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“Asshole,” Villanelle swiped a bit of leaf from the corner of her mouth in disgust, foot testing the strength of the wooden V it rested awkwardly in. It held.
“Connard,” She redoubled her grip on the trellis, furry, fragile vines crushing and darkening under her fingers, leaking watery, sticky plant-goo that seeped under her rings and into the creases of her palm.
“Bastardo,” She heaved herself up, grabbing the next empty diamond, more plant matter crushing, oozing. Again, and again, the trellis creaked a little under the abuse. Small splinters of wood snapped and flaked away from the frame as she climbed, stuck to her hands, her shirt, her shorts.
“пизд-” She pressed herself into the musty smelling leaves when a car on the road rolled past the end of the drive, engine rumbling through the inky hues of 4am. It disappeared into the distance, past where Villanelle had parked her own car on the other side of one of the garden’s hedges, concealed from view from both the road and the house.
Elbowing more leaves from her face, Villanelle resumed her climb, swearing steadily as she went, hair in her face, blood still boiling whenever she remembered whose house this was. Konstantin was convinced she didn’t know where this safe house was, or that it existed, and she had gone to great lengths to keep it that way for an occasion such as this.
Next time Konstantin texted Eve pretending to be her, she swore she would just bring Semtex to this not-so-safe-house and be done with it.
Almost in reach, the window above her was open, rolled half-way up- more than enough. She reached for the sill, sticky fingers grasping for some friction, splinters nipping at her skin uncomfortably. So far- considering how well the so-called ‘man of the house’ knew her- this had been remarkably, hilariously, suspiciously easy.
Villanelle stopped short midway through swinging her legs into the room, one hand on the inside of the window frame, one on the bottom of the raised window itself, legs bent and hovering in place for a moment.
She had been expecting to find the rooms occupant asleep, hopefully in an embarrassing position that she could photograph for ammunition later- couldn’t be worse than that passport photo. Disappointingly, the occupant was standing by the edge of the bed, hands on hips, looking expectantly at Villanelle like she’d caught her… well, breaking into her bedroom.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” The assassin asked absurdly, letting her legs settle and standing up. She looked at her grubby hands, and then scanned the room for something to wipe them down with, preferably something with sentimental value.
A snort. “Well, I was, until you swore your way through the European Union all the way up to my window.”
Villanelle made a childish face. “Russia isn’t in the EU.” She muttered, pulling the wardrobe doors open and chucking a jacket at Irina. It hit her in the face and then slumped to the floor when she made no attempt to grab it.
“Nice reflexes, arse. Put it on before I wipe sap all over something you care about.”
“My mother’s on the floor above,” Irina smiled saccharinely, even as she got the finger. “And that’s not sap, it’s-”
Villanelle pulled her gun from her jacket pocket and Irina groaned, swiping her jacket from the floor.
“Are you sure you’re not a pedophile?” She asked antagonistically, shrugging the denim over her shoulders.
The gun cocked, and Irina rolled her eyes.
Irina looked down at herself with her arms held out, white pyjama bottoms, black tank-top decorated with small white stars, and an oversized jacket hanging from her small frame.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You’re clothes don’t change that.”
“Hey- hey!” She lunged for Villanelle’s arm and tried to wrestle a blue teddy bear away from her as the assassin smirked, hands much cleaner. She let Irina pluck it away from her.
“You have five seconds to put shoes on.”
“That’s not even possible.”
“Four seconds.”
More eye-rolls, and Irina snatched some socks from a chair and put them on, sulkily glancing up at Villanelle every few seconds.
“How’s the Mandarin coming along?”
“Shut up.”
A pair of Converses were fished out from under the bed and Villanelle ignored Irina’s mumbling as she looked about for what she needed.
“I can’t believe we are doing this again, you need some friends your own age-”
“Shut. Up."
“Ugh.”
Mindful of the general clutter as to not make a noise, Villanelle picked her way across the predictable cream carpet and then lifted a photo frame from on top of a pine dresser.
Irina craned her neck from behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Which part of ‘shut up’ hurts you so badly?” Villanelle snapped over her shoulder, waving one arm.
Irina pouted excessively and clutched her heart. “The part where you say it.”
Villanelle closed her eyes for strength and started looking around again, still holding the photo.
“You know, it is very narcissistic to have your own school photograph displayed in your bedroom, sausage.” She flipped it over in her hands, simple white-washed wooden frame clattering quietly against her rings.
Irina struggled with the laces and wrinkled her nose at the nickname, not taking her eyes from the bow she was making. “My mother puts it back, no matter where I hide it.”
“You can’t be very good at hiding things.”
“She’s very good at finding things.”
Villanelle grinned, white teeth catching the light from the window. “Let’s hope. Come on, we’re going for a little holiday.”
“This is a kidnapping. Again.”
“You are such a drama queen, it is a very short-notice holiday.”
Irina hummed patronisingly as she swung her legs out of the window and sighed, turning to manoeuvre down the trellis.
Sighing, Villanelle used the butt of her gun to smash a small, web-like shattering into the glass over each of Irina’s eyes, and then tossed it onto the bed with a satisfied chuckle. Konstantin was going to lose his tiny mind.
Standing slack-armed at the bottom of the trellis, Irina watched Villanelle putting her gun back in her leather jacket disinterestedly.
“It would have been very funny if you had fired that while trying to climb down.”
“Only if it was pointing at you.” Villanelle parried, ruffling Irina’s already sleep-muzzed hair a little rougher than necessary. Irina dodged away and ran her hands through the curls, trying to get the knots out.
“I’m tired.” She whinged, looking back up at her bedroom.
“You’re being kidnapped, you can’t be tired.”
“What happened to ‘a very short-notice holiday’?” Irina mocked Villanelle’s voice as a hand closed around her wrist and started marching her across the grass to the break in the hedges Villanelle had entered the gardens from.
“I lied.”