Well hello there, it's been a while. I think the lag between chapters is best summed up as "Death. Sometimes you're a right bastard."

Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Also, all dialogue in bold is from the movie.

Moving on: Thank you again to all who have read, reviewed and favorited. I hope, my dear reader, that you enjoy this next chapter.

MFU

"Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire."

Robert Frost

June 28, 1963

Late Night,

Continued.

They haven't gone a hundred feet when Illya extricates himself from her grasp and offers her the crook of his arm. She hesitates for a heartbeat before curling her fingers around it and they set off at a brisk pace through the lamp-lit streets. His stride is long and determined and her heels clatter on the pavement as she scurries to keep up.

"Slow down Illya!" she says.

He glances down at her and his expression softens. "Sorry," he mutters, slowing his pace.

"That's better," she says readjusting her grip on his arm.

They continue at a slow stroll through the deep velvet night. Beside her, Illya watches the shadows from the corner of his eye, on alert for more threats.

As if on cue a gaggle of men calls out to them from across the street. One points at her and pumps his hips. Another wolf whistles and makes a hand gesture that transcends any language. The others laugh raucously, slapping each other on the back. Their words are foreign to her but the meaning is clear Hey baby, how about it?

Illya's heels grind into the pavement. Jaw clenched, his fingers begin to tap out their deadly tattoo.

"Ignore them!" Gaby hisses.

She leans into him trying to prod him forward but he is rooted to the spot, as immovable as the Wall.

"That's it," she says, turning sharply on her heel. "I warned you! I'm gone."

In a flash his large hand curls around her slender wrist.

"No."

Looking mutinous she twists and turns trying to break free as laughter rolls in gales from across the street.

"You're hurting me Illya," she lies. "Let me go."

"I will," he says, with the air of explaining something to a very young child. "But if you run, I will catch you, and I will carry you back over my shoulder. Do you understand?"

Scowling, she nods. Illya unfurls his fingers slowly: a test she thinks, to see if she will run. She's sorely tempted, but she has no desire to be paraded through the streets of Rome with her ass in the air.

When they get back to their room she's in a slather. She slams the door behind them and throws the bolt. Hands on her hips she turns to him. "What is wrong with you?"

"If I did not fight would be suspicious."

"Right," she snaps. "Russian." She closes the distance between them in a step and tips her head back to meet his glare. "Tell me, does the KGB encourage you to lose control?"

"Gaby," he says roughly, "Enough." He slides past her into the bedroom and she follows, hot on his heels.

Stone-faced, he lays his suit jacket over the foot of the bed then unknots his tie and tucks it into the pocket. He rolls up his sleeves and his eyes cut to his bare wrist.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I didn't know. Illya-"

Giving no indication that he's heard her he turns his attention to the black suitcase set on a stand at the foot of his bed. He slides his fingers along the clasps and it opens with a click. He lifts the folded clothes gently to the side and extracts a dark wooden box.

It's a chess set, she thinks, how very Russian. Impulsively she reaches out to trace her fingers over the time worn wood. "Was this his too?" she asks softly.

Face blank; he jerks it back from her grasp and strides past her into the sitting room. He settles down into the armchair and proceeds to set up the game.

Hands on her hips she stands staring daggers into the back of his head. What is wrong with me? Forty-eight hours ago I was running from you and now I want to run to you. She kicks her shoes off and shrugs out of her coat and dress. She stands, feeling the cool of the evening air against her heated skin. An East German Girl and a Russian? It's crazy. We've got no future together.She heaves a sigh and pulls on her pajamas. Since when did I start thinking about men in terms of the future? Since I met him. Damn.

MFU

In the sitting room she settles down on the divan. Illya is inclined towards the chessboard, the picture of quiet contemplation.

"Want a partner?" she asks. "I'm not half bad."

His blue eyes meet her brown ones and she feels a sudden stab of arousal. She considers knocking over his chessboard and climbing into his lap, but she'll probably end up with the rook he's holding crammed someplace direly uncomfortable.

"No. Thank you."

"Suit yourself," she says, fighting back the urge to reach out and trace his scar. Show me yours and I'll show you mine. I know you have them. How could you not?

The shrill of the phone pierces the air and she blinks herself back to reality. It's Uncle Rudi. They talk as if no time at all has passed, and then he says, Tell me; how are you finding Rome?

It's wonderful Uncle, she replies. We're having a wonderful time-except-"

Except what?

She tells him of the events in the Forum and he rasps Mein Gott! Gaby, Did they harm you in any way?

She glances over at Illya and she can't resist the opportunity to sell their cover and take a retaliatory stab at him in one fell swoop.

"Honestly Uncle Rudi. We're all good,"she says, splashing vodka into glasses."Illya is a little shaken. He's never been in a fight."

Illya looks up at her, blinks, and returns to his game.

Uncle Rudi laughs low in his throat. "Well then my dear, I will let you go and tend to your fiancé. I will see you tomorrow."

Grabbing the vodka bottle and both glasses she pads over to Illya. She holds out a glass to him as she knocks back the contents of the other in one blistering swallow.

"No. Thank You," he says, his face expressionless.

Biting back a comment about Russians and vodka, she plunks down hard on the divan. She gulps down the fiery contents of his untouched glass and the world starts to blur at the edges.

"Would you like bigger glass?"

"I will finish this bottle," she says unscrewing the cap to pour another round. "The only question is, are you going to help me or not?"

"No. Thank You." He flicks her a dispassionate glance and returns his attention to the game.

"This is fun." She takes another swig of vodka and swallows slowly, feeling it burn as she leans back. This is a first, I've been set aside for a game of chess.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Illya advances his knight.

She harrumphs and storms off into the bedroom, vodka bottle in hand.Do you not feel it too Illya? Or is sex never an impulse to you? Is it planned and plotted as carefully as a mission? She sets her glass on the vanity and refills it, sloshing a bit as she does. Yes. I suppose that's it. The only time you're ever impulsive is when you're angry. She takes another blistering gulp of vodka. Well then, I'll just have to make you angry.

She clicks on the little plastic radio atop her vanity and cranks the volume up until the sound fills the room. She settles her sunglasses on to the bridge of her nose and, vodka in hand, pushes out into the room to dance. As the music seeps into her bones she sways and pivots feeling delightfully carefree and light. When your baby leaves you all alone...

Then Illya is towering above her. "Please turn this off I'm going to bed."

She can't help but smile at his pained look. He's teetering on the brink of self-control and it's not going to take too much to send him over the edge.

He makes to push past her but she blocks his every step easily until exasperated, he comes to a standstill and glowers down at her shifting form. She halts and cranes her head back to give him a coy smile.

"No fun dancing by yourself," she says, settling her sunglasses on top of her head. "I need a partner."

"No." His eyes are narrowed and there's a hard edge to his voice.

"No as in you can't dance?" she says, her voice like velvet. "Or you don't want to?"

The corners of his mouth twitch up and he nearly smiles. "We'll call it both."

She feels a Cheshire cat grin spread across her face as she takes his large, warm hands in hers and pulls him in to a shuffling semblance of a dance. He's like a teenager, she thinks, trying to dance with a girl for the first time. He's almost shy and he moves without his usual ease and when she claps his hands together he actually grins at her.

It annoys her.

She wants more than grins and shuffling feet. She wants to burn brightly with him with the little time they have. She wants to make him writhe and pant while she sucks her brand into his flesh: to feel his hands on her hips as she grinds down onto him, ruining him so that when he's far away and under someone else he'll think only of her.

So she slaps him.

He stiffens and glares at her, his blue eyes stormy. She makes gentle shushing sounds and does her best to look demure. His brief spark of outrage dies, and he smiles at her once more.

She slaps him again. Harder-because he's bigger and stronger and faster, but she's the one with all the power.

He recoils with an infuriated scowl. "You're not in East German chop shop any more!"

"Still no drink?" she says coolly.

Blue eyes flashing, he levels a finger at her. Voice like gravel, he grinds out, "Don't make me put you over my knee."

Like I'd mind. "So you don't want to drink," she says, tossing her sunglasses onto the bed. "But you do want to wrestle."

"No I did not say this." Confusion flickers across Illya's face just as Gaby launches herself at him.Wrapping her arms around his waist, she catches him in the stomach with her shoulder. He lets out a grunt as they careen backwards into the siting room and topple over the arm of the divan. Tightening her grip on his waist she twists, carrying him with her to the floor. A thrill zings through her body as he lands on her. He's all hard planes and lean muscle. This close, he smells like want.

She's vaguely aware of the chaos they're creating as they roll in a heated tangle across the room. His breath comes in grunting gasps that send jolts of pleasure through her. Pressed up against him she can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he's digging into her hip in away that makes her stomach go hollow and her head spin. Suddenly, he freezes and slides out from under her. Propped up on his elbows he eyes her warily. Is not good idea.

Doesn't have to be, she thinks.

Seizing his shoulders she pounces and knocks him flat onto his back to straddle his chest. His large hands wrap tightly around her forearms. His hips lift fruitlessly into the air and when she leans into him the look he gives her is pure desire. Then he swallows-hard, and his whole body goes still.

Releasing her grip on his shoulders she lowers herself to him. Forearms braced against the floor; her breasts skim his chest and can feel his breath hitch. His large, warm hands slide up her arms and then down her torso to curve possessively around her hips.

Suddenly her eyelids are too heavy to open and her body feels like it's been weighted with lead. She collapses against him, his blonde stubble scratching her cheek. Then she's being lifted and carried like a rag doll, her head lolling against his shoulder. Suddenly the bed is under her back and the covers are drawn up. "Good night, little chop shop girl."

She tries to sayStay with me; but the words die on her tongue as she slides into blackness.

MFU

A/N: In my head cannon when it comes to sex Illya prefers to be pursued and Gaby prefers to be the pursuer. I think Gaby is perfectly willing to have casual live-for-today sex, and Illya not so much. I think he's at war with himself because he wants it, badly, and yet it really isn't a good idea at all.

Thank You for reading and if you left a review (kind/constructive) that would be smashing.