Imagine Gallya

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Imagine blog for our favorite tol and smol duo. Submissions for prompts are currently: Open! (46 Current Prompts)

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ImagineGallya Master Page

After many requests, we have gathered all of our fics onto a single page, at this time there are no ratings posted next to them while we work on it. Please note that the page is under construction and will be updated as prompts are answered.  The Master Page can be found here: [XX]

[imaginegallya]

is this blog still active?

At the moment no, as the mods are all dealing with our lives outside of here. While we are still taking on prompts we are not certain when we will be able to get to them. We apologize for the length of silence from the blog but right now admin are focusing on other things.

If other writers are interested in joining ImagineGallya they are welcome to please contact us as it would be wonderful to have a new addition to the team!

We love all the continued support and would like to thank everyone who continues to follow and submit prompts. The silence will not be forever thank you so much.

- Mod Ace

[imaginegallya]

A master list of answered prompts if you can :)

We will work on one -- but it may take some time. 

Thank you!- Mod Ace

[imaginegallya]

Do you have a "master list" for your prompts?

We don’t – when I first made Imagine Gallya, I never expected it would take off the way it has. (Thanks to so many wonderful people!) We currently take any and all prompts – if one or more are the same prompt then we will combine them.Are you looking for a master list of prompts currently “answered” or prompts “pending”? If you could tell us that, we may be able to make a master list. 

Thanks for your inquiry! -Mod Ace

[imaginegallya]

A gallya fic where Gabby and Illya are spies in the present day?

“What if I told you to smile?”

The edge of his lips twitch but Illya refrains from giving in. Instead he keeps his head low and hands busy, hooking one cable into another, tying them with talented fingers while she pouts.

“Illya,” She practically draws out his name in the silence of the office that is all dark glass and sharp angles. There are no filing cabinets, which means no paper evidence. Gaby however, has that handled as she toys with the phone in her hand, pausing to lean back. Her shoulder brushes his chest and her leg slides back into his, letting her sit gently on the edge of his knee. The sudden contact makes his throat tighten and Illya glances up just in time to be caught with the eye of the lens. Gaby’s thumb brushes the smooth glass of the screen and she snaps their photo before he can look away.

He does scowl though, through thick golden lashes at the slope of her neck just inches from his dry lips. Her pulse jumps and he licks his bottom lip just as the phone chimes in with the password to the computer she’s hooked to.

“Oh,” She turns her head over, the tip of her nose nearly touches his own but he pulls back before they get too close and nudges her gently with hands on the back of her hips, towards the desk where the tablet lays like a bright beacon in the dark room.

“Delete that photo.” Illya murmurs softly, letting his hands linger a moment too long.

“No.” Gaby says with a final argumentative tone on her tongue.

“Gaby,” He warns softly, but nothing comes of his warning. Instead he watches her work, plugging her phone into a small slender cord that attaches into a port on the tablet. The screen goes dark then lights back up. Bits of data are dragged from one screen to another as Gaby runs the tip of her finger across the glass fronts.

“It’s just a selfie Illya,” She hums softly as she leans over the desk. The light of the phone and tablet cast her in a blinding white light while the rest of her is swallowed by shadows.

“Waverly will not --”

“Waverly won’t know. It’s just for me.” She doesn’t bother looking up. Instead his little hacker is working on diving into the operating system of the computer, digging for corporate ledgers that funnel the funds into markets that the government can’t quite reach.

Illya scoffs softly, “You said that about the last one of those.”

“To be fair,” Gaby starts softly, “You got a ton of likes from that last photo.”

He can see her grin in the darkness, all cat-like and mischievous, reminding him why he broke so many rules and regulations just to kiss her.

“I only care if you like me,” Illya says softly, retaliating against her argument about the photo of him she snapped while he wore her short robe open, crawling over her. She had promised him there, in between kisses that the risque photo was for her and her only.

Hours later it ended up on instagram and minutes after that, Waverly rang.

While Gaby works on the technology, Illya finishes his knots. He’s re-tied Gaby’s harness for safety measures, they are moving against a very fast clock, one that will alarm them thirty-seconds before the state of the art security system goes off, leaving them to the dogs.

“I think I’ve found it.” Gaby’s excitement is tangible. He watches as she bounces up on the tips of her toes, leaning over the desk. Her dark hair is tied high in a bun but several pieces of dark hair escape. Her bangs need trimming, they’re too long again and she blows out a soft huff of air just to temporarily knock them away.

“Good. We are short on time and the Cowboy is waiting.” Illya’s harsh accent washes over her and Gaby turns her head up just to send him a wink.

“I’ve got their books. Lots of money going from here to this shipping company in Rome. Vinciguerra?” She taps the screen of the tablet and then furrows her brow as the screen turns a dark shade of red. Gaby taps it again and then panic slides over her delicate features. The tablet lets out a loud squeal and the screen goes black with red lines streaking through. Yanking the cable free of her phone, she stuffs it down into her pocket and grips onto Illya’s arm.

“Time to go,” Desperation bleeds into her voice and she yanks him away from the desk. The tablet’s squealing is joined by a louder sound overhead. The lights in the dark office illuminate all at once, flickering on with bright accusing beams.

“What did you do?” Illya asks fumbling for a moment for his watch, trying desperately to tap the screen. The digital face of the watch flickers blue and then a small face appears.

“You two have triggered the security alarm. Don’t know how you did it, but every police officer this side of Manhattan is coming for you.” Napoleon’s smooth American tone is hard to hear over blaring alarms, but Illya holds his arm up higher as if to get better reception.

“How do we get out?”

Gaby crosses the office for the glass doors but they do not budge. Locks have all slid in place, caging them in for the night. She turns back to Illya, “Looks like we can’t go that way. Any other plans?”

“We could go swimming.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ve got a boat!” Napoleon chimes in, head to the south side of the building, break a window and use those super spy powers of yours Peril. Surely a sleeper agent like you can scale a building.”

“Napoleon,” Gaby warns him soft and low, a growl escapes her as Illya goes dead still as if caught up in the shame of his past. He is constantly trying to outrun the shadow of a country that made him a psychological experiment. Gaby’s hand slips down the length of his arm and falls into his own. She squeezes his palm, “If you’re on the south side of the building. How do you expect us to get down twenty-stories?”

“Can’t you use your phone to hack the elevator? Or is this how MI-6 caught you?”

Gaby reaches over with her free hand and taps the face of Illya’s watch, silencing their annoying partner for good. She squeezes Illya’s palm one more time before pulling away, “Illya, we need a way out.”

He nods to her and glances back at the desk. There’s a heavy metal chair behind it and a few sharp columns hold up the ceiling overhead. Within minutes they are out. A chair falls from the top floor, bringing a sprinkle of tempered glass behind it. It falls into the Hudson while Illya pulls on Gaby’s harness once more, hooking her to him with a heavy clip. She shakes and he tucks her in, closer -- tighter. Her face finds his neck and he gives them a good tug for safety. “Gaby…” He edges along the broken glass, holding tightly to her. She digs her hands into the front of his vest and turns her head up just enough to catch his blue gaze, “What if I told you to smile?”

[imaginegallya]

Have you already written a fic where Gaby is dying and Illya comforts her? I absolutely love the blog by the way; thank you for keeping the fandom alive!

It’s a gunshot that takes her down. Hot and impersonal, ripping through her dress and tearing into her chest. Everything is hot, burning, brilliant  -- hot. The air rushes from her lungs and leaves her ragged,  desperate for a mouthful air. There’s no time for her to scream, she simply falls like a puppet losing its strings. The blood turns cold and gel-like when he finds her. She doesn’t answer him when he calls her name, she doesn’t even cry out for him. She simply turns her blood-stained hand over and beckons him in with curling fingers. Gaby wears white in a sea of red.

The string of pearls around her neck is broken and scattered across the museum’s basement floor. Works of art hang half-restored around her on easels, but Illya can only focus on her and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her thick lashes are stuck together, heavily saturated with tears that have escaped down the sides of her temples and matted into her hair he spent nearly an hour pinning behind her with careful fingers just before their mission.“Illya,” Gaby’s voice is so faint he wonders if he’s too late. His knees hit the ground, there’s no grace to him as he comes undone at the seams. The world around him unravels as Gaby’s sticky fingers find his wrist. Her palm closes over the glass face of his father’s watch and he reaches over her. His fingers skim the curve of her cheek and then down to the wound on her sternum. All his field training bubbles up in his thoughts, reminding him that this is a lot of blood -- and chest wounds are mostly fatal when there’s no pressure. So he folds his palm over the darkest part of her beautiful white dress and presses down.

Gaby shouts. It’s a broken version of his name and the air stutters on the tip of her tongue as she clings to wrist, playing with the familiar strap of his leather watch. She pinches the skin there, reminds him she’s there, to look at her. Illya drags his gaze down and despite all his training, his hard stare falls apart. His blue eyes are wide, his lips are parted -- he is unable to mask his fear. “Gaby,” He whispers her name quietly, afraid he’ll shout if he doesn’t control himself here and now. He drags his gaze to his palm and then to the puddle behind her. “Gaby, you’ve lost --” “I know.” She hushes him softly. Her rough hand is a small consolation prize. Months of dancing around one another and all he has to show for it is her hand tightening on his arm, silently begging for him to save her from the pain that is eating through her all thanks to a little metal bullet.

“Is going to be okay,” He lies and moves his free hand up now. He swipes her bangs back out of her face and takes the time to drown himself in the dark pools of her eyes. He swallows down the lump in his throat lets his thumb brush under her eye, down to the soft skin of her upper lip. He smears her red lipstick.

“No it’s not,” Her lips twitch under his attention and he hooks her bottom lip with his thumb and leans down slow and careful. He pretends to wash away all the blood and lets his nose gently touch hers. She trembles against the floor, scared to die like this, forgotten in a white dress.

“вы будете жить.” Illya breathes quietly over her and before he can do the honors, Gaby uses whatever strength she has left to turn her head up and catch him before anything -- life or death, interrupts them. She kisses him hard. It’s a desperate sort of kiss that he still feels when the extraction team pulls him off of her. The burn of it lingers when they air rush her to an emergency room, nearly a half hour away to surgeons who will not treat her kindly. The mission is considered a failure.

Napoleon donates blood. Illya donates time.

U.N.C.L.E. relieves her of duty. Illya leaves for Moscow only to return to a beaten down garage in the English countryside, with a busted water pump and a nose for the most expensive mechanic in all of England.

[imaginegallya]

illya getting gaby a kitten and not realizing his mistake until she stops paying attention to him to play with it all the time

This was a mistake.

He watched her, eyes rolling as another high pitched squealcame from the other room. Rubbing a broad hand over his face, Illya pinched thebridge of his nose before letting out a long breath. If he went back into theliving area of the small house, he was just going to get angry again.

Four days.

Inhaling slowly, he closed his eyes and tried to relax,gritting his teeth together with an annoying grinding sound. It had been four days since he had brought that thing home and Gaby had beenecstatic. Making her smile was what mattered to him, but he did not enjoy beingignored for a two-pound ball of fluff.

He leaned in the doorway, tall form casting an eerie shadowin the room that was wholly ignored by the other occupants. The smile on thepetite woman’s face almost cracked his resolve, watching as she danced herfingers across the carpet and made soft noises. From beneath the couch, a blurof black and white darted, pouncing on her outstretched hand and his glarereturned. Even her laugh, bright and vibrant, was not enough to pull the scowlfrom his features.

Damn kitten.

The ‘poor, sweet thing’ had been abandoned, deceivinglysmall and sickly looking. Illya had found it, wrapping the tiny creature in hisshirt and taking it home. The look on Gaby’s face was everything he had hopedfor. She had taken to the kitten instantly, whisking it away to be washed andsending Illya out to get things. How did he know what a cat the size of hishand needed?

Upon returning home, he had found the pair cuddled togetheron the couch, the kitten content and asleep on her chest. It had been such aserene moment. Thinking back on it now, he still glared at the energetic kittenas it bounded around. Even his name annoyed the Russian. Stark.

“It is the word forstrength.” She’d explained, despite that he had not asked. Her sole focuswas on the kitten; coddling him, playing with him. When he’d gone to bed, thesmall thing had been asleep on his pillow. Illya would not sleep on the couchagain.

Stepping into the room, Gaby’s voice became clearer and hisbrow furrowed as he focused on the German dialect flowing off her lips. Thesoft song made him pause, watching the pair from a distance still. In only afew days, she had become attached to the kitten. What was he going to do? Demandthat she get rid of it?

With a sigh, he made his way over to where they weresitting, trying not to glare as she smiled up at him. Patting the ground besideher, he only shook his head before settling onto the couch. Curiously, Starkbatted at his foot and he shooed the little menace away, earning him a glarefrom the brunette beauty on the floor.

“Don’t hurt him.” Gaby leveled a look at him, standing andmoving towards the kitchen, his eyes following her out of the room. Turning his glare back to the fluffy animal, he wassurprised to not see the black and white kitten. A sharp pain sank into his legand he cursed, leaning forward and looking down to see Stark making his way uphis pant leg.

Arms crossed over his chest, he watched with angry curiosityas the kitten finally made it to the peak of his knee. Its wide, bright eyeslooked up at the mountain of a man, walking along his thigh until he could bumphis furry head into a balled up fist.

Extending his fingers, Illya stroked a single digit againstthe soft fur on the kitten’s nose. A gentle purr emitting from the small body, hecontinued to climb bravely before settling against the man’s broad chest. Unsure what to do,the assassin sat back into the couch as he continued to frown at his new enemy.

The longer they sat, his glare began to fade, especially asStark pressed his head against his chin and rubbed. Lips pulling up at the corner, hetried to maintain his frustration, failing as the kitten continued to purr. Gaby came back, finding the pair andsettling against his side, her small fingers smoothing soft fur.

Cursing to himself, he wrapped an arm over her small shoulderand let out a breath. He couldn’t get rid of the kitten, not with how happy theannoying little fluff made her. Even if she ignored him all day, he would haveto learn to deal with Stark, who was somewhat cute asleep on his chest.  The thought made him roll his eyes, softeningalready to the kittens charms.

Damn it.

[imaginegallya]

1300 Followers!

Thank you so much for everyone who follows Imagine Gallya! The staff here is blown away by the love and support we've received over the last year and some change. We hope to have new prompts to give you soon, and we appreciate every like and reblog that comes our way. Thank you again! -The Staff @colleenvving , @fayevalentin , @blueincandescence and @roseinthevoid

[imaginegallya]

Imagine Illya is Dying and Gaby trying calm him until his death. Oke i love angst Illya!

There is an ungodly amount of blood. Gaby’s mouth runs dry as her fingers press over his shirt. The blood is tacky to the touch, overwhelming her with the sensation of dread. Illya lets out a heavy sigh when her hands press over his stomach.

“Illya,” There’s a break in her voice, her lashes are stuck together, cheeks shiny with tear tracks. She presses her weight over his wound and more blood slips between her fingers. Her shoulders shake and gunshots are heard overhead as Solo keeps her back safe, he fires at the enemy and their hired goons, letting Gaby assess the damage of their fallen comrade. Napoleon lets  her have the hope that at least one of them will make it out of the firestorm, but he’s already seen the damage.

“Solnyshko…” His voice is barely above a whisper, the faint sigh that follows the term of endearment makes her bottom lip tremble. Gaby leans over him, knees digging into the rough pavement of the warehouse floor. One of Illya’s hand moves over and his fingers tap and finds hers. His hand curls around her wrist and he holds tight to her. His thumb strokes down and she hiccups past another sob. “I am not ready.”

“You’re not leaving me,” Gaby shakes her dark head and leans over him further. Even in the dark she can see the bright shade of his eyes and the golden bits of hair that are now fallen out of place. His hat is lost somewhere in the warehouse along a graveyard of spent shells and bodies of fallen foes. Gaby’s hand on his lower abdomen sinks in when he shudders and Napoleon shouts something of them needing to move, “I can’t lift him.”

“We can’t move him Gaby,” Napoleon’s voice is strained and she shakes her head.

“I’m not leaving him.” She doesn’t tear her gaze from Illya. He is paler than usual, lips no longer pink but pale, parted with short breaths. His hand on her wrist trembles and he says her name.It’s the best thing she’s heard all night over the sound of gunfire and alarms blaring. They are running out of time. The sound of his father’s watch ticking away echoes in her ears, she can no longer focus on the danger around them. She can only watch the quick rise and fall of his chest as he stutters for breath. His breathing sounds wet -- garbled. Blood is filling his lungs and she can hear the bubbles forming in the back of his mouth as her hand moves up his chest. There’s another bullet wound not far from his heart.

Her stomach sinks and he shudders against her touch, winces when he feels her poke the edge of the wound. It’s nothing he can recover from and the realization hits her hard.

“Illya,” Gaby wraps her fingers in his shirt. Her knuckles turn bloodless and she holds back a sob when his eyes flutter shut with recognition. She feels like the bullet has ripped through her and not him, leaving her gutted and in ruins.

“Gaby,” He manages her name and she sucks in a sharp breath, “I do not want to go.”

His thumb strokes her wrist and she nods to him, “I don’t want you to.”

His hand moves up her thin arm, up her bicep and finally he strokes the bit of hair off her cheek with calloused fingers. He holds his palm to her face and she can feel him trembling, just raising his arm is too much for him. Gaby moves up a bit closer and presses her cheek to his palm as he lets out another shuddering breath. His massive frame is wracked with tremors. He’s losing blood at an alarming rate and now those blue eyes of his, won’t even look at her.

“Ya lyublyu tebya…” He croaks out the broken Russian knowing good and well her lessons with him have never taken them this far. Illya lets his eyes flutter open just for a moment before he asks her to give him one last dance.

“Shh,” Her lips turn and kiss his palm just before it falls over his chest with a dull thud. Her throat constricts and she swallows down another sob when Napoleon steps past her vision and fires over her head, the sound of the shot is deafening. The world around her goes almost silent with a loud ringing in her ears as she leans over him and presses her palms onto his handsome face. Her fingers card past his five o’clock shadow and carefully slip into his golden hair where she hums. The urge to cover her ears is set aside as she hums an old German lullaby off-key. Their enemies return fire and Gaby can feel the heat of a bullet graze her shoulder, not quite striking her. She doesn’t move though. Gaby stays rooted to the spot, stroking Illya’s head..

“It’s going to be okay, we’re going to dance again. Every night.” Her shoulders shake as she attempts to keep herself composed. “Every single night.”

“Every night.” Illya repeats her words with the edge of his lips twitching in what she can only hope is a smile.

“Yes,” She nods, blinking a few times as a few more  hot tears escape her. They cut through the makeup and dirt on her face, “Yes every single night my Russian friend.”

He murmurs something but she can’t hear him, she can only focus on the way his lips move and the way he leans his head in her direction. His lips are now a pale color, almost tinged blue. Without warning, she leans in and gives herself what they’ve been denying for months. Her lips graze his and she feels the last bit of his breath ghosts past her.

An extraction team is called.

His body is collected.

U.N.C.L.E. gives him a hero's funeral.

Russia does not.

Gaby wears the old watch, the familiar ticking keeping her company when she stretches out in the hotel bed, searching the cold side of the mattress for his warm embrace. Eventually she’ll fall asleep with the promise they will dance again.

[imaginegallya]

Ok, so we know that Illya have some grat boat-steering skills, how about a little adventure in the sea maybe a little racing, and Gaby loves the speed while Napoleon is all "No! Last time I was thrown out of it!"

Don’t Rock the Boat

Zakynthos Island, October 1963

The midday sun baking her lotion-slick skin, Gaby stretches to skim her fingers along the coolness of the Mediterranean. Though the power boat’s engine sputters in idle, foam from their swift approach to nowhere drifts on the jewel-bright surface of the sea. She drapes herself lower, letting the loose waves of her hair dip into the water.

Salt air fills her lungs to bursting. Rome, Istanbul, Athens. Three missions in five weeks. The force of her exhale sends out ripples. Still breathing.

Gaby has read her future in the spray-dampened envelope pressed under her bare thighs. Tonight, she will cross to the other side of the island to board a small cruise vessel bound for Majorca. At her side will be a matronly companion borrowed from the BND. Their luggage, wheeled behind them by the staff, will contain two hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of rare jewelry. For its protection, a mean-looking behemoth of a man dressed all in black will trail like a shadow.

Illya does not shadow any bit of her sun today. Were she to turn her head, Gaby knows his tall frame, so rigid and broad, will be resting against the windshield in a veritable slouch, amber-tinted sunglasses pointed in the direction of white cliffs in the distance. He has a beer in hand. He wears navy swim trunks and nothing else.

Between each mission, they have gotten a clockwork thirty-six hours for rest, recovery, and travel.

In Rome, she witnessed Illya throwing back whiskey and pouring himself another. The Soviet poster boy then lit a cigarette and surveyed the cityscape. He’d said to her, ‘We never saw much of the sights,’ same invitation in his voice as when he asked her up to Cowboy’s room for a drink. Waverly was her excuse both times.

In Istanbul, Illya shopped for souvenirs. He ate with pleasure, humming to savor a tender kebab and washing it down with a milky liquorice-tasting drink that made Gaby shiver. As the dinner boat sailed underneath the bridge where they’d shared their first kiss, a cool hand swept back her hair to settle sapphires and diamonds at her throat. ‘Protection from the Evil Eye,’ he said, same promise in his voice as when he told her a ring would keep track of her. His mouth, raki-saturated, slanted down hard over hers with an impulsive surety that made her bruised ribs ache from the inside long after they’d been interrupted.

On their privately chartered flight from Athens late last night, he closed his eyes and slept. Actually slept. Wedged into the window seat, Gaby had tested him with murmured insults to Russian culture and prodding fingers that edged the wool covering the softer flesh of his inner thigh. Illya remained unguarded, the outline of his parted lips so traceable in the dim light. Solo’s even snores caught, and her hand clenched. Illya tensed, remaining immobile with her until Solo rearranged himself on his side of the aisle. Without opening his eyes, Illya moved to tease her at her hemline with feather-light strokes she endured until it was possible to feign sleep. His hand stilled, started to lift. But Gaby held him mid-thigh, both her hands circling the width of his wrist, and let her head loll onto his arm.

They negotiate each other through such advances and retreats. During missions, she is almost all advance — goading him for his hyperfocus, testing his resolve. Between missions, the burden of retreat falls to her.

Ebb and flow, like the rock of a boat.

Behind her, Illya shifts and water laps the sides. The steering wheel creeks; he is leaning back, taking in a new view. Her skin reacts to the touch of his eyes. She knows that touch now, having had his eyes trained on her across a ballroom, in a darkened warehouse, from behind a pair of binoculars, through the windows of a prized car and a familiar garage forfeit in exchange for this uncertain freedom. But she does have the beach. White sand, blue waters. Bluer eyes.

Small boat shifting again, he hovers in the space above her back. The pop of the sunscreen bottle hitches in her chest, the friction of his hands rubbing together prickling her skin. Letting her lashes drift closed, she listens to the glide of his hands over his skin. He is thorough.

She watched him lotion up on the dock, interest concealed by opaque lenses. He remembered all the spots she never did — his ears, his eyelids, behind his knees. Muscles bunched, Illya’s long reach took care of his back. Solo had covered hers, nattering on about boat engines just to prove she wasn’t hearing him. Illya is too pale, Gaby tried to tell herself, the slivers of scar tissue too pronounced. Solo is tanned, smooth perfection by contrast, but all that observation conjured was warm bemusement at how hard he tries for an audience of one.

As they set off from the dock, Gaby started when she realized Solo was not joining them. Winding up the rope, he said, ‘Just as I hit the water last time, I made a promise to myself: never again would I get into a power boat with this maniac. And I always keep my promises.’ He flashed his white teeth. ‘To myself.’ Illya brokered no argument, didn’t even bother to hide how pleased he was at the turn of events. Off of Gaby’s lingering look, Solo warned, ‘Keep your footing, Teller.’

Illya clears his throat. They have not spoken much since setting off from the dock. Wordlessly, she declined his offer of the wheel, a generous one knowing as she does that power boat champion is one of the many accolades enshrined in his file. Yelling over the engine, he commented on the torque, Solo’s likelihood of capsizing his water scooter, the water’s deceptive cold, and finally the weather until her monosyllabic answers drove him to the very silence that she has so often challenged. Gaby swats at the ripples her heavy sigh forms.

“Would you like?”

What is Illya offering her — the bottle or his services? Gaby doesn’t look. She knows exactly what she would like. She has a ready fantasy of reaching back to pull the tie on her two-piece and purring, What are you waiting for? But the answer to that question is her, and she can’t even bring herself to meet his eyes.

Gaby inclines her neck. His slick fingers find her there first, massaging lightly as he lotions a steady path down her back. In the disparity between the smoothness of the sunscreen and the calloused patches of his skin, anticipation builds for what the next stroke will feel like. He outlines her shoulder blades, the lines of her top, and smooths over her lower back to the edge of her bottoms. His touch tickles her ribs, slowing down there at the limits of his reach.

Securing oversized sunglasses over her face before she turns, Gaby situates her back against the side of the boat. Her legs she stretches out between Illya’s feet, well braced for the gentle ripple she causes. An outstretched arm is her invitation to continue. Under opaque lenses, she is free to turn her head out toward the water and, from the corner of her eye, watch the movement of his chest as he works her over. When he draws up her other arm, the oblique lines of his hips catch her eye. She would like to trace them with her fingertips, follow that trail with her lips.

She would like to stop the color from rising to her cheeks, giving her away. Illya strokes her shoulders, gentling.

Tossing her hair, Gaby skims her foot up the golden hairs covering his leg and offers him an ankle. Illya rests it on his thigh while he soaks up more sunscreen. Concentration sets his chin. He begins with her arch, moves to the ball of her foot and between her toes.

Whatever task he sets his mind to he does it right, he does it well. Two things Gaby knows down in her gut: Illya will be far and away the best lover she has ever had, and her worst possible choice of one. He will ruin her. He will. The question is how soon, how much. So many things have wrecked her already.

The size of his hands make even the widest part of her thighs seem delicate. Only his thumb grazes where her modestly-cut bottoms meet her thigh. Excitation blooms for the newness, his boldness.

He begins again on her other leg.

Tension from her core radiates to muscles that jump under the confidence of his touch. Jaw set, Gaby searches Illya’s collected demeanor for a clue to when he had made up that intractable mind of his to have her. Was it the night they spent in the abandoned dig, huddled for warmth? Or their first proper dance, his hands taking full advantage of a backless gown and a jealous mark? When she gifted him poetry? Was it Rome?

Illya sets down her leg. He pushes out another coin-sized dollop of sunscreen, spreading it evenly over his broad palms. “Almost finished.”

All that is left is her midriff, her chest, her face. Gaby toys with her sunglasses. Stands in the narrow space, careful not to initiate touch. Illya’s decision is his own; she will make hers when she is damn good and ready. She finds she can meet his half-lidded eyes now, chin set and brow up. With two fingers of each hand, he covers her from the tips of her ears to the point of her nose, wrinkled up at the chemical smell. He draws down her neck, lowering his in range for a kiss. Gaby merely lifts her other brow.

Illya sits. The boat tips, pitching Gaby forward to catch herself on his chest. For a gasping moment, she imagines the shock of cold salt water hitting her lungs. The boat rights itself. Hands on her waist, Illya rights her. His low chuckle heats Gaby better than the sun.

“Dummkopf,” she accuses, smacking him on the shoulder. Her other hand curls into the crisp hairs that mat his chest collarbones to pectorals.

He continues his task, spreading sunscreen over her abdomen, remembering to dip into her navel. Hands skipping the fabric of her swimsuit top, he settles his palms on her chest and lowers them over the slight swell of her breasts. Under her hands, his lungs fills. In his sunglasses, her reflection in duplicate parts her lips.

The burden of retreat is hers.

Illya exhales slowly, as if not to spook her. “Cowboy will not stay away for long.”

Is that a retreat? Her sunglasses slip to the flare of her nostrils, but she does not move to right them. Is she disappointed?

“There are places on cove. Secluded.”

Her exaggerated lashes flutter in surprise against her lenses. Is she relieved? Around a lump forming in her throat, Gaby replies, “Shipwreck Cove.” She turns her lips down as if impressed. “Auspicious.”

Illya huffs, cheeks lifting the frames of his sunglasses. “Neither of us are superstitious type.”

Gaby has to snort at that. Timely interventions, ominous feelings, bad signs. Were they superstitious in the least they would have never let things escalate as they had. Illya’s mouth is shiny with sunscreen. She would like to lick past the taste.

That certainty is not enough to make her choice. Sliding off her sunglasses, she asks, “So what kind of fools are we?”

Jaw working, Illya thinks on his reply. Gaby hopes he comes up with one; she would like to be convinced.

They could make love on the sand like something from a dream she once forbade herself, locked as she was behind the Wall. They could sate their ill-conceived desire in thirty-six-hour windows between missions until the day there are no more. Illya takes all his pleasures this way.

His forehead comes to rest on her sternum. She strokes his slick nape.

Would it be better to give into each other during a mission, excused by adrenaline? It is an inevitability, giving in; they did not last long as the type of fools to pretend otherwise. But how to proceed when he denies her impulse as sure as she rejects his compartmentalization?

Rasp buzzing her skin, Illya admits at last, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either.”

Neither advance nor retreat — impasse by mutual agreement. New territory.

They stroke each other’s skin.

Gaby dons her sunglasses once more. “I would like to drive the boat,” she says and is pleased by the evenness of her voice.

“Okay,” Illya rumbles, presses his lips to her sternum. He stands carefully, letting her turn to stand behind the driver’s seat before he crowds in next to her.

The skip of the boat across the water as she accelerates them back toward the cove is a satisfying counterpoint to Illya’s thumb stroking the small of her back. They spot Solo on his water scooter doing tricks for a boat full of what look like Grecian swimsuit models.

“He is almost a parody of himself,” Gaby calls as she sideswipes to a stop beside him, almost turning him over. Solo frowns. She shrugs.

Solo isn’t the only one vying for the attention of the models; a quartet of Greek men in a larger power boat idle nearby. The driver yells out something that ends with the English, “Women driver!” and lots of laughter. Another makes a rude gesture toward his crotch.

Pulling a face, Solo notes, “I believe that is your masculinity they’re calling into question, Peril.”

“Would you like to shut them up?” Illya offers her, ever generous.

She would, but Gaby knows that if Illya doesn’t let off steam in the next eight hours he is going to be hell to work with on the mission. “You’re the champion,” she returns and steps on the seat to let him get behind the wheel.

“It’s a race!” Solo announces, and the models erupt in cheers and whistles. He shoots Gaby another warning — “Hold on tight” — this one with a wink.

Gaby wraps her arms around Illya’s torso, and he anchors her to his side, ready to smoke these boys one-handed.

At a chorus of female voices shrieking, “Go!” they take off like a shot.

The wind and the spray envelop them. There is an English word she learned in conjunction with Solo, but it turns out Illya is the literal embodiment — a showboater through and through. He whips them in circles around the Greeks, lesson taught. Still he repeats the maneuver several times before rocketing them the rest of the way down the coast.

“This is fun?” Illya shouts, fingers squeezing her side.

Gaby answers with laughter full-bodied enough to reverberate through him, too.

The speedometer oscillates, agitated by what Solo aptly described as maniacal driving. They could fly out any minute, lose their breaths to the cold water. But it is a calculated risk well worth the heady freedom.

It just goes to show where there is a right kind of foolish they will find it.

[imaginegallya]

A New Affiliate: gallyakink

We’re happy to announce a new affiliate blog — @gallyakink! This blog is a bit like @imaginegallya after dark. Specializing in smut, it’s set up like a kink meme where anyone (anon or otherwise) can submit prompt suggestions and answers! Fics will be archived on the blog and collected on ao3. The blog is just launching, so check it out! 

[imaginegallya]

OMG, IM IN LOVE WITH THIS BLOG AND OUR LOVELY SMOL & TOL! So I was wondering if you could write an imagine where Illya gets shot for Gaby? Like, lots of angst and fluff in the end? Establish!Gallya💗

Needless

For every millimeter the gun rises clarity turns up in Gaby like a dial. Heart pumping oxygen and situational awareness straight to her brain, she notes:

First, always, the overshadow to her back and left stepping closer, drawing a second pistol to aim at the nape of her neck. Exactly there; she is learning his obsessions. Illya branded a kiss in the spot below her swept-up hair before hauling her, tearful and thrashing, by the scruff to his employer.

Second, more importantly, Alejandro’s trembling finger avoiding coming to rest on the trigger, the sweat and tears gleaming in the mustache above his gnashing teeth. His anxious boots trample the grass beneath him to dirt but not one petal of his prized hydrangeas has fallen.

Calm chases clarity.

Gaby meets the wild eyes of her mark and finds no conception that his beloved Flora is the director-star of his soap opera betrayal. He will blame his business partner. He will approach the Interpol agent who has made himself so obvious in his Italian suits. He will give UNCLE everything. He will not — and this is the part of the plan that Gaby has crafted so painstakingly with her tired hands — shoot innocent, manipulated Flora.

Gaby reaches out, sobbing, in the manner of a woman who would rather die by the hand of the man she loves than live without him. In the manner of an agent who has done her job and done it well, she tracks Alejandro’s retracting trigger finger.

Her slippered foot has barely risen when the overshadow flinches. By the neck, Illya drags her down. One shot, two shots shatter the calm and clarity she has sacrificed for.

Face shoved to the grass behind his heels, Gaby is forced to witness the minutia of Illya’s fall in a blur of panic. He teeters back but stops himself from crushing her with a hand, a sharp grunt. Blood courses thickly from under his dark sleeve to form tributaries between his knuckles. Illya collapses on the dirt, his head striking her shoulder. She has scrambled up and not known it. Has already taken off her silk wrap to press against the hot, wet wound in his bicep.

Her mark is sprawled out feet away, heavy and lifeless. The hydrangeas are ruined.

Between ragged breaths, Illya is speaking to her. In her head, all she hears is: ‘It’s going to be okay,’ and, ‘I trust you.’ Wide-eyed whispered sincerity; she is learning how he lies.

Illya winds his arm around her head for elevation. Lashes fluttering against her dampened cheek, he keeps himself awake soothing the trembling nape of her neck until it is matted with blood so vital to her, so needlessly shed.

•

The wound is healing well. Gaby informs Illya of this in the clipped bedside manner she has adopted over the past week. Her hands, spreading salve around his corded shoulder, are gentler than her tongue. The pallor of the hospital bed has not left skin stretched translucent over fragile veins. Her fingertips trace over them before she turns to fetch the towel she has warming in the sink.

Her name is soft on his tongue, has been so even when she seethed in silence, stomped away. No apologies have been exchanged, but he must know his softness is softening her. She pauses.

Illya draws his knees closed, trapping her hips. “We can’t go on this way,” he murmurs, and he’s right.

She finds the veins along his inner arm again. Compulsive, this new touch. “He was my mark. You understand?” She leans close for the apology, forgiveness eager on her tongue.

Illya nods, solemn. “I understand you feel responsible.” His broad hands settle on her waist. “But I am fine. You must not blame yourself.”

Shock stiffens her muscles. Her sudden resistance to his gentle pull stops Illya short. The lightning heat of her glare melts the beatific look right off his face. Replacing it is confusion and a dawning realization that he needs to tread very, very carefully.

“Blame — ” Gaby’s throat works, strangling the words. “Myself? I must not blame myself?”

Ringing silence meets her words. Illya’s fingers flex against her sides. Bravery or foolishness to hang onto a live wire? Gaby lets him cook.

He searches her face, eyes eventually falling from hers. “You have been angry with me,” he admits.

What self-flattering lies has he been telling himself? That her temper was born of guilt? Throwing up her hands, she snarls, “Well done, Mr. Intelligence Expert. Why did I think for a second you would understand? God knows it would take more than a bullet to force the Red Peril to question his methods.”

That sparks his anger, makes his spine straighten so, even seated, he is taller than she is. “Assassination was always the Plan B. I do not regret killing the mark — ”

“Plan A would have gotten us his partner — ”

Illya’s voice rises above hers: “I do not regret taking his bullet for you.”

Gaby twists toward Illya’s bad arm in a bid to get away from this pointless, insulting discussion. But even injured he is capable of forcing her choices. She shoves against the vice grip around her waist, not as fiercely as she could, too aware of his winces.

She puts her strength in her voice. “My life was not in danger. I did my job.”

“Da,” he agrees readily.

“My mark would not have shot me.”

“No.”

Her hand works in the air in front of his neck, one more syllable away from throttling him. “Then why — ”

“Because continuing the job was needless. Plan B was sufficient for mission objective and you more than proved yourself.”

Warily eyeing both Illya and the satisfaction his acknowledgment kindled, Gaby indicates that she is willing to hear him out.

“Fooling the mark again would have meant three, four more weeks of sleeping with one eye open. For what? His partner is nothing without him. Waverly should not have asked this of you. It was unfair test.” Illya is the one burning now, the heat of his skin warming through her thin housedress.

Gaby leans her full weight against his arm, jarring him, but allowing him to draw her flush against his side. Clarity, calm. Leave it to her to let herself be compromised by a mass of contradictions in human form. 

“You know I don’t sleep,” she murmurs. The job had been tough, would have gotten tougher. How long could Flora have kept Alejandro enflamed with only chaste, blushing kisses? Gaby presses one against Illya’s closed mouth, leaving him to chase her lips when she pulls back to laugh. “I thought I was in a soap opera before.”

“What are you talking about?”

“To hell with the mission. You shot a man. You took a bullet.” Gaby traces the wound on Illya’s shoulder, which really is healing well. “Because you were jealous.”

Illya huffs, red-faced and insulted; she is learning how he reveals the truth. His hand finds the nape of her neck to settle there with no sign of letting go. She will make him work for the forgiveness she has already bestowed without his knowing. Needless, perhaps. But the effort — the sentiment — won’t go unappreciated. 

fin.

[imaginegallya]

ModPost

We want to clear things up for a few of our followers wondering why we opened the ask box once again. For starters the previous 39 prompts are still in queue and are still being worked on. We do not delete prompts that have been submitted. We have never deleted any of the older prompts and we never will so rest assure it's still being worked on. We decided to open the ask box because we have been working diligently on the older ones, to help spark some life into the blog. We would like to stay around for a long time and sometimes that means getting some fresh life into the blog! Thank you for your concern and support! - The Mods

[imaginegallya]

I love these two! Could I pretty please have a fic about Illya being horrified to discover that he gets turned on whenever Gaby speaks Russian, and then trying to hide the fact from Napoleon and her?

His throat constricts and suddenly it’s two degrees too hot when she leans over the edge of the table. Her fingers drum along the edge of the crystal clear glass, making ripples in the vodka as she clears her throat and tries again. Her voice is low and drenched in something sweeter than honey, stickier than medovik stuck to the roof of his mouth. Part of him is horrified as his body begins to betray him so easily at the thought of her whispering those words to him.

“Da?” Gaby plays with the tone of her voice, brows going high and then settling as she pulls the glass up to her lips and throws back the last two gulps of the drink. Clear liquid dribbles out of the corner of her lips and he has to fight back the urge to reach over and wipe it away with the pad of his calloused thumb. Her not-so-small pajamas hang from her tiny frame, gap in the front, giving him a view of endless skin -- just enough to stain his cheeks pink. He shifts in his seat, back pressing impossibly tight against the stiff hotel chair.

Solo nods to Gaby from over the edge of his newspaper. How he managed to get the hotel to supply him the New York Times is a mystery to Illya, one he doesn’t care to solve as Napoleon folds down the edges of the paper; “Try again and this time, lower your voice a little. This will make sure Leskov will fall victim to your charms.”

The American sends her a wink and Illya fights off an absurd wave of anger. He has no reason to be angry, they’re on a mission and it’s Gaby’s job to play distraction to a multi-millionaire arms dealer who has an affinity for women with talented tongues and coy fingers. While she distracts, Illya will remain point and Solo will infiltrate, gathering up the evidence U.N.C.L.E. needs to make the international arrest.  

Gaby drags her tongue over her bottom lip, cleaning up the spilled vodka as she revels in Napoleon’s words, settling back into the plush hotel couch and putting her bare feet up on the coffee table, toes wiggling and eyes bright. She’s had too much to drink. Illya can tell by the glassy sheen in her dark eyes and the flush crawling along the column of her throat. She pulls at the collar of her striped pajamas and clears her throat; “Vi gavareetye pa angleeskee?”

She draws her ‘e’s with an effortless ease, but ends up stumbling over the consonants like they’re jagged rocks, putting too much effort into her harsher consonants like she would in her own native language. German is close to Russian but they’re not identical and it’s obvious in the way she forms her statement that she is no native speaker but he can’t help but lose himself a little. She breathes out the last word over and over, asking if he speaks English. Something leaps in his chest and he wonders if the Cowboy can hear the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs in tempo with that of a war drum.

“Illya?” Gaby still has that low husky tone that sears his skin. His breathing shallows and suddenly the hotel suite feels too small. He tears his gaze away from her empty glass and catches the curious look on her face. Her head is tilted and all he can see is the sharp line of her jaw and the swallow that moves under her skin, dragging his gaze further down to the edge of those oversized pajamas.

His hands twitch and Napoleon’s newspaper rustles which snaps the spell that she’s drawn around him. Illya quickly moves a hand over and knocks over one of his chess pieces, giving off the illusion of hard concentration now broken by annoying teammates, “Yes?”

Napoleon regards him with a curious look. The American is smarter than he looks as his restless gaze flicks between Illya and Gaby, looking for the thread of tension being pulled between the two of them. His eyes land on the chessboard and then he smirks, which does nothing for the blush that’s now touching the tips of his ears. Illya bites back an angry growl as if to warn Napoleon to keep his silence.

“How did it sound?”  She asks coyly through lowered lashes and he swears she’s using that tone just to taunt him. The soft accent of hers permeates the words and he is reduced to something less than an inferno, more like smoldering embers in the wake of her tone. He dares himself to picture something more than wrestling on the hotel floor. He imagines a hand on her throat, palm slipping down into the open neck of those pajamas and then the feel of her skin on his as she urges him on his native language.

The silence ticks through the hotel room and finally Illya pulls himself together, determined to keep his hot-blooded reactions to himself, “It was good.”

“Good?” Gaby repeats his words and plays with the glass in her hand, turning it back and forth to make the ice clink together, “Only good?”

“Peril, she has done remarkable, a little shaky but it adds to the charm of the chase.” Napoleon is there to soothe away the blow of criticism no doubt. Solo folds his newspaper and makes a show of stretching out his loose muscles, he’s long since ditched his tie and jacket, but now he claims the bed calls to him like a siren.

Gaby moves her feet down for Napoleon and he leaves them with his newspaper folded under his arm, humming lightly with a slow scuff to his walk, intentionally dragging his feet just to catch any bit of their conversation. Illya doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He waits until the door clicks tight and then a minute longer before dragging his gaze to the small mechanic who’s now fishing a piece of ice out of the glass and chomping on it. The sound of ice crunching fills the room and she lazily draws her legs back up onto the table in a very unlady-like way. Her toes wiggle and he tries not to think of his hand slipping up the gaping pant legs of those bottoms and palming the warm skin of her thigh as he gives her language lessons.

“Was it really only good?” Gaby asks and she’s no longer playing with that husky tone of hers. It’s a honest one now that makes him feel the tiniest bit of guilt welling up in his stomach. He lowers his gaze from her legs and she stands now, ice forgotten and edges around the table to him. Her fingers touch his cheek and he dares himself a glance upward. She is taller than him like this, but not by much. Even if he kneels she is still barely inches taller than him. His blue eyes lock with her dark ones and he falls victim to the endless depth they provide, leaning into her touch he shakes his head, careful not to spook her. He doesn’t want her to move her hand just yet. He wants to soak up this feeling just a moment more. This is the closest they’ve been since Istanbul and that was months ago.

Illya gives in, surrenders up the word with a sigh. “Better.”

“Better?” Gaby’s voice is a whisper now and all he can think about it, this must be how she sounds in the early hours of the morning with her cheek on his pillow and her snarled hair in his hands as he wakes her for the day. It hasn’t happened yet, but he dreams -- and tonight will be no different as her fingers slowly pull away from his face and she brushes past him, leaving him to become nothing but ashes as she yawns quietly, “Good, then tomorrow I’ll do better until I’m best at it.”

He smiles at her stubborn desire to conquer the harsh language and then watches as she leaves him to rub at her eyes. The vodka is catching up to her. She slowly leans more to one side as she walks, brown pony tail swinging low against her shoulder. Gaby becomes victim to another yawn and Illya stays still and content -- watching her slowly pad off and drag herself into her own room.  She leaves the door open and he doesn’t know if it's for the light of the common room or an invitation for him as he watches her flop into the covers and move around restlessly. She tangles herself up and he’s still debating on moving just as a soft Russian goodnight leaves her lips. Excitement thrums across his nerves and he’s left to suffer again as his thoughts run rampant and her snores fill the hotel room.

[imaginegallya]

Ask Box Open

Imagine Gallya’s askbox is once again open for prompts! We ask that you please adhere to our rules and only submit one prompt per ask!  At this time we are not accepting suggestions for extending/continuing on already answered prompts, though we do appreciate your enthusiasm!  Thank you so much for all your support as Imagine Gallya turns a year old! We are so lucky to still be here with over 1.2k in followers! You are all amazing and we appreciate every like/reblog that comes our way. Thank you!

-The Mods

[imaginegallya]

hello! I love all your fics, they're so great. I was wondering if you guys could write one where gaby and illya get in a fight of sorts before illya has to do a dangerous mission and right before he leaves gaby says "I love you" and illya response is "I know" (dramatic exit). It doesn't have to be exactly like this I just want the "I love you" and "I know" in there. some sadness, some happiness. sorry if it's a lot.

Left SaidWest Germany, 1964

Illya is called to Moscow the day he is invited to West Berlin to pop champagne in Gaby’s newest living room. She bundles the bottle under her jacket and leads him by the hand on a late night jaunt to the Wall. “The scene of the crime!”

He hooks his elbows under hers, simulates dangling over a minefield. Earns no sympathy.

Freed, Gaby squeezes his middle in retaliation. “Two nights, no sleep for phantom shouts — ‘Defector!’ I was certain you’d hunt me down.”

Illya’s arms hang at his sides. He was her nightmare. How could she let him forget?

•••••

Gaby perches on the hood of a Lloyd 660 — “The shame of West Germany.” She pats beside her with a sweet promise to pop out his dent. Asks him to uncork the champagne.

Illya sets it aside. Says he has been called in, answers what he can. Three months, no more than six. Mission then evaluations. Classified.

“Whatever the mission, it will be dangerous without us.” Her hand twists his collar. “We’ve made you soft.”

They walk back arm in arm, space for another body between them. Gaby pitches the champagne in a bin. “Flat.” She hadn’t tried it.

•••••

Gaby’s chic apartment boasts four pieces of furniture: kitchen table, chairs small enough to drag to the balcony and a bed big enough to lose her in.

With every scrap of Russian profanity she has wrest from him, Gaby punishes:

Doe eyes downcast. “Naughty.”

“Harder. More!” Urging his hips to buck up.

“Fuck.” Nails in his backside, teeth on his chest. “Yebat’ menya!”

“Love, moya lyubov,” Illya moans against her ear. But Gaby does not love him in Russian. Only teases, orders, snaps. He suffers. Grateful, spent.

Illya wakes in darkness to Gaby’s python grip, body twitching with bad dreams.

•••••

Sleep-gentled, Gaby lets him make love to her at sunrise.

Illya dresses her in a Pucci dress, swirls of blues, purples, pinks.

They breakfast on her balcony. Spring will be long over before they see each other again. Illya cannot share this regret; Gaby relinquishes his mouth only when she must. A sip of water, bite of toast. Her bitter coffee buzzes his tongue.

She kisses him out the door, slender hand in his pocket. Ostmark coins cross the Wall with him. As does the sun, just as bright. Were Gaby with him, Illya could never make her see this.

•••••

Gaby knows it’s him on the line. The whistles, engine clank.

She recites, “Dasvidaniya. Bye-bye. See you soon. Too bad you must go. Take care. Farewell. Send my best to Moscow.” All the inflection of a recording.

“You will practice.” Illya will picture her mouth curved by Russian vowels.

“I can say everything I want to: Good riddance. Forget to write.” She weaponizes his language. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

The shot lands throat-first. “Again.”

“I said it perfectly.” Proves it: “I love you.”

“I know.” He knows the shape of her lips, the set of her chin. “You said it perfectly.”

•••••

[imaginegallya]

Illya reading Gaby a book? Bonus points if cuddling.

Fine PrintYugoslavia, 1964

Gaby is shaking — cold, fear, rage — when Illya finds her at the Skopje station. He bundles her in his winter garb, hers with Solo at the club from which she did fine work getting abducted. The experimental drug she procured is zipped into Illya’s coat. Two of her marks are laid out blocks back.

The third has staggered in, hunting for a lone German woman. Illya curls around Gaby, their heads bowed toward the pages he reads aloud in Russian. She relaxes into his voice, stilling even as a psychopath hellbent on revenge passes close enough to strike.

•••••

Illya rescues the book of fairytales before Gaby can further abuse the archaic prose. Gaby’s demand that Solo enable her delusion of perfect pronunciation forces their partner to quit the cramped compartment altogether.

The moment the door catches, Illya flips the lock and Gaby climbs onto his lap. The shade is still drawn from the last time they smoked Solo out — bickering like an old married couple for the chance to attack each other like newlyweds.

Gaby blames their lack of control on the purr of the engine; Illya knows it’s her sex kitten rasp, provocative even when incomprehensible.

•••••

One look at their flushed smirks as they exit the train and Solo books them a honeymoon suite in nearby Lake Bled. They’re meant to be lying low in the city, but Illya can’t protest so slight an adjustment to the mission with Gaby sunlit and beaming.

They play tourists for the morning. Solo meets them for lunch, a package tucked under his arm. “More inspiring reading material,” he says with a wink. Gaby unwraps it in the car — “Ivan Barkov” — and casts an eyebrow for context. Illya’s rising color tells her everything she is delighted to know.

•••••

Illya traces the line of Gaby’s hip as it stretches with her reach. She flips through the bawdy poems. She is collecting obscenities to use against him. He’s powerless to deny her their thrill.

Gaby tells him about coming of age in a theatre, the banned books they accessed in the West — Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Madame Bovary, Venus in Furs. Illya has seen such books incinerated, but he has no ire for them. “At least you are well-read.”

“Great literature teaches you about yourself.” Brow arched, she slips a hand down her belly to show him all she learned.

•••••

Illya carries Gaby up the ninety-nine steps to the Church on the Island; their cover demands it, laughter makes it light work. He holds her hand as they ring the bell together. Their wishes they keep safe, unsaid.

Looking out over the lake, they picnic on fine wine and cheeses. Gaby’s head in his lap, he reads Pushkin aloud. He doesn’t offer translation; she doesn’t ask. Her understanding is mapped onto his skin. Pressure builds when he reads “The Dream.”

They have run out of wine, cheese, borrowed time. They will wake tomorrow in London: gray skies and watchful eyes.

•••••