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“He won’t drink much more than that.”
“That is because he does not know how to have a good time.” Gaby snickers over the rim of her glass, full up with a drink so sticky-sweet Illya swears he can smell it from his perch at the bar.
“Come, let’s dance.” Napoleon is first to finish his drink. He sets the sweat-slicked glass on the bar and holds his hand out for Gaby, knowing good and well that Illya will not ask her to dance. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.
Their few hours of reprieve has brought them to Madrid. It’s a city alive with music. Dancing after all had been Gaby’s solution to a night off, while Napoleon had insisted on meeting locals. From the hotel to each and every bar, Illya knows it’s not safe to leave either one of them alone. He shadows them in all their playfulness, bar to bar, with their stumbling steps and not-so-silent whispers about him.
Every place they land, he nurses a glass of water until the music changes. The sudden closeness in his two partners causes his knuckles to rapt against the bar. He finally settles for ordering something stronger as Napoleon drags Gaby closer to him on the dance floor in a dress Illya picked out in Paris. It’s a dress with skirts that flare when she twirls, Napoleon’s hand drifts to lift her and Illya has to avert his eyes. They dance like the people on the silver screens do. Close and intimate, keeping in perfect time with the music with a silent communication he knows he will never have with either of them. Something resembling jealousy floods his nerves; his fingers twitch and his jaw tightens. He keeps his gaze on the bar with the whiskey rippling in the glass as his hand tightens. They put on a show everywhere they go. The two of them tearing up dance floors from one side of the tourist district to the next. It’s no different here as the two of them show off.
“Look at that.” Napoleon’s mouth grazes the edge of Gaby’s ear and makes her squirm as he spies over her shoulder. “Peril got himself something stronger than the local well water.”
Gaby grins and turns in Napoleon’s arms, pressing her nearly bare back against his chest. Her dark eyes land on their giant at the bar, and she hums softly. “I bet he can’t hold it.” Her dark head cocks to the side and she moves to the music as the beat swings around once more. Napoleon takes her hand and spins her. He is devastatingly handsome, with sharp looks and an even sharper mouth, but he is unabashedly American, which Gaby can only handle in small doses.
Napoleon spins her once more, planting one of his feet between hers he pulls her up in the swing of music. His lips brush her temple and he speaks with a honeyed tone, low and confident. “I bet his temper can’t handle the drink. Bet he does more than damage hotel rooms.”
Gaby turns once more under Napoleon’s arm as she throws her head back and laughs. Napoleon’s hands find her wrists, and he drags her back to him, presses her in close and turns them once more, they go round and round with playful banter. Gaby hooks her arm around Napoleon’s shoulder and says, “You are not being very fair. His temper is not so bad.”
“Not to you at least.” Napoleon shakes his head softly, no doubt remembering their earlier days together. The bathroom walls crashing around them as they tumbled along the filthy floor with a rush of adrenaline and anger.
“I bet he can not hold his liquor.” Gaby spins to face him, a grin splitting over her painted lips. She positively glows at the idea of their giant Russian friend unable to hold his vodka like a teenage boy. She stretches her fingers over Napoleon’s lapel and raises both brows. “Think about it.”
“I do and I’m positive that it’s his temper.”
This makes her grin drop into a pout. “If we’re going to keep discussing his drinking habits, I am going to need another.” Gaby blows out a sigh that makes her bangs float up for a moment. There’s a fine layer of sweat along her face, her makeup is smudged, but none of this matters to her as she puts both of her hands up onto Napoleon’s chest and gently pushes him back.
Gaby turns her head around and glances to Illya hunched at the bar, still taller than the rest of the patrons, and with a permanent scowl on his handsome face. The drink in his hand is a dark amber color, two fingers full, and Gaby knows this will be the most he drinks for the night. The music slowly dissolves down and she finally leaves Napoleon, sliding away from him and through the crowd of the bar. Her fingers find the sticky bar and she taps the edge of it, ordering another drink.
“Do you think that is a good idea?” Illya’s accent is heavy on his words as he pulls his own glass up.
Gaby shrugs. “It seems like a good idea to me.” She is too playful even as the bartender lays down another glass and napkin. Her fingers close around it and, before he can shake his head, she nearly drains the glass. Her tongue chases the taste of the alcohol on her lips and she flutters her lashes towards Illya, giving him that dimpled smile of hers she knows he is weak for. “Besides, you will still carry me off to bed.”
Illya scoffs, but he doesn’t tell her no and it’s seems to be all the same to Gaby. Another drink is set in front of her and she smiles a little too sweetly to the man behind the bar before inspecting the glass. It was sent over no doubt from another patron, but Gaby doesn’t bother looking around the bar. Her attention is set to Illya. Her fingers play with the condensation on the glass, tracing the cold drops of water along the curve of the glass. The music in the bar picks up again, but Gaby doesn’t move from her place just yet. Instead, she takes a tentative sip of the new drink and decides to take a bitter sip that turns into a slight cough. The burn of strong alcohol coats her tongue. Her lips part with a heavy exhale and she scoots over to the next bar stool next to Illya, abandoning the new drink all together. Her feet swing back and forth, knee brushing against his in an innocent movement as she plays with the edge of the bar, nail picking at the wooden edge.
“Why don’t you drink?” she finally asks, and he glances down at the tumbler in his hold.
“What does this look like? Water? Perhaps tea?” He is attempting a joke, the edges of his lips twitch with what she expects to be a smile, but it never comes. She shakes her head and reaches over, plucking his glass out of his hand.
He lets her have it, doesn’t bother stopping her, either, when she throws back the rest of his expensive whiskey. He simply watches the bob in her throat as she swallows it down and enjoys the sound of the empty glass smacking the bar once more. Her lips curve into a cat-like smile and she places both hands on the bar. Illya takes notice of the little fake pearl on her finger and averts his eyes over her shoulder as Napoleon joins them once more at the bar. He has a new dance partner is hanging on his arm. A tall drink of a woman with long legs and hair piled in curls along the top of her head. He bids the two of them goodnight with the promise of meeting them at the airport in the morning.
Gaby ends up too intoxicated to dance anymore.
She settles for walking in small zig-zags alongside Illya back to the hotel room. His hand falls to the small of her back and he presses her up the stairs, walks her to her bedroom. On this reprieve they’ve settled for a hotel suite with multiple adjoining rooms. He lets her have the room of her choosing, lets her make empty threats of dancing alone with him despite all his soft rejections.
“You are too drunk to dance,” he reminds her. “Spoiled girl.”
Defiance crosses her face and she mutters something in German. It’s too slurred for him to understand as she sheds the jewelry pinned along her ears. She drops the earrings on to the edge of the bed and points her index finger to him, “You do not drink because of your temper right?”
Illya lingers in the doorway. His shoulder is pressed to the door jamb with his arms crossed and his brows raised, “Nyet. It is silly to drink so much when you are not in familiar territory. Rule number one of being spy.”
“You’re not a spy.” She shakes her head to him as she moves for the door. Her hands find his and she manages to make him uncross his arms. Her fingers drag down the sleeves of his white dress shirt coming down to toy with the leather strap of his father’s watch. Her thumb smooths over the glass face of it as she turns him around, putting his back to the bed. Gaby stumbles back a slight step, swaying ever-so-slightly, teetering on the balls of her dancer’s feet.
“I am not?” He plays along with her, lets her have her little drunken way for now. Her cheeks are flushed and her honesty is unfiltered.
“No.” Gaby turns her head up. “You are however an excellent wrestling partner.”
“No.” Both of his hands move up in a motion to make her re-think, to make her stop, but there is no stopping Gaby. She is a force to be reckoned with.
“Yes.”
Before she can tackle him, he side-steps and lets her crash onto the bed. The springs squeak and she groans into the plush pillows of the hotel room, streaking her makeup on the pale fabric. Her limbs stretch out and she rolls a bit into the thick blankets.
When the snores start, he slips her heels off and does the best he can at tucking her in before he takes his place on the mattress across from hers in their shared room. His long legs curl up under the thick expensive covers. He listens to her snore and rustle around under the covers and reminds himself that they are only engaged on missions.
They all reconvene at the airport in the early hours of the morning heading back to headquarters for the next mission.
----
“Kiev?” Gaby asks peering up from the thick manilla folder in her lap. Waverly meets her gaze and nods, hands steepled and worry lines creasing across his forehead.
“Yes, we have word of a crimering taking place in the city. I’m afraid there’s a bit of red-tape on this of course.” Waverly’s glasses slip down the bridge of his nose as he looks pointedly to Illya. A moment of silence ticks by and Gaby can feel the tension thicken in the room. She stretches her legs out and folds them back under her, resisting the urge to knock her knee against Illya’s for comfort.
“What kind of red tape?” Napoleon doesn’t seem unnerved in the slightest bit. He picks at his sleeve, brushing the edge of his lapel with his manicured fingers.
“Well, it seems the KGB attempted to investigate but were unable to infiltrate the ring. The KGB believe they are transporting illegal substances and cargo packages across the curtain. Some of those packages could be quite dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“Explosives?” Gaby breathes and Illya stiffens for a moment, hand tapping against the arm of the chair.
“Possibly so.” Waverly nods and moves his hands down over his desk. He picks at another folder and thumbs through a few of the papers, “We have word to believe they’re collecting chemical agents to form some sort of dirty bomb.”
“And the KGB had no luck?” Napoleon emphasizes his words, dragging his gaze to Illya just to see the muscle in the Russian’s jaw tick with irritation.
“To be fair, Mr. Solo, no one has had such luck with infiltrating. Our last hope has come to you three. I would like Mr. Kuryakin here to take lead point. I expect full report when you return. Oh, and Mr. Solo, next time you could leave out the graphic details of your personal endeavors. Thank you all.”
----
“I was thinking,” Gaby starts softly as she sits perched on the edge of the dresser. Her legs swing back and forth on the hotel furniture while she listens to the sink in the bathroom run.
“That is very dangerous,” Illya murmurs from inside the bathroom. He spits the last bit of his toothpaste out and wipes at his mouth with a hand towel before adjusting his hair. Another comb through and he is almost ready for the mission. With a towel twisted around his waist, he leaves the bathroom only to run into an outstretched tan leg.
Gaby stops him with her knee bumping his damp chest. “Very funny comrade, but no. I was thinking this could be dangerous.”
“All missions are dangerous.” Illya drops his hand onto her knee. He lets his hand linger and then slides his palm down over the slope of her calf before lowering her leg. Gaby lets out a soft scoff as he passes her. She watches him walk away, naked back with drops of water racing over muscled lines and old scars, and finally averts her eyes when he dips into the closet for his best suit, black on black for the mission.
“Yes, but not all missions require you to go this far.”
“I have gone further.”
“Oh? With the KGB, then? How far?” She’s interested now. Dark head tilting to the side, she presses him for more information, a glimmer of something from his past. All she knows of him is from Rome, bits and pieces here and there of his own story slips through, but it’s never enough. At least not enough for Gaby.
“Do not pry, Chop Shop.”
Gaby scoffs once more and hops down off of the dresser. Her arms cross under her chest and she turns to face him, temper flaring just as he finishes the top button of his dress shirt. The black of his clothing makes his golden hair stand a little brighter, and she finds her anger dissipating away. Bit by bit, he covers up, shrugs on the jacket and adjusts his collar. Illya catches her gaze in the mirror and steps back for a moment. “Mission will be fine.”
She inhales a sharp breath and blows out her anger through her nose. Before they can argue anymore, there’s a knock at the door followed by the turning of the knob. Napoleon makes his appearance, case in hand. He shakes it gently. “Ready to gear up?”
---
“This is all so boring.” Gaby adjusts the dial on the radio and listens to Illya’s smooth tone come through the transmission. She doesn’t understand a lick of the language coming through the speaker in static-laced puffs.
“Try listening to them and understanding it. Even more boring.” Napoleon swirls the drink in his hand and contemplates for a moment before swallowing down the cheap scotch. The last hour he and Gaby have spent cooped up in the joint hotel room, listening as their comrade attempted to charm his way into a smuggling ring of Russian chemists. They talk of their homeland and missing great food. The food outside of the curtain is too overdone, too fancy. Napoleon rolls his eyes as they clink their vodka glasses together and cheer on the Soviet Union.
“Do you think he’ll get too drunk to walk?” Gaby muses as she moves over the radio and snags the bottle of scotch her American has abandoned.
“Not likely.” Napoleon has counted the amount of clinks the group has had, it hasn’t been that many in the last hour. He ticks off the numbers on the edge of his fingers and sighs softly.
“How unfair.” She licks the edge of the scotch bottle and doesn’t bother with a glass as she swallows down her own gulp. The burn slips over her tongue and she coughs softly before setting the bottle aside.
“Settle in, Gabs, it’s going to be a long night.” Napoleon listens as they toast again, this time to their new friend.
----
Another click comes through the radio and words get more and more slurred as the night ticks on. Gaby’s belly is warm by the time the singing erupts through the radio. It’s only Illya coming through, and she perks up the oversized hotel chair.
“Are they done?” Gaby asks looking over to Napoleon who is busy pretending to flip through the Ukrainian newspaper. The top half of the paper folds down and Napoleon’s dark brows raise up.
“I suspect so.”
The radio crackles on the table and a drunken hum comes through, followed by a fumbling of words. Russian pours from the speaker and Gaby sits on the edge of her chair, eyes going wide before something resembling a chuckle comes through. Footsteps echo and then there’s the sound of the keys scraping in the lock. Gaby clicks the radio dial off just as Illya stumbles into the room. His key is still stuck in the door as he collides with the wall in the entryway.
“Oh my.” Napoleon drags himself up from the couch and sets down his paper. Illya slinks against the wall and sheds his coat, dropping it on the floor. Gaby watches as he leans against the wall wearing a slack expression with reddened cheeks and a bit of a lopsided smile.
“Hello, Chop Shop Girl, Cowboy…” He slurs his words, trying to stand tall but his golden head bobs a bit and then he moves for the couch. Napoleon barely has enough time to move before Illya crashes against the back of it. He leans on the edge of the cushions and lets his head fall back. “I think I am in with this group.”
Napoleon smirks, “You think? That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
Illya nods in an exaggerated manner. “I am in. Although it is not for sure, but I am in. I know it.”
“Do you now?” Gaby lets out a giggle, her own movements are a little slow. She is full of scotch and expensive room service. She is much more interested in Illya, though, than anything else in the room. She steps around the chair and takes a seat on the coffee table, perching herself right in front of Illya’s slumping form.
“I do.” He nods and reaches forward with a finger outstretched. For a moment his hand wobbles and then he bops her nose with the tip of his index finger. Gaby smirks and turns her head to Napoleon who is grinning too much for his own good. Illya goes to tap her nose once more and misses, this time poking her cheek. “We talked of home. Not just Moscow but home.”
The Russian’s voice sounds a little far off as he stretches on the cushions of the couch, half-kicking one shoe off and letting his weight sag. Gaby sits back as his hand falls to her lap, he grasps at her fingers and runs a thumb over her knuckles. “Real home with borscht and real food. None of this imitation cooking and real vodka. Home where your family lives. Where mother is in kitchen, making the best medovik in all of country.”
Something in his voice catches and Gaby’s smile falls. Illya never speaks of Russia unless to compliment it. He never seems homesick, or at least not to her. She exhales heavily and watches as moisture pools at the corner of his golden lashes. She’s unsure if the emotions he’s dragging up are of the effects of all the alcohol he has consumed or all the talk of Mother Russia.
“I could make medovik,” Napoleon murmurs as he moves to pick up the jacket up off of the floor.
Illya scoffs and twists on the couch. “Is not the same as my mother’s cake.”
Gaby frowns. “Medovik is a cake?”
Illya nods once again in a dramatic way. The couch cushions ruin his meticulous hairstyle, leaving him wrinkled and unkempt looking. It would be charming if he didn’t smell like a cheap liquor store.
“But only my mother makes the best. All while she sings.”
“She sings?” Gaby presses on as Illya’s words slur and he pushes himself up.
“Yes, Chop Shop Girl. She sings. Horrible songs, the ones smuggled in on those bone records.” Illya gives her another lopsided smile, “You know all about those don’t you? You are not so innocent.”
Gaby glances up to Napoleon and then back to Illya shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean. We didn’t get much behind the Wall.”
Illya gives her a soft little ‘tsk’ with his lips pursed and his fingers tangling with hers as he lets his head fall back. “My father would get them for my mother and she would sing and bake. Sing for hours. Best voice I have ever listened to…”
He trails off and stretches his hand in Gaby’s lap, “She would sing stolen songs?”
“Nyet, songs against country.” He gives her another grin, “Down with the union ones. I sing for you…”
“No Illya, it’s —”
It’s too late. Illya grabs both of Gaby’s hands and sings. His singing is off-key and slurred, words that Gaby doesn’t quite understand. He shouts something of ‘murka’ and she turns a dark shade of pink as embarrassment takes over. Napoleon erupts into silent laughter as Illya attempts to stand. He is all long-legs and little balance. Much like a baby deer on ice as he pulls on Gaby making her stand with him.
“Illya —” Gaby tries to pull away from his hold but Illya doesn’t let go. He pulls her in and holds her cheek flush against his belly and dances with her. Thought it’s more like they are swaying as he pats her crown and continues singing. His voice echoes in her ears as she stands flush with him and Napoleon can barely keep himself standing straight as the scene before him unfolds. Illya is flushed and drunk, singing off-key to songs that half little to no rhyme, they are all lyrical, and he soaks it all in for a chance of blackmail.
Gaby’s hands flail and for a moment she contemplates pushing him away, but his voice breaks as he sings and she feels her heart skip a beat. She has never seen him like this, so undone. She lets him keep swaying and finds his horrible dancing to be endearing. Her hands fall and she lets her fingers curl into the back of his shirt then smooths away the wrinkles as if she can soothe the homesickness out of his system.
Illya’s singing turns a bit garbled as he hiccups against her. He slumps down, weight crashing onto her. She holds him up with shaking knees as his cheek presses on the top of her head. “Oh little defector, you know the songs.”
Gaby waves a hand behind Illya’s back to Napoleon, growling out a version of the man’s name to get his attention. Napoleon straightens up and moves around to help out, hooking his arm across the other man’s chest and heaving up, “C’mon, Peril, we’re going to get you to bed.”
“Tch, Cowboy. It is not you I want to go to bed with.” Illya drunkenly pats Napoleon’s cheek. Napoleon cuts a knowing look to Gaby. His lips are curved upward making him resemble the cat that caught the proverbial canary.
“Now we know why he doesn’t drink.” Illya practically lays on Napoleon’s shoulders as he drags his feet, step for step heading towards the bedroom that is connected to the joint suite. Gaby trails after them, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with every step as Illya keeps up his humming, the illegal songs fall from his lips and she finds herself grinning. Her perfect soldier is not so perfect afterall.
It takes some maneuvering, but eventually Napoleon gets Illya on the edge of his own mattress. Illya’s slumps down, losing his perfect posture and lets his hands smooth over the blanket, like he’s testing their softness.
A hiccup leaves Illya. Gaby looks to Napoleon from the doorway, “Maybe we should get him ready for bed?”
“By all means Gaby,” Napoleon steps back from Illya, both hands raised as he watches the blond giant slump over and patting the mattress, “Work your magic.”
She pushes out of the doorway and moves for Illya. He catches her hand and swings it in a little circular motion, “Finally…”
“Finally what?” She asks, raising a brow at him as she turns her fingers in his hold, tapping his wrist gently. Her fingers move over his shirt cuff and pushes the fabric away long enough to hook her calloused fingers into leather of his watch. She unhooks it and pulls it away slowly, expecting him to argue with her but, Illya allows her to take it off. Gaby sets his father’s watch on the nightstand and moves for his cufflinks. Illya plays with her, holding his wrists up too high and then poking her cheek just watching the color flood her features. She catches him again and gently unlinks each of his sleeves.
“Finally you come to my bed.” Illya’s words a still slurred, “Oleg would not like.”
“No, I dont think he would.” Gaby grits her teeth together and drops the cufflinks next to his watch.
“Because you are defector,” He beams the words almost like he’s proud that Napoleon and her managed to outsmart him all those months ago in East Berlin. Illya catches the bend of her elbow and drags his fingers over her arm, “Little rebel girl.”
“Yes, yes Gaby the rebel.” Napoleon pipes up, he’s unable to contain his grin as he moves back into the room. He sets a glass of water next to the ticking watch and drops two little white pills next to it. “Don’t forget who helped.”
“Yes, the accomplice.” Illya nods and sits up when Gaby pulls on his arms. She slips in close to him and hooks her fingers into his collar. After a moment she pops the first few buttons and then helps him out of the dress shirt. Instead of hanging it up though, she tosses it to the floor. Napoleon goes behind her and rescues it.
“I am a very good accomplice. Though I much prefer the term liberator.” He grins wide, “Saving damsels from the wall one day at a time.”
“If I recall, my car got us out.”
“My resources.”
“Where is my shirt?” Illya drags his hands over his chest for a moment and then he shrugs as if he’s forgotten it all together, “I thought I was dressed.”
“You were.” Gaby hums and moves down to kneel at his feet. Her fingers roll up the edge of his pant legs and she does what he has done for her countless times.
“You are undressing me?”
“Mhm,” She hums in agreement, untying his dress shoes and dragging them off of his heels.
“I have thought about this for a while,” Illya confesses with another hiccup and Napoleon nearly crashes through the closet doors to hear more and Gaby throws one of Illya’s shoes at him. She knocks the American in the head and scowls at him, pointing to the door.
“Go on Peril, please do go on.” Napoleon’s voice is thick like honey, desperate to make Illya confess all his dark little dreams of their team.
“Napoleon!” Gaby moves to hurl the second shoe but Illya takes it out of her hand.
“You are not throwing right. Observe.” He closes one of his blue eyes and takes aim. Gaby tries not to laugh as his tongue pokes out of the corner of his lips just before he throws it. The shoe misses Napoleon by a couple feet, but Illya still looks proud of himself, “See?”
“Yes, I see. You have horrible aim while intoxicated.”
Illya scoffs, “I am not intoxicated. I am holding my vodka quite well.” He sits up a little straighter only to slump over towards the pillows. A little smile curls at the corner of his lips and she waves Napoleon the rest of the way out of the room.
“It almost wouldn’t be fair to remind him of this in the morning,” Napoleon draws from the doorway, “Almost.”
“Goodnight Napoleon.” Gaby hums as she pulls the blankets back on Illya’s bed, fighting his heavy legs to get them back under the sheets.
“Yes, goodnight Cowboy. Enjoy your sugary dreams.”
“Sweet dreams,” Napoleon corrects him but Illya ignores him for Gaby. Gaby who is leaning over him with soft brown curls tickling his nose every time she moves to fluff his pillow. Gaby who has calloused fingers and a soft touch when she drags her fingers through his golden hair.
Napoleon leaves them for the night and Illya hums softly, he’s back on that same song. Muttering the downfall of the curtain, talking of splits in the proverbial iron and rust spots. One of his hands moves up to her face and he cups her cheek only to have his clumsy fingers brush over her thick lashes. She swallows down a giggle as he drunkenly pats her bangs down.
“You did good for the mission,” Gaby whispers down to him. Her voice is soft and husky, her German accent washes over him and she settles on the edge of the mattress tucking him in. She makes sure he’s wrapped up safe and warm, checks his temperature with a palm to his forehead and then pats his cheek much like he had done with her.
“If I did so good you should reward me.”
“Reward you?” Gaby muses softly, “Is that what the KGB does? Rewards it’s finest soldiers?” She is playing with him, knowing good and well that when morning rolls around he will have a splitting headache, sour personality and almost no memory of his little karaoke show.
“The KGB does not, but U.N.C.L.E. is not KGB.” Illya informs her and lets his fingers dip into her hair, testing the softness of her loose curls.
“...And what do you want?” She clears her throat softly, swallowing down the mixed mess of emotions that are bubbling up in her chest. Months of dipping in and out of one another’s personal space has made her frustrated. She thinks of Rome, of laying on his chest and going in for the kill of a kiss but then she thinks of Istanbul and how his jaw felt rough under her palm when he laid his head in her lap and fought off infection of a bullet wound. He hadn’t kissed her more than a few times, they’ve all been for the mission -- all for show.
She wonders now if he will ask for a kiss.
“Lay with me.” He pulls back the covers she has so meticulously tucked around him, showing her the little bit of room his hotel bed offers.
“Lay with you?” She blows out a soft sigh and smiles at him as he turns his head up, blue eyes swimming in black, his pupils are blown. He’s still very much intoxicated but she indulges him anyways.
“Just tonight.” He whispers, voice dropping low. His accent is heavier than she’s ever heard it before, a night on the town with fellow Russians must have worn down his thick skin. He is homesick and lonely. Where Gaby is just lonely, the world has no home for her yet. Not behind any wall at least.
“Just tonight,” She confirms with a nod of her head. Gaby turns off the lamp next to the bed and toes off her thick socks. With a little shimmy, she manages to slip under the covers with him in the small bed. Illya is a solid wall of heat against her back and before she can settle in, he slings his arm around her middle. His hand finds the strip of skin where her shirt and pants don’t meet and he strokes the skin there. Gooseflesh breaks out along her skin and she sucks in a sharp breath. His chest is naked against her back and his fingers are burning embers into her flesh with little circles that feel like a promise of better touches to come. She buries herself in thoughts of those long fingers stroking lower and then quickly leaves them behind when his voice vibrates against her back.
“You are softer than I imagined.”
Gaby is thankful for the darkness. Her cheeks feel hot at his words and she has to take a moment to breathe before asking him, “You imagined this?”
“I dream of this.” He exhales against the back of her neck and curls around her, “- A good woman, strong and defiant. Better than all of Russia.”
“Medovik and all?” Her heart skips a beat and it doesn’t feel like a light fluttering either, it feels more like a weight crashing into her ribcage, threatening to break free just to tell him all of the dreams she has had of sharing a bed with him.
Illya hums softly against her back and curls his long legs around her slender form. Gaby fits perfectly against him with her cold feet pressing into his legs and arm settling over his. Illya yawns finally and a soft snore tears through the room, it’s his for once and not hers. He is asleep in minutes, resting against her with his warm breath ghosting over her neck. Gaby closes her eyes and revels in little bit of time she has with him now.
“I’m going to assume that is a yes,” She muses to herself softly, “I am definitely better than a cake.”