He wanted to hit something. Granted, it was a common impulse for him, but the emotion behind it was especially unnerving.
Storming back from Waverly's hotel room to his own, Illya muttered a few colourful curses in his mother tongue. He pushed his door open only to slam it closed behind him, scowl lessening slightly as he heard the wood splinter satisfactorily.
"Illya?"
He jumped at the sound of her voice, whirling to see she'd followed him. She approached him carefully, noting the tapping of his fingers against his thigh. The Russian halted the motion as he noticed her eyes lingering. "What are you doing here, chop shop girl?"
Gaby rolled her eyes as she closed the gap between them. "Making sure you don't do anything stupid," she replied archly, lifting a small hand to tug at his bowtie. "And don't call me that."
He huffed at her and turned away, stalking to the dresser across the room. He could feel her presence as she drew closer, but tried to ignore the feeling it stirred in his chest. Her fingertips danced across his back for the briefest moment; Illya shivered in spite of himself. "What do you want, Gaby?," he forced out, resisting the urge to take her into his arms. It was unprofessional, and foolish, and.... what if she pushed him away?
Gaby sighed heavily and leaned her forehead between the tall man's shoulder blades (she wore heels today, not that it made that much of a difference). He tensed under the contact but she ignored it, inhaling his scent. "You know we can't have the same cover every mission," she said softly, acutely aware of how his breath hitched.
"I know that."
"Sometimes Solo and I will be sent out together. You don't own me," she continued, but her usual biting tone was absent.
Kuryakin turned suddenly to face her with eyes burning. "I know that," he repeated.
She held his gaze unwaveringly, her defiance winning out as he eventually slumped his shoulders and looked away. Gaby pulled her thin sweater closer around her. Why was the room so cold? Was he homesick for Mother Russia? Trying to give himself frostbite for nostalgia's sake?
He walked over to the couch and hunched in front of his chess board, moodily pushing the pieces around the board. "Illya," she tried again, taking a seat next to him.
He shuddered. His name on her lips was sweet torture. He couldn't bear to look at her, he was afraid of what he would see in her eyes. Disgust? Or worse, pity?
"It's just a cover. All part of the game," she reminded him, taking the queen from his hand when he refused to acknowledge her. He scoffed and shook his head with gritted teeth.
"Why a fiancée? Why that?," he demanded. "Cowboy would never settle down, he is too much the ladies man. Why not sister? Or secretary, or-"
"Are you jealous, darling?" He could hear the smile in her voice, and his cheeks turned scarlet at the question.
"N-no," he stammered, unconsciously ducking his head. She let out a small laugh, the sound warming him to the core. Her fingers reached under his chin, pulling his face toward her. "Don't lie to me, Illya," she murmured.
"Yesterday you were engaged to me, today to Cowboy," he muttered. "I don't trust his hands or his eyes. They wander."
"And yours are so well behaved?," she laughed, swatting him on the shoulder. He smirked in response, glancing up from under his eyebrows at her. All at once he leaned over her, forcing her back onto the couch. She gasped as he slid a hand up her arm to hers, entwining their fingers before taking back the queen and releasing her. She raised her eyebrows at him and stood up, for once towering over him. "Naughty," she clucked at him. "What would my fiancé say?"
With a start Illya stood up, gathering her up into his arms as he did. Gaby shrieked in surprise and hit his chest, but he merely growled in response. She felt a thrill at the throaty rumble and impulsively tried to instigate more of the same reaction. He caught her hand as she attempted to slap him, pulling her closer to his frame.
"Feeling feisty, котенок?," he questioned, his voice as deep as she'd ever heard it. She shivered, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and press her mouth to his. "Я не котенок," she replied, a satisfied smile on her face as he looked surprised. "You are learning Russian," he stated incredulously, and she threw her head back to laugh, her elegant neck tempting him. Lord, why did she have to be so beautiful?
"I want to be able to tease you in your own language," she sassed back, a dimple gracing her cheek. He smiled at her, undisguised adoration in his gaze. Had he ever smiled before he met her? He couldn't remember.
Gaby's chest ached when he looked at her like that, but she didn't want it to stop. She had never known a spy to be so genuine, but she wouldn't complain. He was wonderful and kind and completely adorable, and she would soak him in as long as she could. "You're my favourite pretend fiancé," she whispered suddenly. And as she said it she realized it was true.
Note: Hello! Trying out a new whimsy, let me know what you think!
котенок: kitten
Я не котенок: I am no kitten
