five times they weren't interrupted (and one time they were); a tmfu fic.
Five Times They Weren't Interrupted (And One Time They Were): a Gaby x Illya TMFU fic
Five misadventures on five missions, featuring: finally-finished unfinished kisses, torture, undercover make-outs, Russians speaking German and Germans speaking Russian, hostage situations, betrayal, Soviet angst and commentary on life behind the Wall, Judo, French perfume, mental illness, and snarky appearances from Solo and Waverly. (6,805 words)
ONE (THE PETROV AFFAIR)
"Illya? Illya!"
Must still be dreaming -- she couldn't be here. Wherever here was. But no. The fog was lifting and he felt the cold metal of the shackles. There was an alarm wailing, somehow quieter than her voice in his ear, and when he opened his eyes everything was blood red. Lights along the walls were strobing, flickering in rhythm with the siren.
"You had better wake up," she was muttering, feeling along his arms, assessing the damage. "I'm not carrying you out of here."
"Gaby."
Her hand tightened around his forearm, just above the thick band of the iron restraint keeping him in the chair. "Gott sei Dank," she said, the relief making her voice shake.
"Go. Petrov must have set the self destruct--"
"No, he hasn't. Well, he did," she clarified. "But I turned it off."
"Then Petrov--"
"He's dead," she said flatly, in a way that didn't encourage further questions.
"His men--"
"Solo's leading them on quite the chase. Damn! Where is your CO2 laser when I need it?" She glared at the shackles. No way to pick them; far too thick for him to break, even if he wasn't half-dead from the fight on the quay and subsequent torture. "Looks like we'll have to wait for him."
"No, Gaby, go," he said. "Someone else could come."
"I'm here to rescue you," she said obstinately. "And I'm not leaving until I complete the mission."
He swore, straining against the bonds. There was a faint squeak as the rusted bolts securing the legs of the chair shifted slightly, but they showed no sign of giving. If he was angrier it would be easier -- he would find the necessary strength to tear free -- but he wasn't as angry as he was terrified. Petrov could have hidden any number of countermeasures; there could be another timer steadily counting down, seconds away from detonating, and she would not leave.
"It shouldn't take Solo much longer," she said calmly, as distant gunfire and shouting became audible.
"Gaby, please, go," he said. "Please."
"No." She picked up the towel the pliers and knives had been laid out on and began wiping away the blood and sweat and grime on his face. "You've got another black eye," she said almost conversationally. "This eyebrow could use some stitches." Her gaze traveled down across his bare chest. "Looks like someone's been kicking you, too."
"Three of them," he said, struggling to breathe evenly. Because he could see the glaze in her eyes, how frightened she really was, and because his ribs ached abominably if he gasped. She was trying to stay calm, covering her fear with the same brash practicality he had seen before. If she could rationally assess the damage with an unemotional eye, she could detach.
"Nasty bruising. Think any ribs are broken?"
"Probably."
She folded the towel and pressed the clean side to the lacerations across his shoulder. "Good thing we interrupted them before they could get too far," she said, a tremor slipping through.
"Yes. He never picked up the pliers." She was close enough for him to count her eyelashes -- close enough for him to see the dried tears on her cheeks. She had been crying. For him?
Sometimes, on the verge of one of his outbursts, he would hear her voice, the way she had screamed his name when he'd been thrown from the motorcycle on their first mission. Sometimes it would calm him; sometimes it would only stir him into a greater pitch and fury. He had never thought someone could say his name with such despairing fear.
"Gaby--"
"Illya, shut up," she said. "Just let me..."
She cupped his face, thumbs gently brushing against the bruises on his jaw, and kissed him.
It hurt. His bottom lip had split badly and his whole face throbbed from the punches he'd caught in the last four hours. His own blood was on his tongue when it met hers, but then perhaps that was apt for them. He'd always suspected kissing the mechanic spy from East Berlin would taste like copper and feel like fire.
Breath hitched painfully in his throat, but it hardly mattered that he was on the verge of suffocation. Minutes ago he thought he was going to die -- now he didn't care if he did. Because he could tell, in the way her fingers pressed against his neck and the way her lips bruised his already bruised mouth, that she had been wanting to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss her. That unfinished kiss that had been plaguing him every time he looked at her, every time it was inappropriate and impossible, was finally complete. One less regret to carry on shoulders already overburdened.
"I knew if I left it up to you," she said shakily, sounding as light-headed as he felt. "I'd be waiting till Judgment Day."
"I like when a woman goes after what she wants."
"And... I wanted our first to be real. Not part of some cover."
"First? Implying..."
"Well, I'm sure you'd enjoy it more if you weren't half-beaten to death," she said lightly. "In a week or two, maybe we could try again."
"If I wasn't locked into this chair--"
"Perhaps I could help with that?" an oh-so-knowing voice said from the doorway. Even after a mad pursuit and a gunfight with a dozen or more guards, Solo still managed to look suave in his blue suit. The only signs of exertion was the mussed hair and the smears of dirt across his knees. "Found your things, Peril. Like that handy little laser." He tossed it to Gaby as he stepped into the room. "They sure did a number on you."
"Jealous, Cowboy?"
"Not at all -- it was your turn, after all." With a smug grin, he dropped Illya's hat onto his head and adjusted it firmly. "I liberated this coat for you from the largest guard I could find. It'll still be a tight fit. Don't mind the slight bloodstains."
"Next time," Illya told him as they helped him stand. "You can be the one captured and tortured."
"Fine by me," Gaby said lightly. "I have no interest in taking a turn."
TWO (THE OSIRIS AFFAIR)
"Can't I say goodbye to my wife?"
Sanaa gave him a calculating look, the gun in her hand still unwaveringly fixed on his heart. "I don't know what game you think you are playing, Ivan--"
"No game. Isn't it polite to grant a dying man a last request?"
"Oh, very well," she said. "Rami, let the little thing go."
Gaby tugged her arm free and ran to him, the very picture of a distraught society wife. The ripped sleeve of her ballgown -- a silver silk affair studded in crystals, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen her in -- fluttered in the chill evening breeze rolling across the desert. Her dark hair had been expertly curled and piled up in artistic dishevelment only an hour ago; now it was merely disheveled, drooping curls barely fixed in place by a pair of jeweled hairpins.
"Oh, Ivan!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms. The stage's loss was the intelligence community's gain -- this was an Oscar-worthy performance. "What is going on?" Her Russian was impeccable, the hours of practice well worth the time spent.
"Tatiana, they will not harm you. Go to the embassy and ask for Romanoff -- she will get you home safely."
"No, Ivan, no, I will not leave you--"
"You must, darling. But you will take all of my love with you."
She put her arms around his neck as he kissed her, standing on her very tiptoes, and this, at least, was not feigned. No need to practice when it came to passion, that natural spark they had felt even before they'd acknowledged it, the heat that had driven her to tackle him and destroy a hotel room in Rome.
A truly great performance always had a sliver of truth in it, and here was their truth: no one looking at their embrace could doubt that they were married, that they were savoring one last kiss before death did they part.
She gripped the black collar of his tuxedo, fingers teasing out the garrote wire he'd hidden there, even as he buried his hands in her hair -- all the better to grab the sharp stiletto pins. Even then, though, there was no rush to get straight back to work. They had been given a small reprieve, after all. Why not make the most of it?
"Russians," one of Sanaa's henchmen muttered to his brother.
"Indecent," the brother agreed.
"Very touching," Sanaa said. "But this display of love won't stay my hand, Ivan. And I have a ceremony to perform in an hour, so if you would hurry it up."
"Ready whenever you are, Peril," Solo said dryly, voice a little tinny coming through the new earpiece.
"Now," Illya said, lips moving against Gaby's, her breath still in his mouth.
The two gunshots were practically silent, coming from such a distance. A pair of the armed men simply collapsed to the sand just as a third clutched at his throat, clawing at a jeweled hairpin wielded by a very large and very angry Russian, and a fourth dropped his gun with a howl of pain, the second pin stabbed clean through his hand.
"Drop your weapons," Gaby shouted at the remaining men, digging in her heels and yanking back on the wire she'd wrapped around Sanaa's neck. The woman may have been taller than her, and a religious fanatic fueled by an apocalyptic fire, but she didn't have the same training -- Gaby had learned several ways to incapacitate someone much larger than herself. Besides: it was difficult to fight back when your air supply was cut off.
"Nicely done," Solo said appreciatively while the reinforcements were busy mopping up the crew, a silenced Sanaa was locked away in a police van, and the priceless Osiris Staff was returned to the curator's hands. "Like poetry in motion."
"Not bad sniping," Illya allowed him. "Though I think we had it all under control."
"When you're locking lips with Gaby like that, Kuryakin," Solo said, "I doubt you have much of anything under control."
THREE (THE TRAIN JOB AFFAIR)
He couldn't be sure because he'd never asked -- why was it always so difficult for them to talk, when the physical came so naturally? -- but he thought Gaby was somewhat surprised by his skill.
"Solo's been giving you lessons, hasn't he?" she whispered breathlessly.
"I take offense to that," he retorted. "Russians are renowned for their--"
"Tempers? Vodka? Weapons? Lack of humor?"
"Safe-cracking abilities," he finished dourly. "Now be quiet and let me finish."
"...If Solo were here this would've been done with five minutes ago."
"He is not here and we gain nothing by thinking of things we do not have. We also do not have blowtorch or key, yet I am making do. Now hush."
The real problem was that he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the job at hand. Because Gaby was wearing a new perfume, something light and intoxicating that smelled extremely expensive. Something he had not bought for her -- and Gaby was not the kind of woman to buy herself fine perfume. Not when she could spend that money on a car or new set of tools.
"What is that you are wearing," he finally demanded, too annoyed to let it pass.
"Dior -- you should know, you picked it--"
"No, not the dress. The perfume."
"Oh. I don't remember what it's called. Something French."
"You don't remember? Where did you get it?"
"Max gave it to me."
His finger began to tap against the door of the safe, unseen in the gloom of the swaying train car. "Max Abramson?" he said, voice deceptively light.
"Yes, Illya. The target. The Max who hired me to oversee the restoration of his German auto collection."
"An intimate gift for a man to give an employee."
"Stop." Her hand slapped down over his, stilling the twitching finger. "Are you seriously angry about it? He's a target, this is a mission, I'm undercover. There is no reason for you to play the part of the jealous boyfriend."
"Jealous boy--! It is improper conduct for an employer to be so familiar with--"
"Improper! Illya, the man is a diamond smuggler and a murderer! You really expect him to be ethical with his staff? And anyway, he's not going to touch me."
"Oh?"
"Because I won't let him. I can take care of myself, nine times out of ten," she pointed out. "Now finish with the damn safe so we can get back to our compartment."
It took another three long painful minutes, made all the longer by their mutual glowering, but the dial finally clicked. Gaby's penlight revealed a briefcase inside, filled with velvet jewelers trays packed with perfectly cut diamonds and a massive sapphire. More than enough to kill a dozen men for, and the final proof they needed that Abramson was their man. Illya made sure the clasps were latched before locking the safe again. The two were starting back for the door when a flashlight's beam suddenly shone through the window.
With a fluid, sharp movement, Illya turned and picked Gaby up, stepping behind a tall Japanese screen standing in the corner. There was barely enough space for the two of them. Chest to chest, her back pressed to the wall, his head bowed over hers so as not to be seen above the screen, they were a precarious tangle of limbs that threatened to tumble with every sway of the train. Moving slowly and carefully, Illya lowered the briefcase to the floor to free both hands -- done just in time, it turned out, as he had to brace himself against the wall as the railway beneath them curved into the mountains.
The door behind them opened, the loud clatter of the tracks and the shrill whistling of the wind filling the car. "I thought I saw something through the window, sir," a man with a heavy Swiss accent said. "Someone. Perhaps we should tell Mr. Abramson?"
"Stay here, Franz, while I go fetch him."
The door remained open, the flashlight waving across the compartment, as the second speaker departed. This would be the best chance to subdue the guard and slip back into their own car. But just as he started to move, Gaby's hands tightened around his arms.
"Wait," she whispered in his ear.
It went against his instincts -- he'd been trained to make quick, decisive moves, to take the offense before a defense was ever necessary. He was the Red Peril, an object of brute force, and when presented with a threat he had an overwhelming need to remove it as quickly (and violently) as possible. It was the Russian way.
But then her hand slid over his father's watch and she pressed her lips to his cheek, to the scar beside his eye, and he felt the thrumming tension slip away. Perhaps her way, the quiet and careful and thoughtful way, would be better this time.
She shifted against him, legs sliding, tucking herself more firmly against him. Arranging their bodies into a more comfortable alignment so the wait wouldn't be unbearable. Although, with her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands at his shoulders, her face tilted towards his, it was now excruciating for a completely different reason.
One hand still braced against the wall, he let the other drift down her side. There were triangle cut-outs in the fabric of her dress here, little spots of bare flesh he could touch like a pianist stroking keys. She made a breathless sound that was inaudible over the clattering of the wheels on the track and took hold of the back of his neck.
Why was it, he thought, as their lips met, that they were only able to truly connect at the most inopportune of times? There were so many hours spent in briefings and debriefings and training and sparring and traveling -- so much time when they should easily be able to slip away for a few stolen minutes of pleasure. But no, it was only in the midst of a mission or when things had gotten messy that they were able to kiss like this, touch like this, feel like this...
Everybody had strange things that turned them on, as Solo would say, and it seemed danger was their favorite aphrodisiac.
"Yes? What is it?" A harsh New York twang.
"I thought I saw someone in your private car, Mr. Abramson."
The lights flicked on, completely unheeded by the pair hidden behind the screen. "I don't see anybody. All looks shipshape to me. Next time, don't interrupt my poker game unless you know there's a problem."
The lights went out, the door slammed shut, and it was still several more minutes before Gaby and Illya untangled themselves.
FOUR (THE JUDO AFFAIR)
"Good afternoon, sir," Solo said, glancing over the top of his newspaper. "Are you here for a friendly drink or has a Latvian hijacked a cruise liner?"
"Good to see you're keeping up on the Latvian situation, Solo," Waverly said, reaching for the decanter. "No, we've no word yet of any piracy or regional acts of terrorism. I may be tempting fate by saying so, but it looks as though you three may have an actual weekend off for a change."
"So why the visit?"
"I know you've always got the best whisky in your room, Solo."
"Far be it for me to look a gift drinking partner in the mouth," the American continued, after a droll pause. "But do you really expect me to swallow that line, Waverly?"
"How is Ms. Teller these days?" Waverly asked, sipping his drink. "Coming out of her shell a bit, I believe. Perhaps in conjunction with Kuryakin?"
"If you're asking me if they have a relationship--"
"No, no, of course not. I already know the answer to that. I'd be a very sorry excuse for an intelligence agent if I couldn't ferret out a piece of information like that on my own. I'm merely commenting that she seems quite changed from the young woman I first recruited in East Berlin three and a half years ago."
"Not living behind the Iron Curtain probably has something to do with that," Solo said. "Being a field agent, several near-death scrapes, saving the world on more than one occasion... And none of us are the same as we were three and a half years ago."
"You are. Barring your friendship with Kuryakin, of course. I believe he almost killed you the first time you were properly introduced."
"He-- we almost killed each other," Solo corrected quickly. "He is a giant. I'd almost accuse the Soviets of trying to breed supermen if I didn't know better."
"Yes, that was rather the Germans' line, wasn't it?" The former aristocrat finished his glass and refilled it. "Ms. Teller's birthday is in two days and I thought we might do something nice for her to celebrate."
"You honestly came here to discuss birthday plans?"
"No, I came here to touch base with my favorite agents and make sure they're properly recuperated from their last mission before I send them haring and scaring off after another international threat. In short, Solo, I am doing my job as your boss. And how are you feeling? Any recent urges to pilfer a painting or two? Are we keeping those light fingers of yours busy enough?"
Solo opened his mouth to say something devastatingly witty, only to close it again as the door swung open on the sounds of an argument.
"That sort of grip is no good if you are trying to unseat your opponent -- you will hurt your arm as you twist," Illya was saying.
"Perhaps it's not good for someone your size," Gaby retorted, dropping her bag by the door. "But in my case, it works. In fact, I bet you twenty pounds that I can knock you off your feet and pin you within twenty seconds using that exact form."
"What are we debating?" Waverly asked.
"Judo," Illya said, glancing at him in a distracted way before refocusing his gaze on the defiant Gaby. "Thirty pounds?"
"Make it fifty," Solo said with a grin. "C'mon, Peril, let's see what you've got."
"Fine, but--"
Before he could finish, Gaby grabbed his arm and did an incredibly impressive flip, locking her thighs around his neck and twisting sharply, sending them both to the floor. His back struck the carpet with a furniture-rattling thump and she landed astride his chest, her knees pinning both of his arms and her grin utterly triumphant.
"You owe me fifty pounds," she crowed breathlessly.
"You cheated," he argued.
"I absolutely did not. I have witnesses."
"I'd pay the woman, Kuryakin," Waverly recommended. "Never cross a lady who can kill you with her thighs."
"One of my many life mottos," Solo concurred. "Waverly, why don't we take our drinks out on the balcony."
"Right-o, Solo."
"It's like they want to give us alone time or something," Gaby said with a grin as Waverly closed the door behind them.
"You didn't give me enough time," Illya persisted.
"Because every opponent is going to give you enough time to prepare," she countered. "Don't be a sore loser."
"What can I do to win my money back?"
"I don't know... It'll have to be something pretty impressive..."
Out on the balcony, the noise of the city traffic was almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of wholesale destruction in the adjacent hotel room. "London isn't half bad this time of the year," Solo said. "When it's not pouring down rain, that is."
"There's always plenty to do," Waverly agreed as a lamp smashed behind them. "Cultural events and performances."
"Don't know if I've ever thanked you for the generous deposits you always put down on these hotels for us," said Solo. Something hit the floor with enough force to rattle their table and glasses. "They certainly come in handy; greases the wheels so to speak."
"You three are awfully hard on hotels. I've never known agents with more flair for collateral damage."
"We try."
Illya shouted something indiscernible in Russian -- Gaby responded with a stream of German profanity. "Do you think," Waverly began hesitantly, craning his head to look around the curtains, "we should go in and help?"
"Doubt either of them need any help from either of us," Solo said smugly. "So, about Gaby's birthday -- maybe dinner somewhere refined?"
FIVE (THE DEADLY ROOK AFFAIR)
The voices were distorted, as if the shouts echoed down a long, long tunnel. He recognized them; he knew he should recognize them; were those human voices or just screams inside his own head?
"Solo, no!"
"We need him alive, Gaby!"
"I know, I know! Just get back -- you'll make things worse! You know how you provoke him!"
He had his hands around someone's neck. The man was thrashing against him, kicking and clawing at him, but he didn't feel anything. He'd gone cold all over, hard as marble, and all he could see was how the man's face had gone a splotchy red, how his lips were purpling and the blood vessels in his eyes had started to burst.
"Illya, no!"
Smaller hands fell over his, tried to pull his fingers back. But he wasn't done yet -- the man was still alive. He had to do this, he had to. The man had betrayed his father, the man had held a knife to Gaby's throat--
Gaby.
"Illya, please, stop! Illya!"
It was the same scream he'd heard in his dreams for months. His name. Her voice. All that fear and pain. It cut through the haze and the cold numbness. He released the man as if suddenly scorched or electrocuted, a robot switched off, and fell back onto his knees with a mangled scream of rage.
She held him, cradled his head against her chest, while he shook and shivered and swayed. He was dimly aware that Solo was dragging the gasping man away, that a pair of Waverly's military men were rushing forward to assist him. But the world wasn't in focus, not yet, and the only thing he could look at without being dizzy was Gaby. There was a thin red line across her neck, where the knife had begun to bite, and the anger welled up again, made his hands shake and his face go hard and blank again.
"No, no, Illya," she murmured. "No, come back, it's alright, everything's going to be alright, listen to my voice, stay here with me."
He was kneeling on a beautiful tiled floor. There was a crystal chandelier overhead. They were in a theatre -- yes, they had just come out of a play. And Oleg had struck, had grabbed Gaby as a hostage, knowing they had found the evidence he thought had died with the chessmaster. Evidence that he was a traitor, that he had framed Illya's father all those years ago, that he was responsible for the poisoning deaths of a dozen Russian scientists in the past month.
Oleg had put a knife to Gaby's neck and told Illya to let him go or else she would suffer just as his mother had. And...
"All these years," he heard himself say in his first tongue, unable to think in English. "He held my father's disgrace over me as a threat. He abused my mother while calling himself our protector. He used me, he turned me into a killer, all for his own ends. How many times did he tell me I would be nothing without him? That I only lived, that I had only been accepted into the KGB, because of him?"
"He lied. He was wrong," Gaby said.
"He has to die."
"He will -- but not until we get the information. He'll be executed for everything he's done, Illya."
"It's not enough. It won't be enough."
"I know," she whispered. "It never is."
He couldn't stop shaking. It felt as though he would shake apart. She only held him closer, wrapped her body around him and held on as his shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs. He clung to her as he cried, as his tears dotted her blouse, as the whole world spun and ceased to make sense.
He held onto her because he had lost his grip on everything else.
THE INTERRUPTION (AFTER THE DEADLY ROOK AFFAIR)
He didn't remember moving. He had no idea how he came to be in this hotel room. The next thing he knew, Solo was sitting across from him, bandaging his left hand. "You in there, Illya?" he asked, seeing the flash of awareness cross his face. "You broke two fingers, probably a few of the smaller bones in your hand, too. You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
"Gaby--"
"Is in the shower. She'll be back in a moment. Just stay calm. She's fine. You're fine. We're all fine. Although... you did manage to break your watch. Must've been when you slammed that bastard against the wall. Luckily, I know an incredible watchmaker in town, and he owes me a favor. I'll nip out and have him take a look at it -- you'll have it back in the morning, good as new."
"You don't need," Illya began lamely, feeling utterly empty and exhausted.
"Nonsense. Anything for a friend. And the watchmaker's daughter has probably been missing me all these months, anyway." The bathroom door opened with a gust of steam. Solo looked up, caught Gaby's eye, and nodded. "Well, Peril, be careful with that hand and try to get some rest. Plenty to do in the morning." He clasped his shoulder, managed a stiff smile, and left.
"Would you like something to drink?" Gaby asked, leaning against the doorframe. She'd braided her wet hair. It fell over the shoulder of her gray cotton robe and looked far too much like a noose for his comfort. He blinked sharply and shook his head. "Anything to eat? Something to numb the pain?"
"I doubt anything will do that," he said thickly, already numb.
"Illya, what that man said, about your parents..."
"I was ten, when my father was sent to gulag," he said. "Oleg claimed he was stealing, that he was selling secrets, that he was a traitor. And my mother... She did what she had to so we could survive. Until it killed her. When I was fifteen."
"Six years ago, I lost my father," Gaby said, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Not my birth father -- you know what happened to him. My foster father, Gunther Schmidt. My real father. He said things, disparaging things, and his words got to the wrong ears. We were working at the garage when the men came and dragged him away. A week later, I got a letter saying he was dead. They wouldn't let me have his body for the funeral. And they made it clear that the same thing would happen to me if I did not behave."
"Yet you became a spy. You let Waverly recruit you."
"Yes. Because I was willing to do whatever it took to get out of that place. I promised myself I was either going to escape or I was going to die trying. I would not let those men tell me how I could live."
"But... You are always told what to do now. You still have no control."
"Of course I have control. I've learned a lot, enough to survive no matter the situation, and if Waverly ever gives me an order I can't obey, then I'll disappear. And something tells me he won't look all that hard if I do."
"I would look."
"For him? Or for yourself? If the latter... There's a reason I've kept that engagement ring you gave me on our first mission."
She pulled the chain out from beneath her robe, tilting the ring until the light caught it. Then she reached for his unbandaged hand, so large she could wrap both of hers around it. Drew it up to the side of her face and held it there until he responded, his fingers curling around her ear. "The first time I saw you, I hated you. You looked like everything I feared. You were the embodiment of the people keeping me prisoner, their guard dog sent to drag me back to my cage. I told Solo to shoot you. But he didn't -- maybe he saw what I didn't at the time. That... You're a good man, Illya. Despite what they've done to you, and what's happened to you."
"A good man? Does a good man feel nothing when he kills another? Does a good man know so much rage that he can forget his own name, where he is, the people around him, and wake to find he's destroyed everything?"
"Yes. Yes," she said firmly, still clasping his hand. "Because you kill for the right reasons. Because your anger comes from pain that would have killed someone else. You may not be a perfect man, Illya, but you are a good one. If you were not, bombs would have detonated and armies would've marched and thousands of people would have died. I would be dead, and Solo, too, if you were not the man you are. We all of us have regrets and shame and guilt, Illya. Especially in our line of work. But we do our best and we move on."
She stared at him with such sincerity it hurt to look. His eyes dropped to her neck, to the faint cut across her tan skin. If he had not been so fast, if Oleg had not been so slow, she would be dead now, not sitting here across from him speaking such unbelievable words. That vital light would have been snuffed out, the challenging quirk of her lips erased -- she never would've arched that dark eyebrow at him or touched his hand again.
Everything good in his life had been taken away from him, and the chief person responsible for that had almost taken her, too.
Heedless of any broken bones, he reached for her with both hands. She met him halfway, falling into his arms even as he pulled her closer. Her robe dropped away to reveal bare skin peppered with freckles. The buttons of his shirt disappeared into the pile of the carpet. In the aftermath of the night, they had to cast off everything between them, had to press flesh to flesh, had to remind themselves that they were still whole and breathing. For this moment, in this tiny space, they were together and safe. Tomorrow would bring something new, a different threat, but for now they still had each other.
"I could never hurt you," he said between kisses, using her mother tongue.
"I trust you," she said in his, wrapping her legs around his waist.
She had so many scars now, most still pink and fresh, from the past year alone. From the car crash outside of Rome, from the spilled brazier in Istanbul, from the gunman in Cairo. He assessed them all, saw them all as personal failures: he had promised to protect her, promised he would be close by, and every one of those scars proved he hadn't kept those promises.
"Illya, Illya, you saved me, you have always saved me," she assured him, the Russian flowing from her lips like wine. "In all the ways a person can be saved. You're the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, the fire in my stomach. Darling. Please. Illya."
Everything he'd ever longed to hear, in the only voice he'd ever wanted to speak in such a way. She made his name sound so beautiful and wanted, like something treasured and priceless. She saw him as a man, not a means to an end, and how long had it been since someone looked at him like he was a person rather than a living weapon? Illya -- not just the Red Peril.
The way she shivered against him and gasped made him dizzy. He pressed her to the wall utterly unaware of having moved from the sofa. His hands were firm around her legs, supporting her while she quaked. She clung to him, thighs clenched around his hips as he thrust, and moaned into his neck. Her braid came undone just as she did, her soft, wet hair cascading over his scarred shoulder as she cried out. Every nerve seemed to scream. The room disappeared. He was the only thing real.
"This is real," she managed to say, swallowing a moan. "No matter what, this is real."
"Yes. No covers. No mission. No pretending."
"What we feel is real. Remember this," she half-pleaded, hands tangled in his hair.
He pressed his forehead to hers, their labored breaths mingling. "I will never forget."
He carried her to the bed, still unmade from the previous night -- they had put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, he dimly remembered, because they had wanted to sleep in that morning -- and they knotted the sheets further. She pinned him just as she always did in their sparring matches and he reveled in the strength of her over him. He hadn't lied about liking his women strong; he hadn't lied to her about anything. Even when they were playacting undercover -- the cultural attaché and his society wife, the unhappily married doctors attending therapy, the art collector and her fiancé -- there was always a truth beneath the necessary lies. Behind closed doors, when it was only them, he had never worn a mask with her. He simply couldn't -- she'd always stripped him to the bone. With a glance, or a sarcastic question, or a simple arch of an eyebrow. He might fool the world but he would never fool her.
"I would die for you," he swore.
"I know," she sobbed. "But don't -- please don't. I couldn't bear it."
He didn't say he would kill for her. She knew he already had.
Some time later, when they had both stopped shaking and their skin had cooled, she pushed herself up on one arm to look down at him. He obligingly shifted, turning against the pillow.
"It's funny," she said. "Before we met, I had such terrible insomnia. Some nights I would have to drink to fall asleep--"
"Like that first night in Rome," he said.
"Yes. But then... You would think I would still have trouble sleeping, after all of our scrapes. I have so much more nightmare fodder now. Like that time Petrov grabbed you..." She reached over and brushed her fingertips over his shoulder, over the scar above his right eyebrow. He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"...And yet I've never slept better since becoming a spy. Why is that, do you think?"
"We do an awful lot of running. You are simply worn out every night now."
"That's a theory," she laughed, the sound making his heart stutter. "I think the real difference is you. Ever since you turned those cow eyes on me--"
"Cow?!"
"--And looked at me like I was something wonderful and incredible... I've felt safer than I ever have my entire life. Challenges don't seem as daunting when you tell yourself you've already conquered the unconquerable."
"You have conquered me," he admitted without hesitation. "I did not know what had hit me until days later. Who could believe that the Red Peril of the KGB could be brought to his knees by a chop shop girl from East Berlin."
"I had to bring you to your knees," she teased. "How else was I going to get close enough to your face to kiss it?" She followed through on that promise, pulling him over again. His long arms around her should feel like iron bars, another Soviet cage -- but it felt more like home than anything else ever had, not even her father's garage.
He was dangerous and methodical and willing to torture someone if it got them the necessary results. She had seen him stab and shoot and even beat men to death. He was unpredictably violent, a nearly unstoppable force of nature in the midst of one of his fits, and yet...
She had never been afraid of him. Because with her, he was unceasingly gentle and awkward and tried so, so hard to be impressive. She had seen him bicker with Solo like a ridiculous old married couple, had seen him comfort a small child in the wake of a father's murder, had seen him wracked with guilt when a contact was killed before they could help her.
Living behind the Wall, she had never let herself trust or care for anyone, especially not after her father's death. Anyone could have been a spy or informant, anyone could die because of a stupid mistake. Better to build a wall around her own heart that was even taller than the one down the street.
And then, irony of ironies, she had met one of the world' most infamous spies -- a KGB agent, no less -- and in a matter of days he had broken through her walls with his awkward smiles and tentative hands. He said she'd brought him to his knees, but she was already lying at his feet. Where lies and subterfuge kept you alive, she'd found something true and real.
The world was a mad, strange place.
"Illya," she said quietly, certain yet strangely hesitant. She knew what she wanted, needed, to say to him. Words she'd never given to anyone else before. After everything that had happened, he deserved to hear them tonight. "I l--"
The door burst open. Illya had grabbed a gun from the bedside table and Gaby had snatched the one from beneath her pillow before they realized it was Solo. "Knock next time," Illya said angrily, lowering his pistol.
"That was almost your last dramatic entrance, Solo," Gaby added, wrapping a sheet around herself. "What is it?"
"Sorry -- I would've waited till morning, but I had a feeling you'd have both killed me if I did. It's the sort of news you'd rather have sooner than later."
"And?"
"Oleg's escaped."
Five misadventures on five missions, featuring: finally-finished unfinished kisses, torture, undercover make-outs, Russians speaking German and Germans speaking Russian, hostage situations, betrayal, Soviet angst and commentary on life behind the Wall, Judo, French perfume, mental illness, and snarky appearances from Solo and Waverly. (6,805 words)
ONE (THE PETROV AFFAIR)
"Illya? Illya!"
Must still be dreaming -- she couldn't be here. Wherever here was. But no. The fog was lifting and he felt the cold metal of the shackles. There was an alarm wailing, somehow quieter than her voice in his ear, and when he opened his eyes everything was blood red. Lights along the walls were strobing, flickering in rhythm with the siren.
"You had better wake up," she was muttering, feeling along his arms, assessing the damage. "I'm not carrying you out of here."
"Gaby."
Her hand tightened around his forearm, just above the thick band of the iron restraint keeping him in the chair. "Gott sei Dank," she said, the relief making her voice shake.
"Go. Petrov must have set the self destruct--"
"No, he hasn't. Well, he did," she clarified. "But I turned it off."
"Then Petrov--"
"He's dead," she said flatly, in a way that didn't encourage further questions.
"His men--"
"Solo's leading them on quite the chase. Damn! Where is your CO2 laser when I need it?" She glared at the shackles. No way to pick them; far too thick for him to break, even if he wasn't half-dead from the fight on the quay and subsequent torture. "Looks like we'll have to wait for him."
"No, Gaby, go," he said. "Someone else could come."
"I'm here to rescue you," she said obstinately. "And I'm not leaving until I complete the mission."
He swore, straining against the bonds. There was a faint squeak as the rusted bolts securing the legs of the chair shifted slightly, but they showed no sign of giving. If he was angrier it would be easier -- he would find the necessary strength to tear free -- but he wasn't as angry as he was terrified. Petrov could have hidden any number of countermeasures; there could be another timer steadily counting down, seconds away from detonating, and she would not leave.
"It shouldn't take Solo much longer," she said calmly, as distant gunfire and shouting became audible.
"Gaby, please, go," he said. "Please."
"No." She picked up the towel the pliers and knives had been laid out on and began wiping away the blood and sweat and grime on his face. "You've got another black eye," she said almost conversationally. "This eyebrow could use some stitches." Her gaze traveled down across his bare chest. "Looks like someone's been kicking you, too."
"Three of them," he said, struggling to breathe evenly. Because he could see the glaze in her eyes, how frightened she really was, and because his ribs ached abominably if he gasped. She was trying to stay calm, covering her fear with the same brash practicality he had seen before. If she could rationally assess the damage with an unemotional eye, she could detach.
"Nasty bruising. Think any ribs are broken?"
"Probably."
She folded the towel and pressed the clean side to the lacerations across his shoulder. "Good thing we interrupted them before they could get too far," she said, a tremor slipping through.
"Yes. He never picked up the pliers." She was close enough for him to count her eyelashes -- close enough for him to see the dried tears on her cheeks. She had been crying. For him?
Sometimes, on the verge of one of his outbursts, he would hear her voice, the way she had screamed his name when he'd been thrown from the motorcycle on their first mission. Sometimes it would calm him; sometimes it would only stir him into a greater pitch and fury. He had never thought someone could say his name with such despairing fear.
"Gaby--"
"Illya, shut up," she said. "Just let me..."
She cupped his face, thumbs gently brushing against the bruises on his jaw, and kissed him.
It hurt. His bottom lip had split badly and his whole face throbbed from the punches he'd caught in the last four hours. His own blood was on his tongue when it met hers, but then perhaps that was apt for them. He'd always suspected kissing the mechanic spy from East Berlin would taste like copper and feel like fire.
Breath hitched painfully in his throat, but it hardly mattered that he was on the verge of suffocation. Minutes ago he thought he was going to die -- now he didn't care if he did. Because he could tell, in the way her fingers pressed against his neck and the way her lips bruised his already bruised mouth, that she had been wanting to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss her. That unfinished kiss that had been plaguing him every time he looked at her, every time it was inappropriate and impossible, was finally complete. One less regret to carry on shoulders already overburdened.
"I knew if I left it up to you," she said shakily, sounding as light-headed as he felt. "I'd be waiting till Judgment Day."
"I like when a woman goes after what she wants."
"And... I wanted our first to be real. Not part of some cover."
"First? Implying..."
"Well, I'm sure you'd enjoy it more if you weren't half-beaten to death," she said lightly. "In a week or two, maybe we could try again."
"If I wasn't locked into this chair--"
"Perhaps I could help with that?" an oh-so-knowing voice said from the doorway. Even after a mad pursuit and a gunfight with a dozen or more guards, Solo still managed to look suave in his blue suit. The only signs of exertion was the mussed hair and the smears of dirt across his knees. "Found your things, Peril. Like that handy little laser." He tossed it to Gaby as he stepped into the room. "They sure did a number on you."
"Jealous, Cowboy?"
"Not at all -- it was your turn, after all." With a smug grin, he dropped Illya's hat onto his head and adjusted it firmly. "I liberated this coat for you from the largest guard I could find. It'll still be a tight fit. Don't mind the slight bloodstains."
"Next time," Illya told him as they helped him stand. "You can be the one captured and tortured."
"Fine by me," Gaby said lightly. "I have no interest in taking a turn."
TWO (THE OSIRIS AFFAIR)
"Can't I say goodbye to my wife?"
Sanaa gave him a calculating look, the gun in her hand still unwaveringly fixed on his heart. "I don't know what game you think you are playing, Ivan--"
"No game. Isn't it polite to grant a dying man a last request?"
"Oh, very well," she said. "Rami, let the little thing go."
Gaby tugged her arm free and ran to him, the very picture of a distraught society wife. The ripped sleeve of her ballgown -- a silver silk affair studded in crystals, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen her in -- fluttered in the chill evening breeze rolling across the desert. Her dark hair had been expertly curled and piled up in artistic dishevelment only an hour ago; now it was merely disheveled, drooping curls barely fixed in place by a pair of jeweled hairpins.
"Oh, Ivan!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms. The stage's loss was the intelligence community's gain -- this was an Oscar-worthy performance. "What is going on?" Her Russian was impeccable, the hours of practice well worth the time spent.
"Tatiana, they will not harm you. Go to the embassy and ask for Romanoff -- she will get you home safely."
"No, Ivan, no, I will not leave you--"
"You must, darling. But you will take all of my love with you."
She put her arms around his neck as he kissed her, standing on her very tiptoes, and this, at least, was not feigned. No need to practice when it came to passion, that natural spark they had felt even before they'd acknowledged it, the heat that had driven her to tackle him and destroy a hotel room in Rome.
A truly great performance always had a sliver of truth in it, and here was their truth: no one looking at their embrace could doubt that they were married, that they were savoring one last kiss before death did they part.
She gripped the black collar of his tuxedo, fingers teasing out the garrote wire he'd hidden there, even as he buried his hands in her hair -- all the better to grab the sharp stiletto pins. Even then, though, there was no rush to get straight back to work. They had been given a small reprieve, after all. Why not make the most of it?
"Russians," one of Sanaa's henchmen muttered to his brother.
"Indecent," the brother agreed.
"Very touching," Sanaa said. "But this display of love won't stay my hand, Ivan. And I have a ceremony to perform in an hour, so if you would hurry it up."
"Ready whenever you are, Peril," Solo said dryly, voice a little tinny coming through the new earpiece.
"Now," Illya said, lips moving against Gaby's, her breath still in his mouth.
The two gunshots were practically silent, coming from such a distance. A pair of the armed men simply collapsed to the sand just as a third clutched at his throat, clawing at a jeweled hairpin wielded by a very large and very angry Russian, and a fourth dropped his gun with a howl of pain, the second pin stabbed clean through his hand.
"Drop your weapons," Gaby shouted at the remaining men, digging in her heels and yanking back on the wire she'd wrapped around Sanaa's neck. The woman may have been taller than her, and a religious fanatic fueled by an apocalyptic fire, but she didn't have the same training -- Gaby had learned several ways to incapacitate someone much larger than herself. Besides: it was difficult to fight back when your air supply was cut off.
"Nicely done," Solo said appreciatively while the reinforcements were busy mopping up the crew, a silenced Sanaa was locked away in a police van, and the priceless Osiris Staff was returned to the curator's hands. "Like poetry in motion."
"Not bad sniping," Illya allowed him. "Though I think we had it all under control."
"When you're locking lips with Gaby like that, Kuryakin," Solo said, "I doubt you have much of anything under control."
THREE (THE TRAIN JOB AFFAIR)
He couldn't be sure because he'd never asked -- why was it always so difficult for them to talk, when the physical came so naturally? -- but he thought Gaby was somewhat surprised by his skill.
"Solo's been giving you lessons, hasn't he?" she whispered breathlessly.
"I take offense to that," he retorted. "Russians are renowned for their--"
"Tempers? Vodka? Weapons? Lack of humor?"
"Safe-cracking abilities," he finished dourly. "Now be quiet and let me finish."
"...If Solo were here this would've been done with five minutes ago."
"He is not here and we gain nothing by thinking of things we do not have. We also do not have blowtorch or key, yet I am making do. Now hush."
The real problem was that he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the job at hand. Because Gaby was wearing a new perfume, something light and intoxicating that smelled extremely expensive. Something he had not bought for her -- and Gaby was not the kind of woman to buy herself fine perfume. Not when she could spend that money on a car or new set of tools.
"What is that you are wearing," he finally demanded, too annoyed to let it pass.
"Dior -- you should know, you picked it--"
"No, not the dress. The perfume."
"Oh. I don't remember what it's called. Something French."
"You don't remember? Where did you get it?"
"Max gave it to me."
His finger began to tap against the door of the safe, unseen in the gloom of the swaying train car. "Max Abramson?" he said, voice deceptively light.
"Yes, Illya. The target. The Max who hired me to oversee the restoration of his German auto collection."
"An intimate gift for a man to give an employee."
"Stop." Her hand slapped down over his, stilling the twitching finger. "Are you seriously angry about it? He's a target, this is a mission, I'm undercover. There is no reason for you to play the part of the jealous boyfriend."
"Jealous boy--! It is improper conduct for an employer to be so familiar with--"
"Improper! Illya, the man is a diamond smuggler and a murderer! You really expect him to be ethical with his staff? And anyway, he's not going to touch me."
"Oh?"
"Because I won't let him. I can take care of myself, nine times out of ten," she pointed out. "Now finish with the damn safe so we can get back to our compartment."
It took another three long painful minutes, made all the longer by their mutual glowering, but the dial finally clicked. Gaby's penlight revealed a briefcase inside, filled with velvet jewelers trays packed with perfectly cut diamonds and a massive sapphire. More than enough to kill a dozen men for, and the final proof they needed that Abramson was their man. Illya made sure the clasps were latched before locking the safe again. The two were starting back for the door when a flashlight's beam suddenly shone through the window.
With a fluid, sharp movement, Illya turned and picked Gaby up, stepping behind a tall Japanese screen standing in the corner. There was barely enough space for the two of them. Chest to chest, her back pressed to the wall, his head bowed over hers so as not to be seen above the screen, they were a precarious tangle of limbs that threatened to tumble with every sway of the train. Moving slowly and carefully, Illya lowered the briefcase to the floor to free both hands -- done just in time, it turned out, as he had to brace himself against the wall as the railway beneath them curved into the mountains.
The door behind them opened, the loud clatter of the tracks and the shrill whistling of the wind filling the car. "I thought I saw something through the window, sir," a man with a heavy Swiss accent said. "Someone. Perhaps we should tell Mr. Abramson?"
"Stay here, Franz, while I go fetch him."
The door remained open, the flashlight waving across the compartment, as the second speaker departed. This would be the best chance to subdue the guard and slip back into their own car. But just as he started to move, Gaby's hands tightened around his arms.
"Wait," she whispered in his ear.
It went against his instincts -- he'd been trained to make quick, decisive moves, to take the offense before a defense was ever necessary. He was the Red Peril, an object of brute force, and when presented with a threat he had an overwhelming need to remove it as quickly (and violently) as possible. It was the Russian way.
But then her hand slid over his father's watch and she pressed her lips to his cheek, to the scar beside his eye, and he felt the thrumming tension slip away. Perhaps her way, the quiet and careful and thoughtful way, would be better this time.
She shifted against him, legs sliding, tucking herself more firmly against him. Arranging their bodies into a more comfortable alignment so the wait wouldn't be unbearable. Although, with her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands at his shoulders, her face tilted towards his, it was now excruciating for a completely different reason.
One hand still braced against the wall, he let the other drift down her side. There were triangle cut-outs in the fabric of her dress here, little spots of bare flesh he could touch like a pianist stroking keys. She made a breathless sound that was inaudible over the clattering of the wheels on the track and took hold of the back of his neck.
Why was it, he thought, as their lips met, that they were only able to truly connect at the most inopportune of times? There were so many hours spent in briefings and debriefings and training and sparring and traveling -- so much time when they should easily be able to slip away for a few stolen minutes of pleasure. But no, it was only in the midst of a mission or when things had gotten messy that they were able to kiss like this, touch like this, feel like this...
Everybody had strange things that turned them on, as Solo would say, and it seemed danger was their favorite aphrodisiac.
"Yes? What is it?" A harsh New York twang.
"I thought I saw someone in your private car, Mr. Abramson."
The lights flicked on, completely unheeded by the pair hidden behind the screen. "I don't see anybody. All looks shipshape to me. Next time, don't interrupt my poker game unless you know there's a problem."
The lights went out, the door slammed shut, and it was still several more minutes before Gaby and Illya untangled themselves.
FOUR (THE JUDO AFFAIR)
"Good afternoon, sir," Solo said, glancing over the top of his newspaper. "Are you here for a friendly drink or has a Latvian hijacked a cruise liner?"
"Good to see you're keeping up on the Latvian situation, Solo," Waverly said, reaching for the decanter. "No, we've no word yet of any piracy or regional acts of terrorism. I may be tempting fate by saying so, but it looks as though you three may have an actual weekend off for a change."
"So why the visit?"
"I know you've always got the best whisky in your room, Solo."
"Far be it for me to look a gift drinking partner in the mouth," the American continued, after a droll pause. "But do you really expect me to swallow that line, Waverly?"
"How is Ms. Teller these days?" Waverly asked, sipping his drink. "Coming out of her shell a bit, I believe. Perhaps in conjunction with Kuryakin?"
"If you're asking me if they have a relationship--"
"No, no, of course not. I already know the answer to that. I'd be a very sorry excuse for an intelligence agent if I couldn't ferret out a piece of information like that on my own. I'm merely commenting that she seems quite changed from the young woman I first recruited in East Berlin three and a half years ago."
"Not living behind the Iron Curtain probably has something to do with that," Solo said. "Being a field agent, several near-death scrapes, saving the world on more than one occasion... And none of us are the same as we were three and a half years ago."
"You are. Barring your friendship with Kuryakin, of course. I believe he almost killed you the first time you were properly introduced."
"He-- we almost killed each other," Solo corrected quickly. "He is a giant. I'd almost accuse the Soviets of trying to breed supermen if I didn't know better."
"Yes, that was rather the Germans' line, wasn't it?" The former aristocrat finished his glass and refilled it. "Ms. Teller's birthday is in two days and I thought we might do something nice for her to celebrate."
"You honestly came here to discuss birthday plans?"
"No, I came here to touch base with my favorite agents and make sure they're properly recuperated from their last mission before I send them haring and scaring off after another international threat. In short, Solo, I am doing my job as your boss. And how are you feeling? Any recent urges to pilfer a painting or two? Are we keeping those light fingers of yours busy enough?"
Solo opened his mouth to say something devastatingly witty, only to close it again as the door swung open on the sounds of an argument.
"That sort of grip is no good if you are trying to unseat your opponent -- you will hurt your arm as you twist," Illya was saying.
"Perhaps it's not good for someone your size," Gaby retorted, dropping her bag by the door. "But in my case, it works. In fact, I bet you twenty pounds that I can knock you off your feet and pin you within twenty seconds using that exact form."
"What are we debating?" Waverly asked.
"Judo," Illya said, glancing at him in a distracted way before refocusing his gaze on the defiant Gaby. "Thirty pounds?"
"Make it fifty," Solo said with a grin. "C'mon, Peril, let's see what you've got."
"Fine, but--"
Before he could finish, Gaby grabbed his arm and did an incredibly impressive flip, locking her thighs around his neck and twisting sharply, sending them both to the floor. His back struck the carpet with a furniture-rattling thump and she landed astride his chest, her knees pinning both of his arms and her grin utterly triumphant.
"You owe me fifty pounds," she crowed breathlessly.
"You cheated," he argued.
"I absolutely did not. I have witnesses."
"I'd pay the woman, Kuryakin," Waverly recommended. "Never cross a lady who can kill you with her thighs."
"One of my many life mottos," Solo concurred. "Waverly, why don't we take our drinks out on the balcony."
"Right-o, Solo."
"It's like they want to give us alone time or something," Gaby said with a grin as Waverly closed the door behind them.
"You didn't give me enough time," Illya persisted.
"Because every opponent is going to give you enough time to prepare," she countered. "Don't be a sore loser."
"What can I do to win my money back?"
"I don't know... It'll have to be something pretty impressive..."
Out on the balcony, the noise of the city traffic was almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of wholesale destruction in the adjacent hotel room. "London isn't half bad this time of the year," Solo said. "When it's not pouring down rain, that is."
"There's always plenty to do," Waverly agreed as a lamp smashed behind them. "Cultural events and performances."
"Don't know if I've ever thanked you for the generous deposits you always put down on these hotels for us," said Solo. Something hit the floor with enough force to rattle their table and glasses. "They certainly come in handy; greases the wheels so to speak."
"You three are awfully hard on hotels. I've never known agents with more flair for collateral damage."
"We try."
Illya shouted something indiscernible in Russian -- Gaby responded with a stream of German profanity. "Do you think," Waverly began hesitantly, craning his head to look around the curtains, "we should go in and help?"
"Doubt either of them need any help from either of us," Solo said smugly. "So, about Gaby's birthday -- maybe dinner somewhere refined?"
FIVE (THE DEADLY ROOK AFFAIR)
The voices were distorted, as if the shouts echoed down a long, long tunnel. He recognized them; he knew he should recognize them; were those human voices or just screams inside his own head?
"Solo, no!"
"We need him alive, Gaby!"
"I know, I know! Just get back -- you'll make things worse! You know how you provoke him!"
He had his hands around someone's neck. The man was thrashing against him, kicking and clawing at him, but he didn't feel anything. He'd gone cold all over, hard as marble, and all he could see was how the man's face had gone a splotchy red, how his lips were purpling and the blood vessels in his eyes had started to burst.
"Illya, no!"
Smaller hands fell over his, tried to pull his fingers back. But he wasn't done yet -- the man was still alive. He had to do this, he had to. The man had betrayed his father, the man had held a knife to Gaby's throat--
Gaby.
"Illya, please, stop! Illya!"
It was the same scream he'd heard in his dreams for months. His name. Her voice. All that fear and pain. It cut through the haze and the cold numbness. He released the man as if suddenly scorched or electrocuted, a robot switched off, and fell back onto his knees with a mangled scream of rage.
She held him, cradled his head against her chest, while he shook and shivered and swayed. He was dimly aware that Solo was dragging the gasping man away, that a pair of Waverly's military men were rushing forward to assist him. But the world wasn't in focus, not yet, and the only thing he could look at without being dizzy was Gaby. There was a thin red line across her neck, where the knife had begun to bite, and the anger welled up again, made his hands shake and his face go hard and blank again.
"No, no, Illya," she murmured. "No, come back, it's alright, everything's going to be alright, listen to my voice, stay here with me."
He was kneeling on a beautiful tiled floor. There was a crystal chandelier overhead. They were in a theatre -- yes, they had just come out of a play. And Oleg had struck, had grabbed Gaby as a hostage, knowing they had found the evidence he thought had died with the chessmaster. Evidence that he was a traitor, that he had framed Illya's father all those years ago, that he was responsible for the poisoning deaths of a dozen Russian scientists in the past month.
Oleg had put a knife to Gaby's neck and told Illya to let him go or else she would suffer just as his mother had. And...
"All these years," he heard himself say in his first tongue, unable to think in English. "He held my father's disgrace over me as a threat. He abused my mother while calling himself our protector. He used me, he turned me into a killer, all for his own ends. How many times did he tell me I would be nothing without him? That I only lived, that I had only been accepted into the KGB, because of him?"
"He lied. He was wrong," Gaby said.
"He has to die."
"He will -- but not until we get the information. He'll be executed for everything he's done, Illya."
"It's not enough. It won't be enough."
"I know," she whispered. "It never is."
He couldn't stop shaking. It felt as though he would shake apart. She only held him closer, wrapped her body around him and held on as his shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs. He clung to her as he cried, as his tears dotted her blouse, as the whole world spun and ceased to make sense.
He held onto her because he had lost his grip on everything else.
THE INTERRUPTION (AFTER THE DEADLY ROOK AFFAIR)
He didn't remember moving. He had no idea how he came to be in this hotel room. The next thing he knew, Solo was sitting across from him, bandaging his left hand. "You in there, Illya?" he asked, seeing the flash of awareness cross his face. "You broke two fingers, probably a few of the smaller bones in your hand, too. You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
"Gaby--"
"Is in the shower. She'll be back in a moment. Just stay calm. She's fine. You're fine. We're all fine. Although... you did manage to break your watch. Must've been when you slammed that bastard against the wall. Luckily, I know an incredible watchmaker in town, and he owes me a favor. I'll nip out and have him take a look at it -- you'll have it back in the morning, good as new."
"You don't need," Illya began lamely, feeling utterly empty and exhausted.
"Nonsense. Anything for a friend. And the watchmaker's daughter has probably been missing me all these months, anyway." The bathroom door opened with a gust of steam. Solo looked up, caught Gaby's eye, and nodded. "Well, Peril, be careful with that hand and try to get some rest. Plenty to do in the morning." He clasped his shoulder, managed a stiff smile, and left.
"Would you like something to drink?" Gaby asked, leaning against the doorframe. She'd braided her wet hair. It fell over the shoulder of her gray cotton robe and looked far too much like a noose for his comfort. He blinked sharply and shook his head. "Anything to eat? Something to numb the pain?"
"I doubt anything will do that," he said thickly, already numb.
"Illya, what that man said, about your parents..."
"I was ten, when my father was sent to gulag," he said. "Oleg claimed he was stealing, that he was selling secrets, that he was a traitor. And my mother... She did what she had to so we could survive. Until it killed her. When I was fifteen."
"Six years ago, I lost my father," Gaby said, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Not my birth father -- you know what happened to him. My foster father, Gunther Schmidt. My real father. He said things, disparaging things, and his words got to the wrong ears. We were working at the garage when the men came and dragged him away. A week later, I got a letter saying he was dead. They wouldn't let me have his body for the funeral. And they made it clear that the same thing would happen to me if I did not behave."
"Yet you became a spy. You let Waverly recruit you."
"Yes. Because I was willing to do whatever it took to get out of that place. I promised myself I was either going to escape or I was going to die trying. I would not let those men tell me how I could live."
"But... You are always told what to do now. You still have no control."
"Of course I have control. I've learned a lot, enough to survive no matter the situation, and if Waverly ever gives me an order I can't obey, then I'll disappear. And something tells me he won't look all that hard if I do."
"I would look."
"For him? Or for yourself? If the latter... There's a reason I've kept that engagement ring you gave me on our first mission."
She pulled the chain out from beneath her robe, tilting the ring until the light caught it. Then she reached for his unbandaged hand, so large she could wrap both of hers around it. Drew it up to the side of her face and held it there until he responded, his fingers curling around her ear. "The first time I saw you, I hated you. You looked like everything I feared. You were the embodiment of the people keeping me prisoner, their guard dog sent to drag me back to my cage. I told Solo to shoot you. But he didn't -- maybe he saw what I didn't at the time. That... You're a good man, Illya. Despite what they've done to you, and what's happened to you."
"A good man? Does a good man feel nothing when he kills another? Does a good man know so much rage that he can forget his own name, where he is, the people around him, and wake to find he's destroyed everything?"
"Yes. Yes," she said firmly, still clasping his hand. "Because you kill for the right reasons. Because your anger comes from pain that would have killed someone else. You may not be a perfect man, Illya, but you are a good one. If you were not, bombs would have detonated and armies would've marched and thousands of people would have died. I would be dead, and Solo, too, if you were not the man you are. We all of us have regrets and shame and guilt, Illya. Especially in our line of work. But we do our best and we move on."
She stared at him with such sincerity it hurt to look. His eyes dropped to her neck, to the faint cut across her tan skin. If he had not been so fast, if Oleg had not been so slow, she would be dead now, not sitting here across from him speaking such unbelievable words. That vital light would have been snuffed out, the challenging quirk of her lips erased -- she never would've arched that dark eyebrow at him or touched his hand again.
Everything good in his life had been taken away from him, and the chief person responsible for that had almost taken her, too.
Heedless of any broken bones, he reached for her with both hands. She met him halfway, falling into his arms even as he pulled her closer. Her robe dropped away to reveal bare skin peppered with freckles. The buttons of his shirt disappeared into the pile of the carpet. In the aftermath of the night, they had to cast off everything between them, had to press flesh to flesh, had to remind themselves that they were still whole and breathing. For this moment, in this tiny space, they were together and safe. Tomorrow would bring something new, a different threat, but for now they still had each other.
"I could never hurt you," he said between kisses, using her mother tongue.
"I trust you," she said in his, wrapping her legs around his waist.
She had so many scars now, most still pink and fresh, from the past year alone. From the car crash outside of Rome, from the spilled brazier in Istanbul, from the gunman in Cairo. He assessed them all, saw them all as personal failures: he had promised to protect her, promised he would be close by, and every one of those scars proved he hadn't kept those promises.
"Illya, Illya, you saved me, you have always saved me," she assured him, the Russian flowing from her lips like wine. "In all the ways a person can be saved. You're the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, the fire in my stomach. Darling. Please. Illya."
Everything he'd ever longed to hear, in the only voice he'd ever wanted to speak in such a way. She made his name sound so beautiful and wanted, like something treasured and priceless. She saw him as a man, not a means to an end, and how long had it been since someone looked at him like he was a person rather than a living weapon? Illya -- not just the Red Peril.
The way she shivered against him and gasped made him dizzy. He pressed her to the wall utterly unaware of having moved from the sofa. His hands were firm around her legs, supporting her while she quaked. She clung to him, thighs clenched around his hips as he thrust, and moaned into his neck. Her braid came undone just as she did, her soft, wet hair cascading over his scarred shoulder as she cried out. Every nerve seemed to scream. The room disappeared. He was the only thing real.
"This is real," she managed to say, swallowing a moan. "No matter what, this is real."
"Yes. No covers. No mission. No pretending."
"What we feel is real. Remember this," she half-pleaded, hands tangled in his hair.
He pressed his forehead to hers, their labored breaths mingling. "I will never forget."
He carried her to the bed, still unmade from the previous night -- they had put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, he dimly remembered, because they had wanted to sleep in that morning -- and they knotted the sheets further. She pinned him just as she always did in their sparring matches and he reveled in the strength of her over him. He hadn't lied about liking his women strong; he hadn't lied to her about anything. Even when they were playacting undercover -- the cultural attaché and his society wife, the unhappily married doctors attending therapy, the art collector and her fiancé -- there was always a truth beneath the necessary lies. Behind closed doors, when it was only them, he had never worn a mask with her. He simply couldn't -- she'd always stripped him to the bone. With a glance, or a sarcastic question, or a simple arch of an eyebrow. He might fool the world but he would never fool her.
"I would die for you," he swore.
"I know," she sobbed. "But don't -- please don't. I couldn't bear it."
He didn't say he would kill for her. She knew he already had.
Some time later, when they had both stopped shaking and their skin had cooled, she pushed herself up on one arm to look down at him. He obligingly shifted, turning against the pillow.
"It's funny," she said. "Before we met, I had such terrible insomnia. Some nights I would have to drink to fall asleep--"
"Like that first night in Rome," he said.
"Yes. But then... You would think I would still have trouble sleeping, after all of our scrapes. I have so much more nightmare fodder now. Like that time Petrov grabbed you..." She reached over and brushed her fingertips over his shoulder, over the scar above his right eyebrow. He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"...And yet I've never slept better since becoming a spy. Why is that, do you think?"
"We do an awful lot of running. You are simply worn out every night now."
"That's a theory," she laughed, the sound making his heart stutter. "I think the real difference is you. Ever since you turned those cow eyes on me--"
"Cow?!"
"--And looked at me like I was something wonderful and incredible... I've felt safer than I ever have my entire life. Challenges don't seem as daunting when you tell yourself you've already conquered the unconquerable."
"You have conquered me," he admitted without hesitation. "I did not know what had hit me until days later. Who could believe that the Red Peril of the KGB could be brought to his knees by a chop shop girl from East Berlin."
"I had to bring you to your knees," she teased. "How else was I going to get close enough to your face to kiss it?" She followed through on that promise, pulling him over again. His long arms around her should feel like iron bars, another Soviet cage -- but it felt more like home than anything else ever had, not even her father's garage.
He was dangerous and methodical and willing to torture someone if it got them the necessary results. She had seen him stab and shoot and even beat men to death. He was unpredictably violent, a nearly unstoppable force of nature in the midst of one of his fits, and yet...
She had never been afraid of him. Because with her, he was unceasingly gentle and awkward and tried so, so hard to be impressive. She had seen him bicker with Solo like a ridiculous old married couple, had seen him comfort a small child in the wake of a father's murder, had seen him wracked with guilt when a contact was killed before they could help her.
Living behind the Wall, she had never let herself trust or care for anyone, especially not after her father's death. Anyone could have been a spy or informant, anyone could die because of a stupid mistake. Better to build a wall around her own heart that was even taller than the one down the street.
And then, irony of ironies, she had met one of the world' most infamous spies -- a KGB agent, no less -- and in a matter of days he had broken through her walls with his awkward smiles and tentative hands. He said she'd brought him to his knees, but she was already lying at his feet. Where lies and subterfuge kept you alive, she'd found something true and real.
The world was a mad, strange place.
"Illya," she said quietly, certain yet strangely hesitant. She knew what she wanted, needed, to say to him. Words she'd never given to anyone else before. After everything that had happened, he deserved to hear them tonight. "I l--"
The door burst open. Illya had grabbed a gun from the bedside table and Gaby had snatched the one from beneath her pillow before they realized it was Solo. "Knock next time," Illya said angrily, lowering his pistol.
"That was almost your last dramatic entrance, Solo," Gaby added, wrapping a sheet around herself. "What is it?"
"Sorry -- I would've waited till morning, but I had a feeling you'd have both killed me if I did. It's the sort of news you'd rather have sooner than later."
"And?"
"Oleg's escaped."