"This is not the Russian way."

“I know I didn’t,” Gaby says casually, peering in the opposite direction in that very telling way she usually does when she doesn’t feel comfortable facing somebody for whatever reason. She’s a proud woman, rarely appears bashful or embarrassed about anything; one might even say she has very little shame. For whatever reason, there is something she attaches to this gesture - whether purposely or not - that she finds she’s unwilling to face, even when they are tucked up against one another this way, all comfortable and warm. 

Perhaps even because of this.

“It’s not a big deal,” she continues, “You may not even care for it.” They pass several brightly lit windows, and she takes the time to examine each one as they pass. She’d been tempted to try selecting something one might find displayed here, but for all she’s come to know her partners so well, she had drawn a blank and come up empty in terms of working out what Illya might enjoy. So much of him remains a mystery to her, and to Napoleon as well, she suspects, even if he’d been the one to drop her such a useful hint. She should have known, herself. She should have seen it. 

“If you prefer to be alone,” Gaby adds, “I’ll leave you to it. But you don’t have to be.” An open invitation. She isn’t completely certain what his celebration entails, but she’s willing to find out if he is willing to share it with her.

Illya’s kind with his steps and he slows when Gaby stops to gaze into the shop windows, every one lit with artificial Christmas lighting and decorated as if kings and queens were going to be buying their wares. Illya felt like a king sometimes, since moving to New York; he had loyal friends (subjects), a fine apartment for himself (his castle), and a beautiful woman on his arm for Christmas (his Queen hopefully, maybe, some day).

“I would not wish to be alone, no,” he stated simply, offering his arm again as Gaby stepped back from yet another window display. Illya’s eyes were everywhere hen Gaby walked away from him each time, scoping the sidewalk for anyone else, and on alert for immediate action if things happened. “Only part of my celebration that you would not maybe be accustomed to, is church service. Is important part, if maybe too traditional.”

The rules are:

-post the rules

-answer the questions given to you by the tagger

- write eleven questions of your own

-tag eleven people

1. Do you prefer living on your own or with other people? On my own.

2. Your comfort food? Cheese, though I was recently diagnosed as suffering from lactose intolerance, so my dreams of eating cheese professionally have been crushed.

3. Your favorite movie genre? Drama, but also sci-fi.

4. What do you like to do on your free time/weekend? BAKE. BAKE ALL THE THINGS.

5. Any game you still like playing up to this day? Super Mario, but the 30 year old versions from the 80′s.

6. Do you draw/write your own stories/post them online? I write fanfic and also original fic, but only the fanfic ever gets posted anymore.

7. Your main goal in life? Be successful enough to one day visit Europe.

8. Fish / meat / veggies? I’m a grand lover of meat, but I also love veggies. Fish is the devil.

9. What is your side hustle that nobody else around you knows about? Uh...I actually don’t wanna say. It’s not really a very nice subject, lol.

10. The one country you would want to go on vacation the most? Netherlands, but also Italy and Germany.

“For your sake,” she echoes, unsure of what that means exactly, but she looks as though she’s attempting to work it out. “Hm.” 

But she seems pleased by his offer, and threads her arm through his, allowing herself to be led. He knows where they’re going every bit as much as Gaby does, and is far more clear-headed; she won’t admit to it but it’s convenient for her to be able to lean on him when the ground is uneven or it comes time to step up to or down from the curb. It’s far colder than she had anticipated, as well, and Illya puts off heat like a human furnace. If she keeps close, she hardly thinks he’ll mind it. 

“I have something for you,” she murmurs, distracted by the city lit up so bright and pretty. Gaby can’t remember if she’s already told him this, or if she’d simply thought it, or imagined it, or even intended to and failed to bring it up. She won’t admit to being just this side of drunk, because to do so means she’ll have to admit to the way she’s beginning to slip, too. If she’s repeating herself, well, there are worse things she could have done.

“But maybe I’ll keep it, until you celebrate your own proper Christmas.” There’s something about the quiet of the street, the warm little bubble she finds herself in while tucked against the Russian’s side, that makes her want to talk for no good reason. It’s a silence she hopes he won’t mind her breaking, even though she’s sure Illya must be seeking some peace and quiet after spending such a long evening in the company of so many other people. “It’s nothing special.”

Illya’s nothing if not casually observant and aware of Gaby’s step at all times, and he leans down or lifts up at her arm if he sees her struggling with snow on the sidewalk, or a rise where the curb lifts to meet the sidewalk after a dip for a driveway. He’d willingly carry her--as he’d offered earlier in their conversation--but Illya doubted Gaby would appreciate being suddenly swept off her feet in her inebriated state, and Illya honestly worried a little about the assumptions and indication of a thing between them, should he have done so.

He was surprised by the offer of a gift, though they’d already exchanged polite gifts of alcohol and company to each other--along with Napoleon--earlier in the week. It was like a tithe they offered in order to wish goodwill upon each other, but the trio were closer than any UNCLE agents Waverly had ever employed, so the gifting was almost unnecessary except on a personal level.