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Grace never really fit in.
Though not for the lack of trying.
When she was in school, she tried her best to blend in with the crowd. Being an orphan was already a stain on her reputation.
When she had just turned twenty and joined a group of misfit lawbreakers just like her, she still felt out of place. Over time, she realized that she would be much happier on her own. And she was.
Then she met Alanna Mitsopolis also known as the White Widow, the infamous weapons broker.
Being alone seemed impossible to imagine after she had a taste of her. Literally and figuratively.
But of course, fate wouldn’t let her have her way.
After the whole business with Gabriel, the key, the IMF.. everything in general, it was made clear that the White Widow was already taken by the woman who nearly died protecting Grace on the bridge in Venice, an IMF agent named Ilsa Faust.
After that the three of them became.. something.
Grace is unsure how to put it. She’s not with Alanna but she’s not.. not with her either. Ilsa is more than willing to share. They kind of got into a rhythm.
The house, or rather manor, is warm. Quiet. The three of them are here together, as they often are, though ‘together’ feels like a fragile term to Grace. Ilsa and Alanna are on the couch, curled into one another, while Grace sits in the armchair by the window. She chose the spot out of instinct, as though some part of her understood her place in all this before she even entered the room.
Alanna’s laugh floats across the space, soft and unguarded. Grace glances over in time to see Ilsa smirk, her fingers trailing lazily along the blonde’s forearm. They’re sharing a bottle of wine, their glasses resting on the low table in front of them. Grace’s own drink sits untouched on the table beside her, the condensation pooling around the base. She’s too focused on them to care about her drink, on the way Alanna tilts her head toward Ilsa when she speaks, or the way Ilsa’s hand seems to find Alanna’s knee without thought.
There’s a language between them, Grace thinks, one that exists without words. It’s in their glances, their touches, their shared silences. It’s in the way Alanna fits so naturally against Ilsa’s side, her head resting on Ilsa’s shoulder as if it were the most obvious place in the world to be. Grace feels like a foreigner looking in, like someone observing a masterpiece they’ll never truly understand.
Ilsa looks up suddenly, her gaze landing on Grace. Her blue eyes are sharp, assessing, but there’s a softness there too. A warmth that could almost be mistaken for affection. Grace holds her breath, wondering if Ilsa will say something, break the quiet with a question or an invitation. But Ilsa doesn’t. She just studies Grace for a moment longer then turns back to Alanna, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her partner’s face.
Grace lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her chest feels tight and she isn’t sure why. It’s not jealousy, exactly. She doesn’t resent them for what they have. It’s more that she doesn’t know where she fits into it. Or if she fits at all.
Later, the three of them are tangled together in bed after fulfilling and rather strenuous sex, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. Ilsa is on the right, her arm draped around Alanna in the middle, her hand resting lightly on Grace’s hip. Grace lies on her side too, facing them, her body so close to theirs that she can feel the warmth radiating from their skin.
Alanna laughs again, a quiet, throaty sound that makes Ilsa smile. Grace watches as Ilsa turns her head to press a kiss to Alanna’s temple. It’s such a simple thing, but it hits Grace like a punch to the gut. She should feel included. She's here, isn’t she? Part of this? But the easy intimacy between them makes her feel small, like an accessory to something she can never truly be part of.
She’s brought out of her thoughts by Ilsa’s hand shifting on her hip, a light squeeze that could almost be reassuring. Almost. Grace closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sensation, trying to convince herself that it’s enough for her. But when she opens them again, it’s to see Alanna smiling and leaning up to kiss Ilsa, their mouths meeting in a way that feels both tender and consuming.
Grace looks away. Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t let it show. She shifts slightly, turning onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. And then almost like an afterthought, Alanna turns to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. It feels devoid of warmth. The faint scent of wine and jasmine lingers in the air, mixing with the sound of their breathing.
She’s here, she reminds herself. She’s part of this. And yet, the knot in her chest doesn’t loosen.
The three of them are out the next evening.
They sit at a quiet table in a dimly lit lounge that the blonde owns. Ilsa and Alanna share the curved side of the booth, their shoulders brushing, their conversation a low murmur that Grace can’t quite make out. She sits across from them, her fingers tracing patterns on the rim of her glass.
She watches as Alanna leans in, her hand resting lightly on Ilsa’s thigh. Ilsa smirks at something Alanna says, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a way that’s both teasing and affectionate.
Grace feels a sharp pang in her chest, though she doesn’t understand why. She’s here. With them. They invited her. Yet she can’t shake the feeling that she’s intruding on something that existed long before she came into the picture.
Alanna looks up suddenly, her gaze meeting Grace’s. “You’re quiet” She says, her tone light.
It’s the first thing anyone has said to her all night. Grace forces a small smile, lifting her glass in response. Alanna holds her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to Ilsa, her attention shifting as easily as a breeze.
Grace looks down at her drink. The amber liquid catches the light, shimmering faintly, but it doesn’t hold her attention for long. Her eyes drift back to them, to the way Alanna rests her head on Ilsa’s shoulder, to the way Ilsa’s fingers toy with the ends of Alanna’s hair. It’s not deliberate, Grace tells herself. It’s just who they are.
But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
Back in the manor, Grace sits by the window again, her knees drawn up to her chest. Ilsa and Alanna are on the bed, talking in low voices. She doesn’t listen to the words; she focuses on the cadence of their voices, the way they rise and fall like waves. She’s always been good at observing, at staying quiet and keeping her thoughts to herself.
Ilsa laughs at something Alanna says, a rare, soft sound that makes Grace’s stomach twist. She rests her chin on her knees, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jeans. She shouldn’t feel like this. Shouldn't feel like she’s standing outside in the cold, looking in on something warm and golden.
She looks up, her gaze settling on them again. Alanna has shifted closer, her hand resting on Ilsa’s cheek as she leans in to kiss her. Grace watches, her chest tightening with something she can’t name. She doesn’t look away. She never does.
She watches. She endures.
< >
The world tilts, edges blurring like smeared paint on wet canvas. Grace stands in the middle of the sitting room, her breathing shallow and uneven, though she isn’t aware of it. The manor is quiet. Too quiet. She moves aimlessly, her fingers trailing across the countertop, the cool marble grounding her in a way that feels distant. Her mind is full of noise, fragmented thoughts swirling and colliding.
The space around her feels unreal, like a set dressed for a play she doesn’t understand. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching across the walls as if they’re reaching for her. She catches sight of her reflection in the mirror across the room, but it doesn’t feel like her. The woman staring back is hollow-eyed, her expression slack, her movements jerky as she tilts her head.
Grace looks away quickly, her chest tightening.
She paces. Her bare feet make soft, uneven sounds against the cold ceramic floor. The rhythm of it grates against her ears. She rubs her arms, her nails pressing into her skin, searching for something to anchor her, something that feels real.
She hears their voices. Or she thinks she does. They’re speaking, but the words don’t reach her. They’re muffled as though coming from behind thick glass. She turns toward the sound, but the room is empty. Still, her eyes dart around uneasily.
Her heart pounds as she steps into the bedroom, the door creaking slightly. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled and rumpled, a soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminating the scene. She stands there for a moment, her eyes darting across the space, her mind struggling to piece it together.
Time slips. Grace isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there when she moves again. The next thing she knows, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting the sheet. There’s an ache in her chest, sharp and heavy. She can’t pinpoint its source. Her thoughts are disjointed, skittering away every time she tries to hold onto one.
She hears soft breathing, a quiet rhythm that slowly pulls her attention. She turns her head and sees them. Ilsa and Alanna are tangled together in their sleep. Ilsa’s arm drapes loosely over Alanna’s waist, her face peaceful and unguarded. Alanna is curled into her, her blonde hair fanned out across the pillow like gold spun in moonlight.
Grace’s chest tightens further. She doesn’t remember getting into bed with them, but she’s there now, the weight of the mattress shifting beneath her as she lies on her back. She's nude, she registers. They are too. Her limbs feel heavy, her mind still caught in the fog of whatever this is. She blinks slowly, her vision clearing just enough to take in the details: the faint marks on her arms where Ilsa’s hands might have gripped her, the bruised bloom on Alanna’s collarbone, the faint scent of perfume and sweat lingering in the air.
Her body feels sore, used, though not unpleasantly. Her skin tingles where it might have been touched, kissed, claimed. She looks down at her hands, the tremor in them finally stilling.
The room is quiet again, but this time it feels different. Grounded. Real. Grace entwines her fingers on her stomach, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her breathing evens out as she lets herself sink into the warmth of the bed, the closeness of their bodies. Ilsa shifts in her sleep, her fingers brushing against Grace’s arm. Alanna sighs softly, the sound pulling Grace further into the present.
She doesn’t know how long she lies there, staring at the ceiling and listening to their breathing. Eventually, her eyes close, the tension in her body easing as exhaustion takes hold.
For now, the storm has passed.
But the hollow places remain, waiting.
< >
Grace is grateful when the IMF is assigned a new mission. Slightly less so, when it involves her and Ilsa going undercover as a couple.
It’s fine. Grace likes Ilsa. I mean, how can she dislike the woman who saved her life?
So yeah it’s fine.
The team sets them up in an apartment in SoHo.
Ilsa approaches her after they’ve set up in the living room and the rest of the team has left. “Hey” She makes sure Grace is looking at her before continuing. “Can we talk?”
Those three words never fail to fill Grace with dread. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Is everything alright? You’ve seemed distant lately”
Grace lets out a sigh. She’s been expecting this. Which is why she’s rehearsed a decent lie. “I know” She says, setting down the last piece of equipment. “I know. It’s just.. I’m still getting used to all this”
Ilsa nods, crossing her arms over her chest. “I understand. Out of all of us, you’re the one who’s the least involved in the world of espionage”
“I know. Which is why I think it’s taking me a bit longer to get settled in. But I have you and the team so” Grace shrugs, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll get there in no time”
Ilsa smiles back at her.
When night falls, Grace settles into bed beside Ilsa. She’s wearing a simple oversized tee and boy shorts whereas Ilsa is wearing a tank top and plaid pajama pants. Ilsa closes the book she was reading and turns off the lamp on her nightstand after Grace does the same. Even under the covers, Grace shivers, so she scoots closer to Ilsa.
“Cold?” Ilsa inquires with a small smile as she wraps her arms around the other brunette’s frame.
“Mmh-mh”
“Well, perhaps you should’ve thought about wearing pants” Ilsa playfully pinches Grace’s hip.
“Ouch!” Grace exclaims before slapping Ilsa’s hand away. “Didn’t think it would be so cold” She murmurs, nuzzling into the crook of Ilsa’s neck.
Silence envelopes the room.
“Did it bother you when Alanna told you about me?”
“Not at all. Alanna and I were separated”
“But now you’re not”
Ilsa looks down at her, her brows slightly furrowed. “What are you getting at, Grace?”
“I just.. can’t help but think I’m in the way of you two. It feels like I’m an intruder in your relationship”
“You’re not. We’re more than happy to have you” Ilsa brushes a few stray strands of hair behind Grace’s ear. She cups her cheek. “You’re an important part of our relationship, Grace. Yes, it wasn’t always that way, but now that we’ve experienced you, neither of us plan on letting you”
“Sounds dreadful” Grace sasses, though the corner of her mouth is tugged upwards into a smile.
“The worst, doesn’t it?” Ilsa fires back with ease, matching her energy. “But in all seriousness, Alanna and I love you. We’re better people with you in our lives. Don’t ever doubt that”
Grace looks up at the other woman in the darkness of their temporary bedroom. “I.. love you too” It’s the first time in a very, very long time that Grace has said those words and believed them herself.
Ilsa presses a soft kiss to the top of Grace’s head before closing her eyes. “I know you do, my darling” She says with a dreamy sigh. “Good night”
“Good night, Ilsa”
Grace closes her eyes. As she slowly waits to succumb to her slumber, she starts to wonder if perhaps things will be better from here on out.
But of course, life has other plans for her.
It always does.
It's a little over eight at night when they enter their apartment. Ilsa hasn’t spoken a word to her since they concluded their unsuccessful mission.
The drive back to the apartment was silent.
The targets were two male Russian high hitters. Aside from the information that was in the dossier, Ilsa told Grace some additional details about them. Ilsa infiltrated their crime ring back when she was undercover for the Syndicate. She and the high hitters left a few bodies in their wake. It was necessary for Ilsa to extract the information the Syndicate needed. Grace’s stomach churned uncomfortably when Ilsa implied that she had to resort to other methods to do what must be done.
The high hitters were assasionated by possible Czech mercenaries or some other country the Russians pissed off. The list is too long to name.
Ilsa gripped the steering wheel as she kept her gaze ahead of her, her knuckles whitening. The noticeable angry set of her jaw upset Grace.
It was her fault. She’s the reason they failed their mission. The mission they spent three months on.
Ilsa knew this because she didn’t say otherwise.
“I’m sorry” Grace blurts out, not being able to take the silence any longer. “I messed up”
Ilsa stops dead in her tracks in the living room, her back facing the other woman.
“Ilsa. Please look at me. Please..”
The words sound pathetic.
Even to her own ears.
Eventually, Ilsa turns to face her.
“I’m sorry” Grace says again, moving towards the older woman. Her heart beats out of her chest.
Ilsa raises her hand slightly. “Stop”
“I’m sorry”
“Stop”
Ilsa’s own heart beats fast now. Her ears ring. The edges of her vision threaten to turn crimson.
“Grace..” Ilsa all but warns.
But Grace is too close, the distance between them consisting of a single measly feet. “I’m s-”
Ilsa captures her lips in a bruising kiss.
They stumble towards the bedroom.
Ilsa breaks the kiss to pull Grace’s tank top over her head after throwing her button up onto the floor. Grace reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra before letting it join her top on the hardwood floor. She looks down as Ilsa unbuckles her belt before unbuttoning her jeans and pulling down her zipper. When her pants have been pulled off of her legs and discarded, Ilsa pushes Grace onto the bed.
For a moment, Ilsa looks down at her.
Seeing Grace so willing, almost too willing, makes her pause. Her gut twist. This doesn’t feel right. She should put an end to this while she still can. She shouldn’t do this. Not when she’s seeing red.
But the small, logical voice in the back of her head is drowned out by her anger, her anger at this mission. The Russians. The Syndicate. Grace.