a/n: This chapter took me a million and one years, I apologize. My flashdrive got destroyed and all my work/outlines/etc. got deleted, so it took me a while to sort things out and then to find my muse again.
Chapter 10-The Florence Affair
Irene meets Napoleon in the airport with a headscarf wrapped around her hair and a cardigan draped around her shoulders. He rises from his chair near the gate and raises a hand in both indication and greeting. As per usual, he dons a suit and a tie, and just as he's about to open his mouth to speak, a security officer walks by and starts talking to one of the men nearby. His eyes flash when he makes eye contact with her, and then he leans in, giving her cheek a quick peck. It takes all Irene's strength not to flinch away from the touch, and she's both happy and sad about the brevity of it all. One second there, the next gone. She's not used to touches that don't hurt.
"Sorry," he mumbles into her ear in the midst of pulling away. He's treating her differently. Like she's fragile. Irene thinks for a moment, until she reaches a startling realization-he must have found out about what happened in Istanbul. At this recognition, Irene's cheeks begin to burn. How humiliating. He must think so little of her-the first mission she ever went on is a complete failure.
"Don't," she hisses at him, words dripping with unnecessary spite.
Napoleon raises an eyebrow.
"Don't treat me like I'll break."
He stares at her curiously, and for a few moments, Irene stares back with determination. He will not intimidate her. He will not scare her.
He's not trying to, though, he's just looking at her. Trying to get to know her. So in the end, Irene does break away. She glances down at her shoes, and then turns around to look at the airplane. People rush around, prepping it for takeoff. They look so small from where she's standing-like ants in a line, they transport things back and forth.
Napoleon walks up behind her. "I know you can take care of yourself," he mutters, then pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket. "They just called first class." As she turns around, Irene realizes that he's a lot closer than she expected. "Shall we?" he asks, taking a step back and gesturing with his arm. Maybe it's the lighting, but Irene thinks his eyes are glinting. They remind her of the look Susan would get when she had gossip nobody heard yet-they both look like they're withholding secrets, taunting Irene with things they know and she doesn't.
Looping her arm through his, Irene decides she's too tired to try and argue with him. It takes the help of some pills, but she sleeps almost through the entire flight, which is far more comfortable than the one to Istanbul. She wakes up once, after dinner has been cleared. Per her request, a stewardess brings her a glass of wine.
Irene nurses the alcohol for a bit while Napoleon sleeps. She rests her head gently on the wall of the plane, gaze sliding across her peripheral vision to make observations. Across the aisle, a fat man is smoking a cigar and wheezing at his newspaper; a woman in a ridiculous hat sits with a small boy in the seats before him. She's trying to scold her child without garnering any outside attention, and it seems to be working for the most part. Through the gap in the seats, Irene sees that the people in front of her both wear tuxedos. Likely businessmen.
The cold airplane are bites at her arms, and Irene tugs her sweater tighter around her shoulders to smother the gooseflesh. It doesn't take long for the effects of the wine and a few more pills to appear, and before she knows it, she's returned to her slumber.
Arriving in Florence is pleasant, but first-class seating and sleeping pills don't give her as much desperation to be back on earth. Still, the comforts of sitting in a car or stretching her legs make her feel much better.
Napoleon chats with the Italian agent commandeering the car, and Irene catches a phrase she understands here and there. Not much, just some words out of context and the greetings in the beginning. Instead of paying too much attention, Irene rests her forehead against the window as a child would, and observes the passing landscape. The buildings are beautiful. A pair of women in lovely dresses stroll down the street. Irene wonders where they're going-home? Away? To dinner?
The light turns and Irene must switch her gaze from the women to the road ahead. The agent-Martinelli? She's not sure-pulls up in front of the hotel and allows them to exit while a bellboy removes their suitcases from the trunk.
Like the hotel in Istanbul, this one sports a lavish lobby and a slew of wealthy-looking guests. The room is nicer, with two beds, fortunately. No sooner than Napoleon has opened the door is Irene collapsing onto the couch, bones heavy from the day of travelling. She props her head up on a pillow and lets her eyes drift shut for a moment or so.
"What time is it?" she asks him, craning her neck to see if there's a clock in the room.
"Four thirty," Napoleon answers, staring at his watch. "That gives us an hour and a half before the gallery viewing."
Of course-the viewing. Irene bites her lip and thinks back to her cover. I can do this, she tells herself. The voice in her brain is uncharacteristically optimistic, and she's hesitant to believe it. What kind of traitor inhabits her mind?
"There should be a dress in the closet," she tells Napoleon, rolling back over onto her back and crossing her legs. The ceiling has silver trim. A fleur-de-li is painted in the center, near the chandelier.
A hanger clanks against a metal bar as Napoleon lifts something off the rack in the closet.
"Huh," he remarks.
The comment piques Irene's curiosity. "What is it?" she inquires, rolling over until her feet hit the ground. She stumbles as she stands up and ambles over to what Napoleon is looking at. When she sees the dress, her jaw drops and an "Oh," escapes her mouth.
It's not actually all that special-a blue, floor length gown. But it comes with opera gloves and the most enormous diamond necklace Irene has ever seen. Granted, she's never seen a diamond necklace in her life, but she's fairly sure this is a very large rock.
There's a note attached that Napoleon tears off and reads aloud. "There are a communications unit and a tracking device embedded into this necklace. The jewel in the center stores a cyanide pill." He purses his lips. "Cheery."
Irene furrows her brow, taking the note from him. But it's just like he said-nothing more or less. She drops it onto the end table and reaches out to feel the fabric of the dress. Stiff, but smooth, like most of the American things she's worn. "What do you wear?" Irene asks with unintentional harshness, then realizes that her question is phrased rather oddly. "I mean-are you...a tuxedo?"
Napoleon smirks at her and Irene's cheeks burn. I'm tired from traveling, she reasons. That's why I'm incapable of forming complete sentences.
When he responds affirmatively, he looks like he's holding back a smirk. As soon as he's out of the room (off to unpack, or something), Irene huffs and sits back down on the couch. She crosses her arms and pouts like a child for a few moments, trying to rationalize her frustration at his teasing countenance. I'm exhausted, she insists to herself. A quiet thought flits across her consciousness, so meek she can barely hear it, but Irene thinks it tells her that she seeks approval.
False.
Not that she's sure what it said, but if that was it...wrong. Not true at all.
Irene heaves herself up off the couch rather ungracefully and runs a hand through her hair, mussing the already-flat curls. Scowling, she remembers that she'll have to fix her hair again before the viewing.
Since Napoleon currently inhabits the bedroom, Irene travels in the opposite direction to the powder room. She brings with her a bag of makeup and beauty supplies and applies them accordingly.
Before arriving in America, Irene rarely wore makeup. She supposed that, had her mother still been alive, she would've been the one to teach her daughter about it. Seeing how she wasn't, Irene learned by opening the tubes and containers and powders and putting them on her face until they looked right. The lipstick and mascara were easy enough, but what was the difference between foundation and concealer? Which came first?
Eventually, she'd given up whatever proper form existed for the steps of applying the products. First the powder, until the marks and bruises and scars her hidden, and then the mascara, and then the lipstick.
Hair, however, was a whole other story.
Irene's mother was Spanish, her father Cuban. Both had textured hair almost impossible to tame. In fact, her hair was probably the least American-passing part about her. Instead of sleeping in curlers, Irene had to straighten her hair, wet it, and immediately wrap it around the cylindrical pieces of metal before it began to regain texture.
If she wants to be ready by six, Irene won't have the time to partake in that elaborate process. Instead, she straightens her locks and wraps them up in a knot at the back of her head. Dressy enough to fit in, but still simple enough to avoid grabbing the attention of any passersby.
She unhooked the dress and gloves from the hanger, pressing it to her body and observing herself in the mirror. The cut makes her waist look absurdly tiny. A halter neckline pulls and presses her ribs and chest. The long skirt gives off the impression that she is tall-much taller than she actually is.
There are shoes, too, resting on the shelf. White pumps that squeak when Irene tries them on. They don't mesh well with the floor, and as soon as she makes an attempt to walk across the carpet, she finds her ankles caving in as all her weight depends on two wobbling heels.
An hour later, she's dressed and sitting on the couch, resting her chin in her left hand and reading over protocols again. The basic mission outline includes suspected plans and maps. Some background information and schedules. Irene blows out a breath and leans back. She's bored, but they can't leave yet since Napoleon is on the phone with Gaby and they'll get there early if they leave before five-thirty, which looks suspicious.
Irene hears Napoleon emit a soft chuckle and mention something about peril. It must be an inside joke. Sure, Irene only arrived to the party a few days late, but she still hasn't found her footing amongst the group. Illya seemed like an asshole, but Gaby was nice. Napoleon possessed such normalcy that it was almost odd. Irene's feelings on him went back and forth-did he look down on her? Did he deserve to? No. Yes. No. Depended on the time of day and the phase of the moon. Her opinion of him was like the sea: always changing, always shifting, always possessed with self-assuredness but still easily swayed.
He hangs up the phone, bidding farewell in another language (German, maybe?) and coming over to sit opposite her on the other couch. Tossing the protocol paper down onto the coffee table, Irene pushes her head off her hand and leans back like a child at church.
Despite staring at each other, neither says a word. A pregnant pause settles between the two, awkward and bulky and uncomfortable, yet Napoleon doesn't seem fazed. Whenever she's in an uncomfortable situation, Irene fidgets restlessly. It's something she was chastised for in training. Napoleon, however, seems to know exactly how to look at ease. It makes him seem superior; when he stays cool while she feels the need to do something with her hands.
Their gazes bore into the other's skulls, past eyeballs and into the mess of veins and brains. Napoleon does his stupid infuriating half smile thing and Irene looks down at her lap instinctively. When she looks back up, he's still smirking but she's made up her mind not to shy away again.
"Should we go?" he offers.
Irene smiles this time. Let the lies begin.
The first thing that Irene Acosta discovers about art shows is that they're unrivaled in dullness. About an hour into the event, she's shoved something disgusting called a shrimp puff into her purse to avoid beration. The art isn't at all spectacular. Ugly vases and boring paintings of sad people and flowers.
She pretends she's interested, occasionally splaying a hand over her chest in a subtly-faux emotional reaction. Napoleon observes carefully, commenting in Italian to the other guests who walk by every once in a while.
"Mr. and Mrs. Monroe," an auburn-haired stick with an upturned nose greets, "I must ask, are you enjoying yourselves?"
Unlike the other guests they've talked to, this woman speaks English without a hint of an Italian accent. Suspicious.
"Very much so," Napoleon (Roy) answers. "My wife here certainly loves the Goldani." Irene does not love the Goldani. She doesn't know which one it is, but she does know that if it's one of the pieces in this room, she does not love it. At all.
"It's one of the finest pieces," the woman agrees, smiling at Irene. She returns the sentiment. "My brother takes great pride in his collection. There are a few more pieces I think you two would like," she offers, gesturing over her shoulder, which is partially covered by a dramatic red evening gown.
Napoleon smiles at her, and she spreads her lips out in a thin grin.
"I'd love that," Irene tells the woman.
They stroll over, and Napoleon makes pleasantries. Irene notes the large scar running down the lady's back, through her flesh before finding a hidden solace under the silk layers of fabric.
They pass by more statues of hands or pictures of flowers. Everything is boring, nothing worth the money surely spent on it.
The woman leads them to a door. "We have a few more pieces back here. Would you like to see?"
It would look suspicious for them to turn back now, considering how ardently Trudy Monroe admires the Goldani. Napoleon tenses, but looks at Irene. "Darling?"
He nods his head ever so slightly, and Irene, taking the sign, responds, "We'd love to."
"Fantastic! This is one of the greatest pieces-"
Irene tunes her out as she slips a hand down her thigh, patting to make sure that her gun is still secure if she needs it.
Napoleon enters the room first, while Irene is still looking down at her leg to make sure her weapon is ready to be whipped out. She doesn't get the opportunity, though, because she hears a grunt and looks up before two strong hands latch onto her shoulders and yank her inside. A metal bar swings in her direction, and she collapses onto the floor.
a/n: that's a wrap for chapter 10! I've already written half of 11 (and backed it up twice) to avoid this fiasco again. I'm the worst, but I'd still love it if you could review? Thank you so much for sticking with me on this. My tumblr is elizabethbemet if you wanna talk (please come talk to me I love you all) and the blog dedicated to Irene and this fic exclusively is irene-acosta.
To celebrate 100 favorites, I've decided to start accepting oneshot prompts that I'll post on tumblr (or here, if they're longer than 1k words). The only thing I ask is that you leave a review here too!
Also, really quick, I just want to thank everybody who follows this story (all 187 followers and 100 favorite-rs), your support means everything to me.
ALSO (last thing I promise) how would you guys feel about Napoleon's perspective?