Archive of Our Own

Eve knows that she is not a creative killer.

She is fine with this, mostly. Not everyone can be an artist. Besides, she believes there is something special about possessing the spectator’s eye. Most people turn away at scenes like this. The screams would frighten them; the blood would turn their stomachs. But not a spectator, no. A spectator knows what art is.  

Villanelle is an artist. She picks up whatever she sees, cracking skulls with dinner plates, driving juice screws into old men’s eyes. Eve is plain in comparison, prioritising efficiency over style. She sends simple bullets into the skulls of The Twelve whilst Villanelle extends their deaths, choking the men with their ties, forcing her fingers into jaws until the delicate bones break. Villanelle moves like a tornado of death; Eve moves like the calm hand of justice.

Or something like that. Maybe they’re just a couple of murderers.

In a matter of minutes, the last few years of Eve’s life are over. The Twelve are dead, their bodies slumped in their chairs, across the tables, on the floor. There is a clear divide between who Eve killed and who Villanelle massacred. It’s the difference between amateur and savant, between necessity and enjoyment. It’s still killing, though. Different approach, same ends.

Villanelle stands trembling across the room. Eve can see it, the exhilaration in her shoulders, the power held in her hands. There is blood on Villanelle’s shirt. Eve’s is clean.

“So,” Eve finally says. “This is…” She looks around at the destruction. How many people had died because of these assholes? She doesn’t even know their names, she realises. She hadn’t even thought about it, pulling the trigger again and again, the same way she presses the accelerator to drive, the same way she turns out the light before going to bed: easy, thoughtless. Killing. It had been hard for her, once upon a time.

She looks around at the multitude of dead men and women, all with different faces, different stories, different motives. The faceless, omnipotent Twelve, laid bare at her feet. She is stood staring into the many faces of the monster. And just like that, it’s over.

Eve’s lip curls in disgust. Years of hell, and for what? For the monster to be a bunch of cowards in a stupid fucking boat? For the monster to be a load of senile cranks who barely put up a fight?

“…pathetic,” Eve hisses, and even she is surprised by how venomous she sounds. Shooting Lars had felt good, justified. She had, in all honesty, not truly believed that she would ever get lucky enough to kill more than one of them.

But now it doesn’t feel like luck. Now it feels like The Twelve had always been this weak, the illusion more powerful than the reality. Shadows are only scary in the dark, after all.

It is so pathetic to gaze upon in the light. Misguided ideas about chaos for the sake of chaos. A room full of cowardly anarchists hiding behind the talent of others.

Eve looks to where Villanelle is stood. Yes, that’s all The Twelve had ever been. A cowardly puppeteer taking credit for the true maven. There’s a reason Eve had noticed the murders before she was ever tasked with finding its creator. A spectator always recognises art.

Eve sighs. She reaches for the closest corpse, blood clotting around the hole in his head. She pats down his pockets, searching. She hears Villanelle’s footsteps moving closer.

“Stealing from corpses again, Eve?”

Eve finds the man’s wallet and stands up. Villanelle’s hand comes to rest lightly at Eve’s lower back.

“If opportunity presents itself,” Eve responds dryly. She pulls out the man’s driving license, briefly reads his name. The words barely even register – what does it matter? He’s dead now. The old Eve would’ve moaned in horror at the careless way the new Eve tosses the card aside. The new Eve pulls out the cash and pockets it. She tosses the wallet too.

“We need to get out of here. Now,” Villanelle says.

“You think there’s security coming?”

“I think I don’t want to find out.” Villanelle moves to a woman sat slumped at a table, her eyes forever fixed open in shock. She removes the hunting knife from her throat, a bit of blood splattering at the movement. She wipes the blade clean on the dead woman’s blazer, then straps it safely back against her calf. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They move quickly through the kitchen, stepping over the dead kitchen staff. Villanelle claims that they were Twelve security in disguise. Eve thinks that this is a lie to make her feel better. But the truth is, Eve is past caring about collateral damage.

Upstairs, the wedding party is in full swing. Eve can hear the music pulsing, and as they pass the disco room, she sees the guests dancing, laughing, spinning each other madly across the floor. Eve grabs Villanelle’s elbow.

“Eve?” Villanelle looks confused.

In her head, she hears Martin’s voice. Find the little things that bring you joy. Go to the people who love you, who understand you, who know your soul.

Eve looks at Villanelle. There is blood on her shirt. Eve’s is clean. Little things that bring you joy.

Eve pulls them into the room, under the flashing blue disco lights. Villanelle’s face crinkles in discomfort but she lets herself be pulled.

“Eve –” Villanelle warns, cautiously checking behind them.

“One song,” Eve says. “I love this song.”

Villanelle is visibly lost as Eve begins to dance. Within seconds the wedding guests are around them, and Eve is swept up in the mass of drunken joy. Eve sees Villanelle across the room, awkwardly side-stepping in a manner that Eve supposes is her version of dance. It makes Eve laugh, and finally the easy joy that had eluded her at karaoke returns. The Twelve is dead. Eve is alive. Villanelle is alive. It’s over.

It's actually over.

Eve feels the grin on her face, foolishly wide. She feels as drunk as the guests grabbing her hands and twirling her around. She laughs, one of the grooms wrapping an arm around her shoulders and slurring into her ear about her beautiful vows. Jesus, it’s over. And this song, this song – she could dance forever.

There’s a new warmth in her belly. She finds herself searching, her feet spinning around until she finds her. Villanelle has escaped to the edge of the dancefloor; she hovers just inside the door, openly staring at Eve. Their eyes meet. Eve thinks Villanelle might be crying.

Eve makes her way to the door as the song ends. Villanelle pulls her in for a kiss as soon as she’s close enough. It’s like the end of a movie, Eve thinks. Bad guys dead. Girl gets girl. End credits time.

Eve is wise enough to know that this end is actually the beginning.

*

The Thames is bone freezing. Eve swims after Villanelle, forcing her limbs to keep moving through the cold. She accidentally gets some water in her mouth and sputters, choking back the urge to heave. The Thames tastes like utter shit. And that’s the nice way of putting it.

Villanelle had insisted they jump into the water. “I don’t want to tempt fate. It almost felt too easy, you know?” Villanelle had said as she looked for the best spot for them to jump. Eve hadn’t wanted to admit that she’d been thinking the same thing.

Villanelle waits now at the bottom of the ladder. She clings to the metal rungs, wet hair plastered to her face, hazel eyes shining black in the dark.

“Hurry up. I’m cold,” Villanelle complains.

“You could have started climbing,” Eve huffs. Villanelle ignores this. Rather forcefully, she pushes Eve ahead, placing one of Eve’s hands on the ladder. “Jesus, I know how to climb a ladder,” Eve snaps.

“Hurry up,” Villanelle repeats. She waits until Eve is safely climbing, waterlogged clothes squelching with every step, before she starts climbing after her. At the top, they stand at the side of the road in their drenched clothes, teeth beginning to chatter in the evening breeze. Eve imagines they look a sorry sight, two drowned rats in the middle of London.

Despite everything, Eve starts to laugh.

“What?” Villanelle asks sharply. Eve looks at Villanelle and laughs harder; she is scowling like a child caught out in the rain. Villanelle’s face subtly contorts like she’s worried that Eve has gone mad.

Hey, maybe she has.

“You want to get some dinner?” Eve grins.

The people in the fish and chip shop are very nice. The girl rings up their order whilst the boy passes them a couple of tea-towels to dry their hands and faces. Eve pays with a sodden and stolen twenty-pound note whilst Villanelle waxes them an unnecessary backstory.

“She’s pissed as a fart, you see!” Villanelle laughs in a clipped English accent. “Fell overboard, can you believe it? I had to fish her out!” Villanelle pretends not to see Eve’s glare.

They go back to the campervan, driving it back to Eve’s apartment. They drip river water all over the seats. Villanelle drives as Eve feeds her chips.

“Eve, your ketchup to chip ratio is shit,” Villanelle complains.

“If you don’t shut up, I won’t give you any,” Eve says. She sighs and dips the chip further into the ketchup. Does she actually want to drink the sauce by itself? “And I paid for them, so. Be grateful.”

“Mmm.” Villanelle purses her lips, eyes mockingly darting to the side. “I’m pretty sure I saw you steal that money from our old friend.”

“Whatever.”

In the apartment, Eve wastes no time in shedding her wet clothes. Shivering, she goes to the bathroom and turns on the shower, unsurprised to find Villanelle has followed.

“We can’t stay. We need to change and get out of here,” Villanelle says.

“I know.”

Eve sheds the rest of her clothes and steps into the shower. Her muscles tense at the contact of hot water, the cold of the river slowly leaving her body. She begins to wash the muck out of her hair, absentmindedly hearing the slap of wet clothes hitting the floor. She doesn’t flinch when Villanelle steps in behind her, closing the glass door. When Villanelle’s hands lightly encircle Eve’s waist, a pleasant shiver runs down Eve’s spine.

“Not now. We have to shower and get out of here,” Eve says.

“I know,” Villanelle echoes. She still presses a kiss to Eve’s shoulder. Her hands slide higher, grazing the underside of Eve’s breasts.

“Villanelle,” Eve warns.

Villanelle drops her hands. Eve sucks in a subtle breath. Eve didn’t think they would survive tonight. It would be nice to survive a little longer.

They shower together, but it turns out Eve’s fears of distraction have no basis. There is nothing remotely sexy about sharing this space. Villanelle is a horrible shower partner. No matter which way they turn, they manage to get in each other’s way. They accidentally elbow each other in the stomach. They step on each other’s feet. Eve somehow manages to get shampoo in Villanelle’s eye.

“Fucking you in here is going to be a nightmare,” Villanelle grimaces, pushing Eve into the glass so she can rinse her eyes clear.

“Hey!” Eve snaps, rubbing her shoulder. She resists the urge to shove Villanelle back, cautious that the movement might cause Villanelle’s finger to slide into her eye. That would be the last thing either of them need.

Regardless, they manage. Eve lets the hot water remove the memories of the boat. Villanelle scrubs the blood from under her fingernails. Eve gets out first, hurriedly drying herself. She grabs a spare towel from under the sink and tosses it on the floor for Villanelle.

Eve packs quickly. There isn’t much time to think. Now that she is clean, the adrenaline is starting to fade. The Twelve were evil, nobody is denying that, but Eve is not stupid enough to think that there won’t be consequences. She has not worked for the government in a long time. Those bodies will be discovered. There will be an investigation. Eve has to ensure that she is not around for it.

And Villanelle? Eve’s stomach churns at the thought of how many people want her dead.

Eve finishes packing a duffle bag. She grabs her backpack and moves into the bathroom, tossing toiletries inside. She may be going on the run but she is not going to smell bad. Eve has standards.

Villanelle is stood naked in the bathroom, dry now.

“My clothes are in the campervan,” Villanelle says.

“Get something from the closet,” Eve replies.

The fish and chips are cold now, but there is no time to be fussy. Eve throws the bags behind the seats and buckles in, stomach dropping as she realises that she has no plan. She’s showered, gotten dressed, packed, gotten in the campervan – now what?

Eve looks over at Villanelle in the driving seat.

“Where do we –”

“I have to make a stop, and then we will head to France,” Villanelle interrupts. She is dressed in one of Eve’s navy button shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is damp, slightly wavy. Eve remembers seeing her like this before, just once, through a fish tank.

It all feels so long ago.

“You’ve thought about this before,” Eve realises.

“Of course, Eve. You are not very good at planning.” Villanelle sees the affronted look on Eve’s face and adds, “Eve, come on. You are smart, but you don’t think things through.”

“I do,” Eve argues.

“No, you don’t.” Villanelle’s mouth presses into a firm line. “What was your plan tonight, hm? A suicide mission, am I right?”

It makes Eve feel guilty, suddenly, looking at Villanelle. She turns away and watches the late-night traffic instead. She hears Villanelle’s quiet scoff, wishes that she could unhear it.

“I would quite like us to not die, Eve,” Villanelle says quietly.

They drive in silence after that. Eve considers saying something a few times, but can’t find any words that don’t feel cheap and wrong. She hates being known like this. Lying never seems to work when it comes to Villanelle. She always just seems to know. It’s agonizing.

It’s intoxicating.

Villanelle parks up in a shoddy looking street. Eve looks around warily. It’s the kind of place she never would have stopped at a few years ago. It’s the kind of street where someone gets stabbed in broad daylight. Eve glances at Villanelle. Well, maybe Eve should feel at home here. All stabbers welcome.

“Wait here,” Villanelle orders, as if Eve has any other choice.

As Eve waits for Villanelle to return, part of her feels irritated at Villanelle’s bossy attitude. Yes, reasonably she doesn’t have a reason to be annoyed – Eve has no plan of her own. But still. Eve isn’t a dog and she won’t be bossed around. That isn’t how this relationship is going to work.

Eve snorts suddenly into the dark. Oh, Jesus, relationship. She is dating a woman that she once stabbed. A woman who once shot her and left her for dead. Tonight, she committed mass murder with that same woman and now they’re running away together. She starts chuckling to herself, her laughs growing louder as the reality sinks in. Go to the people who love you, who understand you, who know your soul. There must be something dark and twisted residing in Eve’s chest.

The door opens. Villanelle hops in, shooting Eve a confused look. She drops a brown folder onto Eve’s lap and starts the engine.

“I could hear you laughing outside,” Villanelle frowns. She glances at Eve warily. “Do I need to leave you at the hospital?”

Eve ignores her.

“We’re running away together. Isn’t that funny?” Eve laughs.

Villanelle gives her another look.

“Maybe you should get some sleep, Eve,” Villanelle suggests.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I’m happy,” Eve tells her. “I’d forgotten what it’s like.” She pauses. “Okay, yeah, I’m also shitting myself over the thought of getting caught, but ignoring that, I’m happy.”

Villanelle doesn’t look entirely convinced. Eve thinks this is fair enough. She also isn’t sure that what she’s saying is the truth.

Maybe she really has gone insane.

Maybe her blood sugar is just low.

Eve reigns in her laughter, forcing her expression to sober. “Sorry, sorry. France. Right.” Eve slaps the dashboard like a taxi driver. “Allons-y.”

*

As they queue for the Eurotunnel, Eve rifles through the documents in the folder. She snorts at the names on the fake passports and driving licenses.

“Why am I Swedish?” Eve asks.

“Why not?” Villanelle shrugs.

Eve wonders when Villanelle organised all this. She has to admit, Villanelle is prepared. There’s cash and a credit card. There’s even a box of tampons.

“Preparation is everything, Eve,” Villanelle grins, the white security lights casting her face in shadows.

Eve digs her nails into her thighs, convinced security will stop them from boarding. Villanelle is calm, leaning casually out the window to chat with the man at the desk. Villanelle is pretending to be Australian like the woman on her fake passport. Australian Villanelle is apparently very funny. The man chuckles as he hands Villanelle a receipt. “Have a good holiday, ladies!” The man waves them onwards.

Villanelle sees Eve’s disdainful look.

“What? Are you jealous, babe? It’s just a lil thing on the side,” Villanelle drawls.

Eve is reminded, briefly, of Villanelle slowly stalking around her, slipping between different accents and personalities with ease. Sometimes she wonders if the Villanelle she knows is even the realest version of her.

“What’s the plan?” Eve asks.

A flicker of irritation across Villanelle’s face. Well, good, Eve thinks. She needs to take this seriously.

“You need to lighten up, Eve. You are really bringing the mood down,” Villanelle says.

“I don’t want to be left in the dark.”

“Stop worrying. I know what I am doing.” Villanelle frowns, quiet as she drives them into the tunnel. She sits back and relaxes, gathering her damp hair into a loose bun. Eve recognises the hairband as one from the assortment in her bedside table. When had Villanelle taken it?

“Hey, I’m not just following you around here. I need to know what you’re thinking. Hello? Are you listening?” Eve leans forward, searching for Villanelle’s gaze. Villanelle stares straight ahead, expression carefully blank. Eve scoffs and shakes her head. “Great, fine. I should’ve known you’d be a nightmare.”

Eve feels more than sees Villanelle’s shift in mood.

“You need to trust me, Eve,” Villanelle says quietly. There’s an edge to her voice, subtle but there. Eve turns to see Villanelle is meeting her eyes now. For a moment, Eve is surprised by the intensity in them. Her stomach twists in a familiar way, that mixture of excitement and fear. It is so much to have someone look at you like they can read every thought in your head.

Villanelle seems taken aback for a moment too. Her upper lip twitches, her eyes widen a millimetre. It is barely there, nothing. To anyone else it is nothing. Eve knows that it is everything.

“I will drive us somewhere so that we can sleep. Then I will figure out what we will do next.”

“We,” Eve corrects. “We will figure it out.”

Another near imperceptible twitch on Villanelle’s face. Nothing. Everything.

Villanelle’s mouth turns upwards, not a smile. “Okay, we.”

They are quiet for a while as they wait for the journey to begin. Eve passes the time by re-examining the documents. She thinks that Villanelle probably did this in the Aaron Peele days, back when Villanelle was plotting for them to run away together. Eve sees the axe in her hands, Raymond’s smashed skull, white brick ruins. She looks up to see Villanelle gazing at her again.

“What is it?” Eve’s voice comes out softer than she thought it would. It does that sometimes, mostly against her will.

“I do not want to be creepy and sniff your head,” Villanelle says.

Eve sits with those words for a moment. Repeats them in her head, takes in the serious expression on Villanelle’s face. This is important to Villanelle, somehow. This means something. This is big.

Eve hasn’t the faintest clue as to what it means.

“Alright,” Eve settles on. The unexpected is something she will have to live with, she supposes.

Villanelle smiles, more-so to herself than Eve, as she turns back to stare out the windscreen. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio, evidently pleased with herself.

Eve only realises later, when Villanelle finally turns to glance at her, that she has been sat watching her with an unconscious smile.

*

When Eve wakes, she finds that Villanelle has joined her. Eve lies still in the dim light, back aching against the cheap campervan bed. It’s barely larger than a single, and so Villanelle has draped herself around Eve’s body, head tucked under Eve’s chin, hands curled possessively around Eve’s upper arms. It reminds Eve of her childhood family cat. He had been wax-paper brown and anything but kind. He would hiss and scratch, but Eve would often awake to find him curled up on her chest, his claws gently curled into the fabric of her shirt. She thinks that he craved her company, but never knew how to accept it.

Eve looks at Villanelle. She smells like Eve’s shampoo.

Eve has to move. Her back is killing. She moves slowly, careful to keep her breathing even, wary of claws that could tighten at any moment. The whole time she is convinced that Villanelle will wake, but her jaw stays slack, her eyes rapidly moving behind the lids. Eve wonders what she dreams about.

Outside, the road is quiet. She doesn’t know what time it is. Early, definitely. The world is basked in a navy-blue hue. Eve stretches her legs, pacing a little up the road. Calais is nice. They could stay here, maybe. They could be happy.

Eve laughs quietly. Yeah, probably not. She thinks an eternity of co-existence in a campervan is pushing it.

Through the thin hedge to her left, Eve can see a field dotted with white. She looks closer and realises that it looks like a caravan holiday park.

She hears the campervan door opening, glances to see Villanelle strolling up the road. There’s a screwdriver in her hand.

“We’re swapping the plates,” Eve guesses.

Villanelle half-smiles. She looks tired.

“What would MI6 have done without you, hm?” Villanelle teases.

They take off their own plates first. Well, Villanelle does. Eve goes inside the campervan to find them something to eat. She finds a disgusting amount of rich tea biscuits in one of the cupboards. The hitchhiking couple clearly had a problem.

“I think hobnobs are my favourite,” Eve shares, crunching her way through a pack of rich tea. Villanelle pops off the back numberplate and shoots Eve a judgemental look. “What? They’re crunchy.”

“Hobnobs? Eve, they don’t even have chocolate.”

“So?”

“All good biscuits have chocolate,” Villanelle states, as if this is a universally accepted fact.

“What about custard creams?”

“I don’t like them.”

“I – really? How can you not like custard creams?”

Villanelle stands up. She gathers the numberplates and gestures for Eve to follow her up the road, through the gate and into the caravan park.

“I don’t know, Eve.” Villanelle keeps her voice low as they walk towards the nearest caravan. Her eyes glow with mischief, the curl of her mouth playful. “How can you like hobnobs?”

“Because they’re a good biscuit. And you can get chocolate covered ones,” Eve argues.

Eve glances around, slightly worried someone will catch them. But Villanelle is calm. She crouches down and swaps the plates with ease, not the faintest trace of panic sweat on her brow. Eve wipes her hands nervously against her trousers.

“I thought you were supposed to be a badass now,” Villanelle says lowly, handing Eve their new plates.

“Shut up.”

“You are so rude, Eve. And I am so nice to you.”

“Nice?” Eve snorts.

“Yes,” Villanelle replies seriously. “I am very nice.”

They return to the campervan and Eve watches Villanelle fix their new plates. Afterwards, Villanelle moves to the driver’s side.

“No, I’ll drive,” Eve says. “Just tell me which way to head.”

“You don’t like my driving?”

“You’re tired.” Eve holds out her hand expectantly. “Keys.”

Villanelle pauses, searching Eve’s face for something. Eve doesn’t know what she’s looking for exactly. It isn’t that deep. Not to Eve, at least.

Villanelle pulls out the keys and drops them in Eve’s palm. “Go straight to the main road. We’re going to Paris.”

*

At the hotel check-in, Villanelle is someone else again. Eve can tell that Villanelle enjoys this, the dressing up as other people, the games. Watching her is like observing the artist in a different medium. Everything about Villanelle is different, her micro-expressions, the way she stands, the emotion in her eyes. It’s art.

She is the realest thing Eve has ever seen.

Up in the hotel room, Villanelle carelessly drops her bag on the floor and flops backwards on the bed. Eve is more careful about dropping her luggage. She goes to the window, ears pricked for sirens.

“We’ll stay here for a couple days, right? That gives us time to think of something more permanent,” Eve says. Her hands are restless. She straightens the curtains. Puts them in her pockets. Pulls them out again.

Villanelle is infuriatingly calm. She lounges like a cat in the sun, unbothered.

“What do you want for lunch? Oh, I know where we should go.” Villanelle tucks an arm under her head and smiles dreamily at Eve. “There is a great place that does really good fish. You’ll like it.” 

“Lunch? You’re seriously thinking about lunch right now?”

Eve has the sudden desire to grab Villanelle’s shoulders and shake, to wrap her fingers around her throat and squeeze. Does she not grasp the situation they’re in?

Villanelle’s head lolls to the side, glancing across at the clock on the wall.

“Well, it is lunchtime, Eve,” Villanelle says. As Eve starts to pace back and forth, Villanelle sighs. “You should try to relax. Remember when you were happy for ten minutes yesterday? Maybe you should try that again.”

Eve stops pacing, wonders what to say to that. Several responses half-form on her tongue, most of them angry, some of them downright acidic. In the end she just scoffs and takes her hair down, tugging her fingers through the knots. So much for surviving The Twelve. Eve feels like she’s going to stress herself to death.

An hour later, they’re at the restaurant Villanelle suggested. Villanelle recommends the salmon. Eve gets the sea bass.

“How is it?” Villanelle asks, a knowing look in her eye.

“Fantastic,” Eve lies.

Eve tries to finish her food. She doesn’t understand how Villanelle is so blasé, devouring every last trace of sauce on her plate whilst Eve’s is still half full.

This is going to end badly. Eve knows it.

“The weather is nice. We should take a walk and then maybe catch a movie,” Villanelle says.

Eve isn’t listening. She’s shooting the neighbouring table surreptitious looks. Are they really tourists? Or are they assassins in disguise?

What if they missed something? What if there’s still a monster waiting to strike?

Eve hasn’t felt like this in a long time. She lost the ability to fear somewhere in between training with Yusuf and devoting her life to destroying The Twelve. But she can feel it now, crawling cold through her veins, and she can’t eat and can’t focus and for fucks sake, she was never supposed to have lived this long anyway. She isn’t supposed to be in bloody Paris worrying about someone who stalked her, drove Niko away, shot her and left her for dead.

Eve was never supposed to care like this.  

“I thought you wanted this,” Villanelle snaps.

Eve’s attention is suddenly drawn back. Villanelle looks angry, her cheeks pinched and twitching. Finally, Eve thinks, something other than her flippant attitude. But wait – what?

“What?”

“This.” Villanelle gestures between them. “I thought you wanted this. Or was your speech about broken pots a load of shit?”

Eve looks at Villanelle in disbelief. She knows that Villanelle is a volatile person, knows that she should deal with this more delicately, but –

“Are you seriously that fucking stupid?” Eve snaps before she can stop herself. Eve knows she’s done it again, spoken too impulsively, when Villanelle’s expression quickly grows cold. “I mean,” Eve is fast to elaborate, “none of that matters if we die, Villanelle. Do you get that? If we get caught, none of it matters.”

“And who exactly do you think is going to kill us, Eve?” Villanelle asks coolly.

Eve laughs shortly, hysterically. The people nearby give her an odd look. She doesn’t notice them.

“Gee, let me think,” Eve begins sarcastically. “How about MI6, for a start. And I’m sure there are people on The Twelve’s payroll that’ll want to find us.  Hey, what about literally any government in the world? I’m sure they’re totally cool with letting an international assassin waltz around. And what about all the people you’ve managed to piss off, huh? Oh, I’m sure there’s some Tom, Dick and Harry out there who would be more than happy to get rid of you.”

Eve finishes her rant, sits back and crosses her arms. She only wishes that she could slam a door right now. That would make it perfect.

Villanelle’s face had remained infuriatingly still throughout Eve’s outburst. Now, as Eve waits for her to reply, Villanelle slowly picks up her lemonade and sucks slowly at the straw. Eve’s cheek twitches in anger. Villanelle notices this and smiles.

Eve waits.

Villanelle puts the lemonade down. She sits back and purses her lips. She looks like she’s about to laugh.

Eve wants to kill her.

“You are worried about me. You could have said that instead of being a dick, Eve.”

“I thought you’d read between the lines.”

“I thought I wouldn’t have to do that anymore,” Villanelle says, surprisingly honest. Villanelle avoids her gaze, scratches instead at the tablecloth. “I don’t want to argue, Eve. I’m tired of it.” Pause. Villanelle looks up, her face almost neutral, but Eve knows her too well by now. “Aren’t you tired, Eve?”

Eve thinks of a similar conversation they once had. A chic Parisian apartment. A bed. A knife. So much blood. Jesus, so much blood.

Yes. Yes, by god she’s tired.

“Very,” Eve admits. She glances up at the ceiling, takes in a deep breath. She may as well jump now. “And scared. You, this,” Eve gestures between them. “This is all I have. Without you, I just…don’t know what the point of surviving any of it was.”

Villanelle looks openly gleeful to hear this. Her face is transformed with a childish smile. It softens the edges of her face, and Eve thinks that, like this, it would be easy to forget just what that face has done.

“I am a pretty good reward,” Villanelle brags.

Eve laughs quietly.

“Maybe,” Eve says.

There is no reason to be subtle anymore, no more games to play or hide behind. Eve allows herself to openly look at Villanelle. She watches as Villanelle tries to play it cool, as she picks up her lemonade and purposely avoids meeting her eye. But Eve is patient now. She waits until Villanelle can’t stand it anymore.

“We will figure something out. We will be okay,” Villanelle finally says. She puts the lemonade down and instead reaches across to touch the back of Eve’s hand. Light fingertips against her skin. Little things that bring you joy.

Eve hopes that she’s right.

*

The next twenty-four hours pass them by, and it becomes obvious that neither of them knows what to do next. Eve oscillates between the extreme stress of their situation and the unexpected lightness of being around Villanelle. Eve does realise, with some alarm, as Villanelle turns to look at her in the evening light, that she really is the sun.

“You think someone is going to come and kill us because of that stupid card,” Villanelle says, tracing her finger over Eve’s scar again. They’re supposed to be thinking of a plan. Instead, they’re in bed, naked. Eve blames Villanelle for the distraction. The fact Eve was the one to cross the room and kiss her first is beside the point.

“You really think we’ll be able to get away? No consequences, not one?”

“You are very strange, Eve,” Villanelle sighs. Her eyes drop to Eve’s mouth again as she shifts closer. Her fingers move down from Eve’s scar to trail across Eve’s hipbone. “We are supposed to be enjoying ourselves.”

Eve moves closer too, drawn like a magnet. Their mouths are an inch apart. Eve can see the freckles on Villanelle’s face, see the eyelashes brushing against her cheek. She’s so alive it makes Eve’s heart throb.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Eve whispers. Villanelle smiles against Eve’s mouth, saying nothing. She rolls Eve onto her back, settling her thighs firmly over Eve’s hips. Villanelle leans up, gazing down the length of Eve’s body. Eve is set alight with Villanelle’s gaze. Burning. Alive. “How often did you think about this?” Eve’s voice is gravelly.

“All the time,” Villanelle answers immediately. She moves as if to kiss Eve, but at the last moment turns to kiss her cheek instead. In Eve’s ear she whispers, “Well, less after I found out you were trying to screw my boss.”

“I was never trying to screw her,” Eve scoffs. When Villanelle leans back and pulls a face, Eve’s expression turns slightly sheepish. “You know how it is. Sometimes…these things happen.”

“Mm. I always end up taking baths with people I hate.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually jealous. I literally helped you kill her.”

“Helped? Eve,” Villanelle draws out her name slowly, incredulously. She smiles, half-laughing. “You almost stab me in the arm and you call that helping?”

“You’re forgetting that I could’ve stopped you. I could’ve helped Helene,” Eve points out.

Villanelle laughs fully this time.

“Me against you and Helene? Eve, come on,” Villanelle laughs. “That’s not even a fair fight.”

“Two against one isn’t that bad.”

“I meant for you,” Villanelle clarifies. “You two wouldn’t have stood a chance against me.”

Villanelle leans up, sitting comfortably across Eve. She wears an arrogant smile as Eve shamelessly rakes her eyes across her body.

“I could have beat you,” Eve argues. “I’ve caught you off-guard before.” Eve lifts her arm and presses two fingers into the raised pink skin on Villanelle’s abdomen. Eve lifts an amused eyebrow as Villanelle’s arrogance quickly switches to arousal.

“Beginner’s luck,” Villanelle breathes. “You wouldn’t be able to do it again.”

“You sure about that?”

Eve should’ve known Villanelle would call her bluff. She takes in a sharp breath as Villanelle’s hand quickly snakes between Eve’s thighs.

“Mm, pretty sure,” Villanelle whispers.

Later, in the hotel bar, they sit in the shadows and drink and laugh and make fun of the people they see. Villanelle has a cruel sense of humour, a way of cutting the hotel guests down with practiced ease. Eve revels in the freedom, enjoys the way neither of them needs to soften their barbs with lies that their cruelty is mere jest. This is fun, Eve thinks. She hasn’t had fun like this in a long time.

How long has it been since Eve went to the island? A little more than forty-eight hours? Eve is drunk on cocktails and Villanelle’s childish humour. For so long they couldn’t exist in the same room. For so long Eve believed – and knew it to be true – that they would implode if they spent more than a few minutes in each other’s presence.

Eve remembers, all too well, crocodile tears and a manipulative smile in her kitchen. She remembers a gun under a chin and a taunting laugh. She remembers a knife in a stomach and a bullet in her back. She remembers a cocky grin and a punch on a bus.

Now, Eve can’t stop looking at her. For years she kept Villanelle hidden in her mind, safe to ruminate on whilst pretending to focus on other things, normal things. It is such a relief to be here now, alive, Villanelle’s arm glued around her shoulder.

How ridiculous it is that people warned her about Villanelle’s version of love, obsession wrapped in vicious barbed wire. How could they not see that Eve nursed the same kind of poison?

“You cannot stop looking at me,” Villanelle says, mouth wide and grinning, impish almost.

Eve thinks that Villanelle may be drunk. Her accent is stronger than usual.

“You want me to look at you,” Eve grins. She takes Villanelle’s drink from her hand and draws a long sip.

“Eve, you’re so rude,” Villanelle says, playing at offense.

“You like it,” Eve replies flirtatiously.

“Well, this is disappointing. Hardly surprising, but disappointing.”

The drunken warmth evaporates. Eve’s blood runs cold, the arm around her shoulder tensing. Eve and Villanelle turn to where a figure has appeared in front of their shadowy booth.

Here it is – Eve’s bad feeling manifested.

“If either of you possessed even half a brain, you wouldn’t dream of getting plastered right now,” Carolyn intones emotionlessly.   

Eve wants to be more eloquent. She wants this moment to be bigger, better. She doesn’t want to be frozen inside, waiting for someone with handcuffs to appear. Or worse, someone with a rifle and a reason.

“Screw you,” Eve drunkenly spits instead.

Villanelle gives Eve’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Ignore her, she’s drunk,” Villanelle stage-whispers.

Carolyn pulls out a chair and sits down, careful to avoid the sticky tabletop. Okay, so Eve had accidentally knocked over a glass earlier. Sue her.

“Not to be rude, Carolyn, but Eve and I are enjoying our honeymoon,” Villanelle says.

“Is that so? Congratulations. I hope it goes better than it did with my second husband.”

“Oh?” Villanelle looks curious. “Did the sex get bad?”

“It did get a little tedious towards the end, I have to admit.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Carolyn?” Eve interrupts.

Carolyn’s expression barely changes. She’s like stone, as always.

“Impolite as ever, I see. Good to know you haven’t changed,” Carolyn remarks.

“Cut the crap. Why are you here?” Eve demands. She straightens up in her seat, alarmed at the way her stomach gurgles at the sudden movement. Oh, shit. The third cocktail pitcher had been a mistake. A very big mistake.

Eve hates that Carolyn can see how desperately she’s trying not to vomit.

“Screw you,” Eve says again, hoping this will regain her some dignity.

It doesn’t, obviously.

“Eve, it might do you some good to hear what I have to say before you rush to burn down any bridges.”

“I’m not interested in what you have to say.”

“Is that so?” Carolyn offers a small, pleased smile when Eve does not reply. “Excellent. Let’s get to the point then. As I’m sure you’re aware, this situation can never last. Not in the long run.” Carolyn looks at Villanelle. “You know that someone will come for you eventually. You know too much. You’ve done too much.”

“We’ll hide. We’ll make it,” Eve argues.

Carolyn turns cool eyes on Eve.

“Like you’re hiding now? Aren’t you at all concerned at how easy it was for me to find you, Eve?” Carolyn emits a dry chuckle. “It was embarrassingly easy. You’re trying to – what, exactly – run away? And yet you failed to discard a phone that’s registered to your legal name.”

Eve grimaces. Her grimace deepens when she feels Villanelle slowly turn to look at her.

“You didn’t dump your phone like I told you.” Villanelle sounds furious, accusing.

Looking across at Carolyn’s smug face, well, Eve supposes Villanelle has a right to be angry.

“It was expensive,” Eve defends.

“I cannot believe you have not been murdered yet. Seriously,” Villanelle deadpans.

 “Your lack of intelligence aside, I believe I have a solution that might benefit us all. Only if you’re interested, of course, which you will be.”

“And what solution is that, exactly?” Eve snaps.

Carolyn regards Eve with cool disdain. Eve always had been the most difficult employee.

“Easy,” Carolyn says. She settles back in her seat and nods calmy at Villanelle. “She needs to die.”

*

Eve stands by the window, refusing to aid in Carolyn’s scheme. The worst part is that Eve knows she’s being petulant. It is a good idea. It’s much better than anything she or Villanelle have come up with. Then again, any plan is better than the big fat nothing plan she and Villanelle have.

Eve used to be smart, once upon a time. Villanelle also used to be smart.

Maybe Carolyn is right. Feelings really do turn the best of people into complete morons.

“Eve, c’mon, don’t you want to watch me die?” Villanelle whines.

Villanelle is too excited about this. Eve thinks that Villanelle might still be a bit tipsy.

Villanelle arranges a mess of dog food and broken white plate on the bedspread. Then she spurts fake blood onto the back of her head, happily rubbing until the blonde strands turn dark red.

“This is fucking ridiculous. Nobody’s going to buy this,” Eve says.

Villanelle lies down and lets Carolyn pour some kind of dark, messy jelly onto the back of her head. A fake gunshot wound. Jesus, it’s like watching a shitty play.

“Are you sure she’s the one, Villanelle? I have to warn you, she is unfortunately always this bad-tempered,” Carolyn says.

Eve glares at Carolyn’s back whilst Villanelle laughs into the bedspread.

“Oh, you know how it is, Carolyn,” Villanelle replies easily. “You just have to keep your mouth shut. Wait until she is done being crazy.”

“You know that I can hear you, right?” Eve snaps.

“Eve!” Villanelle sounds positively delighted. “You’re still here! I’d almost forgotten.”

“You know what, maybe I’ll let her shoot you for real.”

“See, this is what I mean, Eve. You are the mean one in this relationship.”

“Forget it.” Eve turns to Carolyn. “Just shoot her. Put me out of my misery.”

Carolyn places a shell case amongst the fake brains and bone. Seriously, Eve thinks, dog food and a broken plate. She hopes that MI6 have gotten exceptionally stupid in the time since she left because seriously – seriously?

“It’ll work, Eve. People tend to believe what they want,” Carolyn says. Eve watches as Carolyn steps back and takes a photograph of Villanelle’s corpse. “Hmm.” Carolyn examines the photo. “This’ll do.”

Eve yanks the phone out of Carolyn’s hands and looks at the image. The quality is awful, blurred, totally unfocused. Surprisingly, the mess on the bed doesn’t obviously look like dog food. The congealed mess in Villanelle’s hair doesn’t look entirely fake.

“What about me?” Eve finally asks. At Carolyn’s look, she elaborates, “I was on the boat too. And I’ve done…” Eve pauses. Has she done anything legal for the past few years? Shooting people in the head definitely isn’t legal. Not wrong, Eve thinks, but certainly illegal. And she did kidnap a kid for the day, but she didn’t hurt her so that’s mostly okay, right? “…things,” Eve tails off uncertainly.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Eve, but I don’t think anyone at MI6 is that concerned about what you do,” Carolyn says.

Eve takes offense at that.

Villanelle, miraculously risen, stands up. She picks at the jelly in her hair, her face scrunching in disgust.

“This feels gross,” Villanelle complains.

“Uh, it was your idea to get shot in the head,” Eve reminds her.

Villanelle ignores this and continues to pout. Her face lights up with sudden glee.

“Eve, will you wash my hair?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Eve near-yells. “Half hour ago, you threw my phone out the window!”

“Yes? That was necessary, Eve, don’t be upset about it.”

Eve folds her arms and returns to glaring out the window. She can see the broken shards of her phone across the carpark. Villanelle hasn’t even offered to buy her a new one.

Carolyn looks ready to leave. She seems beyond fed up with them both.

“Well, I’ll be off. If it works, you can expect a delivery here within the next forty-eight hours. If nothing comes,” Carolyn pauses for dramatic effect. It had always annoyed Eve, even more-so now. “Well, I would certainly advise to think of something better than this current situation.”

“Don’t worry. If it doesn’t work, Eve will just kill me for real,” Villanelle says.

Eve glares at her again.

“For what it’s worth, I hope it works out,” Carolyn says. “Everything is worth a chance, don’t you think?”

“Why are you even doing this? Bargaining your way back into MI6, fine. But why not actually kill us? Why bother going through all of this?” Eve demands.

“Would you rather I just killed you, Eve? I’m surprised you want to give up now.”

Eve shakes her head and scoffs. She looks at Carolyn, at this woman who hides behind government power and hushed conversations and secrets sewn into the undersides of chessboards.

“I know you’re Twelve. I don’t care what you say. You’re a liar,” Eve decides.

“Eve –”

“No.” Eve holds up her hand, silencing Villanelle’s interruption. “No. We can’t trust her.”

“Eve,” Villanelle tries again, quieter this time. Softer. Eve looks at her and feels some of her resentment subside. Feelings, wow, she should’ve known they would be the thing to ruin everything in the end. “This can work, Eve. We have to try.”

“She is a liar,” Eve spits, jabbing an accusing finger at Carolyn. “And we are a pain in the ass. Why should she help us?”

“You’re right, Eve, you are a pain in the ass,” Carolyn cuts in. “And it’s for that reason that, as much as I dislike you, I do equally like you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You are so insufferable, Eve. Honestly. In all of my years I’ve never had an employee quite as irritating as yourself. It’s admirable.”

Eve scoffs.

“You want to know what I think?” Eve glares.

Carolyn sighs. “It doesn’t matter what I say, Eve. You’re going to tell us all anyway.”

“You’re going to crawl your way back into MI6, pretending that you’ve gotten rid of The Twelve for good. You’re going to take all the credit, including Villanelle’s death, all whilst keeping us in your back pocket as a gotcha card for whenever something goes wrong and you need someone to help you out of the shit. This has always been a game for you. I am nothing but a pawn on your chessboard.”

Carolyn almost looks impressed.

“There’s certainly no need for me to say anything else. It seems as if you’ve made up your mind,” Carolyn says. She turns and nods at Villanelle in parting acknowledgement. “Goodbye, to both of you. Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that we won’t have to meet again.”

Carolyn makes to leave. She opens the door but stops in the doorway when Eve says her name.

Eve’s face may as well have been carved from stone.

“Don’t make the mistake of double-crossing us, Carolyn,” Eve warns.

Carolyn looks at Villanelle, who is watching Eve with quiet pride. Villanelle meets Carolyn’s eye. After a moment, Carolyn tilts her head.

“Ah.” Carolyn smiles as if in great understanding. “I see it now. Goodbye Eve, Villanelle. Please try not to kill each other, or this will have been a gigantic waste of my time.”

*

If Eve had her way, they would not have stayed at the hotel. Eve wanted to jump in the campervan and run off somewhere, anywhere. It was Villanelle who forced them to stay.

“Two days, Eve. Let’s give Carolyn a chance.”

“I cannot believe that you trust her.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes, stealing more fries from Eve’s plate. She has already grown used to Eve’s irritated-but-secretly-fond glares.

“Sometimes you have to take a risk,” Villanelle tells her patiently. “Two days. We can wait.”

Somehow, miraculously, Eve is called to the hotel desk to find a delivery waiting for them. She knows that she should be more subtle but she rips open the envelope in the elevator, blindly pressing the button for their floor.

Eve can barely believe it. Here it is – everything they need. New identities, MI6 watertight. Money, not a fortune but plenty to get them settled somewhere. She’s holding an actual future in her hands. She’s looking at a real possibility.

It only hits Eve then, staring dumbly at the papers in her hands. They’re alive. They got away. They’re actually going to have a life.

Villanelle finds Eve crying in the elevator, sat on the floor with the envelope in her lap. Villanelle panics at first, but relaxes once she realises Eve is only being dramatic.

“Why are you crying? This is good. We will be fine now,” Villanelle frowns. She snorts at the handwritten note slipped into Maria Bogomolova’s passport. “This love-note about shooting me on sight if I ever come to the UK is a little rude, but otherwise I think this is good news. Right? Eve?”

Eve feels so much. Her head is going to combust. Her heart is going to give out. So much has happened over the past few years. How many times has she almost died? How on earth has she survived this?

She looks at Villanelle, at her stupid confused face.

“Eve?” Villanelle asks uncertainly.

“I’m so happy,” Eve sobs. She can barely breathe. She tries to steady her breaths, her lungs wheezing. Villanelle puts an awkward hand on her back, her eyes wide in confusion.

“Okay,” Villanelle nods. Pause. “Okay,” She repeats, the best she can muster.

“We’re going to kill each other. You’re going to fight with our neighbours. I’m going to burn the kitchen down,” Eve sobs.

The confusion leaves Villanelle’s face. Villanelle smiles, settling down onto the floor beside Eve. She pulls her in for a hug, Eve’s tears wetting her chest. She runs her fingers through Eve’s hair, just like she’d always wanted to.

“I can’t wait for us to kill each other,” Villanelle says. “It is going to be amazing.”

*

They end up in a townhouse in Atlanta, Georgia. Initially, neither of them wanted to live in America. Eve had her own reasons, mostly to do with memories from her childhood and the irrational fear that someone might recognise her. Villanelle’s reasons had been more superficial, mostly in that she disliked American food.

“Why is it always so greasy, Eve?” Villanelle curls her lip and throws the uneaten hotdog into the bin. “It’s disgusting.”

“Okay? Then don’t buy lunch from a food truck. It’s really not that hard.”

“Eve.”

Eve waits for the next complaint.

Villanelle blinks at her, saying nothing.

“Oh, was that it?”

“Was that what?”

Eve takes a deep breath. She battles the urge to react. She knows that’s what Villanelle wants, can tell just by the twitching of her upper-lip. Pissing off Eve is Villanelle’s favourite hobby.

“I hope you fail all of your classes,” Eve settles on. She grins at the petulant look she receives in response.

“You are so mean, Eve. I hope you get horrible class feedback.”

Eve teaches psychology classes now, something she is mostly qualified to do. Galina Tagaeva is qualified to do it, at least, and she has Eve’s face so landing the university job was easy. Villanelle studies languages, determined to expand her already wide variety of tongues. If someone had told Eve that this was where they would end up, she would have laughed until her lungs collapsed.

Villanelle claims that she is friends with people in her classes, but Eve isn’t entirely sure this is true. She’s heard, through the faculty, that Villanelle – or, as she is publicly known, Maria – has a tendency to interrupt and boss around both her teachers and classmates. There is one student, another girl who likes to wear black and talk endlessly about Stephen King novels, who Maria is rumoured to be somewhat nice to. Maria, at least, is kind to the poor Stephen King girl after she is assaulted at a party. A few days later, the girl’s attacker is found mysteriously dead in the bushes around campus.

“He fell down the stairs,” Villanelle says. She strips off her blood-spattered shirt and drops it in the laundry basket. It’s overflowing. They’re not very good at the chores thing. “So unfortunate.” Villanelle takes a bloodied penknife from her pocket and rinses it clean in the sink.

“So unfortunate,” Eve says distractedly, frowning at the textbook in her hands. The author’s understanding of psychopathy feels wildly out of date. Eve will have to update the course material.

One afternoon, a year or so after arriving in Atlanta, Villanelle sits beside Eve on the sofa. She starts complaining about a supposed unfair grade in her Japanese class and then compares it to a time when her mother had once called her stupid. Eve’s ears prick, curious, as Villanelle often talks in circles to avoid discussing her family. Villanelle sighs again, glaring angrily down at her exam paper, and declares that she may have to burn down her tutor’s house too.

“Too?” Eve dares to ask. She’s careful to keep her tone light, jovial. The times before when Eve has tried to ask about Villanelle’s family, to ask about whatever the fuck happened in between their fight on the bus and Villanelle’s near-breakdown at the ballroom, Villanelle has always shut her down. One time she threw an almighty tantrum, tearing Eve’s clothes from the dresser and tossing them downstairs. Then she’d picked up a kitchen knife and threatened to give Eve a matching scar, pressing her into the counter, and Eve had stared straight back at her, unafraid, waiting patiently for the tornado to pass. Eve made Villanelle sleep on the sofa that night, and in the morning, she put salt instead of sugar in Villanelle’s coffee. Villanelle sat and drank it all, keeping eye contact with Eve the entire time, and then rushed to vomit it up before they left for campus.

Eve is aware, in a distant kind of manner, that a trained therapist might question the healthiness of their relationship. But Eve doesn’t really care what any of them might say. She’s happy. Villanelle is happy. It isn’t boring. They aren’t boring.

And it’s so nice never to be bored.

A rare look of uncertainty crosses Villanelle’s face. Then –

“Yes, I have done it before. I went to Russia to see my family.” Villanelle carefully folds the exam paper in half and sets it on the coffee table. “I killed my mother with a knife and then I set the house on fire.” There is a pause. “She did not want me to stay.”

Eve’s mind races, answers to old questions slotting away nicely. It’s probably not the normal reaction to have when someone admits to killing their family. Eve should be more horrified, she thinks, instead of feeling satisfied that she can add one more piece to the puzzle that is Villanelle. Then again, Eve hasn’t been normal for a long time. Maybe never.

There isn’t really much to say. Villanelle looks at Eve expectantly, her expression a little guarded. Eve knows that she’s bracing for judgement. It’s probably why she’s spent so long avoiding the topic. Villanelle probably fears Eve’s rejection.

And that’s interesting, Eve thinks, that Villanelle would regard this as Eve’s potential last straw. Do the two of them even have last straws? Is there a limit?

The truth is, if Villanelle snaps and kills her one day, Eve doesn’t even think she’d feel upset about it. In a twisted kind of way, it would almost feel right. Eve doesn’t want to grow old enough to be weak and incompetent. She doesn’t want to end up wasting away in an armchair drinking tea and eating stale biscuits. She’d much rather live for now and bask in whatever that means.

If it does happen, Eve thinks getting consumed by the thing she loves isn’t the worst way to go.

“There was this aunt I always wanted to drop dead when I was a kid,” Eve eventually replies.

Villanelle leans her head against the back of the sofa, narrows her eyes like a cat. She half-smiles, hand reaching to brush against Eve’s arm. Eve knows they’re going to have sex now, fast and hard on the floor. It will hurt her back. Later, when Eve complains about it aching, Villanelle will call her an old lady and be a complete dick about it. Then she’ll run Eve a hot bath and insist they watch a movie in bed together because “Eve, you need to rest your brittle bones.”

Eve often still thinks about Martin’s words. Little things that bring you joy. Someone who calls you old and then rocks you to sleep.

*

It is a few days after Villanelle tells Eve about her mother that she asks to be called Oksana. Eve pauses, knife hovering over the chopping board. Villanelle is pretending to help in the way she always does, meaning that she stands beside Eve and oscillates between complimenting Eve’s slicing skills – “Really, Eve, I bet you are amazing at stabbing” – and insulting Eve’s current outfit. Villanelle had decorated their house, which Eve was more than happy to let her do, but Eve had drawn the line when Villanelle had attempted to dictate Eve’s entire wardrobe.

“Your clothes are so drab, Eve. You look depressed,” Villanelle had whined.

“You say that and then you keep stealing my shirts,” Eve had replied, at which point Villanelle had gone conveniently deaf.

Eve looks at Villanelle now. Her face seems softer lately. Less acid in her eyes. More velvet in her fingertips. Eve can’t remember when that started to happen. She thinks, strangely, that the change happened long before moving here, long before the boat.

Villanelle returns Eve’s gaze uncertainly.

“What?” Villanelle asks. “It is my name.”

“I know. I just, I don’t know. I thought you hated it.”

“I did. I do.”

“Okay?”

Eve continues to slice the carrots. She scrapes them into the ragu simmering on the stove.

Villanelle is fidgeting beside her, chewing at her jumper sleeve. Eve’s jumper sleeve, actually. For all of Villanelle’s complaining, Eve’s clothes end up on her body a suspicious amount of the time.

“I feel like Villanelle is an asshole,” Villanelle says, and when Eve laughs instinctively, Villanelle frowns and says, “I am being serious.”

Eve snorts. “Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s funny.” Eve glances to see Villanelle has crossed her arms, slightly scowling. She is so grumpy. It is like living with a child, sometimes. A sometimes violent, cruel, and perpetually attention-seeking child. Never boring. “I like Villanelle, you know. And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re definitely still an asshole.”

“Okay, so are you,” Villanelle returns, irritably.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Eve shrugs.

Villanelle goes to the fruit-bowl and picks up an apple. She looks at Eve, daring her to say something. Eve glances at the food cooking on the stove. She looks back at Villanelle.

Stalemate.

Villanelle takes a bite.

“Really?” Eve deadpans.

“I want you to call me Oksana now,” Villanelle repeats.

“Okay, fine. Oksana, you’re an asshole.”

The smile that lights up Oksana’s face should be hung in a museum somewhere, Eve thinks. She never knew she’d witness the moment the artist became the art.

*

Eve knows that Oksana loves her, although neither of them have ever said it. They have lived together for almost three years now, and still those words are not present in their vocabulary. That’s definitely something a therapist would raise their eyebrows at. Or maybe, upon reflection, they wouldn’t. A therapist would probably be happy to hear that they don’t toss around such a sentimentality. After all, those words don’t belong in a house where clothes are occasionally set alight, in a house where knives are sometimes trawled across skin, in a house where a stranger’s blood is often scrubbed from underneath fingernails at the kitchen sink. It’s disappointing, actually, when Eve thinks about it too hard. Most people are wildly unimaginative.

Nevertheless, the fact remains. The absence of the words doesn’t equate to the absence of the feeling. And besides, Oksana is sneaky. She often tries to trick Eve into saying it when they’re having sex. Eve will be close, agonisingly so, and Oksana will pull back and goad Eve into rolling three little words off her tongue. Those moments are the real evil, Eve believes, more than the stabbing and shooting and the one time they smashed all their kitchenware because they were arguing about…well, Eve doesn’t actually remember what that argument was about. The important part had been the sex afterwards, when Eve had sucked at the cut on Oksana’s collarbone and neither of them had ever, ever apologised.

The point is, Eve knows this is their last game of chicken. It’s fun, truly. She’s not sure how they could exist without some form of game between them, without some kind of promise that one day, one of them will be declared the winner. Last summer, Oksana started a vegetable patch in the garden. Eve had watched her dig it, stood at the kitchen window, as Oksana knelt in the dirt and carelessly spread mud all over the grass. Oksana had turned at one point, sensing Eve’s eyes on her, and they had stared at each other. Oksana’s face had been carefully blank; she could’ve been thinking about anything. Maybe she was envisaging burying Eve under the tomatoes. Maybe she was thinking about fucking her. Maybe it was both. Maybe she was thinking of absolutely nothing at all.

Never boring.

“One day you will tell me,” Oksana declares, collapsing down on the bed. Eve leans onto her side, smoothing her hand down Oksana’s back. Her fingers pass across the arrow scar like it is nothing more than another freckle. Most days Eve can’t believe those years had been real at all. Did they really do all of that? Did they really chase each other around the world? Did they really choose to lay down their swords and settle down in a nowhere street in a townhouse with a dodgy heating system?

“I’ll tell you right now if you tell me first,” Eve offers.

Oksana pillows her head on her hands. She looks at Eve almost like she’s truly considering it.

“Mm, I don’t think so. I think I will wait for you to say it.”

Eve laughs quietly. She lies on her back, reaching to tangle her fingers with Oksana’s.

“Good luck waiting.”

“I do not need luck. I will win.”

Eve doesn’t need to say a word. She already knows from the look on Oksana’s face, knows it by the mischievous glint in her eye. Little things that bring you joy. The people who know you, who understand you, who know your soul. Neither of them can lose a game they’ve already won.

*

In the end, Eve thinks people might be bored at how their story ends. It began with so much excitement, after all, so much promise. They could’ve ripped each other apart with their teeth, swallowed each other whole and vanished in a blaze of fire. And that would’ve been fine, honestly. Eve would’ve been okay with that.

And it could still happen one day, you know. There’s Oksana’s vegetable patch. Eve still likes to plan things, envisaging just how she would perfectly dispose of a spouse’s body. Eve is not someone who likes to be caught, after all. But neither is Oksana. And yet here they are.

So, love is this, Eve thinks, this whittling down to the bone type thing. It’s peeling away just enough to fit two misshapen triangles into a square. It’s regrowing skin that’s toxic to anyone but each other. It’s shattering each other to pieces and gluing yourselves together with blood. It’s kintsugi. It’s art.

And Eve has always recognised good art. It’s only logical that she would love an artist.

Eve and Oksana, two people in a townhouse. Dents in the walls and bloodied clothes in the laundry basket. No verbal declarations. Plenty of insults. Boredom free. Normal, almost. Little things that bring you joy. Just two people who stalked and killed their way into love.

The end.