III. A Slice of Orange
...
There is a strong likelihood that Gaby and Solo are up to something.
Illya isn't sure what, but he's certain nothing good can come of it, not if those two are involved.
The first time he notices something is amiss, he finds them huddled together in the kitchen, whispering intently. He can't see what they're looking at, but judging by Gaby's furrowed brow, it must be something serious.
New mission? He asks, and at the sound of his voice, they break apart abruptly, Solo stammering that it's nothing while shoving what looks like a rather large book into his briefcase. Gaby, meanwhile, fidgets with her shirt and inspects the countertop as if it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. It's really not.
He looks back and forth between them skeptically. In all the years they have worked together, he has seen his partners talk their way out of torture and charm even the most stoic assassins without breaking a sweat - he himself was charmed, after all - but he has never seen them this flustered.
Nothing? He repeats slowly, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his tone.
Nothing! Gaby and Solo say in unison, a little too loudly, a little too quickly, and at that moment, before Illya's very eyes, they both turn the exact same shade of orange.
For a pair of spies, they really are terrible liars.
...
The next day, Illya wakes just before dawn to find Gaby's side of the bed empty. She had claimed the right side for herself – it's closer to the window – but more often than not, they wake up in the morning on his side – closer to the door – wrapped around each other, dangling precariously close to the edge.
Gaby, it turns out, like to cuddle, and her characteristic disregard for personal space becomes even more pronounced when she's asleep. Not that he minds. He actually quite likes waking up to the feeling of tiny but strong limbs entangled with his own.
Looking at the empty space now, Illya feels fear start to creep up his neck, cold and sharp.
Where did she go?
Since they moved in together, he has always been the first one to wake. Those early moments are his favorite part of the day, a rare bit of peace before the world starts spinning again, when he can slow down and drink in the sight of Gaby's calm face, her long lashes fluttering against her skin. It never cease to surprise him, how gentle she looks when she sleeps, so delicate and fragile. How very unlike the woman that he usually sees.
The woman who is presently missing.
Where could she be?
There's no note, no Stepping out, -G scrawled onto a scrap of paper, and her purse is still where she left it on the kitchen table. Everything is just as it was the night before.
His mind immediately jumps to the worst conclusion – that she's being tortured somewhere, that she's already dead. It's been a long time since they've had to look over their shoulders, and he wonders now if that was a mistake, if their demons from the past have followed them home. The thought makes him sick to his stomach and he's just beginning to see green clouding his vision when the lock clicks and the front door swings open, Gaby walking in, unharmed, intact, alive.
She freezes when she sees him, eyes wide, and between the two of them, he's not sure who is more startled.
They stand there like that for a moment, unmoving, blinking at each other, before he snaps out of it.
Where have you been? He shouts, more out of concern than anger, rushing to her side.
Regret washes over her face as she looks at him, apology clear in her eyes, and she takes his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He sighs, feeling his temper disappear almost instantly.
I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't mean to worry you, she murmurs, It's just that I couldn't sleep and decided to go out for a walk.
But Gaby has always slept like a rock – or was it a log? He can't remember the correct phrase, but he does know that she is the soundest sleeper he has ever known. In fact, she goes so still and so quiet when she sleeps that it has become a morning ritual for him to check her pulse to make sure she is still breathing.
His relief turns to suspicion as he watches her carefully, eyes narrowing, and aha!, there it is – orange again.
Gaby, he says seriously. You're lying.
And this time, she doesn't fidget, doesn't flinch away. She knows she's caught so she holds his gaze and simply replies, I can't tell you yet.
He considers this for a moment. It's not an answer, but there's nothing more he can do if she won't tell him. Do I need to worry?
She shakes her head and wraps her arms around him, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. No. No worrying.
So he doesn't ask why she was sneaking around so early in the morning.
He doesn't ask why there is a white powder all over her clothes.
And he doesn't ask why he can smell the Cowboy's cologne in her hair.
No worrying, she says.
And he believes her.
...
There is the possibility, of course, that Gaby is having an affair with Solo.
Illya has considered this, many times, and it's not because he doesn't trust her. On the contrary, he trusts her with his life and with his secrets and with his heart. And it's not even that he doesn't trust Solo, because he trusts him too. It's just that, of the three of them, Illya feels like the odd man out.
They are much better suited for each other, the Cowboy and the Chop Shop Girl, both dark haired and charming and funny, lighting up any room they walk into. He is not these things. He is the one who does not belong, the strange silent giant in the corner who scowls too much and doesn't know what to do with his hands.
And yet, she chooses him.
And yet, he chooses her.
Despite all their differences, they choose each other, even though he is tall and she is small and he is a morning person and she is a night owl and he likes quiet games of chess and she likes dancing to loud music.
They may be opposites in every way, but not where it counts, not with their feelings for each other.
In the end, isn't that the only thing that matters?
So yes, he has considered the possibility that Gaby is having an affair. Because he is a spy and he has been trained to evaluate every angle and examine every possibility. He has considered it and he rejects it.
Because every moment they are together, every morning when she wakes up in his arms, and every night when he falls asleep to the sound of her voice, they choose each other, over and over again.
And this, he knows, is not a lie.
...
Illya returns that evening to a dark apartment – strange, since Gaby should also be home by now. He drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and loosens his tie, going still as he hears a noise from the kitchen.
Gaby? He calls, peering down the hallway.
And she emerges from the dark, a plate of flickering lights casting shadows on her face as she walks towards him.
It's only when she gets closer that he realizes she is holding a cake.
Solo found out that we missed your birthday, she explains, so of course we had to make things right.
She makes her way over to the couch, setting the cake down on the coffee table and beckoning him to join her.
And it's not a birthday without a cake. But you know how much I hate cooking and I've never baked anything in my life, she's rambling now, so I asked Solo to teach me and I think I got it right though it may be a tad on the sweet side…
She trails off awkwardly and looks at him, expectant and hopeful. Do you like it?
As if he could say no. He likes everything she makes, even her scrambled eggs that are somehow always burnt and undercooked at the same time. Luckily, this cake is pristine, frosted so perfectly it looks professional, and he can only nod, not quite trusting himself to speak. Gaby lets out a squeal of delight and throws her arms around his neck and as much as he wants dessert, he can also think of a couple other things he would rather do as her hands slide under his shirt.
It's at this moment that Solo waltzes into the apartment. Gaby pulls away with a sigh and Illya silently curses himself for letting her talk him into giving the Cowboy their spare key.
I see you've already started to dig in, he says with a wink, but let's try the cake, shall we? He passes Illya a plate and fork.
Illya inspects the slice carefully before taking a bite – a small one, because food poisoning has become a serious concern in his life since she came into it.
Much to his surprise, the cake is actually quite good. The flavor is sweet and fragrant and it melts in his mouth, immediately transporting him back to his childhood, to the first time he tasted something so wonderful, the first time he saw happiness.
It is delicious, he says, finally, and he's can't tell if it's Gaby or Solo who looks more pleased.
Oh, she sighs, I'm so relieved! Illya, you have no idea how much time we spent on this!
He pauses for a moment. We?
She clasps a hand over her mouth, then corrects herself. Well, Solo spent a bit of time teaching me…
But the cake is all hers, the Cowboy jumps in. She made it all by herself. I definitely didn't help her with the batter and I certainly didn't make a new one for her and do all the frosting and decorating after she dropped hers on the floor.
That didn't happen at all, they both say in unison, a little too quickly, a little too loudly.
Illya just nods, returning his attention to the slice of cake before him. He chooses to ignore the fact that that they have both turned the exact same shade of orange.
For a pair of spies, they really can be terrible liars sometimes.
But as far as lies go, he's never tasted one this sweet.