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Napoleon said it was a Greek tradition, but Illya chalked it up to nothing more than American charm as Gaby stood under the doorway, fingers hidden in thick gloves wrapped in a peacoat with dustings of snow on her lashes and shoulders. He swallowed hard; she had returned. She had defied orders to leave him in the one place she vowed never to return. Illya downed the rest of the drink, exhaling heavy at the burn across his tongue and moved for her. With calculated steps he found her, with his hands on her cold cheeks and lips on hers.
An enemy follows her impressions in the thick white crunch of snow. Illya follows him. When she goes down the alley, illuminated by nothing more than the reflection of moonlight on snow, he grabs the man. Arm slung over neck he crushes the windpipe of the predator while she looks mildly disappointed, gun out and safety off. Her lips purse and he watches the crease form between her brows before he mutters softly she can have the next one, apology hanging on his lips just for her and only her as she stands surrounded by untouched snow in East Berlin.
Gaby doesn’t sleep while they’re back behind the Wall. Dark circles line her eyes, her aim is off and her words are hoarse, broken, always covered in labored breaths. She kicks at the covers, then complains of the cold and goes through more vodka. It’s in the dead of night he hears her singing off-key, stille nacht; then the edge of his borrowed mattress dips and she finds his waist. Her fingers are like ice, stroking under his shirt. Illya’s hand finds hers and he twines their fingers, strokes the back of her knuckles, hums the rest of the carol.
Gaby takes the shot. First kill, right in the neck. The snow is doused in crimson. Her spiced wine is spilled with shaking fingers, smoking gun and all. People scream. Their cover is about to be blown when Illya hooks his arm in hers, tucks her in close and guides her into cover once more. The carolers down the road are innocent, singing traditional songs and heading away from the scene of Gaby’s crime. Illya hums the traditional words while Gaby shakes at his side, her fingers find his and he holds her tight, “I will always stay close by.
East Berlin wears at her nerves but doesn’t kill her spirit, she tunes the radio in the safe house through static filled stations until she finds something resembling Christmas music she sways before plucking something from under Napoleon’s ‘we must have this’ tree and dances towards him with a tipsy sway. He expects a slap to the face, or a knock of his chess set, but none of that happens. Instead she settles on his knee, hooks her legs over his lap like a child ready for Santa and places a red bow on the top of his golden head.
They’re extracted from East Berlin, dumped in London among the snow and ice. Gaby leans in a little closer, breathes a sigh of relief. Illya’s fingers curl over her shoulder before they cross the road. They find refuge in her small apartment, where he totes in a tree too big for her to reach. Gaby decorates it with shining lights and baubles, hums to herself and swallows down a glass of spiced wine before he loops his arm around her waist and hoists her up. Gaby uses Illya for leverage to dot the top of the tree with a star.
Illya builds a fire in her small London flat. Ice and slush line the windows and the air around them is freezing, Gaby hops from one foot to the next in a silly attempt to avoid the cold floor. A soft curse leaves her and Illya can’t help but smile as she drags a small present from under the tree and shakes it viciously.
“You will ruin your gift doing that,” He sighs and puts the grate back over her fireplace, watches as she defiantly shakes another present, “Spoiled girl.”
“How many presents did you buy me?”
“None. Only coal.”
He takes her to the Royal theater for a performance of a Russian beloved, the Nutcracker. Mid-way through performance, he notices the sigh on her lips and the shift of her feet. She misses dancing, not that she will ever admit the words aloud. After intermission, he no longer watches the show, but the mechanic who lost it all to a wall and a war, one that he helped protect and defend for a country that does not honor him. Guilt strikes him but then her hand slips into his and her thumb grazes his knuckles and it melts away.
Gaby’s teeth chatter and her skin pricks as the thin window panes do little to keep the winter away. Illya’s fire is nearly out and he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Even when clanging around in her empty kitchen like it’s his own. Illya spends more time in her home and less with the KGB on his mind. She selfishly keeps him before the motherland calls him home. She’s just about ready to ask for more firewood when he sets the steaming mug under her nose. The warm smell of chocolate fills her senses and marshmallows touch her tongue.
“What is it?”
Gaby leans over his shoulder, her chin is pressed into the dip of his shoulder, hair tickling his neck. He revels in the moment, lets the heat of her soak into his back as she leans in further. Cheek to cheek she lays against his back while he works hunched over the table. Flour is everywhere, coats his fingers and stains his turtleneck, “Pryanik” is the only answer he gives her. Gaby deflates and sags against his back.
“I’m too cold for a Russian lesson,” She whines he sighs, then pushes a spice cookie into her mouth.
Gaby flops back into the snowbank. The cold seeps into her wool coat, dips into the collar and soaks her scarf. Her arms flail out and she smacks the snow around her, patting down along thick flakes and then she moves. Illya shakes his head, brows furrowed.
“You are going to get sick.” His impatient words are muffled by his scarf as he watches.
“I am not.” Defiance slips from her lips. She finishes her work of art, Illya lifts her, brushes away the snow and admires the hard work of the short, crooked little snow angel in the snowbank.
“You are going to put holes in your teeth.”
Gaby grins, sucking the candycane a little further into her mouth. The sweet taste of peppermint coats her tongue and makes her cheeks tingle, “You will still kiss me.” Gaby speaks matter-of-factly, kicking her legs back and forth as she perches herself on the edge of the counter while he stirs another handful of spices into the soup pot.
“You think this.”
“I know this.”
He scoffs and she grins grabbing onto his sleeve. With a sharp tug she pulls him and slants her mouth along his in a minty kiss.
She stands on the tips of her toes and toys with one of the light bulbs on the tree. The string of lights flickers and goes out. A frown weighs over her lips. Gaby taps the little bulb.The tree is illuminated once again, all except the one bulb.
“I don’t get it,” She plays with it like she would one of her engines, itching to take it apart.
“Best not to touch.” Illya spooks her. His sudden appearance makes her jump and she pulls on the bulb once more. All of the lights go out and the tree crashes.
“You are going to break it.”
Gaby shakes the small box again. It rattles under her destructive fingers and she resists the urge to stick her tongue out at Illya as he strikes a match into the fireplace. The warmth picks up and before she can shake another present, Illya is there. He wraps a hand around her wrist and picks her gloves off, finger by finger. Then he catches scarf around her neck, unwinding it. Piece by piece he deconstructs her winter wear and hangs them close to the fire to dry. Piece by piece he pulls her closer.
Illya’s knees wobble, his ankles are unsteady and there’s a scowl on his handsome face that makes Gaby snicker as she circles around him once, twice. The skates are rented and the rink is full of couples, but none of them exist to Illya. Only the woman doing figure-eights on his heart does. He watches her extend a leg then sweep across the ice like a ballerina. Her legs are strong, her grace even stronger. He is too busy watching her to pay attention to his own skates. His feet tangle, arms windmill, and then he crashes while she laughs.
There’s too much of it, he decides this while she sits on his shoulders. Her thighs warm the skin of his neck, his pulse races as he holds her steady. His thumbs move in small circles down her skin while she tosses silver foil everywhere. It rains down in glittering tones, catching the light of the tree sending bursts of light across the walls.
“Too much in one place,” Illya murmurs and she shifts against his shoulders, tossing more to the top of the tree.
“Shh,” She warns him, threatening to tighten her dancer’s legs, “I have the tinsel handled.”
Illya jolts awake the moment her cold feet touch his warm legs. Sometime during the night she moved from her side of the bed. Her fingers are splayed against his ribs and she’s laying right in the path of the winter sun. Gaby is drenched in gold, brows furrowed and hair a mess, she buries herself in further.“Stop thinking,” She yawns into his chest.
“Stop pretending to sleep.” He counters.
“I can’t, I’m avoiding the ugly sweater you’re going to make me wear to HQ.”
Illya laughs and blocks the sun for her, “Stop making bets you cannot win.”
“Why the angel?” Illya asks her, drawing her attention up from lighting the second red candle in her wreath. Gaby pauses, fingers holding to the matchstick in her hand. The smell of sulfur burns her senses.
“It’s tradition,” She feels her voice waiver, not sure how to explain the angel on the top of the tree. The one tradition she keeps from her days in East Berlin. Baubles all aside, she keeps the angel at the top. Her silence doesn’t go unnoticed. In moments he’s passing behind her, dropping a soft kiss on her crown.
“We make new traditions, ptichka”
“We are going to be late.”
He is never late.
Together, however, they are late.
HQ is brimming with both fresh and senior agents and good food. Napoleon laughs at Gaby’s sweater, tugs it at her collar just as a new round of champagne comes. Waverly makes a toast. He’s looking older everyday and Illya knows the man is grooming Gaby to be his permanent replacement. The Agency is at the top of the war. War is almost over though. Russia howls for him and Illya ignores the call. He raises his stemmed glass though as the toast is settled.
She still tastes of expensive champagne when kissing him. Her hands tangle in his sweater and she pulls at the neck, stretching it out. Illya doesn’t have the heart to tear her away. He only steps her further into her apartment. Gaby kicks the door closed, moves her hands move into his hair; messes up his meticulous locks as he steps back. Together they hit the decorated tree. A red bauble falls off, clinks to the floor and they soon join it. Gaby tackles Illya. He huffs out a laugh and catches their reflection in the glass of the ornament.
“If you eat that there will be nothing in your stocking,” Illya warns her but Gaby only sends him a smile, lips peeling back to reveal the skin of the fruit. She chews on the orange slice and then tosses the rind.
“I never got them behind the wall.”
“Couldn’t smuggle any in?” He’s teasing her, the same way she teases him about Russia. Instead of chastising her though, he moves to peel the next slice for her, handing it over just to pull her closer.
“What will go in my stocking then?” She muses softly.
Illya smirks, “More coal.”
They stretch out in front of her fireplace, wrapped in the wool throw that is usually draped across the back of her couch. The ornament is still on the ground, Illya’s reflection is distorted as he lays back on the carpet and pulls Gaby’s left hand up. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion, lips plush from kisses.
“We have to light the third candle for the adventkranz.” Gaby hums softly, pointing to the small coffee table with their advent wreath sitting crooked along scattered car parts and Russian literature.
“Tomorrow,” Illya promises.
“Tomorrow.” Gaby finds the energy to kiss him.
Gaby stops in front of a frosted window. A glow illuminates her face from inside the shop and Illya hangs back a step just to take in the look. Her hair is under a wool hat and she’s dressed in layers with arms full of shopping bags.
“Napoleon needs this,” Gaby presses her hand to the window of the shop and turns to look at Illya. Her finger taps the glass a few times. Illya steps up to peer inside. He smirks softly at the gift.
Illya presses his hand to the small of her back before scoffing, “Very American.”
The paper is torn at the corner where her thumb worries back and forth over the small present. The wrapping is meticulous like everything Illya does with perfect creases and a centered bow. There’s no sense in waiting she thinks, she could impatiently open one present without him noticing. There’s only a few more hours and she finds she can wait not longer. Dishes clash in the kitchen as he works as the fire in the apartment dies for the night.
Gaby’s finger drags further down over the tear. She exposes a velvet box. Small, heavy, and her throat constricts.
Illya wakes her with a peppering of kisses. They’re soft, warm, and chaste. Then his hands find her waist and he rolls her over onto her back, spilling her into the morning sun. They pad together into the living room. More presents have made their way under the tree in the dead of night and Gaby smiles sleepily when he pulls her into his lap, doling out presents. Their first Christmas is cold and snowy, ice is painted on her windows but he is warm and the ring on her hand is heavy, real.
“I promised to be close by.”