Chapter Text
LONDON
The cold wind ripples across Eve’s face as she walks away from Villanelle. Blurry memories of her and Villanelle’s moments together rush into her mind—serving Villanelle shepherd’s pie, standing gunpoint with her in Moscow, lying beside her in her bed in Paris; then putting a hit on herself, inviting Villanelle into her home, touching her cheek, swallowing the pills, sitting on the edge of Villanelle’s bed in her new London flat; then Rome and everything about it, Villanelle’s husky voice in her ear, the thrill, the rush, the ax, heavy, smooth, wet, warm; then the painful goodbye that followed. After that, the memories sting a bit more: the kiss on the bus in London, Villanelle’s perfume, her lips, the weight of her body, then her small wave after they just missed each other on the train in Scotland.
A pang pulls at Eve’s heart. It races faster and faster in her chest, pounding against her ribs as she tries to get her mind to settle, searching for confirmation that she’s making the right decision, walking away from Villanelle, but it doesn’t come. Emotions expand inside—sadness, loneliness, frustration, resentment, hurt—pressing against Eve’s seams and threatening to burst through. She wants to cry but the tears linger in her eyes, unable to fall.
Eve continues with slow, uncertain steps, but her legs begin to feel heavy, weak, refusing to let her go farther, when a sudden flash of realization makes itself known from the depths of her being, coming to the surface as Eve pieces together fragmented thoughts. She cannot take another step further. She cannot bring herself to leave Villanelle. Villanelle’s face flickers about in her mind, her eyes, her smile, the way she says “Eve.” Eve can’t bear the thought of not seeing her again, can’t tear herself away, can’t walk an inch farther.
Slowly, deliberately, Eve turns. The icy air stings her cheeks, but there, several long paces away, is Villanelle, standing perfectly still with her back to her. Eyes hanging on Villanelle’s orange coat, Eve opens her mouth to speak, wanting to call out to Villanelle, but her throat won’t allow a sound. Her body fixes itself in place. Her thoughts suspend in a kind of limbo. She stares and waits for Villanelle’s next move, suddenly doubting her decision to turn around, anxiously wondering if Villanelle will turn too.
Down the bridge, Villanelle’s heart falters as she prepares to look back over her shoulder. Wanting so terribly to see Eve gazing at her, Villanelle sets her jaw and braces herself for heartbreak instead, knowing Eve’s figure will be fading into the distance. A ragged breath catches in her chest at the thought. Tears come to her eyes as they so easily do now. Summoning the strength, all that is left inside her after these past few months of tremendous internal upheaval, Villanelle turns.
Reprieve swiftly moves through her. Eve is still there. Eve, her expression a blend of hurt and panic, yearning. Villanelle gives a weak smile; Eve didn’t walk away. Then confusion washes over her. The tears grow in her eyes. She wanted this but wasn’t expecting it. Why did Eve turn around? Villanelle can’t comprehend it. Her vision narrows to only Eve’s small figure, illuminated by the full moon as darkness creeps in her periphery. It feels as if the world is swallowing her up but opening itself at the same time, giving her a glimpse of hope and possibility.
Eve stares at Villanelle, watching, waiting, helplessly hoping. The world seems to shift around her and shrinks to only Villanelle. Sounds drift away. Sensations of cold cease. Compelled by something beyond her control, beyond her understanding, Eve takes a step towards Villanelle, but Villanelle doesn’t step with her. Eve takes another step, tears streaming down her cheek now. Why isn’t Villanelle moving? Why isn’t she coming back? Doubt snakes its way into Eve’s mind again, but she’s certain that this is what she wants now. Villanelle is what she wants.
Yet, across the way, Villanelle struggles to grasp what’s happening. Her thoughts flutter rapidly. Why didn’t Eve walk away? Why did she turn around? Why would she want me? Why would anyone want me? I’m a monster.
But Eve takes another step. Her legs feel as heavy as lead yet it’s almost as if she’s floating at the same time.
Villanelle tilts her head to one side. Watching Eve approach her, the confusion dissolves into agony. Why Eve? Why are you walking back to me when you know what I am? A tear rolls down Villanelle’s cheek. A lump forms in her throat. She swallows it down, wants to scream, wants to tear after Eve.
Eve moves faster now, surer, confident. This is exactly what she wants. It’s always been what she wanted but she couldn’t let it in just yet. It had always been too out of reach. But not now. Villanelle is standing before her and this time she won’t let her get away. Eve refuses for that to be an option. A surge of strength rises through her and she takes a wide step. Then another, determined to reach Villanelle.
But Villanelle leans away. A feeling so foreign torments her, making her heart race faster than she’s ever felt it go before. All the blood drains from her head. She sways on her feet, wondering if she might faint. Her eyes find Eve taking another step. Is she saying something?
“Villanelle,” Eve calls out, her voice weak yet pleading.
A sudden burst of clarity hits Villanelle so hard she gasps. The feeling is fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of losing another person from her life. Fear of being totally alone. But Eve is still here, walking towards her. Eve is coming back to her. Villanelle’s wits return to her in an instant. And she sees Eve approaching, a look of distress on her face.
“Eve!” Villanelle shouts, forcing her legs to move.
Eve picks up her pace, taking steps in succession, ungainly and unsteady, then stronger and smoother as she finds her rhythm. Her boots thud on the pavement as she runs.
“Villanelle!” she calls back, voice breaking. The blur of tears makes it hard to see but she knows Villanelle is coming to her.
Villanelle wills her legs to move faster, breaking free from her thoughts and acting on desire alone. She runs quicker than Eve now, closing the distance that’s left between them until she and Eve crash into one another like two atoms colliding, sending a ripple out into the universe. Long overdue, far too long overdue, they embrace, tears falling down their cheeks as they do.
Villanelle wraps her arms around Eve, drawing Eve into her. She nuzzles her nose into Eve’s curls, inhaling her sweet scent and finding profound comfort in it. Smiling with relief, Eve clutches Villanelle tightly too, burying her face in the crook of Villanelle's neck and feeling a sense of wholeness in her arms.
Clinging to each other out of desperation, still not certain that the other won’t let go, they let out nervous laughs—this is new; weird, uncomfortable, amazing, incredible—as the outside world slowly comes back into perception. Eve grabs fistfuls of Villanelle’s soft coat, hugging her for a second longer, feeling the warmth from Villanelle’s body, then loosens her grasp and pulls away to look Villanelle in the eyes, wanting to know what she’s feeling.
Placing her hand on Villanelle’s cheek, she tells Villanelle, “I’m here.” Her voice is clear and earnest. She gently strokes Villanelle’s cheek with her thumb, wiping away wet tears. “I’m here, Villanelle.”
Villanelle nods and can only manage a feeble grin, but it reaches her eyes, forming creases on the outer corners. Another tear falls. Eve wipes it away. They rest their foreheads together then, close their eyes for a while, let each other in, getting used to the trembling sensation that closeness brings.
“I didn’t know if you would come back,” Villanelle mutters finally.
Eve lets out a small laugh. She wasn’t sure if Villanelle would come back either. Villanelle can feel Eve’s warm breath on her lips, can taste it on her tongue. She nuzzles her nose against Eve’s, making Eve smile, then dips her chin ever so slightly.
Eve’s heart misses a few beats. It seems to know what’s coming next.
Villanelle smirks at Eve, mouth pulling to one side, and leans in, doing what she should have done a long time ago. Her lips quiver with anticipation as they meet Eve’s, still and soft.
Villanelle doesn’t take it any farther—one kiss is enough for now—uncertain how Eve will react, and waits for Eve’s response. But Eve throws her arms around Villanelle’s neck and hauls Villanelle in, finally allowing the spark of desire to fully ignite. She’s held it back for too long. It simply can’t be contained anymore. Their lips meet once again and this time electric shocks more powerful than lightning course through them. It’s a feeling unlike anything either of them has ever experienced, a feeling distinctly different from the thrill of a kill or kissing the lips of another, a feeling that is singular to them.
Villanelle takes Eve’s face with both hands, kissing her with unbridled joy, smiling through the entirety as the most wonderful sensation of warmth sweeps through her. She gets lost in it, lost in Eve, lost in time and space, finding herself again only when Eve’s hand is on her cheek.
Eve cants her head, matching Villanelle’s joy with sheer delight of her own, kissing her openly, freely, unrestrained. They make up for months of lost time and loads of missed opportunities, acting on desires that have been there since the moment they met here in London. There was just too much in the way, too many walls that had to be broken down, too many threads that had to be unraveled before they could come together and share this moment in this way. But now that it’s finally here, neither Eve nor Villanelle are willing to let it go. They make a scene for passersby, wrapped around one another, lips locked, smiles abundant. A new sensation blooms between them, something new, something different, strange yet beautiful, foreign yet welcomed.
Completion.
Then something more powerful overcomes them.
Lust.
Their kisses crescendo, heightening to the climax of their own symphony, urgent, fervent, rushed, impassioned. Bodies press against one another. Hipbones dig in. A soft moan escapes Eve’s mouth. Villanelle can’t help but laugh, pulling away to grin at Eve who turns a lovely shade of red, embarrassed by her eagerness.
Villanelle leans in again, giving Eve a soft kiss, a gentler kiss, then takes Eve’s lower lip between her teeth and bites it.
Eve almost wishes it was harder.
The loud honk of a car’s horn tears them out of their world and back into the world around them. They turn their heads towards the street, both briefly forgetting a street is there, and notice several onlookers who all quickly divert their gaze, caught peeping on a moment that’s not theirs. Eve and Villanelle laugh, smiling at each other, smug, conspiratorial.
Villanelle grins to one side, her soft gaze focused on Eve. “Now what?” she asks.
Eve gives Villanelle a shrug. “I don’t know.”
Villanelle chuckles softly, running her fingers through Eve’s hair, feeling the texture and fullness of her curls. It’s the silkiest sensation she’s ever felt between her fingers and that’s a lot coming from someone who owns dozens of kimonos and Liliana Rizzari bedsheets.
“You really do have amazing hair.”
Eve scoffs a laugh, rolling her eyes.
“We should go somewhere,” Villanelle says, tenderly running the backs of her fingers down Eve’s jaw.
“Where?”
Villanelle shrugs. “We could go anywhere.”
Eve’s face shifts from light happiness to confusion. Villanelle seems to have forgotten that they just watched Carolyn shoot a member of The Twelve and helped another go on the run. “Could we?” she asks.
Villanelle bunches her brow at the question, missing Eve’s cue. "I have been all over the world. I know tons of places.”
Eve cants her head. Villanelle doesn’t seem to care about the possibility of being pursued by The Twelve. She opens her mouth to ask why but Villanelle grabs her suddenly, pulling her in closer with an air of protective possession.
“Eve, is that your purse?” Villanelle asks, watching a scraggly man rifle through a brown purse on the ground behind Eve.
“What?” Eve has to wriggle free from Villanelle’s grasp to turn around and look. “Huh,” she mutters, just now realizing she must have thrown her purse down once she reached the bridge, tired of carrying its weight. “Yeah, it is,” she confirms with a laugh.
“Do you want me to get it?”
Eve thinks for a moment. Nothing of real importance is in there, only items that can easily be replaced. She shakes her head, turning back at Villanelle. “No.”
Villanelle’s forehead wrinkles. “Eve, you are being robbed right in front of us.”
“I don’t care.”
Villanelle gives Eve a very funny look. Eve makes absolutely no sense sometimes, most of the time actually. Then she slides her arm around Eve’s waist, holding onto her in an overly protective way, and snarls at the man, “Hey!”
The man jumps and looks up, seeming to immediately sense the threat. He takes the few banknotes Eve had along with all her credit cards, then tosses her wallet back in her purse, giving it a good kick before he sneers and runs off.
“Oh." Eve scoffs. That was just unnecessary. She looks over at Villanelle, expecting her to be amused by the way she made the thief run with only her voice, but Villanelle’s expression is hard and cold, unforgiving. Eve’s heart does a strange lurch from the speed at which Villanelle can shift her mood from playful to predator. “It’s okay,” she says. “Really.”
But when Villanelle looks over at her, her eyes are clouded over and have turned a shade darker from malice.
It frightens Eve yet arouses her at the same time. She changes her tone, making a joke out of it. “I mean you have a lot of money, right?”
This seems to pull Villanelle out of her trance. She smiles though it barely reaches her eyes. “I do have a lot of money,” she says absently. “Probably more than you’ve had in your entire life.”
Eve chuckles, dismissing the jab.
“Let’s get out of here," Villanelle says, taking Eve’s hand firmly in hers. "I know somewhere we can go. And be alone.” She smirks, exuding charm to lighten the mood, but she can’t help the thought of smashing the thief’s face on the railing until her hands are bloody, then throwing his body off the bridge and sending him plunging down to the darkest depths of the Thames.
[Carnival – Unloved]
KILLING EVE
Staring at Paul’s still, lifeless body, Carolyn lets out an exhausted kind of sigh as if she’s already knackered from what’s to come next. If Paul does have any information on The Twelve, she wants to find it for herself before the MI6 clean-up crew arrives and if they’re any good at their job, they’ll be here shortly. Taking Paul’s still-warm hand in hers, Carolyn presses his fingertips to the grip and trigger of the pistol, wiping off her own prints as soon as Eve and Villanelle departed.
She called this in as a suicide, wise to make it look like one.
Carolyn sets the gun at a believable position near Paul’s feet and gazes solemnly at him for a moment as if to ensure that all the evidence does in fact point to suicide.
“Such is life, Paul,” she offers, showing no sympathy, and begins her hunt for intelligence, first riffling through his pockets to search for his phone or anything out of the ordinary. Already having logs of his recent correspondences from Mo—poor Mo—she’s now after his most immediate calls and texts. Whom had Paul been contacting today? Last night?
Easily finding his phone in his trouser pocket, Carolyn turns on the screen. It’s unlocked.
Odd.
Scrolling through the call history, Carolyn discovers nothing notable or of importance, only one call to his ex-boyfriend at 2:07 a.m. Pathetic. She stops scrolling after several days of entries. Only an impertinent fool would leave their phone unlocked while working for multiple organizations, which Paul was, but he wasn’t entirely unintelligent. There must be another phone somewhere, Carolyn reckons, a burner he used to communicate with The Twelve.
Dammit, she should have requested clean-up in ten minutes not five. She’ll have to work fast.
Wiping her prints off the phone with her scarf, Carolyn replaces it to Paul’s pocket, then promptly glides to the chests of drawers on either side of the sitting room and begins rummaging through the contents.
She would be smarter to bring gloves next time she considered pulling the trigger on someone.
Nothing of interest is in either chest. But this only spurs Carolyn. Briskly, she moves to his bedroom, acutely aware of the diminishing time she has left alone in his house, and tears through his wardrobe, both bedside tables, and the small desk in the corner. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nary a safe nor locked drawer. Going into his closet next, Carolyn slides hanging shirts and coats and trousers aside, nearing the end of the clothes rack when her intuition tells her he’s most certainly got something stowed away somewhere. But where would Paul hide something important? As Carolyn slides the last garment bag on the rack, she notices it has an unusual heaviness to it. Surely no jacket can be so large as to weigh this much. Unzipping the Dior bag, Carolyn finds a black velvet tuxedo jacket. “Hm,” is her assessment.
She checks the sleeves first, patting down each arm. The left has a rectangular object concealed within the fabric. Carolyn swiftly unbuttons the blazer with nimble fingers—her time nearly out now—then feels along the inseam of the sleeve to discover a hidden pocket out of which she pulls a phone. Clever. But not impossible to find. Though the clean-up team may have missed it.
Carolyn tries waking the screen for a check on the time but the phone is powered off.
Damn.
The pressure of dwindling seconds urges her to leave the bedroom and return to the sitting room at once and Carolyn begins zipping up the bag, ready to leave it for the Dogs, when she gets the sudden sense that she may be missing something. Check again, an inner voice tells her. Obliging, Carolyn feels the back of the tuxedo jacket, running her hands over a larger uneven object, perhaps multiple.
Quicker. She must move quicker. she only has seconds now.
Finding the slip of an opening, Carolyn rips it in a rush to retrieve the contents: a vacuum-sealed bag containing a passport and currency for Argentina. But there’s no time to react to the uncovered items. The door buzzer rings.
Damn their promptness.
Carolyn hastily does one button to conceal the ripped inner pocket, then zips the garment bag but the bloody zipper catches. She lets out a displeased grunt and unzips the zipper, zipping it back up with agonizing slowness for Carolyn knows one simply cannot hurriedly zip a garment bag zipper. The buzzer sounds again, pestering her to move faster, and Carolyn skillfully places everything back to where it was before, then turns off the light and closes the closet door, depositing the vacuum-sealed bag into the inner pocket of her own coat. She then glides back into the sitting room appearing fully composed, no sign of duress in her demeanor, and lets the MI6 clean-up team—the Dogs—inside, leading them to the scene of the crime and standing in the same exact spot she was standing in before when she made the call as if she’d been there the entire time.
Jess is amongst the half dozen or so suits from MI6 that walk into the room. She glances at Carolyn, clearly intrigued, then her eyes land on Paul’s body on the couch and the brain matter scattered behind him.
Carolyn’s the first to speak. “Shame, really.”
Jess nods absently, taking in all the evidence before her—the bullet in Paul’s forehead, the broken bust on the stand against the wall, and the gun on the floor near his feet. She cants her head at an inquisitive angle as if spotting something that doesn’t quite seem to be in the right place.
“Right then.” Carolyn nods. "Do let me know when you’ve finished,” she says, turning on her heel and promptly heading for the front door. “And Jess.” She stops, looking over her shoulder from the doorway. "It was a suicide.” Then she straightens the collar of her jacket, nods at the clean-up crew, and disappears out of sight.
--------
The 10 p.m. train out of London has many passengers aboard. Konstantin is one of them, staring blankly out the large window. He puts his hand on his chest over his still-recovering heart, grimacing and letting out a low groan.
Would Carolyn have shot him? He truly believed she might. The anger in her voice was convincing. Konstantin never intended for Kenny to die. Kenny was kind, loyal, and smart, much better with computers than anyone in The Twelve, but he was digging around too much and was aware of the activity in The Twelve’s accounts. Konstantin had wanted to protect Kenny. But more than anything he wanted to protect himself.
****
Konstantin had arrived at the Bitter Pill on the evening of Kenny’s death, aware of the locations of all the security cameras; there were very few installed. He suggested they talk on the roof knowing they would be free from CCTV. Kenny had questions. Konstantin wasn’t going to give the answers.
“You have to let this go,” Konstantin told Kenny. “All of it.”
“No.” Kenny shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Kenny, please,” Konstantin urged. “You have no idea what you are getting yourself into. The Twelve are very dangerous.”
“Yeah.” Kenny nodded. “And someone has to do something about it. They can’t just be allowed to run around killing people all the time.”
Konstantin gave him a very stern look. “I am asking you to stop. Please.”
But Kenny shook his head again, looking frustrated and dissatisfied. “I guess you don’t know what it’s like to really search for the truth then.”
Konstantin grimaced at the words. “Kenny,” he tried to reason again, but Kenny seemed to sense that he was onto something.
“You do know something, don’t you?” Kenny asked.
He had struck a chord. Frustration spread across Konstantin’s face.
“No,” Konstantin denied firmly.
“You do,” Kenny prodded further, studying Konstantin closely and reading the deception in his eyes.
Konstantin's lips became a flat line then. “I do not,” he lied, starting to lose his temper. He advanced on Kenny, forced him to take steps back until the backs of his legs bumped up against the barricade of the roof.
Kenny remained admirably brave and resolute, demanding, “Who was transferring the money?”
Konstantin’s expression didn’t change. But he swallowed, giving Kenny the answer.
“Who, Konstantin?” Kenny asked again. And then he knew. And the realization flashed across his face like a bolt of lightning in a clear night sky.
Konstantin registered the look in an instant. “No!”
****
Staring wistfully out the window now, Konstantin lets out a long, heavy sigh as he scratches his grey beard. Paul was better off dead, but not Kenny. And now Konstantin will have to spend the rest of his life with that weighting on his conscience. Pulling out a flask from an inner coat pocket, he elects to numb himself from it tonight, like he’s done for many nights for many different choices he’s made in his life, and takes a long swig, wincing from the taste of warm and cheap whiskey. Then he returns the flask to his pocket, takes out his phone, and dials a number with a +44 country code.
“Hello?” a woman answers on the first ring.
“I need your help,” Konstantin says without explanation.
“Where are you?”
--------
The somewhere Villanelle decides to take Eve is the flat MI6 generously provided her for Operation Mandalay. They never asked for it back. Or not officially, at least.
Eve follows Villanelle up the stairs, remembering the ease with which she used to barge in before. Now, it feels somewhat strange for Villanelle to be inviting her here. Their boots thud on the stairs with each step, sending a soft echo through the still and quiet space, and they are met with the distinct smell of staleness and dust, months without use have left a fine layer on everything.
“I didn’t think you still had this place,” Eve says, huffing from the stairs.
“Yeah, I have a place in London.” Villanelle shrugs. “You live here.” She says it so matter-of-fact.
Eve smiles, watching Villanelle slink through the shadows to the kitchen. Light from neighboring buildings shines faintly through sheer curtains over the windows, illuminating the space just enough to make a sinuous silhouette out of Villanelle’s figure. Villanelle flips on the overhead lights to reveal the layout of the flat. It’s just as Eve remembered, open and modern, the kitchen against the back wall, the dining table under the window, the unnecessary grand piano in the sitting room, and the bed, in the extravagant shape of a circle, in the center of the flat. Eve stops only a few steps into the dining area, her eyes unconsciously lingering on the bed.
“You can come in,” Villanelle says, smirking as she saunters back towards Eve. She pulls off her boots, one by one, and tosses them on the floor with no regard for where they land.
“Shoes off?” Eve quips.
Villanelle lets out a chuckle. “Sure.”
Eve kicks off her boots, suddenly feeling very nervous at the thought of being alone with Villanelle, but she walks into the flat with confidence, perhaps inflated, setting what’s left of her purse on the dining table.
“Did you lose anything important?” Villanelle asks, smirking more salaciously now as she creeps closer to Eve, eyes flickering over Eve’s body and admiring her features.
Eve looks down at her purse. It’s just now occurring to her to check. She digs around inside, feeling through the inner pockets, then checks her wallet for what remains: a punch card for an Indian food restaurant, several crumpled train ticket stubs, a few loose coins, and her ID card. Suddenly, Villanelle is right at her side, looking her up and down and by no means subtly. It’s almost as if she wants Eve to catch her.
“No," Eve says, feeling Villanelle’s stare. "Just some money and my phone.” She looks up, daring to meet Villanelle’s eyes.
Villanelle lets out a throaty kind of chuckle. Her eyes dart down to Eve’s lips. “Good.” She nods. Then wets her own lips and leans in a fraction closer. The tantalizing memory of sliding the wet dress—a dress she hand-selected in Berlin—off of Eve’s bare body dances around her head, sparking a warm flicker of desire in her belly.
Eve swallows, feeling more nervous now than ever before around Villanelle, including the time Villanelle pinned her against the refrigerator and held a knife to her throat in her own kitchen. It must show on her face because Villanelle’s wolfish expression softens.
“Don’t be nervous,” Villanelle whispers, tracing the backs of her fingers down Eve’s jaw. “I’ve already seen you naked.”
Eve scoffs a laugh and gets herself to relax. But only some for Villanelle is dangerously close now and has started dipping her chin to find the perfect angle to steal a kiss. But before Villanelle can close the gap, Eve beats her to it, meeting her lips first. Then it becomes a kind of back-and-forth of eager exploration. Villanelle takes a handful of curls, parts her lips, slips her tongue between Eve’s teeth. Then Eve explores Villanelle’s mouth with her tongue, twirling, reaching, curling. She runs her hands over Villanelle’s body and claws at Villanelle’s coat, wishing she could somehow rip it off.
Gaining confidence with each of Eve’s advances this time around, Villanelle takes Eve’s face in her hands and grins smugly as she pulls away ever so slightly, goading Eve to chase her. And Eve does without hesitation, canting her body to stay close. But Villanelle quickly loses interest in playing games. She wants Eve, here and now, has wanted Eve since the moment she met eyes with her in that bathroom.
Villanelle’s lips drift away from Eve’s and she leaves a trail of kisses down Eve’s jaw and to her neck. “Take this off,” she whispers in Eve’s ear.
Eve nods. Her eyes fall shut as she slips into a lustful trance, feeling Villanelle’s fingers pulling down the zipper of her jacket. Then her heavy parka falls to the floor at their feet and a shiver runs through her, not from the cold air in the flat, but from the sensation of Villanelle’s hands sneaking up her back. Eve’s breath catches in her throat when Villanelle’s fingertips touch her skin. She wishes that it hadn’t.
Villanelle smirks ever more smugly now, placing little kisses along Eve’s jaw as she takes her time returning to Eve’s lips. She starts to grab Eve more possessively, taking the lead from Eve—as if she ever had it—and traps Eve in her arms, digging her fingernails through Eve’s sweater with each squeeze.
Getting the sudden desire to tear off Villanelle’s jacket, Eve yearns to touch Villanelle’s bare body and tugs at the drawstrings around Villanelle’s neck, struggling to get the knot loose. A throaty laugh from Villanelle is no help. Nor are the light kisses on the nape of the neck Villanelle is teasing Eve with. Or the playful bite that follows. Villanelle’s bottom teeth scrape against Eve’s skin ever so lightly, tickling her almost.
Loosening her hold on Eve, Villanelle lets Eve untie her jacket and shrugs it off smoothly as soon as Eve frees the knot, revealing a sheer black tank underneath. It clings to every curvature of her body. She gives Eve no time to react, pressing herself against Eve and circling her arms around Eve’s waist.
Warmth radiates off Villanelle’s soft skin into Eve’s hands as they glide along the curve of Villanelle’s back. Eve gets greedier the longer she touches Villanelle, bolder in her advances, and tries running her nails down Villanelle’s spine, pressing a little harder the lower she travels and making Villanelle’s back arch. Stealing some power back now, Eve lets her hands drift down to Villanelle’s ass, grabbing her, squeezing her, holding their bodies closer together as she drives her hips into Villanelle’s. This seems to ignite something inside Villanelle.
“Come here,” Villanelle murmurs, leading Eve to the bed in the center of the flat.
The little control Eve just had over Villanelle vanishes as she feels the backs of her knees hit the bed. Her heart begins to race. Her palms start to sweat. She’s thought about what it would be like to be with Villanelle, in detail at times, but now that she’s here, with Villanelle in front of her, all the moves she’s imagined are nowhere to be found. All Eve can think about is how incredible it feels for Villanelle’s body to be up against hers.
Acting purely on impulse, Eve slips her hands under Villanelle’s tank top, taking her by surprise. Villanelle’s muscles twitch under her touch.
Maybe Eve still has some control.
If not, she takes it, continuing to explore Villanelle’s body, allowing herself the freedom to enjoy this moment, to savor it even. Each experience is new, kissing, touching, the throbbing sensation down between her legs.
But Villanelle groans impatiently, desperately wanting Eve to just hurry up already. As soon as Eve’s fingertips reach the center of her back, Villanelle rips off her tank top in one fluid motion. Wearing nothing underneath, the surprise takes Eve’s breath away.
Villanelle chuckles smugly, tilting her head playfully to the side. “Like what you see?”
Eve doesn’t respond to the banter. Instead, she gently presses her fingers to the scar on Villanelle’s belly. Villanelle’s skin quivers. She draws in a sharp breath. Eve’s touch sends her spinning. Her heart misses a beat. Her head empties of all thoughts. It’s a surreal kind of sensation, almost dream-like, for Eve’s fingers to be tracing the scar she left behind.
How did they end up here?
Then, in a wildly audacious move, Eve takes off her sweater, throwing it on the floor near Villanelle’s tank top. Villanelle’s eyebrows shoot up high on her forehead. She’s clearly amused by Eve’s erratic boldness. But Eve takes it a step further, unclasping her bra—the one time she wears one—eyes never leaving Villanelle’s, and slides the straps off her shoulders, revealing herself to Villanelle. But before she has time to think about what she’s just done, Villanelle pounces on her, sending her stumbling back onto the mattress.
Villanelle unbuttons Eve’s trousers, pulls them down her thighs, yanks them off each foot. Then takes off her own trousers, kicking them off as fast as she can.
Every nerve in Eve’s body tingles with eager anticipation. She scoots higher up the bed, an invitation for Villanelle to join her, which Villanelle surely does.
There’s no going back now.
Everything seems to move faster, even time.
Villanelle climbs on top of Eve, straddles her, pins her, meets her lips in an overeager kiss. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to do this,” she whispers in Eve’s ear.
Eve hauls Villanelle closer. “I think I do.”
With that, Villanelle’s hand slips down between Eve’s legs. A sharp gasp escapes Eve’s throat. She clutches onto Villanelle so tight her nails break skin.
“Are you okay?” Villanelle pauses, her lips just brushing against Eve’s.
Eve nods and gives a breathy affirmatory, “Uh-huh.”
Villanelle grins and kisses Eve again, letting her get used to the feeling of her hand between her legs. She strokes gently with her fingers as Eve squirms beneath her and is about to plunge further when Eve puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Wait!”
Villanelle stops immediately and gives Eve a look of confusion. No one has ever told her to wait before.
Eve flushes, feeling the heat in her cheeks. “It’s just that, I mean, I’ve never done this before,” she stammers.
Villanelle laughs, amused by this more than anything else. “Don’t worry,” she says, gently stroking the backs of her fingers down Eve’s cheek. “I know what I am doing. For you and for myself.”
Eve blinks stupidly. “Well, I don’t, I won’t, I-“
“Eve,” Villanelle purrs with an overly charming smile. “Stop overthinking it.”
Eve swallows and gives a small nod. Villanelle’s thumb continues to trace along her jaw, slipping under her chin.
“Do you want to do this?” Villanelle asks her.
Eve nods more eagerly. “Yes,” she hears herself say, abandoning what’s left of her rational thought.
“Me too.” Villanelle smiles sweetly. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And the color around her pupils has darkened a shade. “So let me do it, okay?”
Eve chews the inside of her lip and turns away from Villanelle. She needs a moment to breathe, a moment to think, but there’s nothing to think about. She knows what she wants, knows what she’s about to do, and with one final jolt of adrenaline sputtering from her heart, she looks back at Villanelle with a keenness in her eyes that seem to have taken on a darker hue too.
“Okay.”
Villanelle grins, at long last, victorious in her pursuits, and lets her hand drift back down between Eve’s legs, finding the sweet spot, and from just a single stroke, Eve sucks in another sharp breath.
-------- [Her – Unloved]
Early on a damp, grey morning, Carolyn drives through the wet streets of London, a woman on a mission. Rain patters softly on the windshield. Carolyn turns the wipers up a notch and checks the rearview mirror. Nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes jump back to the road, then flicker to the driver’s side mirror, spotting quick movement. A black Jaguar F-TYPE pulls away from the curb. It follows behind her at a distance for the next several uncomfortable minutes.
Paul’s burner phone sits on the passenger seat. Carolyn glances at it once, then checks the rearview mirror again, her lips pressed together in a thin line. The Jaguar decides to turn down a side street. Carolyn releases the tension in her shoulders.
Directing her attention back to the road, Carolyn has to hit the brakes abruptly, barely stopping in time for the red light. The phone flies off the seat and onto the floor. Carolyn looks over at it, blinks once, then looks back at the road, waiting for the light to change. The wipers squeak back and forth across the windshield in an annoyingly incessant rhythm.
Squeak, squeak
Squeak, squeak
Squeak, squeak
Carolyn checks the clock on the dashboard for the time. 7:43 a.m. She sits up straighter in her seat, places both hands firmly on the wheel, and takes off as soon as the light turns green.
Sporting a long black coat that comes down past her knees, Carolyn strides through the lot of the Bitter Pill office building, fixing her gaze on the doors, never once allowing it to drift to the spot on the asphalt where Kenny’s body was found, and takes the lift to the fifth floor, arriving to the Bitter Pill office and expecting it to be busy on a weekday morning but finds only Audrey sitting at her desk.
“Where is everyone?” Carolyn asks, glancing around the empty office.
Audrey looks up from her computer. “It’s early?” She shrugs.
“Hm.” Carolyn checks her watch. 8:02 a.m. “According to my watch, I’m late.”
Audrey shrugs again. "Bear usually-“
A loud cough comes from somewhere in Jamie’s dark office. Carolyn and Audrey look over to see Jamie crawling out from under his desk, smoke from his vape swirling around in the air. He stands up, staggering a few steps, then lurches to a halt upon seeing Carolyn Martens standing in the office with an appalled expression on her face. Jamie clears his throat, straightens himself up, then smooths down the front of his wrinkled shirt and bravely steps out of his office.
“Carolyn,” he greets with a forced smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to drop by this morning.”
“Clearly.” Carolyn nods. She glides over to him but the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores causes her to stop a few paces away. “Do you always show up like this? To work?”
“Technically, I never left,” Jamies says with an awkward grin.
“Hm,” Carolyn mutters, staring at him for a second too long. Then: “Well, I’ve something I need your help with. Rather unfortunately.”
Bear leisurely ambles into the office after this exchange. Large headphones cover his ears but the rock music he’s listening to spills out for all to hear. He stops dead in his tracks as soon as he sees Carolyn and glances at Audrey for an explanation.
“What?” is all he can manage to say.
Carolyn looks over her shoulder. “Great. Everyone’s here.”
-------- [Danger – Unloved]
NOT LONDON
Konstantin finds himself in the lobby of an excessively posh hotel. The ceilings are vaulted, the walls are made of floor-to-ceiling windows, and the floors are polished white marble. A grand staircase leads up to a second-floor bar with a balcony overlooking the lobby. To the left of the staircase is the reception counter. And to the right is a fireplace with leather lounge chairs. A small café with an espresso bar and fresh pastries “baked daily” bustles with activity across the lobby. People mill about dressed in tailored suits of black, gray, and navy blue with the occasional boldness of burgundy or khaki. Konstantin stands out against the corporate coolness of the place, looking rather ragged and disheveled. He approaches the receptionist who appears just as sleek as the hotel dressed in a well-fitting blazer.
“Good morning, sir,” she greets with an overly bright tone. “Checking in?”
“Where are the elevators?” Konstantin asks.
The receptionist frowns and points, telling him, “Around the corner. On the right.”
Konstantin nods curtly and walks around the corner to the elevators. Impatiently and repeatedly pressing the up button on the wall, he pushes up the sleeve of his coat to check his watch when a man in a well-crafted suit appears behind him, giving off the impression that he’s very important and his work is also very important, so much so, that he can’t be bothered to take his eyes off his phone screen. Konstantin glances at the man out of the corner of his eyes, careful not to be too obvious about it. If The Twelve have sent someone to follow him, it’s best to act unaware. The greatest chance of escape is by surprise. But even then, the possibility is still extremely unlikely.
Finally, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Two women in designer suits, one Dolce & Gabbana, the other in Yves Saint Laurent, step out and smile politely at Konstantin. He nods at them, then steps into the elevator, hoping the man in the suit doesn’t follow. Of course, he does.
Konstantin presses the button for floor twelve. “Which floor?” he asks Mr. Suit.
“Uh, seven,” Mr. Suit says absently, still staring at his phone, and begins typing out a message rather quickly.
Konstantin presses the button for floor eight, then the doors close. Mr. Suit is so caught up in his texting that he isn’t aware of Konstantin’s blunder. Intentional or accidental?
Blinking sluggishly a few times, Konstantin rubs his tired eyes that are now bloodshot from too many late-night travels and too much cheap whiskey. And the man’s presence certainly isn’t helping his already weakening heart. Fortunately, the elevator is fast. It dings again and the doors open to the eighth floor, but Mr. Suit continues to type on his phone, apparently unaware that they have arrived.
Konstantin stares at him for a second, then gives him a gruff, “Seventh floor.”
Mr. Suit looks up, then over at Konstantin who raises his brow impatiently at him. Mr. Suit scowls and exits the elevator just before the doors close on his heels. Konstantin chuckles to himself at his own little joke, sending Mr. Suit to the eighth floor.
Intentional.
No one else gets on between the eighth and twelfth floors.
Stepping out of the elevator, Konstantin reads the sign on the wall that indicates which directions for which rooms and begins walking to the left down a long corridor with a window at the end looking out to neighboring buildings. “The last room on the left,” he was told. And when he arrives at that room, he knocks on the door, straightening his coat as he waits.
Geraldine is the one to greet him.
“Come in,” she says, waving him in, and hurriedly shuts the door behind Konstantin as soon as he steps inside. The room is unnecessarily large and has the same modern theme as the lobby—dark wood, chrome accents, large windows to let in natural light.
“Twelfth floor?” Konstantin asks, raising his brows quizzically at Geraldine.
“It was the last suite they had.”
Konstantin barks a laugh. Geraldine gives a weak smile.
“Are you alright?” she asks, sounding nervous.
“No,” Konstantin says. And goes straight to the mini-fridge to browse the options. There are small bottles of Jameson, Martell, Jack Daniel’s, and Grey Goose to choose from. Konstantin takes out both the Jack Daniel’s and the Grey Goose, opening the cap of the whiskey with his teeth and gulping it down in one fell swoop. “I need you to retrieve some items for me.”
“Okay.” Geraldine nods, looking more anxious as Konstantin swigs down the vodka and sets the empty bottle down next to the whiskey. “Should you really be drinking right now?” she asks.
“No.”
Geraldine frowns, fidgeting with her fingers down by her waist. “What is it that you need me to get?”
Konstantin doesn’t answer the question, but instead fishes out the black plastic bag containing the set of Russian dolls from his coat and unveils the figurines to Geraldine who can only laugh.
“What?” She gives him a funny look. “Why do you have those?”
“There is a barcode on the bottom of each doll,” Konstantin explains.
“Okay?”
“You have to put them in order, biggest doll to smallest doll. That is how you get the complete code. Which you will need.”
“Okay,” Geraldine draws out the word, nodding slowly. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“The code opens a safety deposit box,” Konstantin goes on. “Inside it, there are very important items. That I need. Soon.” He digs out a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and gives it to her. “This has the address. When you get there, ask for Smithe. With an E,” Konstantin emphasizes, holding up his index finger.
“So, you want me to go get them then?” Geraldine asks slowly, reading the address on the paper. It’s halfway across England.
“Yes.” Konstantin nods. Then adds, as an afterthought, “Please.”
Geraldine frowns, seeming rather slighted by this task.
“I would go,” Konstantin says. “But my heart”—he clutches his chest for dramatic effect—"cannot handle the stress.”
Geraldine looks at him for a second, then back down at the paper, toying with the corner for a minute. “Fine." She agrees. "I’ll go.” Konstantin starts to smile. “But only if you tell me what happened last night.”
Konstantin grimaces, looking rather displeased by her bargain. He scratches his chin. Then: “Paul is dead.” No point in lying.
“What?” Geraldine gasps.
“Yeah, I know.” Konstantin chuckles. “I was surprised by it too.” He wanders around the room as if hoping to avoid further questions that way.
“Did you kill him?” Geraldine immediately inquires.
Konstantin erupts with a guffaw. Then suddenly becomes very serious, shaking his head. “No.”
Geraldine opens her mouth to ask a follow-up, then pauses, apparently deciding it’s best not to press Konstantin for details right now. She doesn’t follow him into the room either but watches him saunter over to the window and look out into the cloudy sky.
“He was not good at his job,” Konstantin observes. Then adds, “Carolyn knew about his involvement with The Twelve. It was only a matter of time.”
This seems to trouble Geraldine. She rubs the back of her neck and stares down at the hardwood floor between her feet. “Will there be a memorial service?”
Konstantin lets out a short, booming laugh. "That is really what you are thinking about?”
Geraldine shoots him a dark look. “I’m thinking about how many members of MI6 will be in a room together.”
--------
LONDON
At the Bitter Pill, Carolyn stands in front of Jamie, Bear, and Audrey, looking somewhat disappointed by the fact that she has to ask this disjointed trio for help, particularly so because Bear is loudly munching on a bowl of cereal, completely oblivious to the seriousness of the room.
Jamie shoots him a sharp, reprimanding look. “Aye, we’re in a meeting.”
“But I’m hungry,” Bear whines, taking another heaping bite. Audrey hides her face in her hand, embarrassed by Bear’s impolite behavior. But Bear takes another bite, munch munch munching away until he realizes that all eyes are on him. Then he chews very slowly, each crunchy bite loud enough for all to hear, and after receiving another scowl from Jamie, sets the bowl on his desk and swallows down the Coco Pops, muttering, “Sorry.”
Jamie sighs tiredly, rubbing his temples. “What’ve you got for us to help you with?” he asks Carolyn.
Carolyn debates whether to leave right then and there, but decides against her better judgement to stay. “As you know, after working with Eve, there’s an organization called The Twelve that has infiltrated governments and org-”
“Organizations all over the world,” Jamie finishes for her. “Yeah, we know.”
“Right.”
“They kill people,” Bear blurts nervously.
“Yes.” Carolyn nods, once more doubting her decision to come to them for help. “They have several assassins working for them and have to power to order hits on anyone they wish to be dead.”
“We’ve met one of them,” Bear blurts again. Carolyn’s look of total impatience makes him shrink in his seat.
“Villanelle,” Jamie explains. “She was here yesterday. Looking for Eve.”
“Right after you left,” Audrey adds quietly.
“Of course, she was,” Carolyn mutters, piecing together the timeline. An uncomfortable silence settles around the room.
“So what do you need from us then?” Audrey asks.
Carolyn stares at her, unsure of what her role will be in this process. Then she takes out Paul’s burner phone. Audrey, Bear, and Jamie all look at it with large, round eyes as if it were a loaded gun and not simply a mobile phone.
“This has come into my possession recently,” Carolyn says. “It belonged to a member of The Twelve and I’m almost certain it contains highly sensitive information that could be used against them.”
“And?” Jamie asks.
“I need your help accessing the data on it.”
“Is it encrypted?” Audrey asks.
“Well, I can’t seem to get it to turn on,” Carolyn admits reluctantly.
“Have you tried charging it?” Bear asks innocently.
Audrey and Jamie shoot him disapproving looks. He shrinks further.
"Um," Audrey speaks up. “Kenny showed me a program he coded that’s able to hack into phones and computers. Even servers if you have enough time. We could try that?”
Carolyn’s posture softens slightly at the mention of Kenny’s name though her face is still hardened with determination. “Right.” She flips the phone over in her hand, considering for the final time whether to get the Bitter Pill team involved, whether it’s worth the risk of them also having access to this information, whatever it may be. “How long will that take?”
“Don’t know." Audrey shrugs.
“We won’t know 'til we crack the thing, see how much data there is to pull out,” Jamie adds.
“Will we be in danger?" Bear asks slowly. "Looking into it?”
“If you’ve been working with Eve,” Carolyn says, “then you already are.”
--------
Late morning sun pours in through the windows, brightening Villanelle’s flat. Eve and Villanelle are sprawled out in bed fast asleep, exhausting themselves sometime around three in the morning. Eve lies on her back with her limbs stretched out every which way while Villanelle is curled up on her side with one arm under the pillow and the other reaching out for Eve. The comforter is hanging off the foot of the bed, the majority of the pillows have also fallen off, and the top sheet is twisted around one of Villanelle’s bare legs.
Rousing from her dreamless slumber, Eve stretches and yawns, groaning lightly as she exhales. It wakes Villanelle who stirs and grins softly upon feeling Eve beside her. Eve gazes at a sleeping Villanelle for a moment longer, noting how much younger she looks with all the muscles of her face relaxed and her blonde hair messily ruffled. Scooting closer, Eve brushes a few loose hairs behind Villanelle’s ear and gently strokes her cheek, feeling the sudden desire to kiss her.
Villanelle smiles dreamily to one side, then jerks her head towards Eve’s hand, snapping her teeth and pretending to bite. Eve pulls her hand away just in the nick of time, scrunching her brow at Villanelle. Grinning, Villanelle opens her eyes to see the look on Eve’s face—confused and irritated—and snuggles up against her as if nothing strange just happened.
“Good morning,” she mutters softly, burrowing her way onto Eve’s chest.
“Oh.”
Eve makes way for Villanelle, not that she has any other option, and stays utterly still as Villanelle wraps her long limbs around her, ensnaring her like a twisting, creeping vine of ivy. Staring up at the ceiling, Eve begins running her fingers through Villanelle’s tangled hair in an absentminded manner. Her wedding ring is still on her finger which Eve notices but chooses not to think about. Instead, the events from the previous night flicker in Eve’s mind like images from an old black and white movie: Bridgeway Bets, Bruce, the Russian dolls, Paul’s house, Villanelle, Carolyn, Konstantin; then the gunshot, the bridge, the moon, the Thames, and Villanelle. All of Villanelle.
Eve’s face is soft at first as she relives her and Villanelle’s first time together—lustful and erotic; yet awkward and uncoordinated—then the crease between her brows deepens as she considers their current situation.
“How long can we stay here?” she asks.
Villanelle shrugs a shoulder. “A few days maybe.”
“And then what?”
“We go to the next place.” Villanelle says it so simply.
Eve’s fingers stop mid-brush. It’s not that simple to her. “Where?” she asks.
Villanelle nuzzles into Eve, encouraging her to continue. After a few more forceful nuzzles, Eve does.
“Wherever we want,” Villanelle says, making it sound like a grand romantic gesture.
Eve stops again. “You really think we can just go anywhere?”
Villanelle scowls. Then she sits up on her elbow, giving Eve a warm, reassuring smile. It’s feigned. Eve can tell.
“We are safe here,” Villanelle tells Eve in a soft, soothing tone. It's almost convincing but she can sense that Eve doesn’t believe her, so she tries a different tactic, sliding her hand over Eve’s chest and up around her neck. Eve’s pulse beats faster under her fingers. “I will keep us safe," Villanelle assures her. "You don’t have to worry.”
“I always worry,” Eve says, ignoring where Villanelle’s hand is currently and looking directly into her eyes instead. “I worry about you, worry you’ll get hurt or caught and I won’t be able to help you, won’t know if you’re alive or dead. I worry about you getting killed by The Twelve, or MI6, or some other organization because you’ve done something stupid and reckless. And I worry about what you’re feeling"—she smiles, caressing Villanelle’s cheek—"even though it is so hard to tell.”
Villanelle’s face softens but her eyes become distant, looking through Eve more than at her. “We are together now, Eve,” she says. “We don’t have to chase after each other anymore.”
“But I liked that part,” Eve admits quietly.
Villanelle chuckles. “Me too.” She smirks and bites her lower lip, ready to pounce again. Lust swirls in her eyes, luring Eve in. “But I like this too.”
“We can run from The Twelve together,” Eve says, petting Villanelle’s cheek.
“We will chase them,” Villanelle tells Eve who really wants to believe her. Then her smirk widens and she dives down between Eve’s legs. “I’m going to go down on you now, okay?”
--------
SCOTLAND
A doctor wearing a starched white coat strides down the corridor of Albyn Hospital. Her heels click-clack with each step, a sound that seems out of place in the intensive care unit, her hair is neatly tied back, and she’s got a patient chart tucked under her arm. For all intents and purposes, the woman looks as though she is a doctor, but there’s something off about her, and the nurses and technicians she passes in the corridor all seem to notice. One nurse in blue scrubs offers a thin, polite smile, but the woman doesn’t acknowledge her. She keeps her gaze coolly fixed ahead, arriving at the room where Dasha Duzran is being treated for severe head and abdominal injuries, and steps inside, closing and locking the door behind her. Then she drops the chart on the chair next to the bed and drops the charade too.
“You look terrible,” says Hélène, the woman in the white coat. She glares down at Dasha with a cold sheen in her eyes.
If it wasn’t for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, one might mistake Dasha for being dead. Her eyes are shut, her head is wrapped with white bandages, and the bruises around her eye and along her jaw are a painful shade of deep purple. Her condition worsens by the hour, taking a sharp decline after Konstantin antagonized her.
“Where am I?” she asks hoarsely, grimacing.
“Russia,” Hélène lies, tilting her head as she stares at Dasha. A haughty sneer never leaves her face.
Dasha peels her eyes open, sluggishly meeting Hélène’s cruel gaze. “We are not in Russia,” she spits.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Why should I believe you, huh? You give Villanelle a job and she takes me with her, then I end up here.”
“Hm." Hélène laughs lightly. "You are the best, Dasha. Surely, I figured you could manage Villanelle.”
“She needs discipline, punishment. Polastri has undone everything I did. All my hard work.” Dasha sneers, then winces. Her heart rate monitor speeds up. “I created Villanelle,” she goes on in a raspy voice, “I instilled power in her, train her to be great assassin. Perfect kills. But she doesn’t listen. Polastri is always in her head.”
“I thought that if I put the best with the best, I’d have an unstoppable force," Hélène says, eying the IV line in the back of Dasha's hand. "Instead, I end up with a disaster.”
“She wanted to be a keeper and you make her keeper but nothing changes. You expect her not to act out? She is like a child,” Dasha spits. It’s followed by a ragged cough that shakes her entire frail body.
“I expected you to handle it,” Hélène says curtly. “To handle her.” She takes a step closer to the bed, glaring with a merciless and unforgiving kind of expression on her face. “Your work for us is done, Dasha. But you are in Russia now, so you won, no? You got what you wanted.”
A wicked smile spreads across Hélène’s face as she retrieves a small vial from her pocket. The clear liquid inside gives no indication of what it might be but Dasha seems to know what’s coming. Her heart rate monitor accelerates rapidly as Hélène unscrews the IV line in her hand. Leaving the needle stuck in place with the port accessible, Hélène begins to screw the vial into place.
“Can you hear the people chanting?” she taunts. “Dasha, Dasha…”
Dasha’s eyes widen with fear. She tries to pull her hand away before Hélène gives the vial a final fateful turn but it’s too late.
“Dasha, Dasha…” Hélène goes on.
Dasha’s body convulses violently in all directions. She gasps for air as the toxins travel through her veins.
“Dasha, Dasha…” Hélène continues, slowly backing away from the bed and watching with malevolent glee as Dasha chokes and shudders. “Dasha, Dasha…”
Dasha glares at Hélène with pure hatred that turns to rage that melts to agony then to terror. Her monitors beep wildly out of control, going faster and faster, her heart rate jumping up by tens, until suddenly, it plummets and the even tone of death takes its place.
Hélène scoffs a laugh. “And you never will.”
[Laisse Tomber Les Filles – France Gall]
Shutting off the monitor to prevent the nurses from rushing in for a code blue, Hélène then unscrews the vial, replaces the IV line, and pulls out her phone, dialing an unsaved number. “C'est fait,” she says, then hangs up.
Once again becoming the austere doctor, Hélène picks up Dasha’s chart from the chair, fixes her face, and exits her room, closing the door gently behind her. As she places the chart in the holder on the door, the smiling nurse from before approaches, looking at her curiously as if waiting for a report. Hélène smiles, but it’s discernably insincere.
“She’s resting,” she says, concealing her French accent behind a Scottish inflection. “Do not wake her.”
The nurse nods warily, watching Hélène stride away down the hall, the clicks of her heels reverberating around the corridor once more.
A small grin flashes across Hélène’s face. She pulls her hair free from the ponytail and shakes it out as she exits the large sliding glass doors of the hospital. With impeccable timing, a black Aston Martin arrives just as Hélène steps out to the curb. Hélène removes the white coat, rounding the car to the passenger door. The driver, a woman with long brown hair, angular features, and dark eyes that are as sharp as razors and can cut through a person all the same, drums her black polished nails on the steering wheel. She’s the type of person one wouldn’t want to find themselves alone with in a poorly lit back alley. But she flashes a smug, conspiratorial smile at Hélène as if they’re quite good friends and maybe even something more. Their eyes hang on one another for a second too long before the woman asks:
“Comment vous sentiez-vous?”
Hélène’s smirk vanishes. “Conduire.”
--------
NOT LONDON
After nearly eight hours, Geraldine arrives back at the hotel. Konstantin opens the door for her before she even has a chance to knock, getting right down to business.
“Do you have everything?”
“Yes, of course.” Geraldine nods, having to squeeze past him to get into the room. She fetches a folded envelope from her purse.
Konstantin eyes the envelope skeptically. “That is all of it?”
“The important stuff," Geraldine says. "Passports, account numbers.”
Konstantin stares at the envelope, gesturing impatiently for it. Geraldine quickly hands it over.
“I don’t know why you thought you needed toothpaste, deodorant, and Paracetamol,” Geraldine says with a laugh.
“The original plan was very different.”
Konstantin peers inside the crumpled envelope and fishes out two passports. He flips the first one open to a headshot of Irina though there’s a different name next to it: Silvestrova Lydia Maximovna. The side of his mouth pulls into a grin. Then he opens the second, barking a laugh at his own grumpy photograph. Silvestrov Maxim Yakovich will be his new identity. Turning a few pages, he comes across a small slip of paper with a series of digits scribbled on it. Two more passports with different colored covers remain in the envelope but Konstantin doesn’t open either. He nods, satisfied with what Geraldine has brought him, and puts everything back, neatly folding up the envelope and stuffing it into his coat pocket.
Geraldine eyes him apprehensively, tugging at the hems of her sleeves. “When are you leaving?” she ventures.
Konstantin scratches the back of his head where his hair is starting to thin more and more, then gives her a weak smile. “Soon.”
“Do you have tickets yet?”
“No.”
“Do you need any help with getting them?” Geraldine asks. “I could-“
“No," Konstantin interrupts her, wandering to the mini-fridge. He opens it, looks around for a second, then throws the small door shut. “I just need to decide when I am going to get Irina.”
--------
MOSCOW
The corridors of the juvenile psychiatric detention center are an unsettling kind of quiet. The fluorescent lights hanging overhead hum softly and dim the halls in a sickly yellow haze.
[Sigh – Unloved]
Pavel, a male orderly who works night shifts at the detention center, slithers out of a patient’s room, adjusting the waistband of his cotton trousers. He glances over his shoulder as if to check that no one else is around. And the smug expression on his face suggests he’s pleased with himself for something that he ought to be ashamed of. With the corridors empty, Pavel strolls along at a leisurely pace, a devilish smile on his face now, and begins whistling a tune that cuts through the silence, when down the way, Irina pokes her head around the corner, just enough for him to notice.
“Privet!” she shouts and waves with a laugh.
Pavel growls and starts down the hall after her. “Idi syuda!”
But Irina slips around the corner, laughing and grinning from ear to ear. She walks backwards on her tiptoes, waiting for him to turn the corner. His heavy footsteps thunder closer and closer, then he flies around the turn, cursing and scowling.
“You are not allowed to be out of your room right now,” he hisses in Russian.
“You are not allowed to be in our rooms, but that doesn’t stop you,” Irina retorts back in Russian. She smirks at him, looking quite approving of herself, then turns and runs down the corridor as fast as she can.
Pavel follows after her, stomping and seething. This is not the first time this patient has deliberately broken the rules.
Well ahead of him, Irina slips into the storage closet at the end of the corridor, leaving the door open just a crack. Pavel pauses and checks over his shoulder again, licking his teeth, then follows her inside, closing the door behind him. The devilish smile creeps back onto his face. Irina beams at him but not for the reason he might be thinking. She’s happy that she’s just successfully lured her prey.
“Are you upset that I didn’t come into your room?” Pavel asks, drawing nearer as he eyes her up and down with a lecherous gaze.
Slowly, imperceptibly, Irina slides a plastic shank out of the sleeve of her sweatshirt and into her hand. Pavel stalks closer, lips curled over crooked teeth, and forces her into the corner, trapping her there, but Irina doesn’t step back. She holds her ground, smirking at him now. Pavel lets out a gravelly chuckle, close enough to grab her, but Irina lunges at him first, stabbing him rapidly and repeatedly in a sudden frenzy. Blood splatters all over the closet.
Caught completely by surprise, Pavel doesn’t even get the chance to fight back. He lets out raspy wheezes as his legs start to give way beneath him but Irina doesn’t let up. No, not yet. She drives the shank into him again and again and again, spraying blood everywhere until her arms tire and her hands are too wet to hold her grip. Pavel grabs onto the metal shelf beside him, clinging to it for dear life, gurgling and gasping his final breaths as he stares at Irina with a pleading expression.
Sorry, too late to repent, Pavel.
After a final miserable, croak, Pavel slumps down to the floor in an awkward heap. Blood pools around him, forming a shallow puddle.
Irina watches the life disappear from Pavel’s eyes, watches as it changes from terror to desperation to chilling emptiness. And while life has faded from Pavel’s eyes, Irina’s are bright from the thrilling rush of the kill. She giggles to herself, louder than she should for this time of night, and drops the shank to the floor without care.
Wiping the blood from her hands on a small rag, Irina watches as it smears across her skin, leaving large steaks behind, but this only serves to fascinate her. Having hidden a new sweatsuit in the closet a few days ago after deciding that she wanted to kill Pavel, Irina changes into it now and carefully navigates around the expanding puddle to the door.
“Fucking pervert,” Irina spits in Icelandic.
Then she sneaks out of the closet and slinks back to her room, leaving not a trace nor a sound.
--------
LONDON
Lights from nearby buildings shine like golden flecks in the black night outside Villanelle's flat. Growing bored and restless as the day went on, Eve now paces around in the kitchen with a glass of red wine in hand. Her curls are in a messy bun and she’s wearing a pair of Villanelle’s silk pajamas along with a stony look of determination that never seems to leave her face when she’s in work mode. Right now, Eve’s coming up with a plan for what to do next because no matter what Villanelle tells her, they can’t stay here and they can’t run forever.
Where can she and Villanelle go? How long can they stay in London? Should they leave tonight?
And where is Carolyn? And Konstantin?
How can I get more intel on The Twelve? Eve asks herself endlessly until the words start to lose their meaning.
As Eve walks circles around the kitchen, her brain asking more questions than it can possibly answer, Villanelle comes up the stairs holding a large paper sack.
“You are doing it again,” Villanelle comments.
Eve stops and looks over. “What?”
“Overthinking,” Villanelle says, raising her brows in an intrigued kind of way.
Eve scowls and takes a sip of wine then starts up her pacing again. Villanelle smiles at Eve’s stubbornness—she’ll find a way to wear her down—and sets the bag on the dining table, taking out boxes of takeaway.
“Come. Eat,” she says, beckoning Eve over.
Eve waves her off with a: “I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.”
Eve stops pacing, giving herself a second to notice any hunger. Her stomach growls at her immediately, demanding dinner. Eve grumbles, grudgingly muttering, “You’re right.” Then she sits at the table, bringing the bottle of wine with her.
Villanelle smiles warmly at Eve, nodding at her to go ahead and start.
“What’d you get?” Eve asks, opening the box on the table in front of her. Her face twists into a scowl. It’s spaghetti. "Oh." She scoffs. “This is what you ordered?”
“What?” Villanelle shrugs. “I thought you liked it.”
“It doesn’t—I don’t know—remind you of Rome?”
“Why because spaghetti is from Italy?” Villanelle mocks, grinning.
“You know why.” Eve scowls sharply.
Villanelle scrunches her face at Eve, dismissing Eve’s anger. “Eve, it was a joke.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Are you still upset about that?” Villanelle asks flippantly, slurping up her spaghetti.
Eve glares irritably. Her shoulder begins to ache, reminding her of what happened in Rome whether she likes it or not.
“You stabbed me first you know,” Villanelle points out, smirking to one side.
“You almost killed me,” Eve counters.
“I didn’t.”
“You wanted to.”
Villanelle draws in a breath, leaning back in her chair and eyeing Eve carefully through narrowed eyes, measuring her response. “Eve, I was very depressed. You had just left me.”
“I killed a man,” Eve erupts in a strangled growl.
“I know.” Villanelle nods, her eyes lighting up a little. “I watched you do it.”
“You could have killed him, you could have shot him, but instead you made me”—Eve waves her hands in front of her, searching for proper phrasing when there is none—"chop him with an ax.”
Villanelle ignores this, going in a completely different direction. “Why did you stab me, Eve? Because you were angry?”
“Yes,” Eve snaps.
“Really?” Villanelle challenges Eve, brows high up on her forehead. “Or was it something else?” She slurps up more pasta, smirking at Eve as Bolognese sauce drips down her chin.
Eve’s face remains fixed in a blank yet furious scowl. She doesn’t give Villanelle the satisfaction.
[Tell Mama – Unloved]
“What happened to you?” Eve asks flatly.
Villanelle’s brow furrows. Her neck twitches. Eve makes a tiny crack in her façade.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Villanelle mutters, keeping her gaze down on her dinner.
Eve leans across the table, glaring at Villanelle with an unrelenting focus that would surely penetrate through Villanelle if Eve was at it for long enough. But Eve is not a patient woman. “Tell me,” she demands. Then adds, bitterly, “Oksana.”
Villanelle flinches at the sound of her name. She glances up from her pasta, meeting Eve’s dangerously dark gaze with a look that is just as threatening.
“Okay.” She drops her fork. “Fine.” Villanelle sits back in her chair, wiping her hands on her napkin as if she’s in no hurry. Then: “I killed someone.”
Eve’s face falls a little. “Who?”
Villanelle sucks in her breath, wincing funnily. “Another assassin for The Twelve.” She blows the air between her lips, shaking her head and flashing her eyes as if even she can’t believe she did it.
Eve slowly falls back in her seat, furrowing her brow. “When?”
Villanelle cringes. “Last night.”
“Last night?" Eve retorts. "And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“What?" Villanelle shrugs. "I just did.”
Eve stands up with such sudden force that it shakes the entire table, sloshing wine over the rim of her glass. She turns her back to Villanelle to stare out the window—maybe she’ll find answers out there—and runs her hand through her curls, pulling them loose from her bun.
Villanelle remains seated, studying Eve with exquisite detail—her body, her posture, her demeanor, the tension in her shoulders, the vein starting to stand out in her neck. Then her eyes find the scar on Eve’s back, about five inches in length, running along the edge of Eve’s shoulder blade. That shot really should have killed Eve, Villanelle thinks to herself.
Eve seems to sense Villanelle’s gaze on her and squeezes her shoulder blades together, letting her curls fall to cover her scar. Then she turns around, scowling more fiercely than before, indignantly too. “How can you tell me we’re safe when you just killed one of The Twelve’s assassins?”
Villanelle’s eyes darken. “Don’t yell at me, Eve.”
But Eve ignores the warning, stalking over to the table and glaring down at Villanelle with bitter coldness, sneering even. “Or what, Villanelle?” she taunts. “You’ll kill me?” She snorts a derisive laugh, smiling in a way that lacks affection. “We both know you won’t do that.”
Villanelle fixes her gaze on the bottle of wine, deliberately choosing not to look at Eve, as her fingers secretly crawl over to her fork. Thoughts of stabbing the prongs into Eve’s neck tempt Villanelle deliciously. It would be so easy. Messy, yes, but then it would be over. And Eve wouldn’t be looking at her that way anymore. Wrapping her fingers around the handle on the fork, Villanelle brings herself to look at Eve again, a hint of malice in her dark eyes. Her knuckles start to turn white from her grip. Then, in the blink of an eye, Villanelle grabs the wine bottle and throws it against the wall instead, smashing it to pieces and splashing wine onto them both. Eve turns her head away sharply, astounded by the velocity of the throw.
Villanelle, still grasping the fork, stares blankly at Eve’s spaghetti as red wine drips down the wall and forms a puddle on the floor, surprised by her reaction, but perhaps more surprised she didn’t do anything further.
But in the wake of Villanelle’s outburst, Eve can feel herself gaining power and she takes the control Villanelle’s just lost. Fear fades away. Steely confidence takes its place. “We’re together now, Villanelle,” Eve says in a cold, empty tone. “We have to tell each other the truth.”
Villanelle’s jaw tightens. Again, she refuses to meet Eve’s eyes. Sitting as still as a statue, it’s only her thumb that moves, tracing over the prongs of her fork again and again until Villanelle can no longer feel the points. Then she flicks her eyes up at Eve from beneath her brow. It’s unnerving how quickly Villanelle shifts from playful to predator but Eve doesn’t falter. She sits down at the table again, calm and in control.
“Who is Hélène?” Eve asks. She knows she’s pushing her luck now but quite frankly doesn’t care.
Villanelle glares at Eve, actively trying very hard not to wring her neck for bringing up Hélène during their dinner, but her face gives no hints as to how she’s feeling or what she’s thinking or if she’s even feeling or thinking anything at all. She doesn’t respond for so long that Eve is about to ask again. Then:
“A French woman with a really big nose,” Villanelle finally says, sniffing and shifting back to playful. She holds her fork properly in her hand but doesn’t eat.
“She works for The Twelve?” Eve asks.
“She is The Twelve.”
Eve slumps in her seat.
Oh Jesus.
But Villanelle has moved on from the topic and the tension between her and Eve and is now twirling pasta onto her fork again as if nothing just happened.
“Does she know you killed one of her assassins?” Eve asks.
“Probably by now, yes.” Villanelle nods.
“Do you think she’ll come after you?” Eve asks, looking troubled by Villanelle’s dismissive attitude.
“No.” Villanelle shakes her head. “She likes me," she adds, sounding proud.
Eve scoffs, throwing up her hands in defeat. “So what do you suggest we do then?”
Villanelle chuckles and takes another heaping bite of her pasta. “Eat. Have more sex. See what happens tomorrow,” she says, shooting an impish smirk at Eve.
Eve looks down at her spaghetti helplessly.
--------
Arriving home after dinner time, Carolyn strides through her front door only to stop abruptly in the entryway from the sound coming from the kitchen—an even rhythmic slicing of some sort. Wary, Carolyn makes her way to the kitchen, guessing who it might be and what it is that’s being sliced, and turns the corner to find Geraldine standing at the counter peeling potatoes with a paring knife. Rather carelessly, Carolyn observes.
“Geraldine.” Carolyn’s shoulders fall with obvious disappointment. “What are you still doing here?”
Geraldine looks up from the potatoes, appearing more surprised by the question than her mother coming home so late. “I’m making us dinner,” she says, her voice rising at the end, making her sound unsure of herself.
“I told you to leave,” Caorlyn reminds her. “Was I not clear?”
But Geraldine doesn’t stop peeling the potatoes, so Carolyn glides around her to the bottle of Botanist London dry gin on the counter and pours herself a good amount, then tosses it back with finesse. Pouring herself a second drink, Carolyn stares at Geraldine with an unwelcoming kind of gaze as if expecting her to set down the potato and walk out the front door. After a long minute of this, Geraldine eventually yields, sighing and setting down the potato, but she elects to keep the knife in her hand.
“I’m not leaving, Mum,” Geraldine says earnestly.
“Geraldine, this is not a debate. It’s simply a one-sided statement which is, ‘Please leave.’”
“No.” Geraldine shakes her head. “I won’t.”
“I’ve had a rather long day and I really don’t want to have to raise my voice,” Carolyn says tiredly, taking another sip of gin.
Geraldine doesn’t move. “You’re not safe, mum,” she continues. “Whatever is going on, I can tell it’s dangerous. People are dying.”
“People are not dying because it’s dangerous,” Carolyn says forcefully. “They’re dying because they made a choice but couldn’t stand fully behind it.”
“Mum-“
“You’ve no idea what dangerous can really be, Geraldine. You spend all your time here, making stews and doing yoga, and then you compromise my intelligence by allowing yourself to be manipulated by the other side.”
Geraldine slams the knife onto the counter. “Did you really just say that?”
“Yes." Carolyn nods. "Because it had to be said. Familiarity breeds contempt, Geraldine. You’re not happy here, I’m not happy with you here. So I suggest—no demand rather—that you be gone by the morning.”
“But, Mum-“
“For God’s sake, I will not say it again.” Carolyn glares, unwilling to compromise in the slightest.
Geraldine looks as if she’s about to cry, but swallows down the tears, not wanting to give Carolyn another reason to throw her out of the house. Then: “Fine.” She sniffs. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” Carolyn nods.
Geraldine bites down on her lip and storms out of the kitchen, leaving dinner behind. She turns around sharply in the doorway, scowling at her mother to say, "You’ve already lost one child. And now you’re losing the other.”
Carolyn doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Geraldine scoffs and shakes her head at the reaction, or lack thereof, and disappears upstairs.
Half-peeled potatoes sit on the cutting board, carrots and onions remain unchopped in their bags, a pot of water boils on the stove. Carolyn takes a slow, deep breath, then tosses back the rest of her gin, eyes landing on the blade of the paring knife.
--------
NOT LONDON
Konstantin sits on the couch in his hotel room, absently watching images flicker on the television screen in front of him. He cracks open a mini bottle of Grey Goose and takes a swig, pausing to grimace at the taste, then finishes it off with another gulp when his phone rings on the coffee table. It’s an unsaved number with a +7 country code.
Russian.
Konstantin doesn’t answer, electing to silence it, but something tells him to pick up at the last second.
“Hello?” he says.
An automated response starts in Russian. “Do you accept this call from Federal State Juvenile Institution of the Office of the Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia in the City of Moscow?”
Konstantin frowns. “Da.”
“Papa!”
[Xpectations - Unloved]