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You don’t know how to do this. It’s not rote, or practiced. Doesn’t come easy. Definitely not natural.
The chasing — now that was easy. That was fun.
There are other things that are easy for you. Murder. Blowing insane amounts of cash on fripperies. Being a dick to people for your own amusement. Sex. Hate sex. (This last one took some practice, but considering it started to feel that way with Anna, by the end, you’ve sort of got it down.)
These things were enough to satisfy you for a time. A long time, actually.
But you find that you don’t really want them anymore.
Well. Some of them, anyway. (Retail therapy will always have its place, for one; no matter what painful self-discovery you may be undergoing, you will not be doing it in cast-offs, or god forbid, whatever fast fashion is.)
In their place, you really just want Eve.
The painful sincerity of this sentiment provokes a cringe, even inside your own head, but, well, there it is.
You want Eve and there was a time where you were pretty damn sure that she wanted you, too.
Because you aren’t alone in this. You know you aren’t. You may not be normal, but you’re confident just the same that no one is ready and willing to scuttle their marriage and abandon their friends and their job and basically blow up their life if they don’t feel something, too.
And you’ve seen the way she looks at you. The way she looked at you in Moscow, behind an outstretched gun. In Rome, after she killed a man for you. In London, on a bridge. When she looked back.
(And she looked back first. She stopped first . You’re never going to forget that, no matter what. You’re never going to let her forget that.)
So, no. This isn’t some delusion you’ve built up. And you’d really fucking appreciate if she could just own up to it for once.
You feel something for Eve. Something real. Something like love. And after the bridge — when she stopped and turned first — and you looked at each other, your heart swelling in your chest until you thought your ribs might crack with the weight of your emotions, the weight of your relief, you thought something had changed. That something would change.
And, well, it did. Sort of.
And it sort of didn’t.
You’re in this, together, now. You’ve picked her, so many times, and she’s finally picked you back. You thought that that would mean things would finally be different, that by being the one to choose you she’s also decided to finally, finally be honest with herself.
Honest about how she feels. Towards her life, about what she wants, about who she is. About you.
Neither of you walked away, that night on the bridge. And then you ran away. Together.
And you’re still running. It seems that spurning the inappropriately-touching but admittedly attractive Helene, and pushing that girl, the so-called other assassin in the ugly tactical pants, in front of a train has ruffled some feathers somewhere, and in the three days since you and Eve left the bridge, together, you’ve hardly had a minute of rest or respite, tails and too-slow cars and large men with guns under their suit jackets and overly casual strides suddenly everywhere. Maybe they blame you for that Paul person Carolyn shot, too, though why you are suddenly responsible for every bit player who’s been thrust into your life, you have no idea.
(And you’re just assuming it’s the Twelve; the fact is, you don’t know if it’s Konstantin — who is not your family, never your family, you know this now — or MI6 or really just Carolyn who is out for your blood or your skills or simply your lifeless bodies. But you’re pretty sure you don’t care to find out, and on this point, at least, you and Eve are in clear, vocal agreement.)
But in all the rush and stress and focus, there hasn’t been a moment for the only thing you actually want — some acknowledgment from Eve, herself. Yes, she turned, but why? What is this to her? She offers nothing, her eyes tight and her grip on your hand strong, but with no clarity as to what it is exactly that you’re doing here.
And you need to know. After all that’s happened, from Paris to Rome to Grizmet to now, you need that truth from her lips alone. You need her to talk to you, to give an inch of vulnerability that you might find the same in yourself and begin to shed some of the burdens that still haunt every snatch of sleep you’ve managed to steal in the past few days, the faces you see there that you cannot shake, the smell of gasoline and a lit match.
She hasn’t seemed to have gotten the message. (And the suggestion that the two of you might be on different pages, again, is almost too much to be borne.)
Neither of you walked away. And she turned first.
And you just can’t take it anymore.
Granted, a firefight probably isn’t the best place to air these grievances.
Too bad you’ve never been one to adhere to common sense. (This is where you would smugly tell Eve that, after all, there is nothing common about you, and she would roll her eyes but her lips would twitch tellingly, and maybe you would nudge her playfully and then take her hand in yours, and she would squeeze it once before rubbing her thumb across your knuckles, but you’re mad at her so none of that will happen.)
(Also, all the gunfire.)
“What?” She screams, hands clasped protectively over her head as bullets whizz overhead, some slamming into the column she’s huddled behind with little puffs of dust and chips of plaster flying.
“You heard me!” You scream right back, then promptly duck back into the cover of the overturned desk you’re crouched behind as a spate of bullets thunder through the air.
“Villanelle— this really isn’t the best time—”
“It never is!” A part of you realizes that this really isn’t the best time, what with the pack of goons currently orchestrating their silly little attempt on your life — and you don’t even know if they’re from the Twelve or are just hired guns or someone else from your checkered past, a lot of people want to kill you — but you’re unrestrained now, the roiling pit of confusion and frustration and hurt in your stomach finally boiling over.
(And you know what, that’s another thing to add to the list of things you’re annoyed at Eve about, you never had to deal with this nonstop onslaught of emotion until you met her, and if not all the emotion you’re confronting is directly related to her, her entrance into your life is still the initial domino that caused the rest of them to fall, so there.)
“What are you talking ab—”
“Why are you here, Eve?”
She has the gall to look confused. “We ran in here because we were being chased, do you not remember?”
You tip your head back and let out a scream of frustration. (The gunfire, meanwhile, continues uninterrupted; the idiots currently trying to kill you two really cannot take a hint.) “You are infuriating!”
“What is the matter with—”
“Why are you here, Eve. With me.”
You watch as the confusion on her face settles into something more unreadable, before, out of nowhere, morphing into irritated consternation. (And she does not get to be annoyed with you. Not when you are already being annoyed with her!!) “You can’t be serious. Are you actually doing this right now?!”
“You never want to do it! You’d never acknowledge—” you pause here as her eyes widen, and you turn in time to neatly evade the hulking goon who’s managed to flank you (at least one of these morons is showing some initiative, good for him), avoiding his grab and using the moment of off-balance to incapacitate him with a few choice blows that may or may not be fueled by your current anger. (Hopefully he didn't really need those teeth?) You shove him out to sprawl before you, and as the gunfire pauses, your attackers presumably trying to recalculate how to shoot aimlessly without hitting their colleague, you turn back to Eve. “—You’d never acknowledge anything if you could!”
The words seem louder in the moment of quiet, and you watch her face closely, searching for any hint of the affirmation for which you’re desperate. She’s still, looking back at you; you can hear the gears turning, as they always do. She licks her lips once before saying, “I...thought that’s what you wanted?”
You just look at her, aware that you’re gaping. “What?”
The gunfire starts up again, and you both duck back behind your respective covers, Eve letting out a yelp as a corner of your desk explodes in a shower of wood chips. You, on the other hand, are still preoccupied with more pressing matters. “You thought...what?”
She looks even more irritated now, which drives you up the absolute wall. “I was giving you space!”
“You were giving me—”
“—You’ve been so quiet and withdrawn, and we’ve been, oh yeah, running for our lives for the past three days! I wanted to let you...I don’t know, work through whatever it is you’re working through in your own time!"
You are going to kill her. You are. As soon as you save both your lives. “Why would you think I needed space?!”
She glares at you now. “I was trying this thing where I don’t endlessly question you and psychoanalyze you and let you come to me when you’re ready, you asshole. How could you ask me why I’m here? How could you not know?! And I’ve been through a lot of shit in the last month too, not to mention in the last six months since you shot me, were you gonna ask me about any of that?!”
It is your turn to stop short; pure befuddlement flows through you, blunting your anger, and a million replies crowd your mind. What comes out is: “You never talk about yourself, I thought that was what you preferred! I was giving you—”
“Space!” Eve says this at the same time as you, and then you two just look at each other for a moment.
You finally find your voice. “But—”
You are interrupted, again, by another corner of your desk turning into splinters, and your irritation boils over once more; with a growl, you sweep up the fallen man’s gun — as if the idiot ever had a chance to get a shot off — and rise up over the top of the desk to squeeze off a few well-aimed rounds; the resulting howls neatly prove that when shooting at those who have not managed to emotionally compromise you, you are actually a crack shot, thank you.
You duck back behind the desk even as your attackers start to yell, clearly not expecting their numbers to thin so quickly or unexpectedly, and turn back to Eve, who is staring at you, fire in her eyes.
Before you can react, she is surging to her feet, and then, thinking better of it, sinking back to a crouch, leaving her spot behind the column in a crouched run to where you hide behind the overturned desk.
“You are such a fucking idiot,” she says, and as you open your mouth to protest, both at the slander and also the massive idiocy she just demonstrated, she is grabbing your collar with both hands and yanking you into a very unexpected kiss.
It’s...nice. Really nice. Her lips are soft and she still smells like her shampoo and the worst of your anger is starting to fade as you sink your hands into her hair; it is only as her tongue is running along the seam of your lips that a rather large chunk of the much abused desk is shot off, peppering you both in sawdust and splinters, and you realize that, oh yeah, there are a bunch of very angry people actively trying to kill you both right now.
You pull back regretfully; Eve seems to feel the same, if her hands, still wrapped in your collar, are any indication. After a second, one releases, coming up to push a lock of your hair behind your ear. “Ask me why I’m here, Villanelle.”
You swallow, your heart hammering in your chest. “Why are you here, Eve?”
Her eyes soften. “Because it’s where you are, dumbass. And there’s nowhere else I could be. Not anymore.”
You let these words settle inside you, feeling something loosen. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
You muse on this. “So maybe we need to be better at communication.”
She laughs, actually laughs, and it’s kind of glorious. “Yeah. Maybe you have a point.” Her grip tightens again, her voice growing fierce. “And no more space.”
“No more space?”
“I’m sick of space. We’ve given each other enough. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it together. No matter what happens. Deal?”
You feel yourself grinning. “Deal.”
The gunfire starts up again, and you palm the gun, ready to finish this — but a sudden spate of surprised shouting and return gunfire — and Eve’s hand on your wrist — stops you. “No need. That’ll be Carolyn’s people.”
“You called her?”
She shrugs. “I sent her our location when we first got cornered in here.”
“But we’re trying to avoid her too, no?”
“Yep. Which is why I’ve snapped that phone in half and we’re leaving while her people are still occupied getting rid of all the other people. Maybe they’ll all wipe each other out.”
You tilt your head, impressed and a little turned on. (Okay, maybe more than a little.) “God, you’re sexy.”
She flushes, but just grabs your hand, pulling you up; the two of you manage to get out of the warehouse you’ve been stuck in unseen, the shouts and gunfire slowly dwindling as you sneak out.
And then you’re free.
You look at each other. Eve is beautiful like this, triumphant in her victory, satisfaction and maybe just a smidge of vindictive glee radiating from her.
“Now what?”
She looks at you, a new calm, a new resolve, in her eyes. “Now we walk.”
You feel your lips quirk up at the bridge callback, and can hear the hope in your own voice even as you speak. “Together?”
Eve smiles. Takes your hand in hers, squeezing it once before rubbing a thumb across your knuckles. It’s better than you’d imagined.
“Together.”