Disclaimer: All of the characters herein belong to someone who is not me. I am making no profit from this.
This was originally posted on Tumblr and wasn't long enough to post here on its own, but then I (somewhat unexpectedly) wrote another oneshot, so I figured I'd throw them on here. I've only seen the film once, so please forgive any errors.
"So you can dance."
His gaze dropped to her and one eyebrow arched. Then he looked down further still, to where their feet moved smoothly across the parquet floor. When he'd first led her to the floor with one hand light on her back she'd feared for her feet; it was a relief and a bit of a surprise to find him more than competent at the waltz.
"Yes. This is dancing," he said, as if to a child. "What you were doing before…" One shoulder hitched higher in a shrug. "Not so much."
Anyone who didn't know him better would think him apathetic, if not annoyed. She saw the crinkling around his eyes and the minute upturn of his lips, felt his muscles relaxed under her hands, and knew that he was teasing. The realization that she noticed—and not just noticed, but looked for—those signs nettled her. At the same time, she reasoned, it was necessary to know one's teammates. If she couldn't tell by the flare of his nostrils when Kuryakin lost control of his temper, or when Solo's confident smirk no longer hid the desperation in his eyes, she couldn't help them. She did not linger on why such a small smile as the one currently on her dance partner's face could cause such a fluttering in her belly.
Instead she gave a gentle squeeze to his bicep. He guided her deftly into a turn and Solo spun into view. In his tuxedo he looked as suave as ever, but the expression on his face was deceivingly earnest as he listened to a businessman boast about their newest acquisition. Frau Bauer, the man's wife and the more knowledgeable about their art collection, had been Solo's intended target for the evening, and he had been quite prepared to, as he put it, milk her for information; upon hearing that the good lady had been feeling too unwell to attend the reception he was more dismayed than panicked, and had easily adjusted his plan of attack. Gaby and Illya—Kuryakin—were there to reconnoiter, and to provide backup if the need arose. Based on the way Herr Bauer was laughing and pressing another glass of champagne into Solo's hand, his own lingering over the American's, it didn't look as if that would be necessary.
When she returned her attention to Kuryakin his amusement had faded, though his expression was as open as before. To reassure him that they hadn't anything to worry about she smiled up at him, hoping to appear to any observers like an ordinary woman, a harmless ornament, a doting fiancée. In response he blinked several times, like he'd stepped from darkness into a bright light. Then, slowly, he returned her smile and it was genuine and pleased and wider than she'd yet seen from him, his eyes so warm she felt her breath catch.
"Steady," he said quietly, the hand holding hers aloft tightening, the fingers splayed against her waist curling in slightly. She looked down, feeling abashed and shy. A foolish heat filled her, spreading from the where his big hand rested; the heat would not betray her as a flush across her cheeks, but there were other signs that someone with training could read and exploit. If he shifted his hand he could wrap his fingers around her wrist and feel the pulse speeding there; if he caught her chin, raised it and forced her to look at him, he would see her pupils wide and dark.
She was not sure what she would see in his face if she looked.
Well, there was only one way to find out. Gaby sighed and stepped closer, sliding her hand further up Illya's arm, toward his shoulder. As she drew nearer his hand slipped from her waist around to the small of her back, though he did not stop their steps, not until she set her chin against his chest and tilted her head to gaze up at him.
Then he stilled midstep, a frown creasing his brow. "Is anything wrong?" Even before she responded he brought their joined hands to her face, brushing his fingers against her cheek, her forehead, feeling for fever, his eyes roaming restlessly over her face. She shook her head, eye dropping closed at the contact, relishing his touch.
"I'm fine. Don't stop dancing now."
His frown slackened, though the narrowing of his eyes meant that he was not dropping the subject. All the same he began swaying gently. "This is not how the waltz is done," he murmured, less scolding than fond, and she smiled.
"I like to make up my own moves." She could reach the back of his neck, now, and did, scratching her nails through the short hair there, feeling him shiver, watching in satisfaction as his eyes darkened. "Do you mind if I lead?"
He shook his head but by then she was already on her toes, pulling him down to meet her lips.
