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Despite the fact that it's almost October, Illya's sweating. Discreetly collaring his shirt, he wonders if it's obvious. Around him, socialites and high society people eat and laugh and clink their glasses. Within his earshot, at least three different languages are being spoken. His German is rusty, but he's playing a German tonight, so, in the conversation's lapse, he goes over the correct accent and tenses and nouns in his head. Ich bin ein Berliner. You certainly were not, John.
To the right of him is an elderly Dutch lady. To say she's taken a shine to him would be an understatement. Throughout the night she has repeatedly described her beautiful granddaughter back in Rotterdam to him: yes, a fine man like you should meet my granddaughter-- Skylar, she is so lovely and beautiful, there is nobody like my Sky, my beautiful granddaughter. Illya nods politely - he's playing a bachelor, how could he realistically turn down an infinitely beautiful woman like Skylar? - but his focus, hence the hot collar, is fixated on only one thing in the gilted ballroom.
On the dancefloor, Gaby dances, slowly and chastely, with the Duke of Somewhere European (Illya can't pronounce it correctly; it's Scandinadvian, anyway). The Duke's name is Tristan Stenberg, and he is so attractive that the Gaby Teller-loving part of Illya's mind wants to turn away in disgust, and the other half of it - the one that slips sly looks when Napoleon leaves the shower half naked - wants to watch him dance forever. Waverley warned them that he was "well-bred," but he did not warn them that not since learning who James Dean was has Illya seen such blue eyes. Maybe I should introduce him to Skylar, he thought bitterly, as Stenberg spun Gaby flawlessly, her mouth parting in delight. She was in a powder-blue dress that dipped in at her waist and then flowed elegantly outwards, and then down towards the floor, with a collection of layered silver necklaces wrapped around her throat, glinting and reflecting the lights of the room. She wasn't dressed for street fashion today: she was nothing but royalty. Illya's pulse skipped once more at this thought.
'Careful, Peril,' a low voice quipped in his ear. 'I don't believe Mrs. Moscovitch has quite finished telling you about her granddaughter: who isn't, by the way, being a honeypot on the dancefloor over there.'
'What are you doing over here?' Illya hissed out of the side of his mouth in German. Solo was supposed to be circling the party, paying attention to Stenberg's associates.
'Just making sure the Hulk is remaining Bruce Banner,' Solo said smoothly. Illya's face is blank. 'The Hulk?' Solo presses. 'It's a joke about your green f- Never mind.'
'And who is this?' Mrs. Moscovitch notices Solo, proceeding to bat her papery eyelids at him. Illya wouldn't be surprised if she had a second beautiful granddaughter up her sleeve to harp on about.
'Oliver Frederickson, my good lady,' Solo says, smooth as melting honey. 'Old Jorge here and I have previously worked together; we were just catching up. But I can see you're busy here, old chap, so if you don't mind.' Solo weaved back into the throng of party-goers, leaving Illya alone once again with this assinine woman.
'I should have told him about Jaqueline,' Mrs. Moscovitch sighs, and Illya's eyes almost roll back into his head.
*
Eventually, Gaby takes a break, and, with a drink in her hand to refresh herself, makes a not-so-subtle beeline towards Illya. The table had now been vacated of Mrs. Moscovitch and replaced by two shady-looking businessmen who'd chosen this corner to discuss things lowly in Greek. Illya couldn't help but be glad to see Gaby, even as he sweats with sheer second-hand nerves for her, for what she had to do.
'Hallo, mein Bärchen,' she gushes enthusiastically. She'd recently taken to calling him her little bear; for the irony or the Russian connection or what, Illya couldn't decide. Either way, she was clearly glad to be speaking her native tongue again after hours of gabbling in English - the Duke only spoke one second language after his mother tongue, like a fool.
'You are having fun?' Illya responds, a little icily.
'Ja,' Gaby pants, sitting momentarily. 'I know he's corrupt and awful but he really does seem sweet; I feel that there are worse people to seduce.' Her eyes glint. 'And those eyes!'
Illya grunts. Gaby grins.
'So have you been able to drug the drink?' He presses.
'No,' Gaby says, looking uncertain for the first time. 'He had a glass of champagne that I couldn't get to, then he finished it and started doing shots, for God's sake! He hasn't had a real drink since.' She wrung her hands. 'And now he wants to go to the room. I don't know what to do.' She ran a hand through her hair. 'If the deed needs to be done, I will, but I need to snoop around there with him unconscious, or at least deeply asleep.'
'So knock him the fuck out,' Illya says bluntly, and Gaby stifles a shocked giggle.
'Christ, Illya! What's gotten into you?' Her look towards him was borderline admiring. 'You're no longer the shrinking violet I remember from Rome, that's for sure.'
Ah, Rome, Illya thinks, as Gaby sips her vodka tonic. They had had so much promise as a pair, but, alas, things had reached a stalemate between them - they mutually decided their espionage careers, and, indeed, the fate of international relations, was too high a stake in which to begin a complicated and heated relationship. So they acted when they needed to act; kissed, when they needed to kiss; and spent nights in hotel rooms in separate beds, each one thinking of the other, never tossing and turning, never moving. It was languid, tense, almost hungry at some points, and Illya could barely keep aloof about it these days. Especially times like these, when she was in the arms of some other unworthy swine, a silver-spooned aristocrat who might just go farther with her tonight than Illya ever will. At this thought, Illya's hands begin to tremble slightly.
As if reading his mind, Gaby covers his large, trembling paw on the table with her tiny one. 'Schatz,' she tells him, firmly. 'I will be fine. Don't worry about me.' She gently massages his hand with hers; Illya's stomach flutters. 'Just focus on keeping yourself safe, meine Bärchen.'
'You are the one in danger,' he tells her, a little annoyed.
'I'm a big girl,' Gaby tells him, teasingly, and he almost smiles.
*
Two things happened within the next ten minutes: Gaby was lead upstairs by Stenberg, his bronze hand laced in hers, a cat-got-the-cream look upon his stupid, smug face as they walked together up the winding, carpeted stairs to the hotel's bedrooms; and Napoleon shot Illya a cursory glance as he left the party with an associate of Stenberg's, stepping out onto the patio into the mid-evening Monaco moonlight with lit cigarettes in their mouths. Illya's mood was lifted at this: he knew Solo had a recording device hidden somewhere on himself, and nothing would please Waverley more than a bloodless, simple, recorded confession of corruption from a close source. Bloodless and simple, however, wasn't exactly the trio's style, he had to admit to himself.
So with his two counterparts sufficiently busy, Illya excused himself to nobody in particular - his table was now bereft of anybody he recognised - and took off, hurrying up the winding staircase to the hotel room that he and Gaby had been occupying for the past two days, preparing for this very night.
Stenberg's room was on the fifth floor, with the duo's on the second, so Illya was relatively confident of the low likelihood that he would bump into them, doing God knew what - regardless, he melted into the walls as he puttered up the staircase, one hand covering his gun discreetly, lowering his head when somebody passed him. He reached the room and elusively slipped inside, allowing himself to breathe for a moment before collapsing onto his bed, grateful of the privacy, away from the critical eyes of the ballroom.
Look, it wasn't wrong, what he'd done. Gaby would understand. Illya took the receiver and fiddled with the frequency, eventually coming across a familiar noise amongst the indiscernible crackling. '...you should visit, sometime. Summer time in London is a joy.'
That was Gaby; three floors above him, pretending to be British. Some guilt flickered at the edge of the Russian's conscience, but he batted it away quickly. Though he hadn't exactly informed Gaby that he would be bugging her (and thoroughly - just to be sure) Illya posed the mission above all things, ethics included. Besides, all was fair in love and war. How very Russian of you, Gaby would scoff, if she knew what he was thinking.
Illya fixed himself a small whiskey with ice whilst listening to Stenberg's lilted, rolling English, harping on about how he had visited London in the summer and yes it was indeed a joy, blah blah blah....Illya made a mocking face as he threw two ice cubes into the tumbler. Stupid, spoiled, neutral Scandinavian. He banished these sour thoughts and concentrated instead on their conversation, which had turned sultry.
'...so beautiful. Twice as beautiful as anyone there tonight,' Stenberg's voice was low.
'Only twice?' Gaby was mocking him. 'I thought at least ten times more beautiful...'
'Yes, ten! No, a hundred!' Illya made a sick face at the Duke's attempts at flattery. 'You English girls, you are known worldwide for your loveliness...'
Illya heard Gaby giggle. 'Why, thank you.'
'I cannot believe you came here alone - that you are uninvolved with any person.'
There seemed to be a slight longer pause before Gaby smoothly replied. 'Well, in London, the men are spoiled for choice. Like you say, us English girls are lovely.'
Illya was restless, now, and not quite bored enough to pull out his chess board. A moment later and he heard the crackling of a record player, and a muffled song began to emit from the receiver, from the distance. Illya did not recognise it.
'So, those men at the table...you often work with them?' Gaby's voice had taken on a peculiar tone.
'Yes. They are my associates; for finance and political proceedings, and such.' Stenberg seemed to have noticed the change of pace, too, probably wondering why Gaby had chosen to ask him this. With the jazz music playing in the background, he tried to restore the atmosphere back to its previous mood. 'So, would you say you have been impressed by this evening, Miss Richards?'
'Oh, it was wonderful.' Illya heard what sounded like a bed squeak; presumably they'd both sat down there. 'So what kind of political proceedings do they need to take care of?'
She's stalling , Illya realised with a jolt. She wants a straight confession without going ahead with it. Shit, shit, shit. Stenberg was going to suspect. Illya's gun lay dormant on the coffee table: he eyed it, debating whether or not to head up there. But no, it was too soon. Perhaps she could pull this off.
Stenberg chuckled. 'You are an astute woman, Miss Richards. I like that in a woman. But no more talk.'
And then Illya heard very little for several minutes. A breath, a sigh, the clack of a glass being placed down. Mostly it was all too quiet for the bug to pick up, so Illya made himself a second drink (a slightly bigger one) and began to pace, tracing, with his eyes, the patterns of the ugly carpet. Maroon and green, really? This place was supposedly a five-star. He wondered how Solo was getting on. Maybe he should've bugged him, too.
But Solo was a grown man - a very grown man, Illya corrected, but batting away this flushed teenage thought quickly - whereas Gaby (his Gaby) was a small woman, no matter how feisty, up there with a morally dubious man. She was priority.
And then, some minutes later -
'Oh, God.' Her voice was breathless and low. Illya's body reacted instantly. He sat back down, stricken, flood suddenly leaving his head to flow south. The hairs on his arms began to rise. But he had to keep listening.
'Do you like that, my little rose?' Illya's jaw clenched at Stenberg's voice. 'There's more where that came from.'
'Yes.' Either Gaby was an exceptional actress or she really did want to sleep with him, because the enthusiasm in her voice was tangible. Illya heard Stenberg chuckle, and then a few more minutes of silence followed. Illya chewed his lip, waiting, his breath slightly held. He didn't want to think about how she looked right now, what she was (or wasn't) wearing, how undone she already was...He threw back some more whiskey, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch, his hand reaching for his cock over his jeans subconsciously.
Then there was a gasp - a loud one, from her - and the sound of a bed squeaking and shaking, just audible enough, but not so that Illya had to turn down the receiver. It continued, rhythmically, and Illya was grateful for Stenberg's relative silence so that he could imagine that it was him, only him and Gaby, the two of them making love after a tiring mission, his back muscles clenching and flexing as he worked into her, sweat sheening off the both of them...As if to reiterate this fantasy, Gaby moaned through the reciever, so loudly that it went straight to Illya's cock, and he dived to turn down the volume.
He was palming himself through his trousers, already hard, desire snaking through his stomach, almost letting out a wanton sound himself. Gaby's noises were building in volume now, and, unfortunately, so were Stenberg's: Illya tried desperately to block them out. He thought only of Gaby, Gaby's voice, Gaby's body, her big eyes and long lashes and lush mouth, and just as he was about to come over the edge, he heard a single sentence through the receiver.
'Mein Bärchen...' It was a swift, quiet moan, and Illya came in a strong wave before he even comprehended its meaning. He lay there, soaked through his jeans, the aftermath of his orgasm thrumming through his body, when a second wave - this time of utter shock, of joy - spread through his body. Meine Bärchen. She'd said his name - his nickname - whilst in the throes of pleasure from another man. His head was in pieces - he didn't know what to do - jumping up, he began pacing again, one hand fisting in his hair, disorientated.
He heard what sounded like Stenberg's climax - something garbled in his native language through a serious of pants that eventually slowed - but it wasn't until a few minutes later that he heard Gaby's. Illya had the vision of Stenberg rolling over after his own climax and leaving Gaby to finish herself, and the mere thought of her, three floors above him, thinking of him whilst she pleasured herself, just as he did the same, made him bite his fist with the sheer muchness of it all.
'Oh,' he heard her through the receiver. Her moans were reaching their peak, and, seconds later, they concluded with a small, short word - he was eighty per cent sure she said Bärchen again - and then there was quiet.
Illya's legs felt numb. His heartbeat was in his ears, and euphoria was spreading, against his will, throughout his entire psyche: he could've walked on the moon right then.
His Gaby. His Gaby.
*
Napoleon knocked on Illya's hotel room door, who answered it immediately. The American noticed Illya was tipsy, and wearing different trousers to the ones he'd last seen him in, but he didn't question it.
'Did you get a confession?' Illya asked with a suppressed hiccup.
'Nope. Dead end,' Solo said, dissatisfied. 'But here's the good news: Gaby managed to slip Stenberg something after all. Turns out they fucked, and she offered him some water afterwards, and the idiot drank it without question. So she's in there, now, investigating. We have to go, now, and act before people come looking for him.'
Illya fetched his gun and slipped back out with Solo, who looked at him oddly as they bolted up the stairs.
'Had fun in there?' Solo quipped.
Illya looked away, not dignifying an answer, and Solo smirked, piecing the puzzle together.
They reached the Duke's room, where Gaby was digging through his luggage, wearing one of Stenberg's shirts - it hung down over her hips, making her look adorable beyond measure - with her hair well and truly giving away what she'd been up to. She looked over her shoulder at the spies as they entered and nodded at them before getting back to work, seemingly not noticing Illya's flushed face at the sight of her. Stenberg was slumped on the bed, passed out, his mouth open wide.
Solo and Illya began digging themselves - throwing open drawers, looking under furniture - each of them growing more frustrated by the minute. Almost fifteen minutes later, and the hotel room was upside-down, with no evidence in sight.
'Sheisse,' Gaby hissed, sinking down onto the couch. 'All this was for nothing. Nothing.'
Not nothing, Illya thought, but remained silent.
'It's all right, Gabs,' Solo began, but Gaby threw off his comforting touch.
'Is there anything you learned from him, while you were together?' Solo pressed. 'Anything at all?'
'No!' Gaby cried. 'I tried, but - he was so elusive - I thought if I stuck to the plan -' She stopped before she became too heated, crossing her arms.
'It's okay,' Napoleon said. 'But we have to go now, fast. If there's nothing here, there's no reason for us to stay, and people are going to come looking sooner or later.'
The pair of them turned away as Gaby shimmied back into her ball gown, and then the three of them were out of there, this time taking the elevator down to the basement, where the parking lot for hotel guests was located. A shiny, silver Jag was waiting for them there, nestled in between various other high-class cars. 'I want to drive, but these shoes,' Gaby grumbled, indicating her spiked heels, as the elevator slid down to the basement.
'You can,' Illya said, remembering. 'I put a spare pair of your flats in the back, in case this happened.'
'What foresight,' Solo said, impressed.
'Oh, my hero, Bärchen,' Gaby beamed, squeezing his arm in glee. At that word, Illya's pulse jumped, and he smiled down at her as she grinned up at him.
He would be with her, sooner or later. Not right now - although he wanted it to be - but in the near future. She had, without her own knowing, shifted the dynamic between them, caused the ever-present low ache of loneliness in Illya's soul to be replaced with a sliver of something beautiful: joy, admiration, and an unshakable longing for her. No person, no boundaries would come between them now. Maybe it would be after this mission. Maybe it would be the minute she drove them away, out of the hotel and into the Monacan night, the glowing lights of the city shimmering as they sped away, off to formulate a new plan, find a new place to stay for the night, before they dived back in an finished off the son of a bitch for good. Illya couldn't help but smile in a small way as he rode shotgun beside her, so tempted to cover her hand with his as it rested on the gearstick. Not tonight. But soon.