Illya fell onto the bed, too tired to be irritated. And he was perpetually irritated as of late, so that was saying something. He kicked his shoes off without moving the rest of his body. The phone rang and he groaned, rolling back off the mattress and staggering to the table where it was located.
"Hello," he grumbled into the receiver, the word sounding like a command instead of a greeting.
There was a pause and his already half shut eyes narrowed in suspicion. He opened his mouth to speak again but stopped as he heard chuckling at the other end of the line.
"Rough night, Peril?"
He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Is everything a joke to you, Cowboy?"
"Just you."
He scowled into his palm and told the American to cut to the chase.
"The little woman was worried about you when you didn't come in for debriefing," Solo said airily, and Illya felt a wide range of emotions at the snarky comment.
"So I, being the doting fiancé that I am, offered to check in on you."
Ah. Just the one emotion now.
"Care to join us in our room for a nightcap?"
Fury.
____
"Napoleon!" Gaby yelled, overhearing how the man was goading their teammate. She stalked over to him and ripped the receiver from his hand. "Do you have a death wish?" she hissed, batting him away from her as he made to wrap an arm around her waist. "Illya? Hello?" she nearly shouted into the phone.
"I've faced the wrath of the Red Peril before," he teased. "I can manage."
"What about mine?" she growled, and for a brief moment he did feel a bit uneasy.
"What do you want, Teller?" Illya's reply reached them both, and Napoleon winced sympathetically at the coldness.
"Don't call me that," she snapped. "Получить свою задницу сюда, you заросшие картофеля!"
She slammed the phone down and huffed, rubbing her temples with one hand before whirling to face Napoleon. "You," she said threateningly. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"I had to get him over here somehow. You two have been unbearable for the last twenty four hours. I thought I was the immature one."
"You are."
"Says the girl who just called someone a-"
The door slammed open and Illya angrily marched in. "Welcome, Comrade," Napoleon called out cheerfully at the interupting party. As he approached, Gaby intercepted the livid man's path, placing a small hand to his chest.
"Illya," she sighed, distracting him slightly from his plan of beating Solo's grin off his face for the second time that day. He noticed the bit of bandage above his eyebrow for the first time and felt a vague sense of accomplishment.
"Illya, look at me." There she went, saying his name like that again. He begrudgingly shifted his eyes to her face.
And immediately regretted it.
He wanted to be angry, he really did. He had every intention of hitting Cowboy and shunning Gaby and storming back to his room to drink multiple tumblers of whiskey.
But her eyes were so mesmerizing, and she smelled so good, and her slender fingers were splayed out over his chest and he forgot to breathe.
Napoleon coughed and Illya looked away from her face dazedly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a shower." As Solo left, Gaby's hand left his chest and she pulled away, seating herself on the couch tiredly. She pulled her legs up underneath her and leaned her head back, gazing up silently at him, waiting for him to make a move. He slowly came around to sit next to her, easing himself down as if afraid he would frighten her away. They sat quietly for a moment, his eyes roving the room to avoid her face.
"You called me overgrown potato," he muttered accusingly, and she smiled.
"You were angry with me for no reason," she retorted. Before he could reply with what was surely to be an aggravating comment, she pulled gently at a thin silver chain hidden under the collar of her shirt. "See?"
She was holding up the end of the chain for him to see. His ring swung innocently in front of his face.
His blue irises seemed to fill his face and she resisted the bubbly feeling of laughter rising up through her chest. He reached his hand out towards her but hesitated as he realized what he was doing. Gaby leaned forward and pooled the cool metal chain into his palm, closing his fingers over it and the ring.
"как это мой русский, картофеля?"
He huffed out something resembling a laugh, and met her eyes again, his expression softer. "Kommt gut voran."
She blushed slightly as he replied in her mother tongue, hyperaware of his proximity as he continued to hold the chain around her neck. He opened his fist to examine the ring, his lips twitching in a frownward direction.
"Not as impressive as new ring," he grumbled, casting a disdainful glance to the offending jewellery on her finger. "Cowboy has no taste in clothes, but jewelery is perhaps different matter."
The lithe little woman rolled her eyes and pulled the necklace back, running her thumb across the setting. "I don't care much about being impressive," she countered. "Besides, I've always preferred pearls. Now stop looking to have your ego stroked."
He chuckled and leaned back against the sofa. "As you wish, котенок."
____
He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but upon returning to his room, Illya had the discomforting thought that he was grateful for Napoleon's interference.
A/N: Translation:
Получить свою задницу сюда, (you) заросшие картофеля! - Get your ass over here, you overgrown potato! (Russian)
как это мой русский, картофеля? - How's my Russian, potato?
Kommt gut voran - Coming along nicely (German)
Thank you for reading! Please comment if you feel so inclined :)
