Warnings: Mentions of "the other ones," Irene thinks about her past, there's some stuff about mistresses that idk if it might offend someone.
A/N: YOU GUYS. The response to this story has been amazing so far. I'm so excited honestly. I'm glad to see that everyone likes it! Irene's going to start kicking ass soon, I promise. There's a little bit more setup to go, but the pacing will get quicker eventually. ALSO two more things. 1. I made a cover isn't it pretty. 2. If you wanna see gifs and stuff for the fic, my tumblr is the-woman-from-uncle and my tag for the fic is /tagged/fic: wednesday's child.
Chapter 2
"The fire is coming, so I think we should run." -Daughter
Irene's practically sleepwalking by the time she reaches the hotel in Istanbul. Her case is causing her shoulder an insane amount of pain, and she wants nothing more than to collapse onto a bed and nap.
Somewhere over the ocean, Irene decided that flying was not her thing. The experience was both nauseating and terrifying, and she hoped to hell that there wouldn't be a lot of it involved in the job.
Then again, she was being assigned to an international network. Obviously there was some travel involved.
If Irene weren't feeling so very terrible, she would've noticed how glamorous the lobby is. It's got golden décor, plush velvet furniture, and the entire thing seems to give off a gentle golden glow. There's a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling.
Irene drags herself over to the front desk and drops the suitcase down with a bang. The lady behind the counter jumps about a foot in the air, gasping. "Oh!" she exclaims, holding a hand against her chest in surprise. When she finally registers Irene's presence, she's back to being chipper and professional. "Welcome to the Bir Otel. Name?"
She feels like she should smile—she should reciprocate the sunny attitude that the lady gives off. But she can't. She's too damn tired.
So Irene answers with a bitter, "Kathleen Danvers." Her lips are upturned in a stiff scowl and her eyes stare deadly at the other woman's face. The cheerful expression she wears flickers the tiniest bit, but she hides it by looking down at the guestbook. "D…D…Danvers. Okay. Room 606." She digs around in her drawer for a few moments before producing a key. "And we'll have concierge take your bags up for you."
"Thanks," Irene answers flatly, taking the key and looping the lanyard over her thumb. The lady behind the counter signals a bellboy, who appears at Irene's side within moments. He lifts the suitcase from her hand, and grunts when he realizes how heavy it is.
Of course it's heavy. She's keeping her files in there, all disguised as diaries. And her knives are wrapped up in her dresses. Saunders wouldn't let her take her gun—something about airline codes. But he did manage to get her through security without being caught smuggling knives.
"Enjoy your stay!" the woman from the counter says, waving, and Irene raises a hand for a moment, before dropping it and heading towards the elevator.
The bellboy is silent as the room slides up through the building. Irene looks over at him, studying his young face. He can't be more than nineteen, and he's thin. His arm shakes from lifting the bag. "You can put it down, if you want," she says, humanity overpowering irritation. The boy looks hesitant, so she reaches over and pulls it out of his hand, setting it on the floor until they reach the sixth level. Once the elevator arrives, she lifts up the suitcase and drags it along the floor of the hallway until she reaches the sixth door. The bellboy looks unsure of himself, so Irene waves him off. She takes the key and slips it into the lock, jiggling it around for a moment or so before it gives and the door swings open.
"Oh my god," she grunts, dropping the suitcase in the living area…living area. There's a living area? Does that mean there's a separate bedroom?
All this, just to herself?
Irene quite likes being a spy.
She crosses the floor to the couch, collapsing on it for a moment before rolling off and onto the carpet. She army-crawls towards the double-doors she guesses lead to the bedroom, placing a hand on each silver handle.
When Irene pulls them open, she screams.
Because there is a man standing in the room.
He turns to look over his shoulder, looking only slightly alarmed by her reaction.
"Who the hell are you?" Irene demands, glaring at him with tired eyes.
The man turns around, abandoning his half-unpacked suitcase and stepping towards her. He holds out a hand. "Napoleon Solo. You must be Miss Acosta."
Irene doesn't shake his hand. She just stares at it for a moment. "Why are you in my room?"
Napoleon tilts his head to the side. Gives a little half smile. "Didn't you read the protocol?"
"Of course I read the protocol," Irene snaps, placing her hands on her hips. Of course she read the protocol. She knows that her name is Kathleen Danvers, and she's travelling with her boss, Andrew to Istanbul so he can look into business dealings. She knows that Kathleen's middle name is Eleanor, and that Kathleen has terrible taste in dresses. She knows this because she hates the dress she has to wear. There's a layer of scratchy fabric on the inside that chafes needlessly at her legs.
Holding his hands up defensively, he asks a follow-up question. "Did you read the updated protocol?"
Irene narrows her eyes. "What updated protocol?"
He smirks. "I guess that answers my question." Napoleon returns to his suitcase, continuing the process of unpacking. Irene follows him over, standing on the side of the bed. (One bed. There's a single bed in the hotel room). "Commander Waverly encountered some issues while trying to secure us an invitation to the Ataman's gala. So he had to tell them that you and I were romantically involved. And since we're too old to be dating, and we don't have marriage records, he had to tell them that you're my mistress."
Irene splutters for a second before craning her neck towards him. "Your mistress?" she asks, seething with anger. "Your mistress?"
She's not a mistress. She would never do that to another woman. She would never do this. This is not her.
No.
She's not the mistress.
Kathleen is the mistress.
She just has to pretend to be Kathleen.
It's just pretend.
You just have to lie.
She's a good liar. So she decides that maybe this is okay.
It's not as if she's got a choice in the matter, though. She has to follow orders or they'll send her back to Drew, who's probably wondering what in seven hells has happened to her. And then she'll have to explain.
"Oh yes, I'm a failed spy."
No. She doesn't want to go back. She can't go back.
Or even worse, they'll send her back to Cuba. Back to the others with their vicious smiles and curled blades.
She does not want to go back to the others. She doesn't want to see them again. Tomas. José. Victor. Ju—
No. She can't see the other ones. She can't think about their causes.
"…Miss Acosta?"
Irene snaps out of her haze and focuses her vision to see Solo standing in front of her, a look of concern on his face. "What?" she barks. He lifts an eyebrow, and makes a face as if to say, okay then.
"I'm supposed to bring you down to meet Teller and Peril," he says, flipping the top of his suitcase shut and buckling it. He slides the bag under the bed neatly, and Irene wonders it's possible for him to look so neat despite having travelled directly from Rome earlier in the day.
Huh.
"Do I have to be your mistress when we walk together?" she wonders out loud. Napoleon puts on his jacket and straightens the lapels before he answers.
"Yes. I'm afraid that unless we're in the middle of open gunfire or in the hotel room, we've got to maintain our cover."
Irene nods, mentally noting that Napoleon answers questions straightforwardly and doesn't tease her like the men at the training facility did. Her face flushes with anger whenever she remembers their cruel, bellowing laughs. Of course a girl wouldn't know that! Boy, would I be lucky to marry her. Get to own a stupid little lady like that.
Irene grits her teeth, setting her jaw in a line. But then, she remembers that they're still back at the training facility, struggling to maintain a good form when they kick.
She's in Istanbul, preparing to kill someone.
And then she isn't as furious with them.
Napoleon steps out of the hotel room, holding an arm out for Irene to link hers through. She does.
It reminds her of her wedding.
It's funny—all the romantic things she's ever done have either been lies or forced upon her.
Irene smiles down at the floor, and then back up at Solo to study his face. He's got dark hair and a nice jaw, and his eyes are a pretty shade of blue. When he notices her staring and looks down at her, she averts her gaze. But she can still tell that he's studying her, just like she was studying him.
The pair walk down the hall in silence, and then when they're closed into the elevator, Irene turns to him. "How long has this team been together?"
Napoleon raises an amused eyebrow before looking down at his watch. "Officially? About six hours."
Six hours? Some team. "What about unofficially?" she inquires.
Napoleon creases his forehead as he thinks. "Three, four days."
"Oh."
And Irene knows that's a dumb answer, and that it's hard to come up with a response to "oh," but it's all she can think of saying at the moment.
The elevator arrives on the ninth floor and Irene steps out, cursing whoever invented heels. They're pinching her feet and the click, click is making her wince. It sounds like scissors. Snip, snap, snip, snap.
She remembers the sound of scissors. She remembers them from making that sign for the church fundraiser with Betty, and she remembers them from when a cruel man sliced the locks of hair away from her head, leaving her with patchy, bald flesh.
Now her hair is healthy, from the nice shampoos that she bought with Drew's money. It falls just below her shoulders, and sometimes she curls it, sometimes she does it in waves. Sometimes, when she's lazy, she does nothing and it hangs pin straight from its roots.
Irene lifts her hand self-consciously to touch the back of her skull. She slides her fingers into the base of her neckline and runs them through the locks, just to reassure herself that they're there.
Napoleon stops in front of room 913 and knocks on the door before testing the handle. It's unlocked. When Irene steps inside, she can see two people standing about a foot away from one another. One, and incredibly well-built man, looks incredibly frustrated, and the other, a tiny woman in an orange dress, looks down disappointedly at her white shoes. After a few moments, she looks up. "Solo," she greets, nodding her head. "And you're Agent Acosta?"
Irene nods at the woman, and when she sticks her hand out for a handshake, Irene decides to cooperate.
"I'm Gaby Teller." The East-German. "This is Illya. Illya, say hello."
She instructs him the same way Patsy used to instruct her son, Ronnie, when she couldn't find him a babysitter and he had to come to lunch. Ronnie, say hello to Mrs. Reynolds. Ronnie, remember your manners. Ronnie, behave or you can't use the train set anymore.
The giant blonde man nods wordlessly to acknowledge her. Irene makes a face, before realizing that that was how she'd responded to Solo earlier. She slowly, trying not to look ashamed, returns her face back to their normal features.
Gaby rolls her eyes at Illya. "Don't mind him," she assures Irene. "He'll get over himself eventually."
"The gala's tomorrow, right?" Irene asks. The time change and the flight have messed up her internal clock, and she's not sure what day it is anymore.
Gaby nods, smiling a little bit. Illya pouts in the corner, and she smacks his arm. "Don't be like that, Peril," Solo soothes mockingly.
"Shut up, Cowboy," the man hisses, his thick Russian accent becoming apparent. Napoleon smirks, like he enjoys provoking Kuryakin.
Gaby rolls her eyes again. "They're like children," she mutters, and Irene smiles the slightest bit. She watches in fascination as Solo smiles cheekily and sidles up next to Kuryakin, and then as Kuryakin shrugs with enough power to knock the dark-haired man back a few feet.
The hotel phone rings, and Gaby stands back for a few moments. Irene wonders if she should go pick it up, but then Gaby steps forward, lifting the receiver off the line and twirling the cord around nimble fingers. "Yes…okay. Yes. We'll be down in a minute."
"What is it?" Napoleon asks.
"Waverly wants us to meet him downstairs for a briefing."
Irene lags behind, watching as Illya and Gaby stand close by each other. She knows they're supposed to be engaged; that's their cover. But there's something genuine about the way they act around each other.
Is this what romance looks like? Irene wonders. Or is it an act?
She supposes that the unfortunate part about being around liars, is that you can never tell what's real.
A/N: I know this was more of a filler, but I think that it was really important for it to be it's own chapter. The next chapter is exposition, and then things will pick up after that. Please leave a review letting me know what you think!