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HOLLYWOOD, 18 OCTOBER 1966
While the boys argue over the relative plausibility of warp drive, Gaby crosses the bridge and settles herself into the captain’s chair of the starship Enterprise.
Catching the scriptwriter-cum-anarchist in the act of sabotage was a relatively simple affair. The eight hours of makeup, costuming, and set direction were another story entirely. Acting is now at the top of her mental list titled ‘Things Incorrectly Imagined as Glamorous,’ right up there with ballet dancing, becoming an heiress, and spycraft. Dangling her legs over the armrests, Gaby rests her head where two hours ago Captain James T. Kirk nailed a rousing speech to his crew in just three takes.
Ignoring the volley of technobabble and worn-in insults buzzing her ears, Gaby reminisces on the appreciative wink she was shot when the scene wrapped. The smile playing on her lips is all the brighter for the massive set of red-clad shoulders that broke William Shatner’s view of her with an oh-so-casual stretch. It is always satisfying to see the fruits of her years-long labor curbing Illya’s irrational jealousy. She can also report an improvement in his hair-trigger temper, so long as she is discounting those frequent occasions when Solo fixes Illya with the full force of that condescending smirk of his.
“I have Quantum Mechanics degree from University of Cambridge.” Illya tugs at his uniform. “I have red engineering shirt. I say warp drive possible.”
Solo smooths the front of his own blue uniform and meets Gaby’s unimpressed look with blithe indifference. “The costume designer said she wouldn’t dare waste my eyes on any other color.”
“Always changing subject when I am expert,” Illya huffs from somewhere behind her, proceeding to mutter himself calm as he so often has to do.
“You have green paint smeared on your neck,” Gaby observes.
“Do I?” Solo swipes his adam’s apple and finds the evidence on his fingertips. “Orions are a friendly race, I’ve discovered. Put that in the log, Captain.”
Gaby traces the stitches of the Command insignia sewn into gold fabric. Not looking up, she gives Solo a lazy wave when he leaves, as he puts it, to see a woman about some makeup remover. Deepening her voice and flattening her accent, she mimicks, “Captain Gabriella E. Teller of the USS Enterprise.”
Illya comes around to the side of her chair, hands held behind his back in perfect soldier’s posture. “Orders, Captain?”
With a confidence befitting a Starfleet captain, Gaby roves her eyes up, up to Illya’s face. He is wearing the placid, dutiful mask that had driven her half-mad when they’d met. At first because she’d assumed there was nothing underneath it. Soon after because, oh, how she’d wanted what was. That mask is a tease, and he knows it.
Gaby rights herself, mimicking the characteristic posture she’d watched so often on the color TV in the lounge at UNCLE headquarters in New York, Illya always a stubborn three feet away from her on the couch. “Mr. Kuryakin, chart a course for Vulcan.” She pretends to be engrossed in toggling the lit-up switches.
Illya places his hand along the low top of the captain’s chair, fingers brushing the thin material of her uniform. “Any further instructions, Captain?” He pitches his voice low.
Other than the dimly lit set, the rest of the soundstage is pitch black. The producers sent the cast and crew home for the night so UNCLE could sweep for any lingering explosives. Job done and Solo occupied, Gaby and Illya are alone and off the clock for the first time in three days.
His fingers trail the ends of her half-pinned hair as Gaby stands up from the chair. “You know the trouble is, the Captain of the Enterprise doesn’t actually do the driving.” She moves to stand behind Mr. Sulu’s chair. She surveys the console and is delighted to find logic behind the design, so reminiscent of cockpits she’s navigated before.
When she reaches for a lever, the hem of her uniform rises high. Gaby keeps the pose as she swept a look behind her. Illya’s impressive frame is backlit, his golden hair a halo. But she can feel his devilish gleam pointed at her backside
“In 2266, everyone must be dedicated to professionalism.” Illya is back in soldier’s stance as he covered the short distance between them.
“It’s science fiction, Illya. One man’s fantasy.” With a cool wink, Gaby turns again to the console, pressing here and there in a manner she is sure would make the Enterprise fly were she looking out onto a star field rather than a blue screen.
Illya leans against the chair that Checkov would sit in. “American and Russian working together for the common good of humanity. Belongs only in fiction.”
“You know, I am surprised our target was writing for this show as an anarchist,” Gaby muses, turning to hoist herself onto the console. She crosses her legs at the knee, the better to admire the way sheer black hosiery complemented calf-high black boots. “The Federation does seem awfully socialist.”
“Yes,” Illya agrees. His hip lean against her leg, but his hands are still clasped behind his back. “But the way it should be. Fantasy.” The Illya of three years ago would never have admitted to such a thing. He doesn't hesitate, now, to show her what is under the mask.
Gaby leans back to swing a leg to either side of Illya. He shuffles forward but refrains from reaching for her. “Orders.” His tone is clipped. His mouth is playful. “Captain." The first syllable dips into Walter Koenig's bubbly Russian caricature.
She traces the insignia over his chest. Reaches up to clasp her fingers behind his neck. “Boldly go, Mr. Kuryakin.”
So ordered, Illya takes her knee, her hip in hand and meets her lips.
Alone and off-the-clock Illya is worth the exasperating wait. All his skill, precision, singularly focused.
Mouth still fused to hers, Illya urges her forward. She wraps her legs around his waist as he lifts her from the console. Gaby moves her lips to his throat, hiding a smile as he deposits her back into the captain’s chair and kneels in front of her to continue the kiss.
Gaby lets her head loll back, and Illya follows the movement to the collar of her uniform. She can't help but tease him. “I suppose you wanted to have me in this chair the moment Captain Kirk made eyes at me, hm?”
“No.” Illya pulls back to take in the sight of her on the chair. She is relaxed, hair and uniform askew. Arms and knees wide. He settles his elbows in the space between her thighs. “Since first episode.”
She sweeps her fingers along his parted hair. “Indulging in fantasy at the office?” Touching the tip of his ear, an image of Illya with Vulcan points curves her lips. “I’m shocked.”
He gives a soft tutting noise in counter to that claim. “You were trying to put your feet in my lap — with Larry from accounting in the room.”
Gaby brushes the toe of her boot the length of Illya’s uniform trousers. “I think I may lack the round the clock professionalism required to join the Enterprise crew.” She toes up further still. “Does that bother you?”
Illya looks at her, expression solemn. But his voice when he answers, “Oh, very much so,” is throaty with appreciation.
Gaby flashes him a grin. Then she assumes the straight-back pose of Captain Gabriella E. Teller to beckon her chief engineer in for another kiss on the bridge of the starship Enterprise.