Chapter Text
Florence, Italy
July 1965
Italy was hot in the summer-- too hot for Illya's taste. He strolled along the Ponte Vecchio arm-in-arm with Gaby, trying to cool off with a scoop of gelato. Though the weather, to him, was atrocious, he couldn't deny the charm of the medieval bridge; jewelry glittered in the windows, products of Florence's famous goldsmiths, and the whisper of the Arno River threaded through the voices of the bustling crowds, speaking every language from the native Italian to English to Mandarin. Women's heels clicked along the pavement, a gentle percussion, and pigeons cooed at passersby, begging for scraps of food. He could almost say it was better than Rome-- but Rome was where he fell for Gaby, and no medieval bridge would ever be as beautiful as the Spanish Steps for that reason alone.
"You keep pulling me," complained Gaby, tugging at his arm.
"You keep trying to go out into the sun," he said around a mouthful of raspberry. "It's hot. Stay in shade."
She stopped. "It's summer."
"Yes. Summer is hot. And unlike you, I cannot wear short dresses."
"Well, you could," she said with a smirk.
He rolled his eyes. "That dress would be a shirt on me."
"I don't see the problem."
He shook his head, unable to fully hide a smile, and Gaby linked her arm through his again, pulling him down the street.
"Come on. We're going to do something."
Illya allowed himself to be led down the street, licking the rest of his gelato out before tossing the cone to a cluster of pigeons. She brought him up to a little gap in the line of shops; from the cobblestones rose a bust of a bearded man gazing skyward, protected by a waist-high iron gate with hundreds of padlocks hanging from its bars.
"Why locks?" he asked.
"It's a local legend," Gaby explained, as they approached the rail overlooking the river. An old man in a kayak glided swiftly through the water, leaving a neat row of ripples in his wake. "The legend says that if two lovers put a lock on the gate surrounding the statue of Cellini and throw the key into this river, your love will last forever." She peeked at him from under a fringe of dark lashes, gauging his reaction.
His perpetually-detached face had not changed expression. "Silly superstition," he pronounced, then looked into the river. He dug into the cobblestone with the toe of his newly-purchased Florentine leather shoes. "Maybe... we bring lock next time."
Gaby reached into her handbag and pulled out a small padlock and a key. "One step ahead of you."
He put a hand on her back and pulled her close for a kiss. "I love you."
She smiled. "You tell me at least three times a day."
Flustered, he jammed his hands in his pockets. "I--"
"I'm teasing, darling. I never get sick of hearing it. Shall we?"
Together, they knelt at the side of the gate; Illya put his massive hand on Gaby's tiny one and they clicked the lock shut over the highest bar. She leaned over to kiss him, taking in the scent of cedarwood and clary sage, and stood up. "Do you want to throw the key?" She held it up; the sun glinted off the shiny metal.
"You do it," he said.
She palmed the key and threw it with all her might; it made a tiny splash in the water, enough to cause the man in the kayak to turn and look. He caught Gaby's eye and nodded at her with a smile.
"There." She turned back to Illya with a grin. "Now you're stuck with me."
He reached for her hand. "I am happy for that. Now, you come with me."
She followed him back onto the main path. "Where are we going?"
"Last time I bring you a present, it was bugged. This time, we buy real jewelry."
Gaby touched the fake ring, which she still wore, though the bug had been deactivated and she'd switched it to the right hand. That one stays empty for now, she'd told Illya. I'm not really your fiancee, after all. Napoleon had teased her about hanging onto it, but stopped when Illya's fingers began to twitch. Once she learned that Illya had not simply bought the ring for her, but had actually designed and made it himself before leaving for Rome as a surveillance gadget, she loved it even more.
They stopped in front of one of the windows. On blue velvet busts hung necklace upon necklace; there were tiers and tiers of intricately designed rings, some without gems, some with brilliant rubies and emeralds and all variety of gemstones. Earrings hung on little display racks, dripping pearls of every shade, stones blazing in the sunlight. "Here," Illya decided, and led her inside.
She entered the shop, which was tiny but full of beautiful goldwork on every surface available. As Gaby tried to decide where to start, the goldsmith, shoulders hunched from decades of bending over his work, approached Illya. "An engagement ring?" he asked brusquely in Italian, pulling out a tray from a glass case.
Before Illya could tell him that he really planned on buying a necklace for her, he'd set the tray of diamond rings on the top of the case and grabbed Gaby's hand. "Mani piccole," he observed.
"Inglese? Tedesco?" Illya interceded on Gaby's behalf, knowing she didn't speak Italian.
"English," said the man in a thick accent. He held up her hand in his wrinkled ones. "Little hands," he repeated. "Why a big, big ring on such little hands?" He fingered the faux pearl.
Gaby smiled up at Illya. "A big man gives big rings," she said, and Illya smiled back.
This remark flew right past the goldsmith. "Such a trinket," he said, his nose wrinkled. "You replace this. You—bella. Too beautiful for this."
The smile had faded from Illya's face.
"I think it's beautiful," Gaby told him.
"Taste is not-- what is word? Not-- refined. See?" He pulled the ring from Gaby's finger and tapped it, gem-first, on the glass. "Fake."
She scowled. "I know it is. There's--"
Illya's fingers shook, and he tried to hold them still, but he couldn't stop them-- they began to tap at his pant leg.
"Look." The goldsmith reached into his pocket for a loupe. "See? Look. Cheap. Like-- like street vendor."
"You aren't listening. I don't wear this ring because it's expensive."
"Not expensive, no. Cheap thing. Here. Look at this."
In the glass, Gaby caught the reflection of Illya's hand out of the corner of her eye. Glancing up, she saw his lips had become a thin line. Oh no, she thought.
"Give me my ring back," she demanded. "I'm leaving."
"No stamp," he was saying, pointing at the inner band with a yellowed fingernail. "Not real."
Illya gritted his teeth. "It is sterling silver," he said, jaw set.
"No stamp! That means is a fake. Will make a finger green."
Illya's fingers curled into a fist.
"Look," Gaby said to the goldsmith, snatching the ring from his hand. "This ring was made for me by a man who I love very much. I know he wouldn't have made it out of something that would turn my finger green, because he continues to prove that he knows more about fashion than I do, and he cares-- sometimes too much-- about quality. I know it is a fake pearl; there is a long and interesting story behind it, which I will not be telling you, because this ring--" she stuck it back on her finger-- "is more valuable to me than everything in your store combined." Tilting her head, she considered the goldsmith, who was staring at her, aghast; and then she delicately scooped her fingers underneath the edge of the tray of rings and flicked her wrist, sending them scattering across the floor behind the counter.
Demurely, she hooked her arm through Illya's. "Let's go, darling," she said coolly.
He marched out the door with her, leaving a tiny little bell jingling in their wake.
Once outside, Gaby took his hands in hers. "They're still," she commented.
"Yes." He stared at them as if he couldn't believe it.
She stood on her tiptoes and tilted her face up towards him. "So maybe I've done you some good after all."
"Yes." He bent down, pressing his lips to hers. "I think you have. Come. We will try the next shop."