a/n: It's been approximately 8 million years since I last updated and I'm truly sorry. Things have been really hectic and I haven't had time for anything fun recently. I hope you all like this chapter, please leave a review to tell me if you did! Also, while reading, I recommend listening to the song "Alternate World" by Son Lux, or really any of their songs. Happy holidays!

Chapter 12: Drifting

Irene's dreams involve a rather fantastic image of her sitting on a crescent moon. She knows it's not possible for one to sit on the moon like she is, but everything in her mind feels like a play. She doesn't feel like herself, more like a prop. Her hair is long and unstyled, hanging down her back, brushing against the skin left bare by her dress. Maybe she's a goddess. Maybe she's a monster, or a nymph, but she sits on the moon and lets her feet dangle perilously off the edge, and stares out into the night sky.

"Do you like it better out here?" a voice asks, and she tosses her gaze to her left to find Napoleon sitting next to her. He's wearing a suit but missing the jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. The top buttons of his pressed shirt have been undone, and she can see just enough skin to make her fingers itch, but not enough to give her any real satisfaction. It figures he'd still be a tease, even in her dreams.

She considers his question, holding his gaze. "I'm far away from anyone who can chase me. I'm safe."

He's much more pensive in her mind. "Does that mean that I'm safe?"

It's a valid question. Out here, on the moon, she has her sanctuary. If she allowed him to stay out here with her, it must mean something.

"You've never done anything to prove otherwise."

"Hm."

It's quiet for a few moments, and Irene thinks that this is better. No guns, no betrayal, just her and Napoleon and the stars. She's never been a romantic but she thinks that maybe her brain is trying to tell her something.

His pinky brushes against her hand, then covers it completely. "Have you ever been in love?" The question bubbles out of her mouth without permission. She wants to take it back, it sounds petty and implicit, but she's just curious.

Dream-Napoleon shrugs. "Not really. Have you?"

Irene shakes her head. "I have only just become free. Before I was never a girl, just a punching bag. They used to kiss me but they should not have done so."

He's silent. She knows everything must be a fantasy now, if he's not talking.

There's a crash behind her, something falling off of a shelf, and Irene whips her head around, so fast that she begins to wobble and lose her balance. Napoleon's arms wrap around her suddenly, strong and comforting, and she stares out into the blackness with a question that isn't answered, because through the shadows she can't see anything.

Except him.

The warmth of his palms around her is reassuring, the pads of his fingers ghosting across the skin of her back. The tracings are chased by goosebumps.

They're too close, Irene's instincts tell her. Too close. But she's in space, nothing can hurt her out here. So she turns her head and looks him in the eye. If she leaned forward she could kiss him. Maybe she will.

His arms haven't left her hips, even though she's steady.

Maybe she'll kiss him now. She's thought about it before, but the haziness of her dream keeps her from remembering how many times? Once, twice? Every time she's caught a glimpse of his lips?

No. Not that much. She's never been able to afford romanticism.

She glances down at his lips and his hold on her tightens, but she doesn't feel trapped or strangled. There's a lingering feeling in her stomach that something absolutely horrible will happen if she kisses him, but she recoils from it with a nasty, ambitious, selfishness, and brings her hand up to stroke his cheek. It's rough with the faintest bit of stubble.

Napoleon chokes. A growl slips out of his throat, predatory and possessive, and she can't help but think that this is not the spy she knows. This is not elegant or suave, this is instinct. She flutters her eyes shut and leans forward, presses her lips to his as an experiment.

Nothing bad is happening yet. He is pressing back against her in a manner that's pleasant, more than pleasant, it's gratifying and hungry and she feels like she's both consuming and consumed, her hands drop from his face to his shoulders, to run her thumbs over the patch of revealed skin on his chest.

His own fingers drift up and down her sides gently, but she's not fragile and she wants more.

The moon begins to float away from underneath them, and the train on Irene's dress begins to billow out beneath her as they drift up towards the constellations. Napoleon holds her tight. Safe. She keeps kissing him, until she begins to quake with want and hope, and thinks that maybe if they get far enough from earth she'll never have to look over her shoulder again. Maybe they'll find a safe haven on another planet, someplace warm but not scorching, with a house and a dog and none of the others.

She's convincing herself that she deserves a love like this, full of roses and midnight strolls, with her eyes closed and Napoleon's lips spelling words out on her neck, when the world explodes. Irene jerks away suddenly, staring down at earth as flames consume it, a bomb they forgot to deprogram, a criminal who got away. Their failures. The explosion shakes everything, she sees the moon in the distance begin to burn and then crumble apart, and she loses her grip on Napoleon's hand. He calls her name but she can't look away as everything disintegrates. She can't do this. She does not deserve a love like that, it is a distraction, a doorway to failure.

A rocket flies across the sky and pauses next to her. The door opens, and a hand reaches out and grabs her by the fabric of her dress. She knows that hand, with that scar. The others have found her. A dozen arms reach out to her, smothering her and pulling her hair and tearing her dress and clawing her neck. They've found her. This is her fault. Her failures.

Napoleon has begun to drift away, and Irene catches a glimpse of him through the space ship's window. It's a punch to a gut. She couldn't even save him.

She's savaged by the hands. They're hot like irons and pointed like knives and they scrape across her skin until she's not even a person anymore. I was never a girl, just a punching bag.

How could she think that things have changed?

Irene shudders, shuts her eyes, wills her soul back into her body, and then wakes up with a gasp.

She's in a hotel room in Florence. She is a C.I.A. operative working for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. The man in the bed opposite her is named Napoleon Solo, and though he is safe, he is a distraction. If she is distracted, she will be send back to Cuba.

The solution is clear: she will not be distracted any longer.

Though the moon is still in the sky, the sun on the other side of the world, she throws the covers off her body and shuffles through the briefcase on the desk until she finds the blueprints of the museum and a pen and a legal pad.

Irene begins to lay her plans. She would die before going back. Not after everything she did to escape.