The following is a short drabble that floated through my brain after seeing the movie. Be nice! I don't own the rights to the movie or characters, yada yada yada!
Gaby's eyes closed as she sank into the elegant claw-foot tub. The hot water enveloped her aching body and rose-scented bubbles tickled her cheeks; she sighed in relief as she settled on the bottom. Solo can have his scotch, she thought, Illya can have his chess; this is my reward.
The mission was a typical one: find an Italian arms dealer feeding weapons into Greece and get him back to Waverly. Gaby's role was simple: crash a lavish party in a beautiful gown, bat her eyelashes at the gentleman, and lead him away from the crowds and straight into the fists of her partners. After ensuring that bloodshed was kept to a minimum, her role in the mission was complete, and she was dismissed until Waverly called a debriefing.
The dress she wore (which she picked herself this time to prevent a scuffle between the Cowboy and Red Peril) was her favorite one yet; made of dark blue silk, the sleeves reached just below her elbows, and the back dipped scandalously low towards the small of her back. The neckline dipped into a V just above her breasts, and the dress had a short train. A thin silver belt draped around her waist, and a silver statement necklace hung from her neck. The "engagement" ring Illya had given her on their first mission sat on her right hand, and a silver bangle hung from her left wrist. Gaby opened her eyes and looked wistfully towards the door, where the dress and jewelry puddled on the floor. She wished she had more of an opportunity to get dressed up for fun, rather than business; she dreamed of dinner and dancing in that blue dress, the whole time draped on the arm of a rather studly blue-eyed Russian.
A sigh escaped from her lips before she plunged her head under the water, letting it abolish the curls she had so carefully styled earlier this evening. She felt her tension melt away under the surface as she slowly let her breath out in a small stream of bubbles. As her lungs emptied, Gaby sat back up and reached for the glass of vodka sitting on a table next to the tub. Throwing it back, she reveled in the familiar burn in her throat.
It didn't take long for the grease-ball to spot her in the crowd. Holding a champagne glass delicately in her hand, she had found an armchair to gracefully rest on. She casually let her eyes roam the crowd, catching the occasional glance of a tall blonde man leaning against the bar and a suave black-haired schmoozer chatting up a countess (or duchess or whatever). The target was a tall man with bulk, black hair, mustache, wearing a black tuxedo and a gold ring on every knuckle. When their eyes locked, Gaby had coyly looked away and taken the last sip of her champagne, reeling him in like a fish. He brought her another glass of champagne, commented on how a gorgeous woman shouldn't be alone, yada, yada, yada. After fifteen minutes of small talk and seduction, Gaby had complained about how warm and crowded it was, and implored the target to take her for a walk in the garden. He eagerly complied, taking her by the hand and leading her to the dimly lit courtyard. Gaby carefully tucked a loose curl behind her ear as she walked past the bar, a signal that Illya and Solo both understood as their cue to sneak into position.
Gaby felt the heat rising from her chest into her cheeks as she recalled the events that followed. She reached over and grabbed the bottle of vodka she'd conveniently took into the bathroom with her. She leaned her head back and took a deep swig. She quickly chased that pull with a large gulp before putting the bottle back on the table and sinking until her chin was touching the water.
The Italian was rather bold when they were alone; as much as Gaby tried to politely discourage him, the man had her pushed against a wall within minutes. His meaty hands ran over her waist and hips, and curled around to run over the curve of her butt. One slid up to grope her breast while his lips drifted across her cheek, down her neck to her collarbone. Her discomfort grew as the target continued to push her boundaries, and when she finally pushed him away and asked to stop, he responded with a sharp slap against her cheek and harsh words. The hit shocked Gaby more than hurt her, and she brought her hand to her stinging skin as Illya took a flying leap at the target. Solo appeared from the shadows, briefly asking her if she was okay before assisting the Russian in containing the target. As the man's struggling slowed (an effect of the drug Solo injected into his neck), Gaby's partners carried him to their car to take to the drop-off location. Gaby quietly took a cab back to the hotel, deciding it best she stay out of the way for this one.
A shiver ran through her body despite the hot water; she could feel those hands groping, those lips assaulting, that slap stinging… Gaby brought her hand to her cheek again, gently rubbing the soft skin. She loved her new job, her free lifestyle, but she hated the role she was asked to play over and over again; the damsel in distress act was demeaning in comparison to her previous life as a tough little chop-shop mechanic. She was tired of the men who looked to take advantage of her. Even though Illya and Solo made it clear she wouldn't get hurt, the acting made her feel dirty and used.
Gaby's skin began to crawl, her breath caught in her throat. She grabbed the loofa hanging on the side of the tub and started scrubbing at her skin. She ran the sponge over her arms, neck, chest, waist, stomach, butt, cheek… in a panic, she realized she couldn't rid herself of the sensation of that man's molestation. Tears welled in her eyes and she frantically rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, all notions of relaxation exploding as the small German imploded.
A sharp knock on the door yanked her from her fury. "Gaby? Are you in there?" A low, thickly accented voice asked from the other side of the door. Gaby's breath slowed as she looked down. The bubbles had long disappeared, and sections of her skin were red, shiny, and raw. Her head was fuzzy from the vodka, and her eyes burned. A quick glance at the clock revealed she had been in the bath for almost an hour.
"Gaby?"
She cleared her throat. "Yeah… yeah I'm in here! Just getting dressed!"
She heard the Russian give a satisfied hum beyond the door, then footsteps leading away. Gaby took a deep breath and threw the loofa across the room. Slowly standing, she reached for a fluffy white towel from a nearby hook and wrapped it around her. Stepping carefully out of the bath, she reached down and pulled the plug, stopping to stare for a moment as the water slowly drains. Gaby turned away and gingerly dried herself with the towel, wincing as the cotton rubbed against her raw skin. She quickly dressed, feeling more secure in her new baby doll pajama top and long pajama bottoms. Her brown locks are pulled back out of her face, and she kicked her dress into a pile with the towels. Gaby took a deep breath before unlocking the door and briskly walking across the room to her bedroom. She kept her head tilted down to hide her puffy eyes.
"Gab! We're about to head downstairs for a cocktail!" Solo jovially called out. "Get changed, come join us!"
"Pass! I'm really tired," Gaby forced a chipper tone. "Don't stay up too late!" She added as she closed the door to the bedroom. She sighed deeply and dropped to sit on her bed, one of two luxurious queen beds in the room. Her head started spinning as she cradles her forehead in her palms, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Deep breath in… deep breath out… in… out…
Rough hands encircled her wrists with unexpected gentleness. Gaby jerked her head up in surprise; kneeling in front of her, Illya looked at her with concerned eyes. "Jesus, Illya… we need to get you a bell to wear around your neck."
Illya doesn't respond. His gaze travels from her puffy eyes, to her slightly swollen left cheek, to the red skin on her chest and arms. His hands move to softly hold hers, rubbing his thumbs slowly over her skin. Gaby moaned softly and leaned her forehead down to rest against his. Her head throbs, her skin stings, and her chest aches. She closed her eyes and inhaled, absorbing his unique cologne of coffee, gunpowder, and cigar smoke.
"Gaby… what is wrong?"
"Nothing reasonable," Gaby mumbles, refusing to open her eyes.
"дорогая.." Illya says softly.
My darling, Gaby thinks with surprise. It's the first time he's called her that. Her eyes open and meet his. He lets go of one of her hands and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Gaby hesitates, but Illya is patient; he holds her gaze calmly. She doesn't want to break this calm, she knows he won't like what she says.
"I… I'm tired of playing the damsel in distress," Gaby says softly. "I'm tired of targets… doing… whatever the hell they want." She fought to keep her tears from falling. "I'm no bimbo! I'm sick of having to pretend to be one."
Gaby felt one of Illya's fingers twitch once… twice… She tensed, recognizing this as a sign of a violent outburst. But nothing came… no more taps, no tables broken, Silently, he let go of her hands and stood. He turned and quickly strode out of the room. Gaby watched him go, then let her eyes close and her head droop once again. He's not much of an emotional confident.
Moments later, the Russian returned with a small blue bottle. He sank onto the bed next to her and squirted some of its contents into his palm. Gaby was able to see the words "aloe" and "burn creme" on the bottle before he put it down. Illya began to gently rub the lotion on her hot skin, and Gaby's breathing slowed as the pain began to ease. He applied the lotion to her exposed forearms, upper arms, and chest, and when he was done, he put the bottle on the nightstand so she would be able to apply it elsewhere.
Illya gathered her small hands in one of his massive ones, and gently stroked her swollen cheek. His eyes flashed; Gaby knew he was tearing himself apart inside for not moving in sooner.
"Illya," she sniffled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get upset. It really isn't that ba-"
"But it is," he interrupted. "You should not hurt at all."
"It is what we do," Gaby replied, trying to build the dam back up. "You and Solo come back all the time beaten and bloody. This," she tried to gesture towards her face, but Illya held her hands tight. "This is nothing."
"But it is not nothing." Illya's eyes locked onto hers. "You are not fragile, but you are a soul. You should not be treated as... bimbo."
Gaby's surprise continued to grow at the sentiment her Red Peril was showing. The intimacy between them swelled, and Gaby threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his. His hands dropped to her waist, gently holding her as he leaned into her kiss. Slowly, as their lips moved against each other, Gaby began to forget about the evening's events. She leaned back onto the bed, pulling Illya down with her. He supported himself on his hands, careful to keep his weight off her. He let his lips dance along her cheek, her soft jaw line, her delicate neck; Gaby couldn't help but sigh, feeling her muscles relax.
Minutes passed as the two secret agents tangled themselves together. As Gaby began to slow, he lay next to her, pulling him close to his chest. She rolled, laying her ear against his heart. Her eyes closed and she felt sleep starting to wrap around her mind. Illya leaned down and rested his lips against her rose-scented hair.
"Tomorrow we start combat training," Illya said. He noticed the petite woman's breathing had slowed, her even respirations indicating she had fallen asleep.
"We are always nearby, my little chop-shop girl," he murmured. "We... I will not let you hurt." His eyes dropped to the crimson patches of skin on her arms. "But I cannot save you from yourself," he whispered. He slowly slid down further on the bed, so his arm wasn't pinned so uncomfortably, and closed his eyes. He sank into a KGB-conditioned half sleep, staying alert to every small move his дорогая made.