Chapter Text
| The Defense |
Her fingers crawl, ever so discreetly in the darkness, towards the nightstand bathed in moonlight. They seek, restless, until she feels cold metal. His much larger hand suddenly appears, covering hers entirely.
No, Chop Shop Girl.
I can't sleep.
She isn't sure if it's an explanation or a complaint—a plea for him to tire her out.
Is easy. Just close your eyes he says, voice low and rough. And leave gun alone.
♤♤♤
Gaby fired a gun for the first time when she was seventeen. It was with a boy she knew from the neighborhood.
However, she lets Illya assume that she is still inexperienced. She lets him teach her.
She figures it's good for his tenuous self esteem. And, truthfully, she thrills for his eagerness—the feel of him pressed up behind her. He shows her how to take it apart, put it back together, load it.
It's heavy in her hands as his fingers cover hers, working it. She is endlessly satisfied by the fluid feel of the machinery, the slide and click when when she feels it cock.
Her chest hitches as she pulls the trigger and feels it release. Fireworks.
She's flushed and buzzing. Illya's cheek is pressed against hers, he's a hard line at her back, and the scent of him fills her head, makes her dizzy. He's not entirely unaffected either: ears pink, sweat gathering at his temples.
His mouth inches from hers, his fingers are completely steady as he turns on the safety.