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Eve and Villanelle live together. Eve and Villanelle lived. This is a secret best kept in the quiet of the country — where the facade of peace quiets the existence of violence, and the country is where Eve and Villanelle live. Peacefully, with all of their violence. Nobody knows about this part.
It wasn't their first choice.
Camper van re-stolen. Camper van driven across the expanse of Great Britain. Camper van parked in different state parks. It had been reported stolen. They would deal with that later. Later, when they weren't forced to seal their gunshot wounds in fluorescent bathrooms, when they were no longer bleeding on each other, when the euphoria of surviving faded and the tranquility of togetherness set in; no, the tranquility of afforded time. No.
Not afforded time.
Taken time.
The tranquility of time. Time that was attempted to be stolen. Time that was taken back.
Time being taken back looks like sex all wrong. Sex all wrong looks like the clumsiness forced onto bodies by the lack of space of a camper van. Sex all wrong looks like elbows tucked, knees connecting with groin, more Ouch! Fuck than Yes, baby, more. More Ouch but still Yes, baby. Both.
Always both.
Sex all wrong looks like toothy smiles, unsexy, too delighted to assume dominance for too long, too eager to commit to any specific role. Switching. Begging. Accidentally giving when meaning to withhold. Sex all wrong looks like Eve smiling at Villanelle, Eve's lips wet with Villanelle's spit, Villanelle's hair tangled too tight under Eve's unforgiving fingers. Sex all wrong looks like no forgiveness. No need for it.
Sex all wrong looks like licking each other's wounds. Never saying sorry. Never needing to.
Time being taken back looks like figuring it out. Re-stolen camper van discarded. A collapsing cottage paid for in cash on an unutilized farm in Inverness. No questions asked. The man was Russian. They got lucky. Time taken back looks like a withered man named Nikolay, smoker's smile, lips cracked with a smile full of nostalgia for the homeland, one question after all, asking Villanelle: You're not gonna cause me any trouble, right?
Time being taken back looks like Eve waiting for Villanelle to translate. Villanelle not doing it. Villanelle smiling back: No. No, no trouble.
Time being taken back looks like a small cottage, moldy air, creaking wood, Villanelle grabbing Eve by her waist, kissing her without regard for clean oxygen, fucking her on the floor of a place that will never be their home. Time being taken back looks like never having a home, so, always having a home. Time being taken back looks like they should leave the country, go farther, faster, disappear. And if they were scared, they would.
Time being taken back looks like never being scared.
Time being taken back looks like figuring it out. No steps to follow. No certainty for what comes next. Not caring. Figuring it out. Queer.
Time being taken back looks like we need money, first.
Villanelle hates not having money.
Eve hates having nothing to do.
They fix this.
Villanelle takes a job doing farm work for one of Nikolay's friends. Eve spends her time robbing stores. Unfurnished cottage becomes a mix-match of souvenirs. Shitty old box TV. Staticky image. VHS tapes. Lots of boxed mac and cheese. Nothing bought with the intention to become permanent.
This isn't permanent. This is a staticky image.
The in-between. Trying to figure out how they'll assume new static. New identities.
Eve steals all sorts of things. Villanelle always waits for her to come. When Villanelle is hunched over a hot pot, cheeks stuffed with al-dente noodles and powdered cheese, Eve comes home holding a box of Loreal Paris Dark Brown hair dye. Villanelle eyes the box. Eyes her. Swallows.
"No, Eve. Absolutely not."
Eve squints, "What do you mean? You have to."
"I am not a brunette.
"Villanelle, I've literally seen you as a brunette."
"Wigs. Those are wigs."
"Who cares?"
"Me. No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Villanelle."
Villanelle sets her fork down. Crosses her arms over her chest.
The room is bloodied with sunset. Eve looks like a vision in the orange hues. Clothes wrinkled, hair messy. Villanelle's heart stings. She sighs.
"Fine. But you do not get to argue when I become un-fun."
"What are you talking about?"
"Brunettes have less fun, Eve."
"I'm brunette."
"I know."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you."
Eve smiles.
Crosses the bloodied sunset mirage that cloaks the room.
Crosses it to steal a taste.
They kiss. It doesn't taste romantic. Tastes like artificial cheese and cigarettes that Eve pretends she's gonna quit smoking.
In the bathroom, Villanelle becomes a brunette.
Eve sits her on the toilet and dyes her hair all wrong. Doesn't work in sections. Just spurts and slathers. Villanelle reprimands.
"I've never fucking done this before! Why don't you do it, then?"
And Villanelle should. She's done it many times. She's a natural brunette, you know. People forget this. But when Eve's gloved fingers fall away, Villanelle loops a hand around her wrist. Presses her gloved palm back to her stinging scalp. Eve kneads with un-gentle fingers.
Villanelle smiles.
That's why, Eve.
When Villanelle gets out of the shower, the air is all steam and chemical. It takes her a moment to focus.
Eve stands in front of the mirror, kitchen scissors in hand. It takes her a moment.
Only a moment.
"Eve!" Villanelle grips the towel around her chest, takes squeaky wet-tile steps to close the distance. Catches Eve's wrist. Wide eyes on the scissors.
Shouts, accidentally,"No."
Whispers, cooly. "No."
Eve squints at her in the mirror. They make eye contact in the reflection. Eve with furrowed brows. Mouth irritated. Villanelle with wide eyes. Mouth desperate.
"Are you serious?" Eve scoffs, looks back to the scissors. "I have to."
"No."
"Quit with the puppy-dog shit. You're being ridiculous."
"You're being ridiculous! Do not do it."
Eve gives her a look of disbelief.
"I'm going to do it. You can sulk or watch. Your choice."
And Villanelle does both, because it's always both, when she sits on the toilet lid. The room is full of steam and chemical when Eve lifts the scissors level with her collarbone. She watches Villanelle from the corner of her eye when she makes the first snip. Snip. There it goes.
Villanelle watches as a lock of brown curly hair falls to the tile. She stares at it for a long time. Wide-eyed, and legs dripping water onto the tile. Snip. There it goes, again. Eve is relentless. Vicous. No time for recovery. Just. Snip. Again! Villanelle swallows thick. Eve snips.
And when Eve begins to cut her hair a little too quickly, and Villanelle's eyes start to well, and they refuse to look at each-other in the mirror, Villanelle guesses that she's grateful that Eve doesn't draw attention to the wetness on her cheeks. Not shower-water. Not anything.
She doesn't know why she cries. Great hair. Waste. More than hair. Rebirth? No. Maybe.
Villanelle doesn't feel too poetic about it. But she thinks,
as Eve's hair gathers in piles on the ground,
and Villanelle skin stays wet with humidity,
and Eve's eyes are blossomed red.
It's not poetic.
It's simple.
They survived.
Some weeks later, when Villanelle's hair is too dark, and Eve's hair is too short, they lay in the tall grass by the lake. The sky is all muddled orange again. Always like that in the country. Spring is slipping into Summer. The cicadas chirp as Eve and Villanelle lay on their backs, tossing back a huge jar of Moonshine that Villanelle made just right. Gunn taught her one thing. Two things.
1) Moonshine.
2) People will rot you from the inside.
Villanelle watches the sun catch on Eve's cheek. Her skin looks dewy in the light. The grass presses into her hair. Bob-length. Beautiful. People rot you from the inside. Villanelle wonders what Eve's heart feels like these days. She used to think it didn't feel anything. She wonders what it's a site of now.
A site of rot. A site of spoil. A site of just right.
Villanelle hums. Turns on her side. Eve lays, splayed on her back. Eyes half-closed. Content.
"Are you happy, Eve?"
Eve opens one eye. Narrows it. Looks only from her periphery. "What?"
"I realized I have not asked. Are you happy?"
Eve snorts. Lets her fingers go loose around the mason jar.
"Who cares about happy?"
And Villanelle smiles, because Villanelle is not an idiot, and sometimes — only sometimes — she knows exactly what Eve will say before she even says it. And Villanelle does not respond, because Villanelle is not an idiot, and sometimes — only sometimes — she knows that Eve does not need to hear her say, I do, because Eve knows what she will say before she even says it.
She watches Eve's mouth as she takes another sip of Moonshine. The way her lips seal around the jar. The way she frowns. Cringes. Gulps. Wipes mouth with the back of her hand. Villanelle wants to tell her to quit that! She's blocking her view. She doesn't.
Villanelle's romance is quiet tonight.
"This tastes like shit."
"Yes, well. It tasted like shit when I learned how to make it, too."
Eve gives a quiet laugh. Rolls onto her side to face Villanelle. Finally. Always late, Eve is.
Quietly, with a coy smile, Eve asks, "You fucked her, didn't you?"
Villanelle doesn't blink. "Yes."
Eve blows some air out of her lips. "That's — she smelt like shit, Villanelle."
"Tasted like shit too. Like worms."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Villanelle smiles as she turns onto her back. It's getting dark out now. The cicadas are quieting down. The Earth feels very still at times like this. It used to make her feel lonely. At Gunn's, she thought it would drive her to insanity. Villanelle never realized Eve could be quiet, too.
She knows these things now.
Eve is quiet for a long time. Villanelle feels it at Eve's eyes trace her profile. Looking just at her, while the Earth is still around them, and bugs are dying, and Moonshine is left untouched in a glass jar that sits atop the grass. And when Eve finally speaks, she's quiet when she says,
"I am, though."
"What?" Villanelle squints her brow, thinks of Gunn, thinks of eyes gauged out. "Jealous? I know."
Eve hits her shoulder. Villanelle laughs. It all goes quiet again.
And Eve says, quieter, quieter than quiet, because Eve doesn't say these things out loud, and when she does, she says them very carefully,
"Happy."
And Villanelle lolls her head to look at her. Eve meets her eyes.
They both lean in, and they kiss all wrong.
No tongue. Long peck. Softening what is often sharp. Villanelle hums into her mouth.
Villanelle smiles when they break away. The bullet wound in her shoulder stings.
"Nice kiss. No worms."
Eve hits her. Hits her right in the shoulder. Right where it hurts.
Later, when the sun has fully set, and they are drunk on Moonshine, they stumble back to the cottage.
All tangled limbs, all glory. The world's best-kept secret.
Until it isn't.
There is a newspaper placed precariously on their doormat. And when Villanelle picks it up, it smells like cigar and shitty cologne. It smells like Nikolay who has never reminded her of Konstantin aside from scent. She squints as she lowers down to pick it up.
FORMER MI6 AGENT MURDERED: CAROLYN MARTENS. THE STORY OF HOW A RUSSIAN SPY TURNED BRITISH INTELLIGENCE FELL FROM GRACE.
She feels Eve's breath pick up on her neck. Eve, who stands behind her. Who's vision is probably just wobbly enough to not read the print, but to see the images. Carolyn's face.
Below:
THE PUBLIC CRUMBLING OF A ONCE-PRIVATE ORGANIZATION. SOURCE TELLS ALL.
Below:
SEARCH OF THE THAMES CONTINUES FOR THE BODIES OF RUSSIAN ASSASSIN OKSANA OSTANKOVA AND FORMER MI6 AGENT EVE POLASTRI.
Their faces stare back at them. Villanelle's mugshot. Eve's work photo.
Sometimes, the Earth is very still. Behind Villanelle, Eve takes a few steps to throw up in the bushes. Villanelle's eyes fall back on the doormat. In the dim light of the porch, a pair of keys glint. She's used these keys many times before when Nikolay lets her borrow his truck for work.
And when she palms the metal, lets it press into palm, she hears what he tells her:
Go. Hurry.
Villanelle pulls Eve back by the lapels of her coat. Wipes her hand over her mouth. Steadies her shoulder. Nods. Eve can be very quiet sometimes. And if they head back into the cottage to throw clothes into suitcases, it's an act that takes no longer than five minutes. Afterwards:
Straight to the truck. Straight to the road. Never a home, so, always a home.
They don't stop for twelve hours. Long after Villanelle has sobered up, and just before Eve loses consciousness. They don't listen to music. They don't talk much. They don't know what town they're in when they stop a Motel. The sign flickers, one letter out. Otel.
It isn't until they're sitting on the bed, Eve staring at the newspaper crumpled between her fingers, that she finally asks: "Who?"
And this is the funny thing about surviving. You never expect to do it. You never expect to outlive what seemed immortal. The Twelve, publicized.
Villanelle pinches the bridge of her nose. "That rat-faced one you used to work with, maybe?"
"Hugo?"
"Sure."
Villanelle grabs the paper out of Eve's hands. The Twelve, publicized.
Eve and Villanelle, publicized. Eve and Villanelle, a kept secret, now shared with everybody. In the newspapers discarded on sidewalks. Pissed on by men with bellies full of pints. Crumbled up and used to pick up dogshit. Not even their names. Oksana Ostankova. Eve Polastri.
Their story was never supposed to be told like this. Eve gets up to steal shoots from the mini-fridge. Villanelle reads on. She doesn't know why. The words blend together.
Oksana Ostankova, Russian.
Oksana Okstankova, Orphan.
Oksana Ostankova, Psychopath.
Oksana, Oksana, Oksana...
Villanelle picks up a glass from the bedside table. Oksana. Breaks it against the wall. Polastri. Watches it shatter into pieces. Oksana Astankova. Eve Polastri.
Told all wrong. Names all wrong. Told like shit.
Eve doesn't flinch. She doesn't question it as Villanelle brushes past her, slams the bathroom door, runs the bath, and scorches her skin.
Later, when the bathwater has turned her skin lobster-red, and she can't feel much of anything, Eve knocks only to let herself in. Some would call this audacity. Villanelle is just surprised that Eve knocked. She eyes her, nose barely above the water, as Eve lowers herself onto the tile beside the bath. She sets a bizarre array of items on the tile — newspaper, scissors, shooters. She hands Villanelle one of the shooters. Villanelle pops the plastic lid, swallows vodka, lets the bottle fall to the title. Eve rests her chin on ceramic, lets her fingers trail the water.
Villanelle gives a soft nod to the paper, "Did you?"
"Yes."
"They got it all wrong, Eve."
"Who cares?"
Villanelle narrows her brows. Eve sighs.
"They could have never gotten it right, Villanelle. Only us."
Villanelle doesn't say anything to that. Lowers her chin to dip below the water. Eve sighs again.
Villanelle watches as Eve pulls her hands out of the water; pulls her chin off the ceramic. She repositions herself to sit on folded legs — knees hard against the ceramic floor. Villanelle watches, curiously, as Eve picks up the newspaper and begins to snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
Villanelle watches as Eve pauses to take small sips of vodka. Snip. Sip. Snip. Snip. Eve moves slowly. Villanelle thinks this is weird. When Eve takes to do something, it is always in frenzy. Now, though, she moves slowly. And it isn't until Villanelle finally peeks — sees names cut out, splayed across the tile — that Eve isn't doing this on her own accord. Eve is doing this for her.
Villanelle watches as Eve mismatches their names. Slow fingers, half-drunk, moving paper squares across tile until the print reads: Eve Astankova. Oksana Polastri.
All wrong. Mis-matched. Bad sew-up job.
The water trickles in quiet splash as Villanelle lifts herself to rest her forearms on the side of the tub. Eve looks at their names.
All cut up. All wrong. More wrong.
Eve looks at Villanelle.
"What are you doing, Eve?"
"They already fucked it up. I'm just fucking it up more."
It's ours to fuck up. It's only ours to fuck up.
Villanelle scrunches her nose, gives a low laugh, "Oksana Polastri. Sounds like shit."
"I know." Eve gives a small smile. Touches the paper. "Eve Astankova, though? Not half-bad."
Villanelle lifts an eyebrow, curls her words, "Is this you're way of asking me to marry you, Eve?"
"I would literally rather die."
Villanelle chuckles. Eve sits back on her haunches, shakes her head. Smiles.
Eve who is brutal with truth.
Eve who holds a disdain for matrimony with the same precision she holds a gun.
Eve who says, never again.
Eve who says, never wanted it in the first place.
Eve, Eve, Eve, and Villanelle.
Villanelle hums. Folds her hands under chin. Looks at Eve, half-lidded.
"You know that if I had the money, I would buy you a ring, Eve."
You know. You know. You hate that you know.
Eve lifts an eyebrow. Lifts whiskey — new shooter — to lips.
"You know that if you bought me a ring, I would destroy it. Melt it or something."
And Villanelle bites her lip. Half-raises herself out of the water. Eve meets her halfway. Two things with knees bruised.
Kissing all right this time. Too-hot. Tongue. Hot water. Cold air.
Behind Villanelle's eyelids, she sees only shimmers. Small puddles of gold melted down. Wasted gold. Not repurposed. Never repurposed. Just wasted. Just like Eve.
Source tells all.
Source lives in Lisbon now. Source's security teams eases up after six months. Source misbelieves. Source thinks there is nobody left to get him. Twelve died on a boat. Carolyn died before she could sprout them a new head. There's somebody. There's always somebody.
Villanelle breaks into Hugo's studio on a Tuesday. Hovers above his head, watches his eyes go wide. Villanelle tells source all about what she will do to him. Castration. Hung upside down. A mix-match of past murders. She'll watch the blood drip from his head. Source won't tell anybody about this. Source should know that she could kill him right now. She doesn't care that much. She's gotten used to being poor, to being nameless. It's fine. But source told all, and so source gave her an in. Source says, yes. Villanelle says, you have three days. Source says, fine. Source says, okay. Source says, if you keep choking me, I'll die before I can help you. Villanelle says,
You just might.
Source provides in three days. Money. More money than she's seen in a long time. Source inherited something. Source got paid out. Villanelle doesn't care anymore. Passports. Evelyn Nouvel. That's hers. French. Nellie Anatoly. That's Eve. Russian.
Source says, these names sound fake as shit.
Villanelle says, smiles, bares her teeth, you fucked up our story.
Source says, this has been a pleasure, Eveleyn, please don't ever visit me again.
Villanelle says, I won't.
Villanelle kills Hugo then and there. Slits his throat and throws his body in the bathtub. Steals the watch off his wrist. Steals the cash out of his drawers. The jewelry. The gold. The rings.
Later, when Villanelle can travel by plane and not by boat, she stands in an airport line with gold in her pocket.
Eve will be so mad. So, so mad. The names and the gold. All of it.
She can't bite back her grin.
The flight attendant looks at her passport, gives her a warm smile,
"Have a safe flight, Evelyn."
Later, years later, when Eve and Villanelle have broken up as many times as they've come back together, and have never said sorry, and have kissed each other with violence, and bound each other with mercy, and have moved houses enough times to turn their cortisol into potassium chloride, and have never, no, never, gotten tired of a single moment of it,
Villanelle comes home late.
It's cold in Reykjavík. Villanelle hates it. It takes her three minutes to disrobe when she walks through the door. One coat. Two coat. Fingers numb. Cheeks red. It takes her a second to notice Eve stood, stark-still, in the hallway. She looks weird. Villanelle freezes, third coat half-way off.
"Eve?"
Eve stares. Villanelle notices the magazine in her hands. Eve moves in disjoint. Mouth opens. Mouth closes. Throat gulps. Brows furrow. Voice comes out distorted.
Shocked and weird.
"I — "
Villanelle stares. She wants to make a Cat got your tongue? joke. She wants to make a Do you want a cat to have your tongue? (wink) joke.
But Eve is too still. It's weirding her out.
"What?"
"I think they're making a show. About us."
And Eve's hands are slow when she holds out the magazine for Villanelle. Villanelle's feet, slower, when she takes a step forward to grab it. And as she looks over the cover, disbelief slices the air like a guillotine already dropped, sliced necks so only silence, as she reads:
Killing Eve.
They promise not to watch it. Eve makes her promise. Eve who is better at being careless. Villanelle who is terrible with indulgence. When Eve is gone late, the remote beckons Villanelle in whispers. She picks it up. Never turns on the TV. Sometimes, she turns on the TV. Never picks the remote up. But Eve's words hang in her head: They'll fuck it up, Villanelle. Just — don't.
And Villanelle thinks about stories told all wrong, and stories that do no justice, and stories that paint the picture with all the wrong colors, and so, she holds out. Eve holds out, too.
They make it four years. Until.
Until Eve comes home with another magazine.
This time, the cover is glossy under Villanelle's fingers as she reads,
Killing Eve finale has left fans shocked and hurt.
"Fuck it," Eve says, as she uncorks a bottle of wine.
They don't grab glasses. They sit on the couch. Pass the bottle back and forth. Press play.
They don't move for twenty-four hours. They get drunk. They order take-out. They don't move.
"I did not run Nadia over. I shot her in the head."
"Wait — really?"
"You fucked Hugo while we had phone sex?!"
"....Yes."
"My mother was very ugly. This casting is horrible."
"How did they know you set the house on fire?"
"Lucky guess? Wait — am I predictable?"
"I did not talk to Jesus. I talked to the Serpent."
"The Drag Jesus thing is kind of cool, though."
"Whatever."
"Women don't stay silent forever?"
"Who okayed that line?"
"I was not dancing on the boat! I killed more people than you!"
"You did not, Eve."
"It was close enough — "
"Shh. It's almost over."
"............."
When the credits roll, Eve and Villanelle pause the screen. The television screen lights up the room in shades of white. It casts them in an eerie glow.
"Rewind it," Eve grunts. Growls. Whispers.
Villanelle does. Slowly.
"Stop." Eve commands. "There."
Eve points, even though she doesn't need to. Villanelle sees the name.
In sticky white letters, the television screens casts it out:
Lauren Seal.
And Eve pulls her phone out before Villanelle can speak. Villanelle is too angry to think clearly. She thinks of passing things, flashing things: bloody angel wings, baptisms gone wrong, all grief, no glory, all sacrifice, all empty. Eve shoves her phone in her face. Lauren Seal. London.
And Eve and Villanelle share a look because nothing needs to be said.
Here's the funny thing about story-telling: Oftentimes, the end takes you right back to the beginning.
Villanelle watches as Eve closes out of the IMDB app. Opens up Skyscanner.
Right back to London.
Two nights later, Eve and Villanelle sit splayed in a hotel room. They drink champagne that isn't theirs. Eat chocolate-covered strawberries that aren't meant for their mouths. Villanelle, in her best suit. Eve, in that black little number that is just indecent enough to make Villanelle's fingers itch.
Lauren Seal has been put up in a hotel room that she is undeserving of.
Press tours, and apologies, and attention, and getting it all wrong, more wrong.
The door clicks sometime after midnight. Eve and Villanelle are laid back in the chaise lounge when Lauren Seal finally enters. Villanelle, legs spread out, arm around Eve's hips. Eve leaning back on her palm. Their lips curl as they watch recognition jump into her eyes like a heartbeat skipped. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Words choked out. She's only seen them in photographs. They've only seen her in photographs. Well, moving photographs.
Viral interviews. Defensive. Empty apologies.
"No," she chokes. Blinks. "There's — you're dead. You're both dead."
Eve tilts her chin. Takes another bite of the strawberry. Villanelle watches as the juice runs down her neck. As chocolate tucks itself into the crevice of her lip.
"No? I don't think you killed me?" Eve looks back at Villanelle with faux confusion, "I lived, right?"
"Of course!" Villanelle smiles, the volume of her voice makes Lauren jump. Villanelle looks to her with excited eyes, frenzied eyes. "Remember? You got your happily-ever-after. Destined for non-violence and dancing at strangers' weddings. Touching, really."
Eve laughs. Villanelle laughs. Then, she sobers.
"I wasn't so lucky." Puppy-pout. "Phone, please."
Lauren chokes. Hand reaches for her bag. Hand doesn't go inside of bag.
Villanelle grits her teeth. Tenses her jaw. Yells. "Phone. Now."
"The whole bag," Eve says, holds her hand out.
Lauren takes a hesitant step forward. She slides her purse off of her shoulder. Hands it to Eve with trembling fingers.
Eve pulls her phone out, smiles sweetly, drops it in a mug of champagne.
Lauren gapes. Eve frowns.
"What? I thought you'd like that. Little homage to Season two." Eve smiles. "Wait, you didn't write that one. Whoops."
Eve pulls the hem of her dress up, crosses her legs, shank visible in the strap of her heel.
"Sit down."
Lauren does. Sits at the end of the bed with posture too-straight, too-practiced. Once she's seated, Eve leans back.
This is Villanelle's. They agree'd. This is Villanelle's.
Villanelle stands slowly. Tucks her hands into her trouser pockets. Circles in front of Laura.
"You are a really shit story-teller, you know that?"
Lauren gapes. Swallows.
"I'm sure you've been told that a lot over the past week."
"Yes." She stutters, "I have."
Villanelle tuts. Smiles as she shakes her head.
"I mean — do you even know what water does to bullets? What kind of shit ending is that?"
"I — I didn't write it by myself. There was — "
"Hm. So, you didn't kill me?"
"I — "
"Yes or no?"
Lauren's eyes are wide. Looks between Eve and Villanelle. Throat bobs.
"Yes."
Villanelle barks a laugh. Shakes her head. She holds her hand out towards Eve.
Eve stands slowly. Removes the shank from her heel-strap, hands it over. Villanelle palms the blade, tucks one hand in her pocket, continues to circle, waving it as she talks.
"It is not the fact that I died. I would have been fine with that. I thought I was going to. I was fine with it — for the first time ever, maybe."
Villanelle laughs, turns on her heel. Looks at Lauren.
"Love makes you do crazy things, you know?"
Lauren swallows. Small nod.
"It's how you killed me. I mean — sprayed by bullets underwater? Seriously? Have you been watching a lot of Michael Bay movies or something?" Villanelle laughs, sighs. "So shit."
"In fact, it's not even how you killed me. It's worse than that. It's kind of a shocking thing to say, no? That it can be worse than... that. But. it is. You are impressive, Lauren Seal."
Villanelle kneels in front of her. She rests her chin on her fist. Shank pointing out of her palm, pointing towards a jittery Lauren. Villanelle watches her shoulders shake. Watches the jaw contain the way her jaw tries to contain her whimper. Villanelle wants to say,
It is so funny, isn't it? When reality imitates fiction? You probably thought you'd never be here.
But Villanelle doesn't. Instead, she says,
"Bloody angel wings. I mean — what the fuck was that, Lauren? What were you trying to do there? I really can't tell. See, I've read your interviews. They are very confusing." Villanelle hums, wags the shank in her direction. "Am I a celestial being or am I a violent psychopath who 'found her place'? Answer me. You can only choose one."
Lauren stays quiet. Villanelle points the shank at her jugular.
"Neither — neither! I'm — I'm sorry. I made a mistake, okay? They're on your side. Everybody is on your side. They're leaving fucking flowers for you on the bridge, okay?! Fuck."
Villanelle gives a small smile. "Yes, they are."
Eve gives a low laugh behind her, "God, you know you fucked up when fans are turning shop-fronts into memorial sites. I hate to say it but I think your writing career might be over."
"If you live," Villanelle chuckles.
Lauren's eyes bulge. She yells back. "You can't kill me over a show! That's crazy!"
"You killed me to tell a cautionary tale!" Villanelle yells back, laughs, "That is crazy!"
Villanelle stands. Touches the shank to Lauren's shoulder. Lauren leans back.
"I mean — seriously — where was the glory? You couldn't even find it in your heart to give Eve and I a fiery ending? Blow the boat up? Burn it all down? No? Just murky water and dead angels."
"Celestial beings," Eve corrects.
"Right. Celestial beings and changed women." Villanelle tuts, pokes Lauren's shoulder with the blade, lets her hand fall back to her side after. "I haven't even gotten started on my own story yet but what did you do to poor Eve here? Finding happiness dancing at a wedding? What about this woman screams non-violence? Did you not watch season one? Eve is just as insane as me. Maybe more so."
"Hey," Eve chastises.
Villanelle rolls her eyes. Splits her grin. Leans down to whisper,
"You don't want to see how she gets when I pick up a kitchen knife. Naughty, really."
Lauren shivers. Villanelle delights. Sits next to her. Watches her spine go stiff.
Villanelle crosses her legs.
"I read your interviews so I guess my conclusion made sense, hm? Forged from violence so that's how I ought to die? Nothing but something to light up poor little Eve's mid-life crisis? Remind her that it's so much better to be normal than it is to be... well, I guess I'll just ask you. Give you a chance to answer. I don't know if you deserve that."
Lauren swallows. Villanelle lets her chin hover near Lauren's shoulder as she whispers,
"Are you a homophobe, Lauren Seal?"
Lauren shrieks, "No!"
"Wrong answer." Villanelle laughs. Holds the blade to her throat. Doesn't laugh much longer.
Villanelle feels her eyes go cold. Feels her fingers tremble. Angry. She's so angry!
She didn't expect to be so angry.
"You are a shit story-teller. You tell stories of grief. So empty." Villanelle laughs, "This is what you get, hm? You have a shit imagination. You ruined it. Me and Eve. You ruined us."
"Cunt."
"Eve," Villanelle husks.
"Sorry."
"It is rude to interrupt."
Eve rolls her eyes.
Lauren's eyes are closed. Lauren's eyelids shake. Villanelle watches the tears fall from them. Alligator tears, Villanelle wants to say. Poor thing, Villanelle wants to say.
Crucify your gays, you'll feel better, Villanelle wants to say.
"I – it didn't make sense! It doesn't make sense! There couldn't have been a happily-ever-after."
And the room goes quiet.
Eve and Villanelle share a look. Silence looms with disbelief.
Disbelief that one person, who has the conclusion sitting right in front of her, could be this stupid.
Lauren doesn't open her eyes.
Villanelle pokes her shoulder with the blade, "What does happily-ever-after look like, hm?"
Lauren cries.
Villanelle pokes harder.
"Marriage! I don't know! Ordering pizza and baby names and date-nights and arguing over who does the dishes. God. I. Don't. Know. Okay?!"
Moment of silence. Eve and Villanelle share a quizzical look. Brows knit. Mouths twisted.
They erupt in shared laughter.
"Is this really what you have to look forward to?" Villanelle chuckles, pity staining her voice, "God, I might just let you live if you are so intent on suffering anyways. Are all straight people this boring?" Villanelle wipes a tear from her eye, "Ah, don't answer that. I know."
Villanelle breathes out residual chuckles,
"Ah. Marriage. God. I got her a ring, you know? Does this count?"
"I've literally never worn it," Eve says.
"She hasn't. She hates that it exists."
"I do."
"We ordered pizza last night," Eve chimes in.
"Mhm." Villanelle shakes her head, "What do you think gay people do?"
Lauren clenches her fists. "It's not about gay people! You're — you're psychopaths!"
The room experiences that whiplash of quiet again. Sticky, this time.
Slow as Eve raises her brow. Slower when Villanelle pokes the blade into Lauren's stomach.
Ooh. Wrong answer.
"I am going to stop asking you questions, okay, Lauren? I don't know if I can stomach how small your brain is. It's actually making me feel kind of sick."
Villanelle inhales, blows out a raspberry.
"Instead, you are just going to listen. I want you to hear about the story you ruined."
Lauren doesn't nod. Doesn't move. Just stays very still. This is what Villanelle prefers.
"We pulled ourselves out of the water. We both almost died. Not just me. If I died in the water..."
"I would have killed myself," Eve's words are quiet with sobriety. Focused.
Villanelle lets her eyes fall back on Eve.
Eve who never says this out loud, because Villanelle knows, but Lauren doesn't, so Eve says it out loud.
Eve, a momentary sanctuary.
Eve, who she pulls her eyes away from.
She clears her throat.
"I was going to say — if I died in the water, it would have been because we blew the boat up. We thought about it. We didn't need to. Sometimes, these things — you are left with no choice. To burn it all down or to survive. We weren't attached to an outcome. That's the funny thing, no?"
Lauren doesn't respond.
"We didn't care. We just happened to survive."
Lauren swallows. Villanelle is getting tired of watching her throat bob.
"We pulled ourselves out of the water. We stole a shitty camper van. We cleaned our wounds in pit-stop bathrooms that smelt like shit and soap. More shit, than soap. We survived. Is this not happy-ever-after?"
Lauren opens her mouth.
"Don't."
Lauren closes her mouth.
"This is what you need to learn. Happily-ever-after is just that. Surviving. Happy-ever-after is dying, too. Not in the shit stories you tell — it is not baptisms gone wrong and rebirth experienced through the death of a Lover. Me and Eve would have died happily. You are just too stupid to see that."
Eve hums.
Villanelle notices her throat go tight. Notices her finger grasp the handle of the blade tighter.
"Baby names and date nights? If that is the ending you were going to give us, I'm happy I died."
Laura stutters. Sighs. Whispers. "But that's a healthy — "
Eve cackles. It splits the room in two. Villanelle can't even join in. Just stunned by stupidity.
"I thought we were psychopaths?"
"Well — "
"We have broken up a few times. I wonder if this surprises you? It's never easy. Eve is a lot."
"Villanelle."
"I am a lot, too. We are a lot. We always come back together. Eve likes when I leave. She likes chasing me. We never say sorry. We don't need to. We will never have children. Eve hates them. I think they smell bad. We would never give up our freedom to change shitty diapers. I hope we die before we get too old. I hope I die first."
Eve, quieter this time, "Villanelle."
"Eve likes when I hold a blade to her stomach. I like when Eve holds me. Eve does not like self-sacrificial bullshit. If I died for her, she would have resurrected me to kill me again. I — "
"Villanelle."
"What?" Villanelle snaps, as she turns to Eve.
Eve points a subtle finger at Laura's face. Lauren's closed eyes. Lauren's unregistering face.
And, Eve doesn't have to say it, because Villanelle just now gets it, but Eve says it anwyays,
"She doesn't deserve to hear this."
And Villanelle watches as Lauren's eyes open, slowly, and she blinks, like a robot who's been programmed to never understand anything outside of her own experience.
Villanelle smiles small. Shakes her head. Lowers the shank.
"Wow. You really don't. You don't deserve any of this. You ruined us. You never deserved our story."
Lauren lets out a shaky exhale. Keeps her eyes on the knife. Villanelle throws it on the ground.
"You tell shit stories about grief. So empty. You don't understand love unless it is from a Hallmark movie. You do not even like violence. Why us? Why our story?"
Laura stutters. "I wanted to tell a story about women who — "
Eve stands up. "Stop. Whatever backwards-ass-Feminist-bullshit is about to come out of your mouth, I don't want to hear it. Just — don't ever touch our story again? Okay? I'll kill you."
Lauren gapes at Eve. Lets her eyes fall on the knife on the floor.
"You're — you're not going to kill me?"
Villanelle barks, "Ha!"
Eve rolls her eyes, lets her hands fall on her hips, "You are literally never going to recover from this. We'd prefer you to live through it."
"I don't understand."
Villanelle pats her legs, before she rises to stand. She moves to join Eve.
"There is nothing to understand. I thought I would kill you when I walked in. I changed my mind. The life you are going to live sounds boring enough that I think I would be doing you a favor if I killed you. What else? Oh, if you tell anybody about this — it doesn't matter."
"What? Everybody thinks you're both dead. Everyone thinks you've been dead for years."
"It does not matter. You are such a shit writer that you could attempt to write a story about this encounter and nobody would believe you. I'm serious. You lack that much depth."
Eve lets her pinky graze Villanelle's fingers. Villanelle takes her hand, lets her other hand bury into her trouser pockets. "We do still kill people, though. All the time."
Lauren gapes.
"We won't tell you how or why. Might give you an idea for a sequel. Hm. Happily-ever-after? Sometimes, it's as simple as watching the blood drain."
Villanelle gives a wide smile. Short wave.
"Okay, bye!"
As Eve and Villanelle open the door of the hotel room, Eve calls out over her shoulder,
"By the way, we fucked in the camper van! Long before we got on the boat!"
"Cunt!"
"Marriage and pizza and baby names?" Eve scoffs, into the silence of the car.
Villanelle shifts gears. "I think maybe she is a pscyhopath."
Villanelle and Eve drive too far, too fast. Past the airport, past London's city limits. Windows rolled down and fire deep in their bellies. Here's the funny thing about stories: Oftentimes, they end where they begin. In London. When the weather is too shitty to offer solace. When sanity is a thing that remains out of touch. When you very well might drive your car off a bridge if the silence lulls for a little too long. Eve and Villanelle don't know what comes next. They didn't mean to survive. They just did. Cautionary tales turned Love Stories. And, maybe, because they are alive and in love, this means they lived long enough to see themselves become the enemies.
Donning matching scars like wedding rings. Domesticity defined when blade touches skin, when blades presses in. Love, redefined, when Villanelle breaks the surface of the Thames,
when she gasps for air.