Chapter Text
Gaby couldn't let on that the Salone Mascagni at the Grand Hotel Plaza Roma was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. She appreciated the frescoes from the corner of her eye. She wanted to stand and admire them more closely, but none of the other elegant guests seemed to appreciate their surroundings. She too had to pretend this type of luxury was thoroughly commonplace.
The meals passing by looked delicious, the service was impeccable, but she couldn't let on that it was anything special.
What she did let on was that she loathed the man sitting across from her. She wasn't a good enough actress to convince anyone otherwise.
"Do you enjoy your wine?" he asked in a disinterested voice, poorly playing the adoring fiancée.
She hated his accent.
"Yes," she responded flatly, taking a sip, "thank you," she added. She gave the bare minimum of courtesy, if only for her cover.
She had said maybe ten words to the man since Berlin. They had traveled in silence. They had checked into their shared room in silence and they had walked down to dinner in silence. Now there were no less than three dozen people about them. It was day one of their mission. They had to interact. For the cover.
She looked at her menu. She didn't understand any of it, but she wasn't about to let that on. When their waiter arrived she cut the Russian off before he could order for her. She requested the risotto.
"I love risotto." Gaby smiled flatly at her surprised fiancée as the waiter took her menu. She knew he thought she was some untraveled, uncultured grease monkey from East Berlin and she preened at proving him wrong.
"You have had risotto?" He didn't look like he believed her.
"Yes," she said. "with truffle. It smells like feet...but it tastes good in risotto." She mentally patted herself on the back for remembering the name of the mushroom.
"And how have you had truffle and risotto before?" the Russian asked, curious with a hint of suspicious disbelief.
How had she had risotto before, while living under the iron fist of the tyrannical puppet government his country had set up to rule her own? - is what he should have asked, and she almost told him so, but she tampered her anger and hit him with a more subtle jab.
"Someone made it for me," she said casually. "In his home."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Someone?"
"Someone," she smiled. "In a chic little apartment."
Gaby could see his expression darkening as he mentally connected the dots and imagined her and the handsome CIA agent having dinner together. In private.
She hid her smile as she sipped her wine and looked about the room, drinking in the fine ornate features and the elegant clientèle. She noticed something on the other side of the room and she nearly choked on her wine.
Her annoyance forgotten, Gaby removed the napkin from her lap and pushed her chair back. She could feel the Russian's eyes following her as she stood.
"Darling," he warned. "Where are you going?"
Gaby ignored him and walked across the room, her heels sinking into the plush carpeting. On a table running alongside the wall was an ebony bowl piled high with oranges. She reached out and touched one of the fruit and gave a little gasp when she found it to be real. She looked about, expecting one of the waiters to chastise her, but they only went about their work.
Gaby walked back to the table with the fruit cupped in her palms, the Russian's eyes tracking her. She sat down and ran her thumb over the fruit's waxy skin.
"I think that is for decoration, not for eating," her fiancée said.
"Decoration?!" Gaby looked up in shock. An entire bowl of fresh oranges, just for looks?
He nodded. "It is waste."
That, at least, was something they could agree on. She hadn't had an orange since she was a child. They were even hard to come by in West Berlin, before the wall, and she never had the money to buy them anyhow. They were simply non-existent in East Germany.
She pressed her thumb nail into the skin and was delighted with the little burst of oil and citrus scent she released. She quickly peeled the fruit, depositing the skin onto the white tablecloth in a pile. She knew people from neighboring tables were looking at her in disapproval and confusion but she didn't care.
Gaby removed a few segments of the fruit and popped it into her mouth. The juice ran over her tongue and she realized she had forgotten the sharp sour tang of citrus fruit. Her face scrunched up.
"Sour," she said around a mouthful of orange. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head slightly. The corner of her companion's mouth twitched as he watched the expression on her face. Despite the sour shock she tore off another chunk and ate it, sucking the sweet juice from her finger tips.
"Do you like it?" he asked, and for once, he actually looked like he cared about her answer.
She nodded as she chewed the fruit and his mouth twitched again.
"We will ask for lemoncello after dinner," he suggested. "It too is sour...but also sweet."
"Like an orange?" Gaby asked.
"Yes," Illya replied. "After we can walk to the Spanish Steps. See the city." He paused at his own words. "For the cover."
Gaby nodded again as her risotto arrived.
For the cover.