"I think you're losing sight of our objective here," Napoleon Solo said in his most placating tone. "Care for a drink?"
Illya Kuryakin, the Red Peril, glowered menacingly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Which part of the mission objective requires you to put your hands on Miss Teller?"
Solo sighed, sounding weary for the first time since their conversation (interrogation was more like it!) had started twenty minutes earlier, and perused the selection offered by the hotel room's liquor cabinet.
"The part where I'm supposed to be having an illicit affair with her under Waverly's nose," he replied evenly and took up the bottle of scotch. He pulled off the lid and gave the contents a light sniff. "If you're so concerned with someone else getting to her first, why don't you do something about it?"
Kuryakin's response was guttural and rough, his words barely intelligible around the clenching of his teeth, "There are more than a few things I would like to do about it."
Solo cautiously eyed the fingers on the Peril's left hand where they twitched against his thigh and quietly poured three fingers worth of scotch into a waiting tumbler.
"I think we both know there are far better outlets for that pent up energy of yours."
Taking up his glass, he lifted a brow and retreated nonchalant into his sleeping quarters. There was a long moment of silence from the sitting room and then the soft click of the hotel room door closing. Solo smiled to himself and tipped his glass to no one in particular.
xXx
Illya Kuryakin knocked twice on the door of room 405. He was not a patient man and this anticipation wasn't helping. He glanced at his father's watch and lifted his hand to knock again. She opened the door before he could strike and looked up at him in surprise.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed and darted a quick glance beneath his still-raised arm at the empty hall. "If anyone sees you our cover will be blown."
When he made no move to leave, she rolled her eyes and stepped back to hold the door open for him. He slipped into the room and the door shut softly behind him. They'd all been given separate rooms on this particular trip. His was one floor below. Solo's was down the hall. He'd appreciated the silence a single room provided him for exactly 45 minutes before finding himself restless without explanation. Though perhaps now he knew the source.
His eyes followed her petite, pajama-clad form to the hotel room's dry bar, where an assortment of half-empty liquor bottles stood in wait. She grabbed the vodka, her drink of choice, and filled two glasses.
"Now," she said, turning to him, "do you mind telling me what was so important you had to interrupt my beauty sleep?"
"You were not sleeping," he corrected her with a faint smile.
She downed the first glass of vodka and gave an answering shrug, "That's besides the point."
"You never sleep before big mission. Unless drunk, of course."
Her lips twitched, fighting a smile as she brought the second glass to her mouth. "I'm working on it," she replied, and did her best to look annoyed with him. "Was there something you needed to tell me about the mission tomorrow?"
For a half second his mind went blank. He'd been so fixated on the after, on the entire point of this visit, that he hadn't stopped to consider a believable excuse for his presence.
"Yes," he said a little too quickly. She lifted her brows expectantly and he hurried for a response.
"The meeting time has changed. You will meet Solo at front of hotel at 8:00," he informed her with some semblance of authority.
She gave a nonchalant shrug and spun on her heel, heading back to the bar for a refill.
"Is that all?"
"Yes," he blurted out before quickly correcting himself. "I mean, no."
She gave a half turn towards him and lifted a brow. "Which is it? Yes or no?"
"No," he said a little more firmly. "I also want to warn you about Solo. He is not to be trusted. I think he has ulterior motive."
That captured her interest. She thoughtfully swirled the vodka in her glass before putting it to her lips.
"What makes you say that?"
"I bugged his room."
She gave him a flat look and he waved his hand in a half-hearted apology.
"Is precaution, you know. I overheard his telephone call. Cowboy's mission is to steal the data files on the Countess' investments. Ours is to play decoy."
"So finding Count Rotterdam?"
He shook his head, "Cover story."
She exhaled sharply and made her way out to the balcony for some air, taking the bottle of vodka with her.
"Help yourself to a drink," she called back over her shoulder.
He glanced at the selection and felt his resolve waver. He'd seen what alcohol had done to his father, and then, later, how it'd wasted his mother. He avoided it and had never missed it, but tonight maybe he would need something to 'grease the wheels' as the cowboy would say. He settled on the whiskey and poured a finger's worth into a glass before joining her on the balcony.
The night air was warm and dry as it blew in off the desert. Perched atop the steps that led to the balcony's railing, she stood nearly as tall as him. He poured the whiskey down his throat and held in a cough as it burned its way down.
"That whiskey is potent stuff," she commiserated and turned away from the city lights to fix him with a curious look. Setting her bottle precariously atop the stone balcony rail, she slowly stepped towards him until her hands were draped around his neck.
"This will never work you know," she said much more softly, and with a hint of disappointment.
She wasn't speaking about the mission, that much was clear from the way her eyes searched his and then lingered overlong on his lips. His hands eased out of his pockets and settled lightly at her waist.
"Maybe yes. Maybe no," he conceded with a half shrug and a hint of a smile on his lips.
"I don't like to mix business with pleasure."
She leaned in, close enough that he could smell the hint of vodka lingering on her lips. Her hips swayed lightly and he moved with her, following her gentle rhythm.
"It is lucky then that we are off the clock."
She suppressed a smile in earnest this time and her fingertips combed through the hair at the back of his head.
"A good spy is always on the clock."
"Gabriella," he said a little more sternly this time and she lifted her eyes expectantly to his. "Shut up."
"Why don't you make me?"
He was too preoccupied by the warm brown of her bold gaze and the way her lips were inching closer to his to notice at first. Understanding came slowly, and he pulled back in the last seconds before their lips touched. He was delighted by the soft whimper of frustration that came from her, but even more by what he'd heard.
"Say it again."
She smiled secretively and tightened her arms around his neck. Her breath was warm against the hollow of his throat as she repeated the short phrase in Russian.
"Why don't you-"
The sound of his mother tongue on her lips was both foreign and tantalizing and its effect on him was immediate. He didn't let her finish. He couldn't. Not in wake of the sudden tumult of emotions that charged through him. Not with her hips swaying delicately beneath his hands, and her mouth brushing feather-light kisses across his cheeks.
He turned his head 20 degrees to the left and found her lips there waiting. For too long they'd been just beyond his reach, always willing but never with the right timing.
Her mouth was bold, like her, but soft like her, too. She reached up on her tip toes and his arms wrapped around her, lifting her as if she weighed nothing to hold her against him.
His body moved them further into the room, away from prying eyes and the noise of the city. He set her down next to the settee and her hands were already reaching up to un-knot the tie at his neck. Her movements were forceful, impatient and quick, as though his tie had personally offended her somehow.
He smiled against her lips as his hands lightly cupped her face. "Patience, chop shop girl," he whispered between light kisses.
"I'm done with being patient," she countered and her words were like fire rushing through his veins. With a soft grunt, he lifted her to wrap her legs around his waist. She gripped him tight, almost tight enough to be uncomfortable, but he liked it. He liked the way she treated him like a man, not some precious breakable thing. Women always seem to want to fix him, but not her. She liked him damaged and strange. Maybe she was a little damaged and strange, too.
The buttons of his shirt were no match for her and he heard them scatter across the floor – eight distinct clatters and two holding on for dear life. A moan escaped her as her fingers moved with purpose across the naked flesh of his chest, claiming it as hers. A muffled groan sounded deep in his throat and he tore his mouth from hers while suppressing a laugh.
"Your hands," he informed her with a wince, "are incredibly cold."
"Don't be such a baby," she scoffed.
Her small, strong hands slid further beneath his shirt to his back and as her lips pressed to the bare skin of his chest something between a growl and a groan escaped him. He was tired of being gentle. With his hand buried deep in her hair, he brought her mouth to his. This kiss was hungry, demanding, and she didn't shy away from it. She fought back, tightening the grip of her thighs, digging her hands into the muscles of his back, using the leverage to angle her mouth above his.
He carried her in the direction of the bed, certain they were speaking the same language now. He travelled two steps, then three, before…
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
They stopped and waited, hoping that whoever was at the door would simply go away. Another knock sounded, this time more insistent. No such luck.
With a quiet sigh of resignation, he made his way to the bed and set her down on top of it.
"Wait here," he said, pointing sternly to the bed even as he admired her disheveled appearance. He was little better off with his shirt torn open, belt undone, and tie somewhere on the sitting room floor. She folded her knees into her chest and nodded. He watched her lick at her swollen lips and felt his insides clench with want. The American would pay dearly for this interruption.
In four very long, very determined strides he arrived at the door. He already knew who waited on the other side. The cheap smell of his cologne was not easy to mistake. He swung the door open and stared hard at Solo, who appeared to be making a half-hearted effort to look surprised by his disheveled appearance.
"Ah, Peril. I was hoping to speak with Gaby. Have I…" he leaned forward, eyes scanning the room behind him for signs of her, "come at a bad time?"
He angled his body to block any view the American might gleam of her and narrowed his eyes at the smug grin pulling at Solo's lips.
"Miss Teller is busy."
Solo took a step back and casually slid a hand into his pant pocket.
"Finally made a move, did you, Peril?" he teased while wearing an amused grin. "Good man. I'll see you both at seven then?"
"Eight."
Solo's smile widened and he retreated in the direction of his room. "Eight it is. Give my regards to Gaby."
The door was slammed shut before the American had reached the next door in the hall. Illya turned to find her exactly where he'd left her. She'd changed positions in the short time he'd been away, stretching her body out into a languid pose with her head resting casually on her hand.
"Problem?" she asked lightly.
"No problem," he assured her and headed determinedly towards the bed, stopping only to destroy the American-made bug in the hotel lamp and unplug the phone from the wall. There would be no more interruptions or distractions - he'd kept her waiting long enough.
Author's Note: Finally got around to watching The Man from U.N.C.L.E and couldn't get this pairing out of my head. Curses to Mr. Ritchie for robbing us of a kiss. Hope you guys enjoyed this little one-shot :)