bakerstreet | But you don't really care for music, do you?

tin soldier / uprising / roentgenizdat (jazz on bones)

[Illya stood, tall and dark and silent, a few feet away from Gaby as she chatted with one of the guest of the party. To Napoleon's amusement and Illya's distress, they were involved in another mission that required them to act as a soon-to-wed couple.

The russian knew that they were both far from harmless, but after what happened with uncle Rudi and Alexander Vinciguerra he was hesitant to leave his new partners out of his sight for more than five minutes. He could see Solo talking with their mark in the opposite side of the room and Illya walked over Gaby with a two glasses of champagne in his hands. He was trying really hard not to apply too much force and break the glass in half. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened.]

[ as resilient as she was to play faux fiancée initially, there's a portion of her mind that's grateful waverly's given her an excuse not to think about what to do with his ring. it keeps its place on her finger, gaudy little thing. knowing illya, there's another tracker on her somewhere: carved into the heel of her shoe or sewn into the lining of her purse. if the boys haven't been communicating, she could be drowning in bugs. after that joy ride with alexander, she doesn't mind nearly as much as she did before and will again.

there's a gentleman admiring her ring, or rather using the opportunity to take her hand. he hasn't relinquished it by the time her partner joins them, so she plucks it free with imperceptible agitation and drifts cozily to illya's side, accepting the flute that's just a bit fuller than the other. illya's hands are vice-like in relinquishing it, which does not escape her notice, nor has his egregious surveillance of the perimeter. surely someone of his skills had the place laid out within a minute. ]

Darling. Mr. Dalman here has been stifling me with compliments regarding your good taste. [ in rings, women, parties -- she was only half listening. dalman takes it as a friendly jibe but flushes genuinely now that she's standing beside her brick shithouse of a fiancé, to whom she transplants the whole of her attention after a deceptively deep sip of champagne. ] Let's take a breath of fresh air, hmm?

[Oh there were bugs, that for sure. Not just on her ring, shoes and purse, Illya has somehow managed to make them small enough to add them to her glasses, earrings and even Solo's scuffling. It was the sort of things the Russian did in his free time, if he ever had it. It was better not to think about it too much.

He didn't spoke to the man but gave Mr. Dalman what he hoped was a polite smile rather than a promise of murder if he kept flirting with his 'fiancée'. Illya was sure he didn't completely success but he didn't feel sorry for the look of dread that crossed Mr. Dalman's features for a few seconds.]

That sound like good idea. [His hand moved around her waist to her lower back in a small caress and guided her towards one of the huge balconies.]

[ she's no less tired of the relentless succor, having sussed out early dalman was worthless to them, just a laboratory yes man. gaby smiles at him congenially as they step away. it falls off her face before they hit the near-still evening breeze, cold and thin compared to the clot of condensed air thinning out from the centre of the dance floor. napoleon has already made his appearance there, proving himself to be an adept salsa dancer (she doesn't know why she's surprised). all peacocking, of course, but perhaps not solely for the benefit of his mark.

draining the second third of her champagne, she turns to face him. she peeks past his broad frame to confirm their brief departure appears to have gone unnoticed. if they're lucky, no one's noticed illya's discomfort and have just been mistaking him for a particularly handsome pillar. ]

You have to try and relax.

I'm relaxed.

[He says almost immediately, far too quickly. The word sounds foreign to his ears as if it didn't belong to his vocabulary. He leaves his glass on the balcony railing, untouched. He never drank while on the job if he could avoid it, even if the occasion called for it.

The change in temperature doesn't go unnoticed. Illya barely registers his own hand reaching out to run his fingers over Gaby's shoulder and down the side of her arm.]

Are you cold?

[ she glances down at her arm. his fingers are warm for once, the trail of them throwing into relief the goosepimples rising on her skin. regardless, she shrugs. years of working in a drafty garage have desensitized her to many milder nuisances. ]

Warm me up. [ gaby drains her glass and sets it aside, trusting he can take care of his own (she may drink it later, depending on their american friend's success). the band inside has picked up; a jauntier, more modern beat than the slow, lowly brass tunes of the past few selections. her hands pick up on the base rhythm, followed by her hips and feet as she draws him further onto the balcony, past the view of the other party-goers. a momentary digression, for the good of the mission. they still don't know each other that intimately, after all.

she gives a perk of her brows, palms out and fingers fanned as a sign she'll fight fair. ] Truce. [ wiggles those fingers, bobbing her shoulders to the music ]

[He was, in fact, going to take off his jacket to offer it to Gaby. The light breeze couldn't compare to the cold night of the Russian winter and he barely noticed it. But her demand made him raise an eyebrow and stop in his tracks.

Illya allows her to maneuver him where she wants it and his ears pick up on the rhythm of the new song.]

I would do us no good to wrestle at a party, right, my dear?

[He takes a step forward. Maybe, just maybe, Illya likes to have an excuse to get close. But Illya and 'dancing' are still two concepts that don't go together and he has trouble even swinging to the music.]

Edited 2015-09-14 22:49 (UTC)

[ she may accept it once the cold has seeped past her skin, but she'll get her way first. he's not used to that yet. who's to say they aren't wrestling? stubborn mules that they are. ]

I don't know about that. Seeing you lose may put some people at ease.

Hands. [ she lays hers out for him to take. he has little or possibly no sense of rhythm; an aptitude requires vulnerability, which they've bred out of him. too many walls, too much wire wrapped around and around the world. perhaps if she can help him undo some of what they've done to him, there's hope for her too, but those thoughts beget much more alcohol and are summarily relegated to their usual compartment under the floorboards of her mind. ]

People might look but it's not me who they see.

[Why would they when there's a beautiful woman to look at? It would be a waste, in his opinion.

You can take the boy out of the iron curtain, but you can't take the iron curtain out of the boy. Some scars, some lessons, run too deep for the healing. But this time he wants to try, mostly for the mission, Illya tells himself, because it's too much of a weakness to admit that he has trouble not complying to her demands. And so he takes her hand.]

Charming.

[ gaby all but clucks her tongue, expression warm but neutral. he can be an oaf sometimes, particularly in the realm of women, but he's always honest and polite, and every so often those qualities coalesce and he knows just what to say. ]

Maybe it should be you in there, honey. [ the endearment is a deliberate nod to napoleon, who no doubt would be catching flies regardless of the mission parameters. he clearly has a preferred role: the bark to illya's bite. life being what it is, she doubts they will always get their way. should be interesting.

with both his hands in hers (if that can be said, her palm filling only a portion of his), she moves them back and forth, tandem with their feet in a simple twist. unsurprisingly, the tension is most evident in his shoulders. weight of the world and all that. gaby's strong too. it's nothing to her to try and quietly alleviate the burden for a little while. its hers to share now. only right, in her opinion. ]

[Illya gives her the smallest of smiles, as if to say 'I have my moments', but it's sincere and somewhat coy. Just because he doesn't praise her as often as Napoleon doesn't mean that he's not finding her fascinating most of the time.

Far from it, actually. He thinks praise needs to be saved for the right moment or it ends sounding shallow and premeditated. Which is how Napoleon's charms sounds most of the time, at least to Illya.

The Russian follows her rhythm slightly better than the first time they danced, still too aware of the people in the other room next to them. Missions let them little room for normalcy, too busy playing games and faking being people they were not, but that gives Illya and idea. He's not supposed to be himself so maybe he really can be her fiancée for a while, maybe he can be someone who dances and finds enjoyment at parties.

Part of him, the one that often reminds him that good things never last, claims that he's not that kind of person and never will be. Illya hushes that voice and gives Gaby a little spin before pulling her close.]

Still cold, little chop shop girl? [He looks down at her, all but murmuring the last part.]

[ she thought she might fall into the lead, his initiative taking her off guard but not off kilter. she starts to bite down on her lip to suppress a smile, relenting shortly after. they are meant to be in love, if not madly, but they've yet to sell it well. small pity they've lost most of heir audience, her husband-to-be suddenly playing the hell out of his part. quite small. growing infinitesimal. ]

I hope not.

[ too short to crook her arm around his shoulders and never about to admit it, she drapes her hand over the nape of his neck. his skin is a smear of heat that stirs still, clouded pools of memory: rolling around with him until they were both running hot, and then sinking towards a feeling almost like home. she wishes she could remember more of him, or how she ended up tucked into bed, but these are things not worth asking. what becomes of them is what interests her now. no less than that particularly boyish gleam in his eyes which gaby meets with pleasure, skeptical brows unflinching. ]

[Miracles do occur, it seems. Yet he still wished he could unbound himself from worries the same ways she does, if only to make sure he's not going to ruin the evening. In that aspect, she's a much better agent than he ever will be.

Illya tensed up at her touch but leaned over a second later to make things easier for both of them. His size gave him an advantage during fights but it was an inconvenience when it came to everything else. Yet, that wasn't a problem when Gaby dragged him to the ground and straddled him in Rome.

His eyelashes swept low and he felt guilty for thinking of her that way. It is not proper. If Illya had showed confidence a few seconds ago, that was gone now and he wore his shame like a damp suit.]

[ she can almost feel his valiant pretense slip away. perhaps because she's too warm. neither he nor solo are as suave as they think they can be, but whatever damage is in the american's past he's made an art of cultivating. she has never seen him go stiff or cast his gaze aside like illya has. she herself has difficulty summoning a smile simply because the occasion calls for it. the one she wears now, she doesn't force to stay, and though it dims, her eyes go bright and sharp. ]

I'm going to borrow your feet.

[ with him stooping to accommodate her, she slings her arms around his neck. carefully, she steps on one shoe, than the other, confident she weighs no more to him than a bag of flour. it brings her chest flush with his, and she tips her chin up now that she's gained a couple inches. ]

There. Have you got me?

[Her weight doesn't bother him, she's light like feather in comparison, and Illya briefly wonder how was her life before, if she got taken care of properly when she was on the wrong side of the Wall.]

Always.

[The answer is immediate and there's no doubt or hesitation. They might not have started with the right foot but Illya would gladly burn himself up to keep her warm.]

[ the loop of her arms tightens, pulling her to the tips of her toes. she leans left of his throat, close to his ear as though conspiring. ]

И у меня есть ты.*

[ it's spoken quietly because their cover doesn't account for her still very rudimentary knowledge of russian and because her accent can't be very kind on the ears yet. still, she knows enough to string together a simple sentence capable of bearing a complicated sentiment. she's her own woman, and with waverly between him and his handlers, he's more than ever his own man. she doesn't think he's dulled to the humiliation of constant, unwilling compromise. no one is. but this is not a claim. it's a promise. small she may be, but she will find a way to carry him when the war comes to remind them all who they really belong to. ]

[ *And I have you ]

Illya's grip on her tightens, his blue eyes widening in surprise. The accent might need working but he was not one to talk and the words, the words are what matters to him.

There's that look on her again..intense, promising. He might have doubted it was all an act the first time they were so close but Illya tells himself there's no reason for her to lie to him now. He wants to believe that. And it's that look, that voice, what makes his stomach flutter and his mind finally understand why Alexander Pushkin could write countless poems about love and never be able to capture what he truly wanted to say.

One of his hands lifts to touch her cheek almost of its own accord, cupping her face as he leans closer.]

[ he may have forgiven her for having to sell him out along with solo but a spy's trust is hardwon and very easily lost. she can tell she has said the right thing in the way that his breath catches, a very soft and gentle sound in contrast with how his breath labours like a bull about to charge when his temper has been tampered with. gaby cranes her neck back only enough so that she can look into his eyes; there she sees his want to believe her narrowly overriding the lessons they've hewn into him in scars, not to trust others, likely not to trust himself beyond his capacity to act as a weapon.

a beat passes in which she expects napoleon to come careening onto the balcony with some arm candy, flushing their moment in favour of his own tryst (mission-related, not that she'd be of a mind to care). there is only silence and the warmth of illya's breath sluicing evanescently over her mouth, her neck. the heartbeat that punctuates their solitude seems to resonate through her as a war drum would, propelling her past their last shred of distance. one arm slackens, falling back to his neck and the soft, short hair that tickles her fingertips. her kiss falls most fully on his bottom lip, an invitation to try again. the russian way. ]

[There had been too many lies and promises broken in his past, specially from those he cared the most and trusting doesn't come easy. And yet, he's so willing to do so sometimes because he needs something in his life that lasts.

Illya doesn't know if this is it. It probably can't be because good things never last. It's also unprofessional and he should know better, a words tells him in the back of his mind. But for the time being he's focusing only on her and the moment they are sharing.

In spite all the unanswered questions, Illya leans forward to meet her lips one more time. His fingers tilt her delicate chin as he presses his mouth against Gaby's, gentle at first and sucking on her lower lip a second later.]

[ her body sighs against him. it must not be easy to chose this. it isn't for her after years of fearing every knock at the door will be the stasi or the fascists come to address her as fraulein teller. it would not be smart were they civilians. it's almost stupid with their lives as they are but there is no going back for them, bridges burned along with her father's work, but if she is always going to be afraid, she refuses to submit to it. it is far from all of her.

gaby's lips part to his, her fingers raking boldly through his hair. she suspects that in this moment they are thinking the same thing, rationalising around an obvious mistake she's no less determined to make. this belongs to them, no matter who may one day try to come and take it. she holds hard to few things, but those become a part of her. they haven't seen how far she would go for them and neither has she.

very faintly, she can hear his watch ticking by her ear and smiles. ]

[He's not stranger to that feelings either. After they took Illya's father away, his mom and his where always waiting for knocks at the door in the middle of the night. Waiting to be taken away suddenly. He still does sometimes, to this day. But now his mind is happily busy with much pleasant thoughts.

He's focused on the way her perfume smells, the way her lips feels and the gentle touch of her fingers in his scalp. It's nice and he's so not used to nice it almost hurts.

Illya can't really tell if the kiss lasted five minutes or barely seconds but he can't hear the music playing anymore but the time he broke it.

[ she only relents when he does, drifting back down to the balls of her feet and keeping her loose grip on him. she pursues the impulse to nuzzle at his neck, inhaling his cologne. it's subtle, perhaps just a dab, but up close it is stark and earthy and suits him perfectly well.

resting her head to his shoulder, she can think of nothing she'd like to say. not quite yet. she tucks an arm down between them, palm to his chest as he breath. her fingers swirl aimlessly in his hair and when she exhales, it's silent and great and she feels lighter, like the dust from the wall that settled at the bottom of her lungs has been shaken loose. it won't last but it's rather lovely all the same. ]

But you don't really care for music, do you?

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[tin soldier]

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