The Man From U.N.C.L.E: The Thief From Moscow

Chapter 19: That Night

"Why do you always wear those pyjamas?"

Gaby and Illya were facing each other on opposite couches, holding champagne and wearing smiles. Gaby was propped up on a mountain of pillows, already in her striped pyjamas.

"They come from home," she sipped her glass of champagne. "They remind me of Germany."

"I thought you wanted to forget about East Germany."

She shrugged. "Not all of it, I guess. Some of it I'd like to keep." She narrowed her eyes as she tried to read his body language. "Why do you always look so nervous?"

Illya was sitting with his back hunched. They had previously played a game of chess, where he was irritably good and competitive. Gaby had refused to play another game, but Illya's eyes still drifted to the board now and again. "I'm just prepared for anything."

"Is that how the KGB has trained you?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Very unlike the laidback Americans."

"I noticed."

He put down his glass of champagne. Gaby was already on her third glass, and it wasn't going to likely stop there. "You'll be sick if you drink anymore."

"Why do you care?" She teased and smiled, slowly drinking the bubbly alcohol in front of him purposely.

"Because I have to sleep with you tonight."

The room went silent. Gaby broke the ice with laughter. "Is that so?"

Illya looked down at his hands nervously. "I need to ask something."

"I'm all ears."

"Are you a virgin?"

Illya thought she would burst out laughing again, and playfully tell him to be quiet. But she didn't. Instead, she hastily drank the rest of her champagne and quickly put the glass down. She didn't look like she wanted to respond at first, and the silence was growing into tension.

"So," Illya looked up at her, "you are."

Gaby met his gaze and smiled at him. "Unfortunately, I am not."

Illya looked at her, trying to find any sense that she was joking. She wasn't. Her smile on her face couldn't hide the pain and distress in her eyes. He couldn't imagine someone else touching her skin or loving her the way he did.

Gaby's gaze lifted to the ceiling when she had become overwhelmed by the silence. "Illya, it was a long time ago," she paused, "and I've never told anyone before."

"What do you mean by a long time ago?"

Gaby was only twenty-four. "I was thirteen."

Illya could picture a thirteen-year-old Gaby: so innocent and sweet and lively. It was hard to imagine the innocence taken away at such a young age. "So young?"

"Yes. It was never intentional..."

He knew what she meant. Gaby grew up in the post-war world of East Germany: a place filled with drunken soldiers and dangerous men lurking around every corner. He knew what she meant. It made him angrier that a soldier had touched a thirteen-year-old Gaby without permission or virtue.

"You?" Gaby smiled.

He smiled back, trying to turn the conversation back to being light-hearted. "No, I'm not."

"I think it would be better for me not to ask." Gaby laughed at his stunned expression. "Unless I go and find the Russian girl in the night and demonstrate the same punch you used to whack me."

Illya was about to protest, when he saw her face beam with joy and laughter. He couldn't help but laugh with her. When the laughter had turned into grins and floaty, champagne-filled smiles, Gaby sat down next to him again on the couch.

"I don't think we've ever actually known each other properly until now."

It was true. They'd only ever talked about the mission, wrestling or apologies that were owed. They'd never stopped to actually look at each other and talk about their pasts.

"Now we do," Illya put his hand firmly on her waist, and his gaze locked into her smooth, chocolate-brown eyes. He slowly leaned in, and finally felt her soft lips on his.

To the couple, that night felt like a whirlwind of emotions as they went to sleep in each other's arms, their clothes still scattered around the floor.