Chapter 4
"It's the devil that's trying to hold me down." -Halsey
Irene decides, midway through dress shopping, that she rather likes dress up.
She feels like a queen in the long, inconvenient gowns. It doesn't matter that they're not a possibility for the mission. Irene thinks she could take over the world in this dress.
It's black—all black, like a raven, with a fitted bodice and a wide neckline. The drop waist leads to a floor length skirt that's an absolute dream, puffy and satin, layers and layers of fabric. Irene likes how powerful she looks. Like she should be feared.
Sometimes it's exhausting to have to pretend not to be dangerous. Irene much prefers intimidation, rather than looking small and meek so that men aren't intimidated.
It's a man's world, she thinks unfortunately. But then, it occurs to her the number of times men have failed at hurting her—thirteen—versus the number of times she's failed at hurting men—one. Maybe the world is a man's world, but Irene is not a man's anything. Except maybe killer.
It's odd how comfortable she is calling herself that. Shouldn't she despise herself for everything she's done?
In her head, Irene shrugs. She probably should, but she doesn't.
Twirling around in the dress, she finds herself face-to-face with Gaby, who is wearing an emerald dress that stops only when it reaches the floor. The fabric seems to stretch on for miles and miles, which is impossible, considering how short Gaby is.
"What do you think?" Gaby asks, placing her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing, daring Irene to judge her. Irene doesn't. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. The dress looks nice on Gaby.
"It looks perfect," she remarks. Gaby stares at her for a bit longer, before smiling, a bit more relaxed.
(She still seems suspicious, though.)
"Your dress seems a little much, though," Gaby says. Irene tenses at the insult at first, before realizing that, obviously the dress is too much. She hadn't actually planned on buying it. Just trying it on. She tells that to Gaby.
A saleswoman heads over, dresses folded over her arms. "Try these on, miss," she offers, holding them out to Irene. The brunette smiles politely, lips closed so as to hide her fangs and eyes drilling pleasant holes into the woman's skull.
"Thank you," she says, reaching forward and taking them from the woman's hand. She shuffles back into the dressing room, removing the gown and putting on the first dress, a gold number that looks incredibly odd. Almost as quickly as it was on, it's off, and hung neatly back onto its hanger.
The second dress is nice. A dark red with silver embellishments around the seams. It's in the mission's budget and fits well enough, so she doesn't bother with the others.
Stepping out of the dressing room, she's surprised to see Gaby and Illya speaking with each other in hushed voices. She tilted her head at them, straining her ear to listen to what they were saying. "…don't trust her," the tall Russian mumbles to Gaby, who whispers something back at him, too quiet for Irene to hear.
Irene clears her throat, "This is better, right?" she asks.
Gaby turns around, not giving any sign as to whether or not she's startled by Irene's presence.
"It looks expensive," Gaby remarks. She steps away from Illya to reach over for the price tag. The Russian man tenses, standing straight up. Strange. It always seems like he's the one guarding Gaby. Maybe Irene's had it backwards—maybe Gaby guards him. Tiny woman keeps large man safe from harm. Huh. "Not bad." Gaby observes the little tag hanging from the side of Irene's dress.
The saleswoman comes back over, smiles pleasantly. Nods. "Very nice, Miss. Are you going to buy it?"
Gaby smiles. "We'll take this one and the green one."
Irene goes back to the dressing room and changes out of her dress. In the mirror, she stares at her body. The area around her ribs is marked with scars. Everywhere. Long, jagged, lines stretching across her torso.
These are one of the reasons that she never slept with Drew. Well, another is that she's terrified of sex. And another is that she didn't particularly care for him. But the scars would've been difficult to explain. Irene traces one up, from her belly-button up her ribs, up her breast, over her heart, stopping just short of her collarbone.
Father gave her that scar. A long, ugly mark to mar her smooth skin.
Irene hates him. So much.
Irene loves him. So much.
Enough of this, she chastises herself, picking up her dress from earlier and slipping it on over her body. A disguise.
The only time she's ever herself, really, is when she's naked.
What a sad truth that is.
The gala is tonight, and so Irene, Solo, Teller, and Kuryakin all sit in Kuryakin's hotel room, strategizing. So far, they know that Napoleon and Illya are due to pursue Maya's fiancé, and Gaby is supposed to stand guard. It's Irene's job to escort her out.
They're still working out the timetables, though.
Irene remains quiet. She's not very experienced with setting up missions, so instead she watches as Napoleon bickers with Illya and Gaby rubs her eyes.
Illya seems to argue with everyone, the only exception being Gaby. Napoleon purses his lips, hands in his pockets, before looking down. His face looks nonchalant, and only mildly annoyed. Compared to Illya—whose skin is red from annoyance—this is very casual and easygoing.
He looks much more handsome than Illya too. Illya's angry, and looks a lot like a bird. An eagle, maybe.
So many eagles. So much time in the US has led to endless pictures of eagles. Eagles as a symbol of war. As a symbol of peace. Everything in America is symbolized by an eagle.
What makes eagles so special, anyways?
Irene is seeing Napoleon, Illya, and Gaby discuss, but she can't quite hear them. It's as if being so visually observational has distracted from her ability to process sound. Strange.
Illya and Napoleon eventually sort out their argument, creating peace for a moment until they decide there's something else they need to disagree upon.
Like children. It's fascinating.
They've finally worked out a timetable, and Irene's got it memorized. So they send her and Napoleon back to their room to get ready.
It doesn't take long to put on her dress or her makeup. It's her hair that's difficult.
Irene never cared much for her appearance. Despite the way she's expected to live and sleep with perfect hair and makeup and a flawless face and a skinny waist and large breasts, she's still human, and she didn't have the time. Whether it was getting up at the crack of dawn to feed her helpless, ungrateful husband, or heading to training, she never had time for hair or makeup.
Makeup is at least easy for her to figure out. She's watched women fix theirs, and from watching them through a church bathroom's mirrors, Irene's developed an ability to put powder on her face to cover up flaws.
Hair is less simple. If she curls it, it becomes messy, and if she brushes it, it becomes flat. Irene's hair is already wavy, and to make it look nice, it has to be straightened and then curled again.
Honestly, most of the reason she doesn't do that is because she's lazy.
Irene takes red lipstick out of her case and twists the top part. She swipes some across her bottom lip and then smears it around.
She puts on mascara and powder to cover up the bumps on her forehead. It's not perfect, but it passes enough as long as she isn't speculated too closely.
After her face is finished, Irene steps back to look at her hair. She frowns as she pokes uselessly at a loose curl.
"Maybe…" she thinks out loud, grabbing her hair and lifting it up. "Maybe it I…"
Twisting her arm around, she attempts to fasten it into a bun, which doesn't look to awful on her. Irene picks out pins and clips, placing them here or there to help the style stick in place. She eyes her reflection. "Nice," she murmurs.
When she steps out of the bathroom, she actually barrels into Napoleon, stumbling over her bare feet and landing on her back on the floor. Solo looks absolutely dumbfounded about what happened, but he offers her a hand nonetheless.
She admires how nice he looks in his suit. It doesn't register that maybe she shouldn't stare for this long, but it's not as if it hurts.
Irene finally steps away, turning harshly and heading over to her suitcase. She lifts a pair of pumps out of the bag, stepping into them and giving herself a once-over in the mirror. As unladylike as it sounds, as immodest as it is, Irene likes the way she looks. The dress hangs over her, draping soft fabric over broken skin in a way that somehow comes off as flattering.
"Ready to go?" Napoleon asks from behind her. Irene whirls around, watching him across the room as he struggles to put on his watch. He looks up at her and raises a cocky eyebrow, smirking.
"Why are you doing that?" Irene asks.
"Doing what?"
"Making that face."
Solo looks at her, amused. It doesn't slip past Irene's attention that he's still making the face. "Stop," she says.
"Why? Is it distracting?"
"No," Irene protests, even though it is distracting. But only a tiny bit.
"Then why?"
"I don't know. Just…stop." Solo grins at her, and Irene rolls her eyes. "Let's just go," she says. Irene yanks up her bag, where she's stashed a knife between the layers of fabric, and throws open the hotel room door.
a/n: this is such a short chapter I'm so sorry omg. I've been so busy with school and stuff that I just haven't had time to write. Anything. At all. But I'm trying to update more!
review replies:
janedoee7: duuude gaby and irene are the killer besties and they both look like cinnamon rolls it's amazing. Illya's jealous, and also gallya has yet to kiss because I'm trash
darklou: thank you! I'm glad you think so.
: I'm so glad you think so omg I get so worried about writing canon characters OOC. I totally think that Illya would fight with Gaby a lot just because they're so similar in experience but different in the way that they handle things. also pls never apologize for long comments I read this like 30 times and it made me really happy *heart*
minstorai: thank you so much! yeah Irene's sort of brutally honest, she's really working on developing this sort of thing. Her childhood was so messed up, and then when she moved to America, she was letting herself be a doormat to appease everyone and fit in. I think she's learning how to function and interact from observation. also I'm glad you like my tumblr things! I really want to write a mission where Irene is paired with Illya just because. I mean. Can you imagine how poorly that would go.
January Lily: CASSANDRA YOU'RE AN ACTUAL ANGEL ILY. All of your comments are so great and encouraging. Thank you so much for taking the time to leave feedback on everything. Irene's struggling, but I think eventually she'll find her rhythm.