She's having the time of her life.
They're in Chicago, enjoying a hard-earned two weeks' sabbatical after a particularly difficult mission in Ibiza that they brought off with even more than their usual aplomb. Waverly was impressed enough with their success to give in to her carefully calculated pout (and the exhaustion in Illya's eyes), and they owe their cozy little safehouse in Evanston to his generosity. He may be a pompous British ass, she thinks, but he takes good care of his team. His people. (They are his people, already.)
For the first two days, they mostly slept, letting the blood-soaked dreams and the jet lag fade into oblivion, the comfort of dull suburbia soaking into their skin, an unlikely anodyne. Solo took the bedroom on the bottom floor, his only concession to the long gash across his thigh (courtesy of a moment of distraction and a Spanish knife). She and Illya took the second story, and from the moment she stepped into the little bedroom with its innocent white curtains and the wind sighing through the pines outside, something in her uncoiled, loosened. Let her breathe deep. They spent hours there, curled around each other, talking a little, mostly just breathing in the realization that they were there, with each other, that they'd both survived against the terrible odds, that for two weeks they could have a little oasis all to themselves. She has traced the lines of his face, mapped the contours of his body with her fingers so many times over the last two days that she feels she could recognize him by touch alone. She thinks he has her memorized as well, and the realization fills her with a strange, half-tremulous elation. She is not used to being known so well.
Even so, she knows herself well enough to realize that she's going to get restless right around day three, and sure enough, this afternoon was a drawn-out torture. She had proposed a shopping excursion, which was roundly vetoed by both her partners—Illya was absorbed in his eternal chess match against himself, Solo begged off with a halfhearted excuse about his leg, and she found herself pacing the living room rug, body humming with pent-up energy and no outlet in sight.
That was when she saw the advertisement in the newspaper for the nightclub.
They both argued against it at first. Illya had pinned her with that signature look, the one she calls the Russian do-not-mess-with-me stare, and simply said nyet, nikogda.
She stares right back at him, one hand propped on her hip.
"No, never?" she parrots back. (She knows he has a weakness for sass.)
"We came here to rest, recuperate," he points out, eyes shifting back to his chessboard. "Not to go to loud American club."
She hisses out a breath of frustration between her teeth.
"I'm going stir-crazy cooped up in here, with you chained to your chessboard and Solo fussing about his leg! I did not come to America for two weeks to play nurse. Or maid."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and she suddenly wonders what exactly he would do if she were to show up in their room one night in a frilly apron and nothing else. He's never struck her as the role-playing type, but she definitely thinks he'd appreciate the view.
"Cowboy can't help his leg," he says, too calmly. He's making fun of her.
"Solo?" she calls sweetly, and the American strolls in from the kitchen, where he's no doubt been eavesdropping the entire time. "Solo, Schätz, how's your injury?"
He grins. "Terrible," and he gives a theatrical mock groan.
"It is not," she retorts. "You're siding with him, and I know it. You're doing that thing they say here in Chicago—the ganging up on me."
Solo chuckles. "You're picking up American slang like a pro," he observes with pride. "You'll be talking like one of us in no time."
Illya mutters something derogatory in Russian and hunches lower over his chessboard. She can see that this is rapidly going nowhere, and that is simply not acceptable. She is going out dancing tonight, no matter what it takes.
"Fine, then," she says, and deliberately flounces over to the staircase. "If you won't go with me, I'll go by myself. Who knows? Maybe I'll meet someone who's actually, you know…fun."
She sees Illya's fists clench on the table, the line of his spine tightening in anger. From the corner, Solo sighs, long and melodramatic.
"If you're going to fight dirty…" he begins, and she flashes them both a blazing smile.
"We're leaving at 6:00 PM," she informs them, and starts up the stairs. "Don't be late."
They find it quickly, tucked in a grimy corner of downtown Chicago, and from the second she hears the loud bass beat pulsing down the sidewalk, sees the half-lit sign, she knows this is going to be a good night. When they walk in the door, she grins, wide and delighted. This is her kind of club—not too flashy, nothing glamorous, but the music is good and the cover is low and the floor is packed with dancers. She doesn't recognize the group on the stage, but they've got one hell of a guitarist and their harmonies aren't bad. She laughs out loud and sheds her coat in one quick, fluid movement, hands it to Solo without looking. Behind her, she hears Illya suck in a sharp breath, and she turns.
"What—what is this?" he says, thickly, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of arousal and horror.
She looks down at herself and smiles. She'd almost forgotten what she was wearing tonight, and that he hadn't seen it yet, hidden as it was by her coat. Her lips curl, cat-like and amused, and she turns on the spot so he can appreciate the view. It's a new dress—a different style than what she usually wears, the neckline low to show off her cleavage (she's wearing a bustier that does wonders for her), the waist nipped in, but what he's really staring at is the hemline. It's an A-line skirt, and it stretches a few inches down her thigh, and then just…stops.
Napoleon turns from flirting with the coat check girl and whistles, low and appreciative.
"Gabriella Teller," he drawls, "do my eyes deceive me, or are you wearing a miniskirt?"
She flushes a little, enjoying herself. Illya still hasn't managed to say another word, but his expression is speaking volumes. She cocks her hip, tilts her head to the side in a passable imitation of coquetry, and looks up at them through her lashes.
"Do you like it?" she asks, husky, and she sees Illya swallow. Hard.
"You look incredible," Solo tells her, and the tinge of lust in his voice has her glowing with pride. She knows it suits her, the severe black of the dress contrasting sharply with the boldness of the cut, highlighting her dark hair and olive skin. She can already see heads turning, feel the weight of men's eyes across the room. As much as the heady beat of the music, it makes her feel intoxicated, alight with energy. Alive.
"Good," she says, abruptly, and slides her arms through both of theirs. "Let's get a drink."
The bar's selection in no way lives up to Napoleon's high standards, but Gaby is happy enough with the martini they mix for her. She's here to dance, she thinks, not drink. She sips it slowly, watching the dance floor, the mix of bodies twisting and gyrating to the music. They have some new moves, ones she hasn't seen yet, and she wants to get the feel of the place before she goes out on the floor.
She hears someone clear his throat behind her, and turns. He's young and handsome, and he's got a sweet smile. He holds out his hand, palm up.
"I noticed you're not dancing," he says, half-yelling to be heard over the band. "You want a partner?"
Illya turns slowly on his barstool, one enormous hand wrapped around his glass of vodka.
"She has partner," he growls, venomously, and the boy steps back, alarm crossing his face.
"I—I'm sorry, I didn't know," he stammers, and flees into the crowd. Gaby raises an eyebrow.
"Was that really necessary?" she asks, mildly. Illya shrugs.
"I thought so."
She sets her glass down with an audible clink.
"So you plan on going out there with me?"
He gives her his other look, the you-must-be-crazy one. She rolls her eyes and stabs the olive in her glass with a toothpick.
"If you're not going to dance with me, then what exactly am I supposed to do?" she asks, as reasonably as she can. He shrugs again.
"Is not my problem. I did not want to come here."
Her lips thin, and she can feel her eyes narrowing, the flash of her temper rising. Oh, he's going to regret that. She leans in, her tone venomous.
"It's about to be your problem."
He opens his mouth to protest, but it's too late. She's already slipped off her barstool and is making her way into the crowd, heading straight for the middle of the floor. Damn him and his Russian stubbornness, his apparent inability to adapt to anything he's not comfortable with. He wants a problem? She will give him one hell of a problem.
She snags herself a partner on the way, a tall boy, about college age, with dark eyes and a self-satisfied expression. All she has to do is sway over, flash him a smile, and hook her fingers around his tie, and he's coming with her, his arm around her waist. She turns to face him, pushes up on her toes to reach his ear.
"I'm new in town," she tells him, making sure to get close enough that he can feel the warmth of her cheek against his. "You think you can show me some of those Chicago moves, hmm?"
He pulls away and gives her a long look, head to toe, and she can tell he likes what he sees.
"Hell, yeah," he tells her, and his hands spread over her waist, overly possessive. "I'll show you anything you want, baby."
She bats her lashes and follows his lead, heading out to the floor. She twists and twirls easily to the music, letting their bodies brush together more than is strictly necessary. Halfway through the song, she looks over her shoulder and grins in triumph. Solo has wandered off; it takes her a minute to spot him. (By the looks of things, he's is trying to seduce one of the barmaids, and doing an excellent job.) But Illya—Illya is watching her with a positively murderous expression, his vodka forgotten behind him, hands clenching at his sides. She turns back to her dance partner and tilts her chin up, gives him her best come-hither stare, savouring the rage in those blue eyes across the room. This is fun.
By the time the song ends, the boy is staring at her with undisguised lust. He leans down, whispering in her ear that he wants her, that he can make her come in five minutes if she'll just slip outside in the alley with him, but she laughs and shakes her head. She can feel his disappointed stare on the back of her neck as she saunters back over to the bar.
Illya refuses to acknowledge that she's there.
"Well," she says, lifting a finger for another drink, "I think I've learned the new American dance moves pretty well, wouldn't you say?"
He remains hunched over his untouched glass, but she can see the way the muscle in his jaw jumps. It's perfect, and she runs her tongue over her teeth in anticipation.
"What did you think of my partner?" she asks, all innocence. Even over the music, she can hear the noise he makes in the back of his throat.
"You—" he spits, and then seems to run out of words. She leans her head back and laughs, the sound sharp and just a little malicious. Moving purposefully, she scoots close to him, so close that she knows he can feel the curve of breast and hip pressed against his side, and puts her lips against his ear.
"Learned your lesson yet?" she murmurs, and she feels the shudder run through him at the heat of her mouth on his sensitive skin. She decides to go for broke, and nips at the shell of his ear, right at the edge. He goes rigid, every muscle in that glorious body of his tensing, and she suppresses a wriggle of delight. Oh, how she loves doing this to him.
He's not going to cave, though. She actually sees him do it, shove the lust and the jealousy down beneath the façade of professionalism and reserve that he's constructed so carefully for himself. Disappointed, she pulls away from him and purses her lips.
"All right," she says, and she hears the petty note in her own voice. "I'm going to dance. You want to sit and sulk, fine."
He pretends not to hear her, but she sees the twitch of his fingers. She blows her bangs out of her face, irritated, and is about to scope out another partner to torment him with when she hears the familiar jangle of piano keys and a deep voice, half-singing, half-speaking.
"No," she breathes, and spins to face the stage. She can't believe it.
It's that song, the first one she bought for herself after she came over the Wall. She had paid for the record with Solo by her side, in a grubby little shop on the Left Bank, and she'd never felt more daring, more free, than when she laid the handful of francs on the counter and held her first legal American record in her hands. She remembers spinning down the street, pirouette after pirouette, finishing with her arms thrown around his neck, laughing so hard she couldn't stop. She remembers him hugging her back, a little bemused, kissing her cheek affectionately.
"That good, huh?" he had asked her, and she had taken a deep breath, filling her lungs with the rich freedom of Paris, letting it out shakily.
"You have no idea," she'd told him, and she'd meant it. She'd played that record over and over, so many times she'd worn down the needle on her little Philco and had to buy a new one. It's the sound of freedom for her, escape from the grey, sterile world of East Berlin into the brightness and colour of the West, and she will know every beat of it by heart until the day she dies.
And now they're here, in this dingy little nightclub, playing it live, and she can hardly breathe for the excitement. She forgets about Illya entirely, no room in her mind for anything but this moment, this song. Her legs are carrying out on the floor without her conscious volition, and then she's there, shaking, shimmying, moving to the music with the rest of the packed house, her eyes closed, head thrown back, smiling so widely it feels like her face might split in two.
She lifts her head after a minute or two, and she sees him looking straight at her, such tenderness in his gaze that it snatches her breath away. He gets it, she thinks—he knows exactly why she's moving with such joy, such abandon. He knows, better than anyone in her life, the sweetness of freedom when you've lived your whole life in a world of prison bars, and oh, but she's not angry with him anymore. How can she be, when she can see the love shining like gold in those jewelled eyes?
And so she lift her arms above her head, never breaking eye contact, and dances with everything she's got, hips twisting, shoulders shaking, grinding to the fast, dirty rhythm like there's no tomorrow. The singer's growl shakes the ground under her feet, and she can feel the crowd around her surge and sway. She lets herself get swept away by it, the sharp snap of the snare and the long yell leading into the chorus exploding like stars behind her eyes, and when the crowd screams its approval at the end of the set, she's screaming right along with them. She feels it rip out of her throat, primal and fierce, and pumps her fist in the air in wild victory. God, if this is not the best night of her life.
When it's over, she's sticky with sweat, her hair is falling out of its elegant upsweep, and her legs feel like rubber, but she doesn't care. She stumbles off the dance floor, worn out, and looks around for Illya. His stool is empty. She leans against the bar, breathes for a minute, and thinks of finding the ladies' room. She could use a little freshening up, she thinks.
Halfway down the dark hallway, she senses movement behind her, and without a second thought she's pulled the switchblade out of her garter and is pressing the tiny button on the side. The snick of the razor-sharp blade echoes off the cinderblock seconds before she presses it against a very familiar neck.
"Going to slit my throat, chop-shop girl?" he asks laconically, but he holds still while she gives him a suspicious look and flicks the knife shut.
"Are you following me?" she retorts. She may have melted for him out there on the dance floor, but he doesn't need to be reminded of it just now.
He smiles at her, that rare, quiet smile he gives her when he's feeling particularly sweet.
"Thought you might be going this way," he says, and lifts those thick golden lashes to look at her like he'd follow her to the ends of the earth and back. (It's not fair, she thinks. He knows what that does to her.)
"Hmm," she says, and reaches down to tuck the knife back in her garter. She stops when she feels his long fingers wrap around her wrist.
"You wore this on purpose," he mutters, gesturing at her ridiculously short dress, and the rasp in his voice has her belly quivering. She nods, smugly.
"You danced like that on purpose," he continues, his voice lowering. She nods again.
"Thought you'd like it," she says, and she pulls at his grip until their joined hands are resting on the thin band of silk around her thigh. He shifts against the wall, and she can see the colour starting to rise, high on his cheekbones.
"What are you doing?" he whispers, his accent heavy, more guttural. She shivers and presses his hand to the garter, his fingers brushing the edge of her underwear. He breathes in sharply, and even in the dim light, she can see his pupils widen.
"Gaby," he grits between his teeth. She can feel his fingers twitch, curving over her skin, and she leans against him, lets him feel every inch of her. He groans, his head falling back against the wall.
"You will kill me," he mutters, and she laughs, soft and exultant.
"There are worse ways to go," she mumbles against his neck, and then she pulls his head down to hers and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy, tongues tangled and teeth clashing. When she finally breaks away, they're both breathing hard, and he looks at her with such desperation she has to glance away from him before she fucks him right here against the wall.
"There's a coat closet…two doors down," she manages, struggling for breath, and yanks on his arm when he heads the wrong way. "To the right, miliy moy."
She sees his teeth flash when he hears the Russian on her tongue, and then they're tumbling into the little closet, tripping over a bucket and what feels like a broom, hands everywhere, his mouth on the delicate line between her neck and shoulder, her fingers fumbling for his belt buckle. He grunts with displeasure after a moment; he can't move as he wants to, and he resolves the height difference by lifting her like a doll, his hands firm on her thighs, sliding towards her ass. She whimpers and wriggles closer to him, forcing him to hold her tighter, and the sound he makes is barely human.
"Gott, yes, just like that," she whispers. "Heilige Scheiße, Illya, yes."
Her skirt is rucked up around her waist, her legs wrapped around him, and she can feel the heat of his skin through the delicate material of her underwear and the fabric of his shirt—can feel how wet she already is. If his harsh breathing is any indication, he can feel it too. It's dark in the little closet, but there's enough light seeping in under the door that she can see the tendons in his neck standing out, can feel the iron control he's exerting. It makes her shudder to think what might happen if he lets it loose.
She pushes at his shoulder until he eases his grip and lets her down. He stares down at her, confused and wary, until she turns around and motions to the zipper running down the back of her dress.
"Take it off," she commands, and she can feel his fingers tremble against her spine as he obeys. She shucks it off onto the floor and steps over it, towards the shadowy outline of a low table in the corner. There's not much room to maneuver, but she's going to make it work.
"Come here," she whispers, and hops up on it in nothing but lace bra and panties. She can feel the grit of dust under her ass, and rolls her eyes. Of all the places for them to fuck each other's brains out, it would have to be a filthy broom closet. Naturally.
He moves toward her slowly, as if the air around him has suddenly become heavy, and stands in front of her, silent. Her eyes have adjusted to the dimness, and she can see the coiled power in his broad shoulders, the way he holds himself in check. She's going to fix that.
"Take off your shirt," she whispers, and he does it without speaking, fingers fumbling at the buttons. It goes sailing in the same direction as her dress, and she smiles fiercely.
"These will be harder," she predicts as she hooks a finger in the waistband of his trousers. She can feel a tremor run through his muscles of his stomach, and she deliberately flattens her palm against him, waits for the long, shuddering breath above her head.
"Pozhaluysta….Gaby, please," he chokes out, and she takes pity on him, slips the button from its tab and draws down his zipper. She shoves his trousers down, roughly, and mimics her motion from before, palming him through his briefs. He jerks, violently, and she runs her fingers over the tip of his cock, registering the length of him, curling her fingers around him with more than her usual satisfaction.
That's what breaks him. For the first time that night, she can't get him to stop talking…curses, endearments, words she's never heard before, a stream of desperate, strangled Russian filling the little closet. He yanks her up against him, his fingers tearing at the clasp of her brassiere, and she hears fabric rip. It was La Perla, hideously expensive, but she's the one who tosses it away and presses his eager mouth to her breasts, arching into him when he scrapes his teeth over her nipple.
She honestly doesn't know what happens to her underwear. (She finds it later, balled up behind a box of shot glasses.) All she knows is that when he rolls her nipple against his tongue, when he slides those long, clever fingers against her folds and crooks them inside her, she sees stars burst behind her eyelids.
"Der Fick," she hisses, twisting against him, wanting his thumb right there, at her most sensitive point, making her body hum like a guitar string under his ready hands. "Illya," she pants, barely managing to form coherent words at this point. "Illya, now."
He knows what she wants, and she watches him hesitate for a moment…consider torturing her as payback for what she's been doing to him all night. She thinks she might scream with the anticipation when he finally relents, picks her up from the table and braces her against him.
"Ready, little one?" he murmurs, lips gentle against her flushed cheek, and she nods, gulping.
"Don't make me beg," she warns him, and she can feel the laughter shake his chest. Then he's lowering her onto him, sliding inside her, slow and steady, and she can feel her muscles stretch to take him in. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he waits for her to move, holding himself perfectly still until she's ready. When she lifts her face to his and starts to move her hips, writhing against him, he growls, deep and harsh. Keeping her in place with one hand, he pivots, bracing one arm against the shelf behind her to protect her back from the coarse wood, and then he gives her exactly what she wants.
It's fast and rough and everything she's been craving all night, every thrust sending her into a haze of pleasure so intense she thinks she might collapse from the weight of it. His gasps are hoarse and frenzied in her ear, and when she locks her ankles at the small of his back and grinds against him with all she has, he shouts something in garbled Russian that she doesn't understand. She claps her hand over his mouth, trying not to smile.
"Illya! Halte die Klappe," she orders, but she runs her tongue over his collarbone to soften the words, tasting salt and musk. He buries his lips in her hair and groans.
"Moya lyubov," he whispers, and she holds him close, her fingers smoothing over the flexing muscles of his back. For some reason, that's what sends her over the edge.
"I'm close, Illya, God, so close," she manages, and then she doesn't have to tell him, because she's falling apart around him, gasping curses in German and English and maybe something in French, she doesn't know because every fibre of her body is exploding and it feels so good that she thinks she really might have died.
He's right behind her, teeth clenched to keep from crying out again, and then it's over and there they are, wrapped around each other, exhausted and replete.
"Gott, Illya," she mumbles, and she can feel his lips curve against his shoulder.
"Mm-hmm," he rumbles. It seems to be as vocal as he can get at the moment, and she's impressed by the fact that he's still holding her up, his body curved over her, head resting against the wooden shelf.
"Come on, Liebling, we've got to get home," she whispers, but she presses a quick kiss at his jawline as she says it. She's worn out, the whole of the evening hitting her at once, and right now she wants nothing more than a long shower and the comfort of their bed. He lets her slide down, but he doesn't move. She runs a gentle hand along his spine, reaches for her ruined lingerie.
"I'll let you drive," she says, which is guaranteed to get him going. He straightens slowly and turns just enough to give her an appraising look.
"You mean it?" he asks, and she grins at him as she bends down and tosses him his shirt.
"Would I lie to you?" she asks, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He's still smiling as he buttons his trousers, helps her pull up the zipper of her now-dusty dress. As she tries and fails to brush herself off, he glances at her sideways, uncharacteristically shy.
"I like this—" he waves a hand at the dress "—on you."
She's pulling on her heels, and she stops for a minute, looks over her shoulder at him with laughter dancing in her eyes.
"I knew you would," she says, smugly, and looks both ways before she opens the closet door and slips out.
"Let's go home," she says, and takes him by the hand.
The drive home is perfect, windows down to catch the summer breeze, her hair blowing against her cheeks and Illya's hand over hers on the gearshift. Solo lounges in the back seat, for once not commenting on their obvious dishevelment (although she's sure he'll have plenty to say in the morning). She can't imagine a better end to the night.
She leans her head back against the seat, watching the stars wheel above them, listens to the slow rhythm of jazz playing softly on the car radio…thinks of East Berlin and the cold grey monotony of fear. Her eyes drift shut, and she lets herself remember the feel of the music moving through her body, shaking her bones, filling her with primordial joy. She feels the soreness of her muscles, the grit on her skin, remembers my love whispered into her scalp—lets her throat ache with the tenderness of it. She is here now, in the world of the living, no longer buried alive. She is saturated in it, its light and colour and sound, and she will never go back.
Her hand tightens over his, and Illya glances over at her, blue eyes calm and untroubled. In the rearview mirror, she can see Solo's handsome profile, the impeccable figure he cuts, and she lets the corners of her mouth tilt up, just a little. They are the ones who anchor her here, as ironic as it is. Her people. (Already, they are her people.)
She breathes that in, holds the truth of it in her lungs for a minute. There will be other difficult missions, other near-death misses, other times when blood soaks into the crevices of her fingers. She cannot avoid it. But they will be there, to catch her, to hold her, to make her forget. To drag her back to life. To let her feel the beat run through her bones, to bring her body to coiled completion, to hold her coat and shield her from bullets. And she will do the same for them.
She looks out the window again and begins to count the stars.
A/N: Y'all, I'm pretty sure this is the smuttiest fic I've written to date. I'm really quite pleased with myself (and a tad nervous, because honest-to-God smut and OT3 relationships are the two things I've never really done much before).
If you're wondering, the song Gaby dances to and bought in Paris is the Contours' "Do You Love Me," which is one of my personal favourites. (I have been known to turn it up to ridiculous volumes and jam to it in the car.) The band playing when the three of them enter the nightclub is R.E.O. Speedwagon. I did some research and discovered that Speedwagon got its start in nightclubs and bars in the Chicago area in the '60s, and couldn't resist using it. Having the Contours playing a small, dingy club is really a bit farfetched, since they were already pretty big by 1965, which is roughly when this fic takes place. However, just for the fun of it, I'm pretending that they came over from Detroit to hit up their old stomping grounds and play a set or two. We're going to roll with it. ;)
Translations (quite a few this time):
Schätz - dear, darling
miliy moy - baby, darling, sweetheart
Heilige Scheiße - holy shit
Pozhaluysta - please
Der Fick - fuck
Halte die Klappe - shut up
Moya lyubov - my love
Liebling - darling