eye drifts up yet further, the material skimming her waist before cursory allowance is given to covering the décolletage, barring the garment from any women except those of Gaby’s elfin proportions. It tapers off to two precariously thin strands of silk that loop over the hanger before criss-crossing theoretical shoulder-blades and swooping down to attach so low that the skirt must only come into being below the small of the wearer’s back.
In short, it’s a ridiculous concoction, symbolising everything he despises about Western culture – the way that it assumes women are built for decoration, to be a certain shape or size, designed to be lusted after rather than spoken to.
And yet.
He can’t stop picturing her in it. The way that it would hang, where it would cling, how easy it would be to slide one of those slender straps off her shoulder, for the entire garment to slip down her body and pool at her feet.
Of course, it’s hardly the first time that he’s succumbed to fantasies about Gaby. It’s a source of deep shame how often he dreams about stripping off the clothes that he fastidiously chooses for her, about tracing her lines with his fingers, about whether the noises she made when Solo had introduced her to Belgian chocolate would be the same sounds she makes when she…
“Can I help you, sir?”
He’s been staring at the damn negligee for about five minutes. No, it’s not the first time he’s had inappropriate thoughts about his teammate. It’s just the first time he’s been prompted to do so in public by a simple piece of silk.
“No. Just – just looking.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything, sir.”
He nods stiffly and turns away from the shop attendant just as Solo emerges from behind a rack of lacy bras.
“There you are, Peril. I’m impressed – I thought you’d take one look at this place and run for the hills.”
“Cowboy, who do you think buys Gaby’s lingerie for missions?”
“You know, I rather assumed that you bought the outfits and left the appropriate underpinnings to the boutique staff.”
This is exactly what happens, in fact, but he’s not about to give Cowboy the satisfaction of knowing that. Particularly not today. Ever since Solo suggested they sort out team Christmas presents together while Gaby’s on some undisclosed day mission with Waverly, the American has had a mischievous glint in his eye.
He was probably anticipating having a front-row seat to a small, communist breakdown at the rampant materialism of a Western department store at Christmas. And yes, Illya’s fingers have been twitching in his coat pocket for the past hour, but he’ll be damned if he lets his infuriating partner see his discomfort.
“See anything you like, Peril? That pink silky thing, perhaps? Looks just the right shade for Teller’s skin tone. I bet she’d look sensational in it – maybe I should get it for her.”
He stills the tick in his jaw, but it’s too late. Solo’s eyes are too sharp and the resulting self-satisfied smile is judged perfectly to needle him further. Illya gathers the shreds of his dignity around himself and stalks stiffly out of the department.
Of course, Solo hasn’t shown any interest in shopping for a gift for Gaby himself. Instead, he just nudges Illya around various departments, providing a constant stream of unhelpful suggestions and needless criticism.
"Oh god no, Peril. You can’t get her a scarf – that’s a gift you’d get your secretary. Or your wife, after several years of boring marriage.”
“Have you ever seen Gaby carry anything other than that hideous shoulder bag off-mission? She’ll never use that, Peril. It’s a waste of good leather.”
“Perfume? It’s certainly an option. Intimate, personal, but risky – suggests you know her well enough to know what she likes.”
That gets a reaction. “I do know what she likes.”
“When she’s being herself, Peril, or when she’s playing a part for a mission?”
This is a problem, of course. Their strange little team has been together for over half a year, during which they’ve had almost no time off, always playing a role for their marks. Six months of cycling through public personas of strangers, spouses, siblings and more. And in the rare moments they aren’t in character, her behaviour provides no clear indication of her feelings. Or perhaps it does – Solo seems to understand her instinctively. Perhaps it’s his shortcoming, his failure to glean any consistent message from her casual insults, occasional threats of violence and frequent unreadable glances.
For his part, he has tried to ignore his feelings, but denial doesn’t appear to be weakening them. Nor has upping his exercise regimen, bouts of violence against furniture, cold showers, or semi-regular brushes with death. If anything, mortal danger simply intensifies his lust, the adrenaline supercharging his desire to the point where, after a brutal encounter with some thugs in the alleyways of Algiers, he had been a hair’s breadth away from pushing her up against the nearest wall and kissing the fear and the pain away. And perhaps he would have done if Solo hadn’t suddenly appeared, bleeding profusely and swearing creatively.
And so he stumbles on, misstepping in his attempts to avoid missteps, too desperate to give up entirely. And this is a concern, because at this point roughly ninety percent of his waking thoughts involve Gaby Teller. If nothing else, it’s interfering with his focus on missions.
So, is he finally going to do something about it? He has an obvious opportunity. They’re in the rare position of having three weeks off over the Christmas period. Apparently renegade underground Nazi organisations take the festive season very seriously. And as none of them have family worth speaking of – Solo conspicuously never mentions his mother unless he’s one drink away from unconsciousness while as for Gaby and himself, the less said about family the better – the three of them have made a silent agreement to spend the unexpected free time together at their UNCLE-assigned accommodation.
One week in and despite his best intentions, he’s rather enjoying himself. Not that he admits this to Oleg, who would much rather have had him back in Moscow. But the flat in Knightsbridge is – well, he’s not giving in to the evils of capitalism if he admits it’s very nice. For someone used to cramped Soviet rooms or army barracks, it’s practically palatial even if he and Solo do have to share a bathroom. And while the apartment’s air of independence is entirely fictitious – every time he returns to his room, the carefully placed hairs and dustings of powder on the lips of drawers and hinges of cupboard have been slightly disturbed – it had been nice to arrive back from a chilly mission in Finland, bruised and battered, to find the fridge stocked, the gas fire lit and the whole living room decked out with holly and tinsel.
They even have a Christmas tree, which, though he’d snorted at the Western tradition, has an undeniable aesthetic appeal. Plus, Gaby’s eyes had lit up at the sparkle of tinsel in the firelight and the fresh scent of the pine needles, which is the only reason he really needs to approve of an idea.
It was the tree that led inexorably to this charade of an expedition. Apparently in the West, one cannot have a coniferous tree in one’s living space without putting expensive and entirely unnecessary gifts underneath it.
He’s about to give up entirely when he sees the answer.
“Socks? Peril, are you really going to buy the woman that, let’s be completely honest, you’re hopelessly in love with thick, woolly socks?”
“What is wrong with socks? Label says they are one hundred percent cashmere. And price tag is approximately that of small car in Russia.”
“Well yes, but I bet they’ll last longer than a Soviet car.”
He growls slightly, but doesn’t take the bait, instead choosing two pairs of the warm, soft fleece in pale grey and dark blue.
“You’re seriously going for it, Peril? They don’t scream romance.”
“Are practical, sensible, useful. What is problem?”
Solo shrugs in defeat, which alone almost makes the price of the socks worth it.
“It’s your funeral.”
He quickly pays the cashier before Solo can talk him out of it.
“After that disaster, I almost hate to ask, but – don’t you need to get my present?” Solo asks as they wade back out into the flood of shoppers.
“Nyet – arrogant Americans do not receive gifts.”
“Oh come on, Illya. I’m just trying to help you out here. I do have some experience in convincing women to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, because Illya’s hands are suddenly and very firmly gripping the lapels of his coat.
“That is not what I am doing, Cowboy.”
“Ok, ok Peril. Calm down. This is a public place. You can’t kill me here; people would almost certainly notice.”
This is unfortunately true, so he lets go with some reluctance. Solo dusts himself down and has the good grace to look a little ashamed of himself.
On the other hand, he does have a point. Of sorts. His mind drifts back to the beautiful silk slip. Expensive as the socks were, he has a fair bit of money left courtesy of Waverly, who had somehow got wind of their plans and had arranged for a discreet but sizeable deposit of cash into a private bank account. He’d wondered whether it counts as a capitalist bribe, but has uneasily validated it by vowing to spend none of it on himself.
“I have errand to run. Will meet you back here in half hour.”
“Oh come on, Peril. Don’t ditch me now.”
“But how else will I get you gift, Cowboy?”
“After that display I’m not sure I want a – ok, ok I take it back. Thank you for thinking of me, Peril.”
He releases Solo’s coat. “Back here by the – the gloves and hats place – in thirty minutes.”
“Haberdashery.”
“Bood' zdorov.”
In reality, he has already organised a gift for Solo, one that has the side benefit of providing an opportunity for him to spend some time alone with Gaby. Although whether he can profit from that opportunity is open for debate. Helpless in the teeth of his feelings and without a mission to focus the conversation, he turns into an awkward, silent monolith around her, over-analysing her every word and movement and second-guessing his own until any exchange becomes stilted and confused, floating on a murky sea of subtext. Perhaps – perhaps actions will speak louder than words.
The density of milling shoppers has only deepened in their tour of the various departments, so it takes him longer than he expected to retrace his steps to the lingerie section. By the time he’s back in front of the silk, slowly running the material through his fingers to check the quality, he has little time to deliberate, to think through all the possible things that could go wrong.
“Good to see you again, sir.”
The shop assistant is back, face carefully groomed to conceal any expression other than willingness to please. Does she wonder, he thinks, who the gentlemen in the store are shopping for? Is there an invisible categorisation of items – ones bought for wives, girlfriends, mistresses? What does his interest in the negligee broadcast to the staff?
“Your lady friend, sir – do you know what size brassiere she takes?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Or her measurements? It’s important with this sort of garment to get the fit right.”
“Of course.” He rattles off Gaby’s measurements, falling easily into the persona he adopts when buying her mission wardrobes – her only wardrobe, really, for the past six months.
It occurs to him that he has essentially chosen every item of clothing she owns. It’s a level of intimacy, of presumption, that stops him short, but the assistant is too well-trained to bat an eyelid. He wonders what invisible category he now falls into, a man who seems ill-at-ease in a lingerie department but who knows his lady friend’s inside leg measurement.
She quickly translates his information into an appropriately sized slip and the thing is being folded and wrapped before he can collect his thoughts – a good strategy, his inner spy notes, for parting customers from their cash. He still hasn’t actually said that he wants the damn thing.
This is the last time, he vows as the assistant adds perfumed beads and dried flowers and an embarrassment of tissue paper to the package. This is the last time that I dress her like a doll.
But he doesn’t tell the shop assistant to stop, despite his resolution. He’s sunk too deep in the fantasy conjured by the silk, his vision of the girl he has desired for so long.
Over the next three days, he resolves to take the terrifying garment back to the store seventeen times. Each time Gaby scoffs at his clumsy attempts to pay her a compliment, each time she and Solo giggle together over some private joke, each time he sees her shift uncomfortably in her elegant clothes in the apartment building foyer. And seventeen times he changes his mind, tempted into hope by her occasional sideways glances, the way she sometimes leans into his warmth in the chilly evenings, the specific shade of pink that appears on her cheeks when she catches him watching her.
And so Christmas Day dawns, the package still lurking like an unexploded bomb in his room. In the end, it’s her smile that makes him brave, the slightly sleepy, intimate grin she shoots him over her breakfast coffee when he returns from his morning jog, skin buzzing from the cold winter air.
“Peril, you’re inhuman. Don’t you even take Christmas Day off?”
Solo’s expression is neither sleepy nor appreciative but Illya forgives him due to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting out from the stove.
It’s an easy task to unobtrusively slip the gift into her room. By the time he’s showered and dressed, he can hear bickering from the kitchen as Gaby and Solo clash over the appropriate method for concocting glühwein. His quiet entry and exit from her bedroom, the door in full view of the open plan sitting room and kitchenette, is cleanly covered by the argument over whether the mit Schuss should be brandy or rum.
The debate is still rumbling as he joins them in the kitchen. He tries to solve it by mildly inquiring why, in a drink which is mostly sugar and cheap red wine, there’s a need to add more alcohol to it. Two sets of eyes turn towards him in blank incomprehension.
So the deed is done, and the knowledge sits uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach as he eats his breakfast, forcing him to consciously avoid glancing back towards her bedroom door. At least he can be fairly confident that the package will remain undiscovered until evening. Although Gaby is still in her pyjamas, there’s no requirement for her to leave the flat today, which means, he’s learned, that she will remain in the comfortable cotton all day. Now, for example, she retires to the sofa in the sitting room with her steaming goblet of hot wine, curling her bare feet up under the couch cushions and prodding Solo to light the gas fire in the grate.
The rest of the morning drifts by in a haze of scented wine. It's far too sweet for his taste, but Solo and Gaby work their way through the pan, chatting more or less nonsense while Illya flips through the latest papers. By midday, both of his teammates are decidedly merry, so it falls to him to rescue the Christmas lunch from the oven under Solo’s somewhat giddy direction.
Despite this, Cowboy uncorks more red wine during the meal, this time of distinctly higher quality than the plonk in the glühwein. It’s so good, in fact, that he succumbs to the slightly hedonistic atmosphere, pouring himself a few generous glasses and feeling his nervous energy slowly dissipate under the influence of the alcohol.
The slow pace of the day means that by the time that lunch has well and truly ended, there is only an hour or so of daylight left. He quietly clears some of the debris as Gaby and Solo elect to experience the oddity of the Queen’s Christmas Message on the wireless. The clipped, strangled accent of the British ruler, warbling from the radio about the need to end global hunger, feels strangely quaint and archaic to her audience in the little Knightsbridge flat. Which, as Solo points out, isn’t really a surprise. All three of them are citizens of countries that have broken free from the stranglehold of monarchy – some more recently than others. It sparks a debate about the idiosyncratic British system, a debate that ends with Gaby tipsily telephoning their handler for a native opinion.
“While I can’t speak as an expert on the subject, Miss Teller,” Waverly’s voice drifts sardonically from the receiver, “one theory is that the British have managed to balance constitutional monarchy with stable democracy through a national emphasis on the importance of good manners. A tactic that has not been adopted by Germany, Russia or the USA based on the evidence of this phone call. I am thrilled that you are enjoying your Christmas break, but do not call this number again unless the country is under actual nuclear attack.”
He can’t help but smile at the sight of Gaby trying desperately to keep a straight face.
“But do tell me,” Waverly’s disembodied voice continues. “How did Solo and Kuryakin like their gifts?”
Gaby twirls the telephone cord gracefully in her fingers.
“We haven’t got to the presents yet, Waverly.”
“I see. Might I suggest you get on with it? I didn’t spend two hours debating different base notes with you in Pen–”
His voice cuts off as Gaby hangs up the receiver abruptly.
“Anything to share, Teller?”
She stares Solo down. “No. Where’s my present?”
If I tried that, Illya thinks, I’d never get away with it. But Solo just laughs and extracts a box from the small pile under the tree.
“Charming as ever, Gaby.”
She offers the American a sunny, unrepentant smile, eagerly tearing into the bright wrapping paper and opening a plain, unbranded jewellery box. Illya watches carefully for her reaction as she lifts out a pair of stunning emerald and silver earrings. He sees surprise, pleasure and a hint of possessiveness as she runs her finger over the sparkling surface of the stones set into the short drop design.
“Thank you, Napoleon. They are beautiful.”
Solo puffs up slightly. “Thank you, Gaby – I saw them and thought of you immediately.”
She smiles again, this time a hint of suspicion creeping in.
“When did you see them, Solo? On our last mission, perhaps? Yet another little memento you just saw lying around like that damn tie pin in Istanbul?”
Solo adopts a wounded expression. “Whatever did I do to deserve this low opinion, Teller? These earrings come from one of London’s premier department stores.”
“In an unmarked box?”
“I said they came from Selfridges, Gaby. I didn’t say I bought them. What do you take me for? Those beauties retail at a few thousand pounds, you know.”
“Solo.”
He shrugs. “It’s against my moral code to spend that much money on a present, Teller. I love you, my dear girl, but not that much.”
He stiffens unconsciously at Solo’s light, almost thoughtless phrase. But nothing the Cowboy does is thoughtless and although the American’s eyes never once track towards him, the sly smile on his face tells Illya that his reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed.
It’s Gaby who saves him, scrambling off the sofa to retrieve two carefully wrapped boxes.
“Bought, I might add, Solo.”
She thrusts the larger box at Illya with barely a second glance before retreating to her corner of the sofa and burying her nose in her wine glass.
It feels strange, to be given presents. He opens it slowly, unwinding the wrapping paper to find a rosewood box, which in turn opens to reveal a small glass bottle of cologne. The name on the packaging is unfamiliar but the scent is pleasant, if subtle – a few moments after he sprays it on his skin, he finds he can’t smell it at all.
Solo, meanwhile, receives a vintage pair of cufflinks, silver and mother of pearl. Even from here, Illya can admire their weight and lustre – too showy for his taste, but perfect for his peacock of a friend. Solo slips them into his shirt cuffs immediately, preening a little as he twists his wrists this way and that, before elegantly stooping to kiss Gaby’s cheek in thanks.
“I have to say, Teller, I’m impressed. Where did you find these?”
She shrugs. “I mentioned your little shopping expedition to Waverly when we were at those dull meetings, and he insisted on taking me to Piccadilly afterwards to help find you presents. So really, you should be thanking him, not me.”
Solo casts discerning eyes over Illya’s present. “He took you to Penhaligon’s, I see. The original Penhaligon made his name designing scent for Queen Victoria, you know. Very exclusive. I assume this is a bespoke scent?”
Gaby flushes slightly, the colour in her cheek again making Illya’s mind spin off to the dangerous little package waiting in her room.
“Perhaps. Waverly said his family are one of the shop’s oldest customers – I think he got a deal. And anyway we barely spent any time there. The old man waved some scent sticks at me and asked me which ones made me think of Illya. Then this arrived a few days later.”
She tosses her hair, defying them to make a big deal of it. “Honestly, I barely remember what’s in it.”
There’s a long pause, during which Gaby fiddles with her new earrings and Solo smirks at everyone. Illya is suddenly burningly aware of the drying scent on his wrist, as if the spray had turned acidic and was etching its way into his skin. The little bottle weighs heavy in his hand and he stares down at it, searching the clear liquid for the answer to Gaby’s sudden flushes, her bursts of temper, her words and her silences. This silence is stretching into uncomfortable territory when Solo nudges him sharply in the ribs, reminding him of his manners.
“Thank you, Gaby. It is very – thoughtful.”
He bends as if to brush a kiss to her cheek, as Solo had done so carelessly a few moments before, but she startles slightly as he moves towards her. Not for the first time, he curses his ungainly size and lurches back, ending up in a strange no-man’s land between a kiss and a bow.
As he straightens, he notices that a curl has escaped from her hairgrip and he aches to tuck it gently behind her ear. She looks up at him in confusion and he realises he’s staring at her shoulder, still very much in her personal space.
He is rescued by a box thumped unceremoniously into his stomach.
“My turn,” Solo announces briskly. “Merry Christmas, Peril.”
He retreats to an armchair gratefully clutching his gift. Inside the box is a hideous tie that Solo insists is perfectly à la mode. It is accompanied by a crisp white shirt, plain and beautifully cut. This, at least, he can thank Solo for truthfully, being both aesthetically inoffensive and practical.
In return, he passes over a thin envelope containing a single ticket to the Kandinsky exhibition at the Royal Academy. Unremarkable, except for the scribbled note on the reverse.
“Peril, this is kind, but I have to be honest – a ticket to an art gallery is something of a busman’s holiday for me, no?”
“Look on the back, Cowboy.”
Solo’s eyebrow raises as he reads the note, pauses high on his forehead, and then slowly settles back into place.
“Firstly, I want to know how you know about Sylvia. Secondly, I want to know how you got her to agree to this.”
He tries to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Clearly she is woman of extremely poor taste. Also, she told me that if you expect anything more than a private tour of the exhibition, then you will have to be at least fifty percent more charming than usual.”
“And you and Gaby don’t want to come?”
He shrugs, trying to look entirely relaxed as he screws his courage to the sticking place.
“Gaby cannot skate. So I will use free evening to instruct her on the public ice rink at Somerset House.”
There’s a dangerous pause as the little German’s eyes narrow. “I can skate, you giant oaf.”
He tries not to smile at her. “Helsinki?”
“Those skates were blunt.”
He raises the stakes, holding her gaze. “Is no shame in lacking knowledge. There is only shame in failing to take opportunities to improve.”
She practically vibrates off the sofa, scrambling up to jab an accusing finger into his chest.
“Don’t you dare lecture me, Illya. I can skate, and I’ll prove it to you.”
His hand moves of its own accord, gently catching her hand as her finger is halfway into its second jab. She stills as he feels a familiar prickle of desire roll through him. It’s getting worse; now all it takes to start the blood racing through his veins is the faintest whisper of her skin on his, as if he carries a permanent electric charge that only grounds itself through her presence.
A little of it escapes in his voice, thickening his words with intent.
“I look forward to it, milaya.”
She freezes for a second, then slowly tugs her hand away. Acting on instinct, he leans forward and shifts his grip, loosely circling her small wrist so that his thumb glides down the centre of her palm as she pulls her hand away through his.
Her eyelids flutter uncertainly for a moment. If he wasn’t so acutely aware of every move she makes, he would have missed it. It’s the slightest pulse towards him, a softening of her form, a darkening of her eyes. All there to be observed, if you watch her closely. And he does. He can’t help it, cataloguing every possible hint that his touch might affect her the way hers does to him.
His thumb slips over the tip of her middle finger and the moment is broken, leaving him to wonder if he imagined it. She certainly turns away lightly enough.
“Did you get me skates for a present, then?”
He sags back, catching the simmering amusement in Solo’s eyes.
“I did not presume you would say yes to my offer.”
And again, the slightest start that betrays the moment she realises his game.
“I haven’t said yes, yet.”
He shrugs. “You offered to prove it to me. If you wish to concede…”
“Fine. We’ll go skating. Now, where’s my present?”
He keeps the victory out of his face, nodding gravely to the only package left under the gaudy tree. It looks plain and simple compared to the glittering stones suspended from her ears, and his elation is swamped by a tidal wave of nerves. Perhaps his gift really will be the disaster that Solo forecast.
She certainly approaches the package more cautiously than she had Solo’s offering. There is no child-like ripping of the paper, instead she carefully unsticks the pieces of tape, revealing the soft interior slowly. She lifts the first pair of the socks – the grey – out of the opened petals of paper, her face mostly hidden as she stares down at them, her fingers slowly testing the thickness and softness of the wool.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, making the back of the armchair creak. She looks up at him swiftly, her face a confusing mix of expressions that he can’t read and isn’t entirely sure he wants to. It lasts for perhaps a second, a heartbeat before she recovers herself, her face relaxing into a simpler smile.
“I love them, Illya. Thank you.”
She rises gracefully from the sofa this time, slipping to her feet so effortlessly that she’s in front of him before he has time to prepare, her hands on his shoulders and her lips on his cheek so briefly that the sparkling sting of his skin is the only proof that she was ever there.
It’s all too much for Solo. “You really like them, Gaby? They’re hideous.”
“Spoken like a man whose wardrobe always involves sensible, warm footwear.”
She sinks back onto the couch, wriggling one foot after another into the fluffy wool and groaning theatrically in delight.
“Christ, Teller, they’re just socks. Don’t you own a pair already?”
She rolls her eyes at Solo. “No. The male gods that dictate my wardrobe –” Illya shuffles his feet awkwardly, “– and our mission locations decreed only hot countries until November, and then while you two were merrily bundled up in Finland, one of us had to pretend to be an ice dancer –”
“An injured ice dancer.”
“– Fine, an injured ice dancer and loose woman, which meant my wardrobe was basically a tutu, sparkly tights, a couple of dresses and high heels.”
“And a lovely fur coat.”
She rolls her eyes again. “And a lovely fur coat. But firstly, a coat doesn’t keep your feet warm and secondly, that coat didn’t make it back to London, did it now?”
Solo coughs and looks a little abashed. “Because of the moose.”
“Precisely, Solo. The moose.”
Illya shifts slightly, as the memory causes the fading bruise on his side to ache. “We agreed never to speak of the moose.”
And like a miracle, her face softens as she looks at him, nose wrinkling in sympathy. “Sorry, Illya.”
He doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he just hums noncommittally and buries his nose in the safety of his wine glass.
Solo leans back against his chair in defeat.
“Well, that’s that. Unless – are there any more presents anyone’s been hiding? Nothing up anyone’s sleeve? No?”
Illya drains the glass. “I will open new bottle.”
“Good idea, Peril, I’ll help.”
In the kitchen, he busies himself with the corkscrew to avoid Solo’s pointed looks.
“Very impressive, Peril. I must admit I was doubting your wisdom when you insisted on purchasing those abominations. I do wonder though – it was an awfully small package for such a large bag. I could have sworn when we left Selfridges you had more than just a couple of pairs of socks to take home.”
“You are mistaken, Cowboy.”
“Am I, now?”
Luckily, Gaby is so enamoured with the socks that this exchange appears to go unnoticed. She’s lying back on the couch, flexing her fluffy, grey feet towards the fire.
“But then, I’m making a lot of mistakes today,” Solo continues. “Who would have guessed that the way to a girl’s heart was through thick woolly socks?”
Illya snaps the cork in the neck of the bottle.
Two hours and two bottles of wine later, the evening is inexorably drawing to a close. Solo put Kind of Blue on the record player a while ago and while Illya isn’t convinced about jazz in general, he finds he rather likes these tunes, the subtle shifts in tone oddly relaxing despite their syncopation.
Solo is sitting in an armchair, head tilted back, eyes closed, one hand moving lazily along with the rises and falls in the music. Gaby has dozed off on the couch, the book she’d been idly flipping through slipping from her fingers to the floor. For his part, he’s been quietly practising a few chess gambits at the kitchen table. It’s all rather peaceful, almost domestic. It feels strangely like home.
He’s quietly assessing the chess board when a scotch glass appears over his shoulder. “Come on Peril, let’s see how much whisky it takes to erode your chess skills.”
He smiles and reaches up to take the drink with one hand, the other already moving to reset the board. As he takes the weight of the glass, Solo pauses in the hand-off then leans in to sniff deliberately.
“Good god, Peril,” the American murmurs in his ear, “you smell incredible.”
It’s not what he was expecting, and he almost fumbles the glass.
“Excuse me?”
“That cologne is something else on you – no wonder Teller has been getting in your personal space all afternoon.”
He stiffens as something between panic and elation speeds through his veins. He turns to shoot a glance towards the girl in question, but she’s still slumbering on the couch, one besocked foot hanging over the arm and tapping vaguely along to whatever beat she’s dancing to in her dreams.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” he mutters.
“Of course you don’t, Peril. It’s one of my favourite things about you.”
He sniffs his wrist experimentally. He can still smell the slightly spicy scent – pleasant enough, and somewhat smoky, like a bonfire on a crisp autumn day. It’s nothing extraordinary, to his nose. But he remembers the way that Gaby had brushed past him in the kitchen while scavenging for leftovers, how she’d perched on the arm of his chair to pour his wine, stayed in his personal space as he reached to fetch down the volume she’d been after from the high bookshelf. He feels his cheeks heat a little as he considers Solo’s hypothesis.
Solo just smiles and moves round to take the chair opposite him, facing back towards the bright sitting room.
“I get White today?”
Illya shrugs, recovering now they are on a safer topic. “You did cook. And you need all the help you can get.”
Which is true – Solo may be a decent enough tactician, but he hasn’t the patience for chess. He’s too fond of making the first move that occurs to him without thinking it through. It’s the same now – he selects a pawn carelessly and shifts it forward. But it’s a better move than he would have made a month ago. The man is undoubtedly a quick study.
In fact, he’s improved so rapidly that Illya has to really concentrate, the effects of the large lunch, the wine and the whisky dulling his mental acuity. So when Gaby wakes from her nap, yawns, stretches and disappears off into her bedroom, it goes entirely unnoticed by the Russian.
He does notice, however, when about ten minutes later Solo appears to lose all concentration, making a series of bafflingly bad decisions that result in him tipping his king in under three minutes.
“Cowboy, what on earth was that? Here I was thinking you had learned something after all these games.”
“What can I say, Peril. Must be the scotch.”
The American yawns and stretches ostentatiously. “In fact, I’m all in. We might as well head to bed.”
He is immediately suspicious.
“It is not even midnight yet, Cowboy. You never go to bed early.”
“Call it an early New Year’s resolution. One which I recommend you also follow.”
Illya narrows his eyes but Solo just smiles back at him, eyes alive with mischief.
“Why? What is so important about my bedroom? Did – did you put something in it?”
“No, but you obviously left something in someone else’s room earlier. Good on you.”
He’d almost forgotten about his additional gift for Gaby. He turns around to find the sitting room completely empty. His stomach lurches uncertainly.
“How – how do you know what I left in Gaby’s room?”
Solo grins. “Well, I’m having to make a couple of assumptions here, Peril, but the fact that our little German just snuck into your room in an indecently short negligee leads me to conclude that you’ve got more balls than I thought you did.”
It is very important, in moments like these, not to let one’s facial expression change. He carefully holds Solo’s gaze for a beat or two longer and then gently sets down his queen, before the nervous tremor in his hands makes him fumble it.
“I see.”
The scotch decanter is helpfully near to hand, and he attempts for casual as he sloshes some into his glass and takes a slug.
“Nervous?”
“Shut up, Cowboy.”
But the bastard just leans back in his chair and watches him, letting him squirm through the conflicting urges to rush to his room and, shamefully, to hide on the couch.
Eventually Solo stands, still smiling. “I’ll leave you to it, Peril. But if you would take my advice just for once – don’t keep a lady waiting.”
His heart is beating unacceptably fast as he confronts his bedroom door, easing it open slowly as if he might somehow be able to creep in unnoticed. The room is lit only by his bedside lamp, a warm glow that doesn’t so much create shadows but rather carves out a small pool of light in the wider gloom.
He can’t quite look at the figure perched on the bed, a glowing impression of glossy chestnut hair, caramel skin and shimmering pink silk. His eyes instead seem to take in pieces – the foot, still encased in grey wool, hanging off the side of the bedframe, the way that the silk skirt of the slip is splayed across the coverlet, exposing not just a smooth, brown thigh but, due to the slit in the side, a curve that demarcates the shift from thigh to bottom. The apex of the split rests on the tilt of her pelvis, laying bare the revelation that Gaby is naked under the silk.
This is almost too much information for him to cope with, so his eyes skitter away to the crumpled folds of his shirt behind her, the way it lies suggesting that she had been wearing it while she waited, shrugging her arms out of the sleeves as he entered. Even this information seems dangerous, bringing to mind as it does the image of Gaby in nothing but one of his shirts, long enough on her to be a dress.
Gaby shifts slightly, possibly intentionally, dipping a shoulder which sends one of the thin silken straps sliding down her arm, leaving the entire garment relying on one remaining strand. The neckline of the negligee sags dangerously low, one breast now only half hidden by the silk. The other is more securely covered but hardly less scandalous as the thin material does nothing to conceal the outline of a small, peaked nipple underneath. He takes this all in, his eyes still functioning even as the rest of his brain shorts out, leaving him frozen, immobile and speechless.
A delicate cough drags his attention finally up to her face, where her eyes are watching him flounder with some amusement.
“I presume you left this for me?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, still struggling for coherent thought, let alone intelligible speech.
“Or am I in the wrong room?” She raises an eyebrow and tenses as if to move off the bed.
This unsticks his tongue.
“Da – I – uh – yes. It – it was me.”
She settles back into place.
“Bold move, Kuryakin. I was wondering if you were ever going to make one.”
That surprises him.
“You wanted me to do… something like this?”
She rolls her eyes. “I wanted you to pin me up against a wall, like you almost did in Algiers. But clearly you are too much of a gentleman, so this will have to do.”
He’s lost the ability to speak again, so he just stares at her like an idiot.
It doesn’t seem to bother her because she just smiles and lets him stare, preening slightly under the spotlight of his desire.
“Is this how you pictured it, when you bought this for me? Have you been imagining this all day? All week?”
He is only half conscious of the ragged sigh that escapes him, torn between needing to keep looking at her and the urge to touch her. He takes a few tentative steps towards her and she shifts towards the end of the bed, gracefully drawing up her dangling leg and letting the one loose strap slip even lower. The blush silk shines a little in the light but it’s her skin that drags him closer, the warm glow burnishing her smooth limbs gold, making his own skin itch with a foreshadowing of the strange electricity that she sparks in him.
He is right in her space now, well past the point of any ambiguity. He lifts his right hand and slowly twists a strand of her hair through his large fingers, capturing the curl that had captivated him hours ago in the sitting room. She quirks an eyebrow, admonishing him for his timidity.
He raises the stakes, slipping his other hand on to her hip and gently tugging her onto her knees, encouraging her up towards him. She smiles, loose and relaxed in his grasp, grips his open collar, and pulls him slowly but inexorably down towards her.
Is it normal to feel so lightheaded? Her face swims in front of him, and he has to physically focus to keep his knees in line.
“It wasn’t the negligee,” she says suddenly, halting him mere centimetres from her lips.
“Hmm?”
“It wasn’t this silk thing that brought me in here.”
He smiles softly. “I know.”
“You do?”
His hand gently slides across the silk and around on to the bare skin of her back, her shiver matched by the unavoidable tremble of excitement in his fingers.
“It was the socks.”
She jerks her head back and looks up at him in surprise.
“How did you…?”
He shrugs. “You change into pyjamas as soon as you get home. You kick off your high heels in taxis. You hate the cold. The clothes I put you in for missions – they are not what you would choose.”
“And the socks are?”
“The socks were – something you needed.”
Her eyes glitter dangerously. “So, you think you know what I need?”
He pauses, one hand warm on her back, the other still tangled in her hair. Half-consciously, he untwists the dark curl, pressing it gently back into place on her clavicle. Her eyes darken at the fresh contact, and, just as he had earlier, he tests the effect of his hands on her skin, tracing the line of her delicate collarbone. And there it is, the hitch in her breath, the quiver of her body.
He smiles, daring her to deny it. “Da, milaya.”
She shudders again, and he ghosts his fingers over her shoulder, dragging the surviving thin strand of silk dangerously close to the edge. Her skin is cool under his touch, a contrast to the fire that crackles across his. This close, he can hear the soft gasp as he touches her, can see her lips part and the way her head tilts back a little, restrained indications of how she will look and sound when she is coming apart for him. His hands shake at the anticipation of it, vibrating down her arm and across her back. Her eyes drift open, dark pools reflecting the lust written so plainly on his own face.
He ducks away from them, choosing the coward’s route, pressing his lips to the fragile skin of her neck, over the pulse point that jumps gratifyingly at the contact.
“Illya,” she sighs, and he almost groans in response.
Her fingers start to toy with his shirt buttons.
“Illya…”
He pauses, lips still brushing her skin.
“Da, milaya.”
“I’ll stay with you tonight…”
That does elicit a moan, an urgent noise that bubbles up from him unbidden.
“…if you admit that I can skate.”