Chapter Text
***
I think I’ve seen this film before
So I’m leaving out the side door
So step right out
There is no amount
Of crying I could do for you
exile - Taylor Swift
***
You could never bring me peace.
They stare at each other in deep, aching silence.
Villanelle, who is still crouching in front of Eve at the foot of the bed, lets herself fall slightly forward until all her weight is on her knees. Kneeling there, in front of Eve, it looks as though she is about to beg — beg to be seen, beg to be given a chance, beg to be loved. For a brief moment Villanelle thinks she just might.
You could never bring me peace.
Eve looks down at her, tears still streaming down both of their faces. She thinks of how young Villanelle looks — how fragile and delicate. Part of her wants to scoop her up into her arms and tell her that she doesn’t mean it. But another part knows that she does.
You could never bring me peace.
Villanelle’s eyes break away from Eve’s, and she finds herself looking down at her clenched fists — knuckles white and nails digging into her palms. Her vision blurs from the tears that well in her eyes — tears that won’t stop coming . She grits her teeth, as if it will stop her from crying. As if it will stop this from hurting.
You could never bring me peace.
She wants to argue. She wants to tell Eve that she can offer her so much more than anyone else can — so much more than peace . But she knows it doesn’t matter. If peace is what Eve wants, that’s where Villanelle falls short.
She sighs, her heart is aching. It takes everything in her not to pour it out to the woman in front of her.
You could never bring me peace.
“Are you going to shoot me now?” Eve asks, and Villanelle looks up confused. She doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry at the question — so she does both. Eve waits for her answer, and Villanelle realizes that even after everything, they are still in Rome.
“No,” she says softly, shaking her head. She can’t say for certain that she doesn’t want to shoot her or that she wouldn’t do it if there was a gun in her hand. But it doesn’t matter if she wants to and her hands are empty anyway.
Villanelle gets up, fully aware of Eve’s eyes following her around the room. Her movements feel ghostly — detached and mindless. And Eve knows that this image — Villanelle leaving — is going to haunt her.
—
She watches as Villanelle pulls out of the driveway and drives down the street, into the foggy night. She groans, wiping away the remainder of her tears. Her hands find the cellphone that is lying next to her and she twirls it in her hand.
Come home , is what Niko said. Come home.
—
She drives recklessly, speeding through the town of Madison, Connecticut — as if the faster she gets out, the sooner she will feel like herself again. But when she passes the city limits, nothing changes. The pain doesn’t stop. The thoughts don’t slow down.
And she realizes, then, that she may never be herself again — not truly. Not when a part of herself is still bleeding in a Parisian apartment. And another is still screaming under Roman skies. And the very last bit of her is kneeling in front of Eve Polastri. There is nothing of her left now, she realizes. There is nothing left.
—
Eve decides to call him, because she’s desperate and sleep deprived and needs to make this heartache worth something. The line rings only once before she hears a familiar voice.
“Eve?”
She doesn’t respond at first, unsure of what to say. What do you say in these situations? Hi, honey. Guess what? I’m alive! Sorry I faked my death.
“Eve?”
“Y-yes,” she finally says. “Yes.”
“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “Is that really you?”
“Yes,” she says again. “It’s me. I’m… I’m alive.”
“Fucking hell.”
—
Finally on the plane, Villanelle rests her face against the window, looking out at the sky — the white clouds and the sunshine that pierces through them. She breathes softly, creating a slight fog on the glass. Her hand reaches up and draws a lazy V against the condensation, before wiping it away completely.
She aches — in a way she’s never ached before. It’s one thing to want her and miss her and hate her, she muses — but it’s another thing to lose her after having had her. She huffs and melts down into her seat, eyes glued to the passing clouds that keep changing before her.
“So,” a voice next to her says. “Are you travelling to Barcelona for business or pleasure?”
Villanelle looks up and sees a woman with long red curls, freckles, and green eyes that nervously shift away from her gaze.
“Business,” she says dryly, not bothering to fake an accent. She turns back to the window.
“I’m going to my sister’s wedding,” the woman continues. “I hate those kinds of things, but… family is family.”
Villanelle shrugs, eyes still on the clouds. She sees one that looks exactly like an elephant, but doesn’t get excited. Before she knows it, it’s become nothing but a shapeless blob of white again.
“So what kind of business are you in?” the woman asks, making Villanelle audibly groan.
“Can’t you see I am trying to have a dramatic moment?” she says.
“Yeah, clearly,” the woman scoffs. “Just thought you might need a little distraction from… whatever you're going through, I guess.”
Villanelle pauses for a moment, considering the unspoken proposition.
“A distraction could be nice,” she agrees.
—
“Where are you?” Niko asks. “I can come get you now. I… Fuck, let me get my shoes on.”
“I’m in the States,” she says quickly. And then, to elaborate, “I’m back home.”
“ What? ”
“I know,” she chuckles, ignoring the obvious concern in his voice. “I hate it. Americans are the worst,” she half-jokes.
“Yes, they are,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh. There’s a brief pause before he adds, “Are you coming back?”
“I… it would be dangerous if I did,” she says truthfully. “But honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I…” She thinks back to her last few days — to Villanelle’s body against hers, to the unspeakable things she did to Mr. Renshaw, to smashing wine bottles on a teenager’s head. “I’m not myself anymore.” This is a lie, and she knows that. She has been more herself here than she ever was with Niko — which is why she has to go back.
—
Villanelle fucks her in the cramped airplane restroom, covering her mouth to muffle her moans. When she finishes, the woman leans in to kiss her, but Villanelle turns away. She doesn’t want to be kissed — she wants to be fucked.
She can’t stand the thought that the last person to touch her was Eve. She needs to take that away from her.
The woman thrusts deep inside her, eager to please. Villanelle closes her eyes and throws her head back, fighting back images of the last few nights — images that come flooding back. Delicate hands, wild hair, full lips. She pushes them out, one by one, until all she sees is the darkness behind her eyelids.
She doesn’t orgasm — nor did she expect to, but she pushes the woman off. Satisfied for now. She opens the door and slides out, returning to her seat. A few moments later, the woman sits down next to her.
“Fuck,” she says, a grin plastered on her face. “My name is Marcela.”
Villanelle nods, but she doesn’t really hear it because it doesn’t really matter. She sulks back into her seat and looks out at the clouds again.
—
Eve’s second phone call is to Carolyn.
“What is it, Eve?” she answers impatiently. “Has Villanelle contacted you?”
“Oh, um,” She hesitates, then lies unconvincingly. “No, she hasn’t.”
“Right,” she hears Carolyn sigh. “What is so important, then?”
“I want to go back,” she says. “Back to London. I-I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t just stay here anymore. I need to be home… I need to be with my husband.”
Carolyn scoffs, pauses, then says, “So long as you are aware of the risks of returning.”
“I am.”
“ And you agree to come back to MI6,” she adds. “Otherwise, you would just be returning to Witness Protection, where you won’t be seeing your husband — or anyone you know for that matter.”
“Wait, wait…” Her head is spinning. “Come back to MI6?”
“As I told you before,” she explains. “Villanelle is active again. We need your skill set .”
She knows what she means by that, but she doesn’t care. She just knows she needs to be on a plane to London as soon as possible. Come home is what Niko said. Come home .
Still — as she’s packing her bags and slipping the note under her mother’s bedroom door, she can only think of Villanelle.
—
When Villanelle opens her apartment door, she finds Dasha waiting for her at the kitchen table.
“Nice vacation?” she asks and Villanelle shrugs. “How is America these days?”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Dasha cackles.
“I always know where you are,” she says. “Always.”
“I know that.” And she does know that — and she feels stupid for going, for trying to hide it, for thinking she could get away. None of it was worth it anyway , she thinks, but she’s not sure if that’s true.
“It’s good you’re back,” Dasha says. “Your next assignment is in two days.”
—
When Eve arrives at London, she’s met by Niko who looks exactly the same as when she last saw him. He practically runs up to her and holds her in a tight embrace. He smells the same, too. Is this home?, she thinks.
“Niko,” she greets him as they step away from each other.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says, his hands firmly on her shoulders— as if he’s afraid she’ll slip away again if he isn’t careful. Maybe she will. “You’re alive. I just…”
“Hello, Eve,” a familiar voice says from behind Niko. Eve’s eyes widen as she sees Gemma, smiling awkwardly at her.
“Oh, you remember Gemma, right?” Niko says. “She drove me up here. I was too damn nervous to do it myself.”
“You should have seen him,” Gemma jokes, and Eve notices how she places a hand on Niko’s arm. “He was a mess. Like a little kid on his way to see his schoolboy crush.”
“Or a grown man on his way to see his dead wife,” she finds herself saying, and all smiles drop.
“Well,” Niko clears his throat. “Shall we?”
—
As soon as Dasha leaves, Villanelle crawls into bed and hides under the covers. She falls asleep thinking of the clouds she saw on her way there.
It’s the middle of the day when she startles awake, drenched in sweat, and reaching for her hand gun. She groans and flops back down. She forgot how realistic the nightmares were.
She stares at the ceiling and wonders what Eve is doing. Is she still in the States? Did she go see the Moustache? Does it really matter?
She rolls over and forces herself back to sleep.
—
“So you and Gemma?” Eve asks as soon as they walk into the house.
“Eve, I—” he begins, but she interrupts him.
“No, no, it’s fine,” she says genuinely. “I’m glad that you had someone.” It’s strange, but she means it. She is glad, and maybe only partly because it assuages her own guilt of sleeping with Villanelle.
“So,” he huffs, setting Eve’s suitcase down. “Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Eve,” he says. “I’m happy that you’re alive. I truly am, but...” He runs a hand along his stubble beard. “I’m your husband.”
“I know that,” she says.
“You made me believe you were dead,” he reminds her.
“It was safer that way,” she tries to explain. “The Twe—”
“I mourned you,” he interrupts. And suddenly she’s annoyed. She knows he has a right to be angry, to be yelling, to be asking for more of her.
“Niko, please,” she groans. “I’m jet lagged and I’m tired and I need to rest. Can we talk about this later?”
He throws his hands up in defeat and walks away.
“I’ll wake you when supper’s ready.”
—
When Villanelle wakes up she wonders if the last few days have all been a dream — it certainly feels like it. She wonders what would happen if she texted Eve. Would she get a response? Would she be ignored? Would it come back undelivered?
She brings a hand up to her face, her fingers tracing the outline of her lips. She feels phantom of Eve’s kiss. For a moment, she wishes she had let the woman on the plane kiss her — so as to erase and replace Eve’s touch completely. For a moment — only for a moment.
—
Eve tosses in bed, fighting off the memories that try desperately to creep into her mind — memories that won’t let her rest. God, I’m tired.
She finds herself staring up at the ceiling. She listens to Niko getting supper ready downstairs, and wonders if he stayed awake like this when he thought that she was dead. She wonders if his chest felt as heavy as hers feels now, if his mind overflowed with thoughts of her to the point it made him dizzy, if his hands and mouth and sex ached for what he could never have again.
Without realizing it, she begins to cry.
She knows it doesn’t matter how Niko felt, just as it doesn’t matter how Villanelle felt. They both mourned her — but Eve only mourned one.