a/n: hey everyone! I'm back.
Before I get to the chapter, I'm really excited to announce that I've created a blog dedicated solely to Irene, which can be found at irene-acosta dot tumblr dot com. If you want to see more of her and less of my other stuff, that would be the blog to follow!
As always, thank you so much for the reviews. I'm overwhelmed by the support that this story has gotten, and I'm absolutely blown away by the way you guys have stuck with me through the long breaks between chapters and the slow-paced fillers and all the horrible things I put my characters through.
This chapter features a lot of OCs, and very few appearances by canon characters. The next chapter kicks off a new mission (and so, a new arc) of the story, which will probably be a lot less bloody (but still maybe angsty) and will feature a lot more Irene/Napoleon.
Chapter 8-red queen, white queen
It takes Irene two weeks in the hospital before she's cleared for missions again, with a warning against combat engagement. Waverly briefs her on cultish disturbances in a small area of Florence, Italy likely caused by Nazi-sympathizers. He tells her that Illya and Gaby are on a separate mission in Sweden, and that the timelines for both operations should overlap evenly. She is to leave for New York in the morning for extra preparation, seeing as her undercover skills might need work, and then depart for Italy with Napoleon three days later.
When Irene asks Waverly's retreating figure whatever became of Maya, of her terrorist fiancé and evil father, and he says, "You killed the fiancé. The Emin man who tortured you? Dead. Solo and Kuryakin blew up the base, where Hasan happened to be. And Teller shot Maya after she tried to stab her." He adjusts his glasses. "Well done." And then he's gone.
Irene is on a miserable plane ride to New York the next morning, where she reads over her file on Istanbul between bouts of nausea and migraines.
When the plane finally crashes into the runway, Irene is ready to demonstrate her gratefulness by kissing the floor.
(She refrains.)
The CIA airfield composed of a large building off to the side, a bunch of runways, and a parking lot. Irene is greeted by two people—a redhead woman and a dark-haired guy.
"Acosta?" the woman greets with a polite smile. Irene nods. "I'm Julie Stone, a communications agent. This is Richard Lynch. We'll be working with you for the next two days."
"Hello," Irene greets, sticking her hand out in greeting. Julie has her red hair tied back in a headscarf, and she's donning a floral dress paired with a green cardigan. Richard is a tall, boyish looking guy in a suit jacket with his sleeves rolled up. He's not wearing a blazer, so Irene can see his suspenders. He's got his thumbs hooked into them awkwardly, and his hair is curled a little bit. Based off of how uncomfortable he looks, he's a new recruit. Likely twenty two or so.
The redhead takes her hand firmly. "It's nice to meet you. I was told to tell you that the women's program has recruited three more possible agents." Irene's face lights up, and she feels something pleasant blossom in her stomach.
"That's fantastic," she decides.
"Absolutely," Julie agrees. Smiling, she turns to Richard. "We should go, then."
"Of course," he answers, nodding, but remaining in his place. Julie points to the waiting car with her nose and his eyes go wide. "Oh! Definitely. This way."
He leads them over to the car, and Julie stays back to tell Irene a few things. "We'll be taking you to a safehouse—a real one, not like the one in Istanbul. Rick and I will help you with some undercover things, teach you some Italian and how to stop panic attacks, and then on Monday afternoon, Napoleon will pick you up and you two will head to the airport."
She calls him "Napoleon," not "Solo," so Irene guesses that they know each other prior. A gnawing creature that lives in her ribcage wants to know how.
Bite your tongue.
She does. Hard. The two teeth in the middle of her top row have uneven bottoms and they curve into a mass of taste buds. Secrets should stay quiet.
The car ride is uninteresting. Traffic in New York City is horrific, which Irene takes advantage of, as it lets her look at all the impossibly tall buildings. They look like giants, climbing up the sky, higher and higher. As they inch through the streets, Judie explains the protocol for Irene's next mission—she (or Trudy Monroe) and her husband Roy are wealthy vacationers spending their spring in Florence. Actually, they were being sent to stop a likely soon-to-occur heist. A large collection of paintings was moving to an Italian museum for a limited showing, and odd amounts of funds in a competitor's account were being transferred to Louis Adimari, a man who'd been arrested multiple times for attempted robbery.
Due to U.N.C.L.E.'s lack of official status among larger agencies, like the CIA or the KGB, Waverly can't enforce early action to prevent the heist, unless he wants to be facing a jury at some point soon.
Irene stares up at the tall buildings with curious eyes. They seem to brush the horizon, aspiring for the stars but not quite reaching them. She feels small next to them, and despite the inadequacy that accompanies the experience, it's actually quite comforting. Despite the possibility that she's reading far too much into it, Irene enjoys knowing that some things are not in her control. Like the buildings.
"They're pretty impressive, huh?" says Richard from his spot in the front seat. Irene turns her gaze to his. Twisting around in his seat isn't too much of a risk, considering the hellish traffic they're stuck in.
"Yeah," Irene agrees. She smiles politely at Richard. His eyes are wide and a bit hopeful. They're genuine, somehow. Julie is genuine too, albeit a little more exhausted looking. Compared to the amount of people she's met in the past 18 or so years, the number of whom weren't liars is alarmingly low. Her husband, Gaby, Illya, Napoleon, her father, women down the block that pretended to be friends. When she looks at Richard she sees some of Tomas. She does not wish him the same fate.
It takes hours for them to finally make it to the safehouse. Julie unlocks the door and ushers Irene in, while Richard carries the three cases they've brought.
Despite the house looking perfectly symmetrical and bathed in pastel, Irene can see that a wall in the kitchen splits open to reveal a staircase, which leads to an underground shooting range. There are three bedrooms in the house. They're all upstairs, with bolted doors and bulletproof windows.
Irene takes her case from Richard, and lugs it into her room, throwing it onto the bed, which creaks in protest. She grunts as she drags it over, re-orienting it to a position that makes it easier to open. After flipping the top off, Irene yanks out a paper bag with her gun, a few magazine cartridges, and a deck of cards. She also takes the time to pick out a new pair of shoes—flats, and pants, because the tulle under her skirt makes her legs want to die a quick death.
After she's in pants and a clean shirt, Irene twists her ruined curls up into a knot atop her head and heads back downstairs. Richard and Julie are in the kitchen, pointing out things here and there. They speak in low voices. Not secretive, but because they don't need to be any louder. Irene takes a moment to observe, before stepping into the kitchen.
Julie turns around and gives Irene another welcoming grin. "Perfect. I'm going to have Richard work on making dinner, while you and I practice some Italian."
As much as Irene hates learning languages (well, the only one she's learned before was English, but I digress), she grasps the concepts without too much trouble, if she repeats them to herself. She's absolutely not fluent—not even close, but she can speak "vacation Italian," which should be enough if her persona is on vacation.
After dinner, Irene scours the bookshelves, pulling out hardcovers with decorated spines and interesting names. She flips through them, saves a few to take up to her room with her—namely, a glamourously decorated copy of Alice Through the Looking Glass and a seemingly unused Sense and Sensibility.
She heads up to her room. Bathes, and then heads over to her bed, taking the copy of Alice and opening it up. There's a poem within the first few pages—about summertime and aging. Irene shuffles around, the legs of her pajama pants bunching around her knees, and continues reading. There are words that she doesn't quite understand, and a few too many parts that puzzle her, but Irene keeps reading until her eyelids feel heavy and begin to shut.
Irene dreams of home; before everything in her life was turned on its head.
To her surprise, Irene doesn't actually wake up until eight the next morning. And—even more shocking—nobody chastises her for it.
She's downstairs and dressed by 8:30, and Richard and Julie are both sitting in the dining room. He furrows his brow and stares determinedly at a file in front of him.
"Look closely," Julie instructs him. "Are there any flaws with the information?"
Richard leans back, stretches his neck, and then rests his elbows back on the table. "No…?"
"Okay…what about the specialty section? What does it say about him?"
"He's…oh." Richard stops and looks up at Irene. Julie looks up too.
"Good morning," she greets.
"Hi," Julie answers. "There's scrambled eggs on the stove, if you want."
Irene blinks at her, because that's exactly what she would say to Drew every morning of their marriage.
Well, technically, that still exists, but.
After the (surprisingly large amount of) shock has faded, Irene mumbles, "Thank you," and heads over to the stove. She finds the drawer with the forks and scoops some of the eggs onto her plate, while Julie and Richard go back to evaluating the file in front of him. Irene locates the paper and settles on the couch, reading through the headlines but not the articles, sounding out impossible words as she eats her breakfast. The food is actually quite good, even if she's not a huge fan of eggs in the first place.
Once she's finished, Irene folds up the paper and leaves it on the coffee table. She brings her plate to the sink and begins to scrub at it with soap.
"I was thinking that we should go to the shooting range first. Then we can review some of the Italian you learned yesterday, and then we'll have lunch, and this afternoon, we can work on anxiety attacks, okay?" Julie reveals.
Irene nods and answers, "Okay," because her feelings on the plan are fairly apathetic, and because she probably doesn't have a choice if she feels like fighting it.
Julie sticks to the schedule. They work with rifles and shotguns in the morning, review Italian before lunch, have sandwiches, and then afterwards, Richard and Julie explain what happens during a panic attack, and how to stop it.
It's actually somewhat embarrassing to Irene. That she nearly ruined an entire operation because she was afraid. Agents weren't supposed to be afraid. You can't save people if you're living in constant fear.
These thoughts invade her skull despite Julie's insistent "it's not your fault."
For a moment, the redhead stares at her, unfaltering, and Irene is almost positive she'll ask about why Irene had a panic attack. But she doesn't. She moves on.
A relieved breath escapes her.
a/n: next up, Florence! Please leave a review, and remember that Irene's stories have their own blog now—irene-acosta dot tumblr dot com. Thank you!