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.”
•••••
