a/n: idk what I did to deserve these reviews but thank you so much
warnings: murder, death, prostitution, implied dub-con in a flashback, abuse, etc.

Chapter 3

"Blood still stains when the sheets are washed." –Melanie Martinez

"Alexander Waverly," the man says, shaking Irene's hand. He gives her a pleasant smile and then pulls her chair out.

The five are sitting in a small restaurant in their lobby. It's busy enough that people won't be able to hear what they're saying, but not so crowded that they have to be worried about not seeing threats.

The briefing isn't too much new information—Waverly is a nice man, as Saunders said, but she hasn't been given any information that supports or contradicts the comment about his golf skills. He's serious without being scary. He's polite and professional and he fills her in on anything that she's missed—namely, when she and Gaby will be getting their dresses for the banquet tomorrow, when the rehearsal dinner and wedding are taking place, the overall mission plan, and her personal focus—keeping Hasan's daughter, Maya, safe.

Back in the room, she takes a bath. The hot water soothes her aching muscles, and she peers curiously at the tiny bottles of soap provided by the hotel. They're too small to last more than three days, so she makes a note to go buy some tomorrow.

She falls asleep thinking about what the Turkish currency is. She can't remember what it's called, or the conversion formula. And then her thought begin to meander.

To Cuba, to dress-shopping tomorrow, to a large wardrobe. To Gaby's lovely hair.

Hair.

Victor cut her hair off when she was fourteen.

And she was left bald for almost four months. Irene had to wear a scarf around her skull to keep from getting sick.

Her father taught her how to use that flimsy length piece of fabric as a weapon. It empowered her.

On her fifteenth birthday, she put his lessons into action.

They found him dangling from a tree branch three days later, and wrapped around his neck, crushing his windpipes, was a pink scarf.

Irene can remember that day oh-so-clearly. The weather was humid, and sticky air clung to her skin. It inched between her ratty shirt and it made her skin sweaty. And the hot temperature had done nothing to help with the stench of Victor's rotting body.

Maybe she should've felt guilty. In church, they sometimes told her about the Ten Commandments; about "thou shalt not kill."

But she wouldn't have had to end his life had he not wronged her in the first place.

A sharp rapping against the bathroom door brings her from her thoughts, and she sits up in the tub. The water, now barely lukewarm, sloshes over the edge of the tub, causing a puddle to form around the edge.

"What?" Irene yelps, peering over the side of the tub to observe the damage.

"Are you almost finished?" Napoleon questions from outside. Irene's gaze shoots over to the clock on the wall. God. Seven at night. She's been in here for 3 hours.

"Yes—sorry," she shouts back, fumbling to get out of the tub and wrap herself in a towel. She yanks the plug out of the drain and drags a bath mat over to cover the mess she's made.

When she throws open the door, she finds Napoleon standing there, looking out the window. He turns his gaze to her, and suddenly, goosebumps begin to form on her skin. She's acutely aware of the way his eyes rake over her fairly bared body, and it makes her feel something unexplainable in her stomach. Something unrecognizable.

She stares curiously up at him—he's by all means handsome, all parts of him clearly fit the norm for "attractive," but really, Irene's not interested.

But his face doesn't hurt to look at, so she stares for a little bit more.

And then, the bath makes a clunking noise as the last of the water sinks down, and Irene remembers that the only thing covering her body is a towel.

Sidestepping Napoleon, she begins the walk across the living room to her case. She's halfway there when she looks back, and he's there standing in the doorway watching her go. He smirks, and Irene, feeling a bit more confident, spreads her lips into a sly grin to meet his gaze head on.

She turns back, not knowing what else to do, and heads towards the bedroom. Irene closes the door and changes into her pajamas, before collapsing onto the bed. Napoleon can do what he wants—she doesn't care.

Irene lies her head back onto the dense pillow, shuts her eyes, and falls asleep.

It turns out that Napoleon didn't sleep in the bed, as the next morning, after waking up far too early, Irene finds him lounged out on the couch. It's not as if he looks uncomfortable—the thing is enormous and plushy, and he's sleeping pretty heavily by the looks of it.

Irene's quiet as she walks over to the restroom. Napoleon's a spy, sure, but Irene's light on her feet. It's something she learned much, much before the other ones. Back before father's grieving drove him to lash out at her, with mad fists and, later, the soothing mantra of "sh-sh-sh…I didn't mean it. Be quiet, Irene."

No.

Her silent moves come from when father was out on the couch and mother was in her room with someone else—other men. Paying off her debts with her body.

Irene sometimes wonders if father was actually her father. Maybe it was one of mami's shadows—there during the night, moving with heavy legs and too-loud cries that jostled Irene from her sleep. Maybe it was another stranger, a man who came and went and probably doesn't know she exists.

She's old enough now to understand what her mother was doing. She understands enough to be angry about how her mother was treated. And she's angry enough that she could kill the men who did it to her.

Irene can't help but let her demons eat away at her. If she knew how, she'd stop them from sinking their teeth into her thoughts.

Shutting the bathroom door, Irene rests her back against the white wood. Her pajamas hang loosely over her frame and she looks down at her feet.

Mentally, she begins to list the things she must do today: 1. Get dresses with Gaby, 2. Go to the gala, 3. Lunch with Napoleon, 4. Get her gun from Waverly.

It's all too strange how years of going out of her mind has created order and sanity in Irene's head. Is it possible for boredom to drive someone to organization?

Possibly.

After showering, Irene heads over to her yet-to-be-unpacked suitcase and pulls a dress out of it. It's a hideous off-pink color, so she drops it back into the suitcase, pulling out a red day-dress instead.

Napoleon's stirred from his rest, and he lies motionless on the couch. Irene heads over and looks down at him curiously. He hums a little under his breath, eyelids still shut, hair looking mussed. Moments later, he seems to notice her eyes trained on his face, and Napoleon blinks open one eye, staring up at her. "Good morning…?" he greets. His voice is all too rumbly and low, and it sounds rugged and beautiful.

Irene remembers that she's staring, so she breaks eye contact. "Sorry."

She steps away.

And then she turns back. "You can have the bed tonight. I'll take the couch. Or if you don't mind we can share the bed." After all, it's been ten years sleeping inches away from a man she does not love—what's a few days? "I'm going to go meet see Teller."

Waverly managed to construct covers for the four of them that were interconnected—apparently something happened in Rome that might've been helped by better communication. Napoleon wasn't supposed to know Kuryakin, and yet, they showed up together constantly.

Irene's not too sure about the specifics.

A few minutes later, she arrives at Teller and Kuryakin's door. Three knocks, and she can here muffled footsteps crossing the hall. It's Gaby who opens the door, dressed and with hair done, but makeup not yet done. "Good morning," she grumbles with a frown. Her face looks disheveled and groggy, as if she's only just woken up.

"Morning," Irene says, trying not to sound too cheery or too apathetic. Gaby swings out of the doorway, letting Irene step inside and sit on the couch. This hotel room looks much more lived it. There's a set of teacups in the corner that're half-full; a floppy hat is sitting on the table, next to a newsboy cap; the items on the coffee table have been swept to the side to make room for a folded up newspaper.

It looks so much less stiff than Irene's room. She feels a tad envious and the familiarity that Gaby and Illya seem to have, but she ignores this.

When she turns to the side, she collides head on with a frantic Kuryakin. He stares, stony faced, down at her. "Watch where you go," he snaps shortly, harshness emphasized by his clipped tone.

Irene narrows her eyes at him, but steps aside. Asshole, she thinks to herself. She can't imagine why anybody likes Illya—he probably has very few friends, for a good reason too.

A voice in her head reminds Irene that she's not really in a place to judge, but she ignores the words and smiles at Gaby. "Your fake fiancé is a jerk," she states matter-of-factly.

The shorter woman casts a lazy glance over her shoulder. "I know," she answers, just loud enough for Illya to hear. The Russian giant turns his irritated gaze on the two of them, and Irene meets him head on with an annoyingly innocent smile.

She's playing with fire, she knows. But some crazy part of her derives a tiny bit of pleasure from pain.

Illya is rushing around the hotel room collecting things into his bag, and Gaby collapses heavily on the couch. "He's impossible to sleep next to. I don't know why we only have one bed."

Irene tilts her head and leans to the side to see Illya more clearly. He's built like a brick wall, so she empathizes with Gaby.

"What about you?" Gaby asks Irene. "Did you sleep well?"

Shrugging her shoulders, Irene replies, "I was already exhausted. But Napoleon took the couch."

Gaby scowls, and then leans her head back to yell at a passing Illya. "Do you hear that, Illya? Napoleon took the couch."

"I heard," the blonde man retorts, and Gaby gives off a satisfied hmph.

"Maybe I should ask Waverly to switch us next mission. You can share with Irene, and I can share with Napoleon. Perhaps I'll get real sleep."

Illya, who is passing in the opposite direction from which he came, stops, looks seriously into Gaby's eyes, and answers, "You will do no such thing."

Gaby shrugs. "Maybe I will." Then she mutters something that sounds like: "for god's sake, I got better sleep back when I lived in East Berlin."

Irene watches the exchange in fascination. They act like Susan and her husband, right after they just got married.

Do they love each other or do they hate each other? Or are they on their way to one or the other? Susan became bitter on the road to hating Jim, but Gaby and Illya have only just met, right?

How long does it take to fall in love? How long does it take for it to fall apart?

She's asking herself questions to which she has no answers. No experience. The only kind of love she's known is the love for her parents. And even then—one died before Irene could really understand why she loved her, and the other one hurt her so awfully that she's not sure if she should love him or hate him.

Both, she thinks.

But this is not like Irene and Father. Irene loved Father because she owed him, because he owned her. Illya and Gaby fight, but there's a genuineness about their actions that make her think that perhaps they might actually care for one another.

Or maybe they love each other, but it doesn't matter because arguments are tearing them apart.

What came first? Love or hate? And where are they now?

Oy.

Irene's so busy trying to understand something abstract that she doesn't recognize the phone ringing until Illya picks it up. "It's Cowboy," he says to Gaby. "You two are supposed to go to lobby and ask about buying dresses."

Gaby turns to Irene, not quite smirking, but something like it. She picks up her hat off of the table. "I guess we'll go, then."

Nodding, Irene smiles back. "I guess so."

a/n: I'm SORRY there's so much setup god I'm terrible sorry

Review Replies:

janedoee7: thank you so much for all your feedback omg. I was really worried that the writing style would come off as too modern/unauthentic, but I'm really glad you think it's okay! and ALSO illya's pouting may or may not have to do with the fact that gallya still hasn't gotten their freaking kiss yet, oh my god. Napoleon's totally going to be wrapped around Irene's finger and it's going to be both beautiful and angsty :)

J. Yasmyn: omg I'm terrible at pacing you're going to have to tell me if I'm going insane. I either spend like 80% of the story on exposition or it's like Chapter one: the wedding, action scene, and resolution. I'm glad you think that Irene's relationships with the trio are turning out ok-I wasn't sure how they'd be received since Illya is the fandom baby and Irene's not his biggest fan.

Guest: thank you!

Giota: Your review is so kind! I'm glad to know you're enjoying it

lanibapt: jesus christ gallya is going to be my cause of death. they still haven't kissed and I both hate myself/am amused by myself for it. but don't worry. more gallya. always gallya.

minstoai: your reviews have literally made my day. I'm glad you like the chapters and I'm also really happy that you like Irene! I honestly did not plan for her perspective to be this bizarre it just sort of happened.

Guest: idk what that means but thank you!

Avari20: I originally didn't want to insert an OC because the movie was already pretty damn flawless, you know? but then my brain defied me and sprouted this little plot bunny, and now I've got a whole thing planned out. Thank you so much for the reviews!

Ema Marsel: I'm so happy you're excited!

Jabberwocking: I'm naming you Irene's godparent okay

Ruthyalva96: You should definitely see the movie. So well done. Much better than this fic lol.

a/n: the sequel: thank you so much for all the support guys you're all really amazing. once again, if you wanna see extra stuff for the story my tumblr is the-woman-from-uncle and the story tag is /tagged/fic: wednesday's child