This story sprang out of writing Trajectory, but you don't have to read it for this to make sense.

July 1963
Groton, Connecticut

A month ago she went flying over the wall dividing her city, holding onto an American man while a Russian giant was in close pursuit. Three weeks ago Waverly sent her directly from that first mission into her second, the three of them a newly-minted team.

London next, while her two teammates went to different destinations for their original agencies. Gaby worked nonstop with Waverly's eccentric circle of friends to cram years of training into two weeks-training that wasn't available during those years of waiting behind the wall.

And now this mission in the USA; it's a failure, from Gaby's perspective. No verifiable answers about the Americans' missing submarine, although the two superpowers haven't blown each other up over it. It's not a blemish on U.N.C.L.E.'s record, given their unofficial role here. Nor on her own short record, for that matter; Gaby 'coordinated the mutual sharing of information' while still 'maintaining discretionary control over top-secret information' to the best of her abilities. Better than her own best, in fact; she modeled her diplomatic tones on Waverly's good moments and Solo's blunt moments, as needed.

The KGB's official representative is a boor, but she soldiers through it with a fake smile, teeth deliberately bared in full display. She hates his accent, all heavy Rs and twisted vowels. Four days of nightmare fodder; the sound dredges up her worst childhood memories.

At least Solo has beach visits in his role. Gaby is touring stuffy submarines, walking through endless badly-lit hallways in the American Naval base, or lying awake in a too-big, too-soft hotel bed. She can't even talk to Illya in those brief moments when she catches a glimpse of him.

They have one short break together, all three of them. Officially it's to share intel, but Solo brings a plastic toy disk that he calls a Frisbee. They take turns throwing it across the hotel ballroom, which is fun; even more fun when Solo loses to both of them after they make up a point system and start keeping score.

The next day they're playing their roles again. Gaby's knee-length skirt and matching jacket feel like a prison uniform by then.

It's a relief when the call comes through that they're done for now. Waverly's second-in-command Rushi offers her the news; Gaby is impressed at the woman's chipper tones over the phone line, considering that it must be three a.m. in London.

Gaby shimmies around the room as she puts on pedal pushers and a sleeveless shirt. Then she heads down to the hotel bar. Not her hotel's bar; Illya's paranoia has rubbed off on her in the short time they've known each other. Instead she wanders down the long blocks parallel to the beach, to a brightly-lit hotel catering to the swimwear crowd. Maybe she'll dance, she thinks, and decides to try a new drink while she's here.

The bartender winks at her as he slides a rum and coke her way. She takes one gulp and grimaces, almost coughing with the shock. This is what the bartender thinks of as good liquor? It tastes like medicine. She can't tell which part is the alcohol and which part the syrupy American drink.

Gaby quickly swallows the rest of it, determined not to allow her money to go to waste. Then another identical glass slides down the bar towards her. "Courtesy of the man in the yellow swim trunks!" the bartender yells over the noise of the band and crowd.

She swivels on the bar stool; yellow swim trunks waves at her with his own rum and coke in hand; he then takes a sip, attempting to look suave.

There's no trusting a man who likes this drink, Gaby decides. She drains the glass anyway, counts out the American money to pay for her first drink and leaves it on the bar. Yellow swim trunks will have to drink alone. She's suddenly not in the mood for this crowd either, so she bypasses the dance floor.

Walking back to her hotel, the ocean breeze tugs at her hair. She spins a few times, and it feels like her stomach is spinning even faster; it twirls on even when she stops.

Stupid rum and coke.

Her hotel bed is still too soft. Gaby sits in the middle of it, letting the sand from inside her shoes trickle onto the bedspread. She takes a quick mouthful of vodka from her flask and swishes it around to get rid of the medicinal taste, and then another mouthful just because. Because of lost submarines and leering sailors. Because of American drinks and Russian accents.

The wrong Russian accent. The wrong man speaking with a Russian accent.

This bed is too big for one average-sized woman. Gaby leans down from the edge of the bed, determined to grab the folder on the floor without standing up. Instead she tumbles to the floor, landing on hands and knees. No scrapes and probably no bruises thanks to the fuzzy carpet that covers the entire room. Not that she likes that either; it feels wrong against her skin, like an enormous cluster of caterpillars crawling across the floor.

She grabs the file and climbs back on the bed: precious folder with a map of Groton inside, and Illya's hotel name and room number written in pencil across the back.

He has to know by now that the mission has been called off. And it's only-she squints at the alarm clock on the bedside table-it's only just before midnight. That's not late at all. Not really late.

She picks up the heavy phone and dials the numbers. It takes her three tries; the holes of the rotary dial slip out from her fingertips and she curses at the phone in German.

The hotel clerk connects her to Illya's room; after five rings he answers with an American-sounding "Hello?" If she didn't know him well, she might think he was sitting next to the phone, tidy and buttoned-up in that American business suit and wide awake while waiting on the telphone to ring.

But she can tell: he was asleep. It makes her want to giggle, so her voice has a breathy catch. "Illya," she says, and then realizes she doesn't know why she called. What was she going to ask?

"Gaby? Are you ok?"

She doesn't like his assumption at all. "Why wouldn't I be ok?" she demands.

"You sounded-strange."

"Hah!" Gaby says. "You only say that because you were asleep. Don't deny it."

"Yes, I was asleep." His voice blurs a bit and she thinks maybe he's trying not to yawn. "Why would I deny this?"

"Because you like to make us think you're a machine and better than the rest of us humans. But even tall people need sleep. Maybe you need moresleep, even."

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Finally, accusingly, he asks, "Are you drunk?"

"No," she says, sticking her chin out. "Only two rum and cokes." Or is it rums and coke, she wonders. "And they tasted terrible, and I didn't even want the second one, and so they don't count."

And then two mouthfuls of vodka and maybe there was another sip or two after that, but that's too much to add to the other sentences, so she doesn't.

"Why did you order second one if you didn't want it?"

"I didn't. This man in the yellow swim trunks bought it for me." She yawns; the stretch in her jaw pleases her, so she does it again.

"Is man in the yellow swim trunks there now?" Illya's accent gets thicker, and this time it's the right Russian with the accent. Even if it's still not her favorite accent. She doesn't like it, but she likes him, and it's how he's supposed to sound. Not all fake American, like when he answered the phone.

"Gaby?"

"What?"

"Is man in yellow swim trunk there now?"

"No, why would he be?" What a silly question.

"Oh," says Illya. "окэй. Why are you calling?"

She hums. "Why not call? The mission is kaputt. We have time to talk. Unless you are leaving right away?"

She doesn't want him to go. Someday he'll go and never come back, and she won't even know when it's that day. He'll choose Russia over U.N.C.L.E., over her. Or Russia will choose him, and he won't fight it, because that's all that he thinks he has. All that he allows in.

"No. No, I'm not leaving right away. Are you leaving soon?"

"In three days. I get to enjoy the beach." Rushi told her that's what Waverly said: for her to enjoy the beach.

Maybe she should go to the beach now? No, not now. The sand is cold.

"You cannot go to the beach now," Illya tells her. Did he know what she was thinking? Or did she say that idea out loud? Maybe he just guessed.

"You should come to my room," she tells him. "I have an idea." She remembers her excuse for calling now. She bought it her first day in Groton, when she found out that Illya would be here too.

"What is your idea, Gaby?" He sounds indulgent, but also impatient. Gaby frowns.

The idea, yes. He asked her about the idea. "Chess," she announces. "I want you to teach me how to play chess."

Her foster brother played chess. She wanted to learn, but he went West when she was thirteen. Gaby had been an angry bundle of a girl, too impatient to learn. And then her brother was gone.

Chess is safe, she thinks. Chess is a way to ration out the moments that Illya is near and not get too attached.

Gaby knows all about rationing.

She doesn't know if he'll accept. If he'll be a good teacher or restless. But she wants to tease him, to see him flustered, to watch him as he plays and try to guess what he's thinking.

"I could teach you this, yes." His voice rumbles in her ear, and it's-pleasant. Pleasing. Gaby stretches out on the bed, pointing her toes and sighing. "But I don't want to teach drunk Gaby."

Not so pleasing now, that voice. "Why not?"

"Because drunk Gaby won't remember the rules."

"I will too," she argues.

"Also, drunk Gaby will want to dance."

That is probably true. "But there's no radio in here. Or record player," she tells him.

"I do not think you would let this stop you."

She pouts. "But I want to see you now."

"I will teach you chess," he finally says, "When you are not drunk. If you invite me again." His voice curls upwards, a hint of uncertainty mixed in with the practical answer.

She huffs out a breath. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Yes," he says, and his voice is soft. "Maybe. You ask me tomorrow."

"Ok." The phone is warm against her ear, sticky against her skin. She holds it there anyway. He's still on the line, his breathing an unsyncopated rhythm.

"May you have good dreams," he tells her. It is ridiculously formal and sweet, she thinks.

"Schlaf gut, Illya." The words tumble out in German, and she feels oddly vulnerable. He's heard her speaking German before, of course, but not soft like that. Not to him.

She waits a minute, until the hotel operator comes on the line asks if she would like to place a call. Gaby hangs up and curls on her side. The sand itches, but she doesn't get up to shake it off the bedspread.

Tomorrow. She will ask him again tomorrow to teach her chess, and then she'll have that memory stored away, just in case.