A/N: My first story! At least, my first story here. This is actually an idea bunny I've had since August, which was the first time I watched Freakshow, and I've just been working and reworking and developing it since. It's honestly such a blast to work on so I hope all who read, enjoy!

I.

September 3, 1952

In for another sleepless night, knowing the entire place was hers, for the time being, Irina took the opportunity to polish every piece of silverware the Mott family owned. One in a series of steps towards completing all those little tasks the previous maid had left in her wake, with the added benefit of working to heavy her eyes and clear her mind. One of her latest discoveries from the library, a thick, colorful book all about Ancient Egypt, sat open in her lap, its text and bright illustrations diverting her attention every now and again. She had kept it open to the same spot for about an hour now, not wanting to damage the pages with her polish stained, rubber glove covered hands. Had she the nerve, she would have put on one of her records to fill the vast, eery silence. Perhaps some Andrews sisters, or, were she in a more nostalgic sort of mood, a little Tchaikovsky. She might have done if she had any idea when Mrs. Mott and her son would return. They were due back any time now. She chose instead to wait for another night when she had better immersed herself into what was officially her new home.

Once she had every solitary piece of silverware looking bright and shining new, reducing her cloth to little more than a damp, black crumple, Irina set her book aside and cast off to see what other household chores needed doing. She opted to stick with tasks that required gloves, figuring that was the practical choice while she still had them on. The dusting, the wiping down of countertops, the linoleum floor in the spare downstairs bathroom that was long overdue for a good scrubbing. She went from room to room, navigating her way through the house with a relative ease, and she found that the long echo of the hallways had become almost commonplace for her. A far cry from her first week, most definitely. As she worked and moved about, she began to sing one of her father's old drinking songs under her breath, the native Russian falling seamlessly from her lips. It kept her mind as rigidly focused as it could be; on the familiar melody, on her meticulous cleaning, anything that wasn't her dream from last night.

She had had the dream again. For the third night running. It was beginning to border on ridiculous, and she wasn't sure just how much more she could tolerate. Her sleeping patterns were already substandard enough without the addition of hours lying awake in the dark, those unsavory and illicit thoughts flooding through her head, placing her in desperate need of a cold shower. Vyrozhdennyy Durak. Was her own inner chastising, thought numerous times over the last few months, every time that dream overtook her mind, and most certainly then as she worked at the grout caught in the bathroom tiles. Irina, you degenerate fool.

She finished up in the bathroom, had all her supplies gathered up ready to call it a night. She had descended the hallway, and turned the corner, before the presence of another person caused her to let out a little shriek, and sent her bucket of rags and soap clattering to the ground. She had nearly collided into Mrs. Mott, home from her evening engagement with her son, with no warning, and virtually no sound to indicate her homecoming. At least, none that Irina had been observant enough to catch onto.

"Oh, goodness!" Mrs. Mott exclaimed, with a start of her own. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were there." Irina found herself facing away from her employer's gaze, and ducked quickly to the ground to gather up her strewn supplies.

"I'm so sorry Mrs. Mott. I-I, er, I was just catching up on some - on some of the chores that needed to be done, I mean - since the house was empty and - and, I'm sorry. I was just finishing and - I'll be out of the way in just a moment." She could barely hear herself over the blood pounding in her ears, the heat in her cheeks numbing everything else.

"No, it's quite alright, dear," Mrs. Mott assured her, kindly. "I only wanted to make sure Dandy hadn't left half the lights on in the house again." She chuckled, nervously, and Irina dared look up to see that the older woman, too, seemed to have developed a pink tinge in her cheeks.

"See? I told you I hadn't, Mother." Irina flinched at the voice of the other Mott, which rang out in that all too familiar harsh tone. Dandy practically stomped into view, a glower spread across his young, chiseled face. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, wrinkling the pastel yellow cashmere, and even still, he seemed to take the entire atmosphere into his grasp, like it was a set of poker chips. He graced the young maid with a single partway glance, before reverting back to his usual habit of disregarding her completely, and turned to glare daggers at his mother.

"Now, if you're quite finished accusing me of things the help's been doing, and completely ruining my night, Mother," The last word dripped with an alarming amount of venom, "I'm going to bed, and nobody better disturb me." With that, he gave the tube of Ajax a little kick, sending it rolling towards the wall, away from Irina's reach, and stalked away. Both women visibly flinched when they heard his bedroom door slam with a shutter. Even in his absence, a definite tension hung thick in the air. Irina kept her eyes firmly rooted towards the linoleum floor.

"Mu'dak," She grumbled, under her breath, once she saw just how far the tube of cleaning powder had been kicked away.

"Here, let me get that." Mrs. Mott knelt down to place the Ajax back into its proper home, the petticoats beneath her bright red skirt rustling as she did. She leaned in, placing mere inches between the two. With a quick exhale, Irina looked up into Mrs. Mott's terrifically blue eyes for the first time that evening.

"Hello," Was all she could think of to say. Oh, yes, don't you know how to turn a phrase.

"Hello," Mrs. Mott said back, with a smile that sent a surge of warmth through the young maid. It sent a similar one curling up her own lips, chapped and dry from another day of forgetting to coat them with balm.

"I really was just finishing up," Irina said quickly, grabbing hold of the supply bucket. "I'm sorry."

"You really needn't keep apologizing, Irina. I understand." Mrs. Mott insisted. "If anything, I shouldn't have been creeping about like a church mouse and frighten you out of your wits."

"Oh, you - you didn't - you didn't frighten me that badly." Irina said, "My mind, it was - it was somewhere else." She found herself fascinated with the linoleum again, as she tried to push a thick wisp of curls behind her ear. It didn't stay in its proper place, and almost as soon as the curls were tucked away, down they slid back across her cheek.

"I see," Mrs. Mott leaned against her palm, pulling herself back onto her feet. She smoothed out the fabric of her skirt, before offering her hand to Irina. Once the young woman was back on her feet, her mind became a blank slate once again.

"How was the Freak Show?" She finally decided to inquire. "That's - that's where you and Dandy were tonight, yes?" Good god, woman, what are you? Her mother?

"It was fine, thank you. Dandy seemed to enjoy himself." The older woman looked away from Irina, here, her voice beginning to trail off, "He did, anyway, until I wouldn't allow him to purchase one of the freaks."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing. Nevermind." She finished with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Mrs. Mott?" Irina pressed. Mrs. Mott blinked several times at the question, giving the young woman a look of perplexity.

"I - oh. Yes, of course." She paused, as she seemed to mull the question over some. "Although, there was this woman who sang. At least, that's what I think she was doing."

"Not the voice of an angel, I take it," Irina said, dryly

"Good lord, no. Her voice - it's still ringing in my ears. And the song she sang! Something about the planets and outer space. I've never heard anything like it. It was almost as if - almost as if it was a different time. And not a very good time at that." Irina couldn't help but chuckle at the vivid image this description provided, at the sight of Mrs. Mott in an unusually acidic mood.

"I'm rather sorry I missed it." She said, making another failed attempt at pushing her curls out of her face. When it slid back again, she let out an annoyed little huff. Blast this wretched unkempt hair.

"Oh, dear, let me," Mrs. Mott reached one hand in and helped guide her stray hair back into its proper place. Fingers moving faintly against her cheek, so close that Irina received a rather definite view of the shape of her mouth, the shimmer of deep red lipstick against the chandelier light, that little dimple that only appeared with her smile. She caught hold of the floral scent of Mrs. Mott's perfume. Rich, feminine, animalic, laced with the trace of cigarette smoke, all lingering against her senses. It had become so familiar to her in the last several months, had become a staple of those interruptions in her mundane afternoon thinking spells, that frequent presence in her dreams. The thought of that cool skin touching, really touching her own . . .

A sudden shiver coursed through Irina, and she pulled herself away. Perhaps a little too quickly.

"I - I should probably go and put these away." She mumbled, almost pathetically holding up her supplies. She'd realized how sharply her words must have sounded almost as soon as she said them, and she added, hoping to take that edge off. "Unless there was anything else you needed." There might have been a part of her that hoped that there was.

"No. I don't think there is. And it's already so late, and I've already taken so much of your time." Said Mrs. Mott. She removed her posh black gloves, and Irina realized those yellow rubber things were still on her own hands, which made her cheeks go hot and pink all over again.

"Well, in that case. . . . I suppose I'll be going, then. . . goodnight, Mrs. Mott."

She was out of the room before there was any chance of a response, willing herself away from one last glance.

The night's events wound up being incredibly counterproductive, in the end. Irina found herself lying flat on her back in her bed, in the darkness of her room, smoking the last in her box of cigarettes, and listening to the faint whistle her nose made when it exhaled, her heart racing as it did after any and all interactions with Mrs. Mott. The ones that simultaneously left her full of exhilaration and a bit of self-loathing. How foolish she must seem to her employer. As articulate as a deaf and dumb mule. Or something of the like. Yet, she couldn't stop the thoughts, the images, of delicate features, fire-golden curls that must feel like silk at the touch, crimson lipstick and thoughts of it becoming smeared in a trail along the young woman's skin, before that dainty, breathy voice would whisper nothings in her ear. . . .

She rolled over to her side with an exasperated bluster, eyes falling on her father's proud face, encapsulated in flickering sepia, and framed in unadorned wood atop the nightstand.

"Oh, Papa," Was all she could think to say, her mournful whisper barely seeping through the cramped silence.

Notes:

Vyrozhdennyy Durak - Translates as 'degenerate fool'

Mu'dak - Translates as 'asshole'