Chapter Text
***
We never painted by the numbers, baby
But we were making it count
You know the greatest loves all of time are over now
I guess you never know, you never know
And it’s another day of waking up alone
But we were something, don’t you think so?
the 1 - taylor swift
***
In the twenty-odd years that she has been alive, Villanelle has only had a total of three dreams — all recurring, all extremely vivid, all nightmares.
The first began her first night at the orphanage. It plagued her sleep night after night — images of flames slowly engulfing her, her tiny arms reaching out to a mother who held matches behind her back. She burned the first two floors to make it stop.
The second was after Anna first touched her — with soft hands and dark eyes and cruel intentions. Her teacher’s voice would echo in her head each time she slept, growing louder and louder, until Villanelle felt like a child again. She had the best sleep of her life her first night behind bars.
The third is happening now.
There’s a gun in her hand, stretched out and aimed at Eve. Her finger trembles against the trigger, as sweat and blood glistens on her face under the Roman sun. She takes a shaky breath, swallows hard, and makes a choice she can never take back. The sound is so loud it echoes through the ruins. The body lies face down in a pool of fresh blood. And Eve — gorgeous Eve — stands over her corpse and smiles.
Villanelle jerks awake, reaching for the gun underneath her pillow and aiming it at nothing. Her room is dark, empty, and quiet save for her heavy, ragged breathing.
“Fuck,” she whispers to herself, letting herself fall back onto the bed and resting the gun on her stomach. “Fuck,” she says once more, before rolling over and reaching for her cellphone.
It’s a burner phone, of course, but it doesn’t matter. She has the number memorized.
I dreamed of you again.
She stops, her fingers hovering over the bright screen. She deletes and tries again.
Get out of my head, you asshole.
Perfect. She smirks and hits send. There is a slight pause, and then: Not Delivered.
—
It’s been three months since she killed Eve — three months since she got a good night’s sleep. It’s beginning to affect her work.
“I was never this sloppy,” Dasha says, wagging a finger at her. Villanelle groans, throwing her head back dramatically and leaning back on her chair, balancing on the back legs. Dasha leans forward and pulls her back with a thud. Suddenly they are face to face again. “You need to take this seriously.”
“I am very serious,” Villanelle says innocently, flashing big eyes at her.
“Act like it.” Dasha gets up from the table, clearing off Villanelle’s half-eaten omelette.
“Hey, I wasn’t done that with that!” she argues, but Dasha doesn’t seem to care. She groans again, and leans back on her chair once more. She throws her head back and watches an upside-down Dasha rummage through the kitchen.
She’s been working with the Twelve again for the past month, but it’s not the same as before. Dasha isn’t Konstantin, but she doesn’t want Konstantin. She doesn’t know what she wants. The missions are the same, and maybe that’s the issue. She feels...bored.
“If you want your stinking promotion, you need to impress them,” she reminds her for the millionth time.
This was her one condition to come back to the Twelve — to be a Keeper. She wanted to know the names of the Twelve, to understand the inner mechanisms of the organization that took Oksana and made her into Villanelle. Information is knowledge and knowledge is power. And maybe she can finally sleep at night again.
Dasha returns to the table, but not before pushing the back of Villanelle’s chair forward so that all legs are planted on the ground. Another thud.
“I have another assignment for you,” Dasha announces. “This one should be fun.”
It’s all the same, she thinks. It’s always all the same. But she takes the postcard and promises to do a better job this time (whatever that means).
—
The assignment, as she had suspected, is not fun at all. But it’s simple and efficient and not sloppy, just like Dasha wanted.
She’s sitting at a hotel bar, her hands flirtatiously playing with her target’s tie. She laughs at something he says, though she barely even registers his words. He doesn’t seem to notice. They never do.
Flash forward twenty minutes and he’s leaning in to kiss her. Villanelle turns her face away, so that his drunken lips meet the skin of her neck instead. She tries hard not to shudder.
“Let’s go to my room,” he whispers in her ear, to which she rolls her eyes. Too easy.
They head upstairs, him leading the way although Villanelle knows exactly where they’re going. Once inside his room, he turns to kiss her but she pushes him back onto the bed. The fool smiles excitedly up at his killer.
“Lie down,” she commands and he obeys, his hands clumsily trying to undo his belt. He furrows his brow when the task proves more difficult than anticipated. He looks back up at her, and suddenly the room is spinning.
“You should really pay more attention to your drink,” Villanelle says, revealing her Russian accent for the first time. “Men forget to do that.” She shrugs, leaning back on the wall to watch him slowly die. It’s all the same. It’s always all the same.
She thinks of messaging Eve again, but she knows it won’t take away this feeling.
She does it anyway.
You ruined everything.
Send. Pause. Not Delivered.
—
She heads to the hotel next door and sits at the bar there too, contemplating what to do. Usually after kills, she feels a very specific kind of electrified all over — a feeling that overwhelms and overtakes and leads her into someone’s bed. But not tonight.
She drinks a gin and tonic, wondering what Eve’s drink of choice would be. But what does that matter? It doesn’t. She finishes off her drink, then takes the lime wedge off the glass and sinks her teeth into it.
“Can I buy you another?”
Her Spanish accent is thick and harsh and exactly what Villanelle needs to snap out of whatever trance she’s in.
“Hello,” she responds, mimicking her accent (just for fun), smiling back at her. She’s tall and thin and beautiful, but she’s a little too young and her hair’s not quite right. “I would love another.”
“Ah,” the woman’s eyes widen in delightful surprise. “¿Hablas castellano?”
“Sí,” she nods, because why not?
The woman, Villanelle learns, is named Maria. She’s an accountant — or a banker? Villanelle doesn’t care. She’s flirty and is wearing amazing shoes, so she lets her talk. She lets her buy her drinks, she lets her touch her arm, she lets her guide her up into her hotel room.
“Where is your room?” Maria asks, still in Spanish, probably wondering if it’s closer than hers so that she can start undressing sooner. Villanelle is much less impatient.
“I am not staying here,” she says truthfully. “I was waiting for a date at the bar, but they didn't show,” she lies. In her pocket, she fiddles with her phone.
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Maria flirts, inching closer as they wait for the elevator ding.
—
She lets Maria fuck her, through she’s not very good at it. She fucks her too, but finds her moans a little too high pitched, a little too annoying.
It’s almost 3 in the morning when she messages again, with Maria snoring lightly next to her.
You said you’d give me everything.
Send. Pause. Not Delivered.
You liar.
Send. Pause. Not Delivered.
—
She doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the gin and tonics catch up to her and she dozes off. She dreams.
When she wakes up, she’s pushed back down by unfamiliar hands before she can reach for the gun that isn’t there.
“It’s okay,” Maria says. “Just a dream, just a dream.” She repeats this over and over, but the gunshot is still ringing in Villanelle’s ears.
Instinctually, she pushes Maria off of her, gets on top, and pins her wrists above her head. She eyes the room, in search of a weapon, but finds complete darkness all around her.
“Just a dream,” she says once more. Villanelle looks down, vaguely making out the shape of Maria’s face. “Just a dre—”
She smashes down onto her, kissing her ferociously, with one hand still pinning her wrists to the bed and the other making its way down between their bodies. This time she doesn’t mind the moans.
—
She doesn’t like Maria. Not at all. She doesn’t like the way she chews, the way she laughs, the way she cums, the way she calls instead of texts (what a psychopath). But when they fuck in the middle of the night, it makes everything else in her mind stop.
Plus she wears the same size shoe as Villanelle, so she decides to keep her around.
Maria (who Villanelle learns is neither an accountant nor a banker, but the ex-wife of a very powerful man with a very Spanish name) extends her holiday and Villanelle is surprisingly grateful.
She comes by the hotel room, every single night — only at night — and Maria is always there. Sometimes they go out, sometimes they stay in. It doesn’t make a difference. Villanelle knows it’s a small price to pay for temporary peace.
It’s a routine now: going in and out of her room, eating expensive meals, and wearing glamorous dresses. Villanelle feels proud of this. Healthy people have routines. So she pretends (she’s very good at that, you know?) that her jokes are funny, that her haircut is cute, that it’s her fingers that make her cum.
This is good, she thinks. This is healthy.
But then, one night, Maria says, “I should go home. I don’t know what I am doing here anymore.”
Villanelle furrows her brow, confused. “You are with me,” she reminds her, as if to say What more is there to do?
“This is fun, darling,” Maria says, placing a hand on Villanelle’s. “But I want more.”
“More?”
“Of you.”
Suddenly Villanelle is angry. Maria, who gets all of her half-moans, her half-hearted orgasms, her half-slept nights, wants more— as if she owes her anything; as if showing up at all wasn’t already more than enough. As if there’s even anything more than that. There is nothing more.
She starts to pull her hand away, but Maria stops her.
“Te amo,” Maria whispers, with a cracking voice and tear-filled eyes. And Villanelle thinks, it’s a small price to pay for temporary peace.
—
That night Maria asks, “What happened to you?” with her hand reaching out to touch her scar. Villanelle has seen her eyeing her scar for days now, with this question balancing on the tip of her tongue. She knew it would eventually tip forward and be materialized in the air between them. But she doesn’t want it too. So she stops her mid-way, flips her on her back, and moves her hand away and onto her breasts instead.
Maria, who’s completely lost interest in the scar, finds her mouth with hers. And Villanelle revels in being touched everywhere — everywhere, everywhere, everywhere but there.
Hours later, she doesn’t sleep, but spends the night with one hand tracing her scar over and over, and the other holding her phone.
You never touched me right.
Delete.
You never touched me properly.
Delete.
I wish you’d touch me again.
Delete.
She doesn’t see Maria again.
—
“I have present for you,” Dasha says, barging into her apartment with a giant bag in hand. Villanelle raises her eyebrows, intrigued and only slightly annoyed at the lack of knocking.
“Is it a puppy?” Dasha rolls her eyes at this. “I’m more of a cat person, but if the puppy is wearing a sweater, then I will consider it.”
“You take nothing seriously,” she says, to which Villanelle simply shrugs her shoulders.
“So it’s not a puppy?” She pouts, crossing her arms and looking wide-eyed.
“Better,” Dasha says. “But first…” From the giant bag she pulls out a pair of bowling balls.
“Oh, no.”
—
They’re at the bowling alley, and Villanelle can feel herself dying with each passing minute she spends in rented bowling shoes.
“Is this the present?” she groans after rolling her third gutter ball in a row. “You are terrible at gift-giving.”
“You are just terrible at bowling,” Dasha retorts, as she walks up to the lane. Villanelle sticks out her tongue when she isn’t looking.
“Stupid game,” she grumbles as she plops down on her seat. Dasha rolls a strike, and Villanelle claps sarcastically for her. “Wooow, you rolled a ball into some pins and then they fell. Amazing.”
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Dasha says, walking back and sitting next to Villanelle. “Your present is over there.” She nods her head toward the check-in desk, where a very pretty teenage boy is spraying shoes with disinfectant.
“He’s a little too young for me,” Villanelle says, eyeing the boy. “And I prefer women.”
“And he men,” Dasha informs her. “His name is Felix.”
“Oh-kay...” She loses interest and turns her gaze to the mother-of-two who is returning her shoes instead. She wonders if she would be less nosey than Maria.
“You will manage him, train him, make him as good as you,” Dasha continues.
Villanelle scoffs, then says, “This is not what I wanted.”
“It is what you’re getting,” she explains. “They need to see you are serious about this. Now go say hello.”
“Super serious,” she mocks, before jumping up and heading over to Felix.
“Konstantin left me a mess to work with,” Dasha says to herself in Russian, and Villanelle barely catches it.
—
She’s sitting in the sun, waiting at the bus stop for Felix to show up, with sweat slowly forming on her brow. It’s unnaturally hot, which she usually does not mind. But today, right now, this heat… It reminds her of the heat amongst ruins. And she feels ruined — bloodstained inside out.
And suddenly, despite it being the middle of the day, she reaches for her phone.
Why didn’t you come with me?
Delete.
You should have come with me.
Delete.
It’s your own fault.
Send. Pause. Not Delivered.
“Who are you texting?” Felix is standing dangerously close to her, and her first instinct is to draw out her gun. But she doesn’t.
“Shut up,” she says instead and stands up and walks out of the goddamn heat. “Follow me.”
—
The next day, they sit on a park bench together.
“The target works in that building,” Villanelle explains. “When he gets here, you will follow him inside.”
“How will I kill him?” he asks impatiently.
“He has the same routine,” she says. He eyes her expectantly, until she elaborates, “He takes a shit as soon as he gets inside.”
“Oh.”
“You will use this,” Villanelle shows him a knife. “Behind the ear. Clean and clinical.” He nods, excitedly, reaching out to grab it, but she immediately pulls it away. “Do not embarrass me or I will kill you.”
“Okay,” he responds, shakily. “Don’t worry. I’m tough.”
Villanelle scoffs, so he adds, “I have five older brothers.”
“Wow, five older brothers?” she mocks him, already considering just doing this assignment herself.
“I beat the crap out of all of them,” he defends himself, but she rolls her eyes.
“Anybody can fight. It takes a special person to kill.”
“I’ve killed loads,” he says a little too excitedly.
“Bullshit.” Maybe she should just kill him now.
“It’s true. There was this kid who bullied me at school,” he begins, but Villanelle is already bored. “I killed his family too. He beat up my boyfriend.”
“You did all that for a boyfriend?” He’s more stupid than he looks.
“Well I was in love,” he says innocently. She thinks of Rome again, and the words that echoed through the ruins. Her own words. And then,You don’t understand what that is.
“After everything I did, he didn’t wanna know,” he continues, looking down at his hands. Villanelle thinks this boy might just cry, but is somehow not annoyed by it. “When you love somebody and they don’t love you back, it’s worse than…”
She thinks of Paris now — of broken glass and scattered clothes and the way she moaned God, I’m tired like Villanelle could help her rest her bones. And then, so suddenly, the sharpest pain in more places than one.
“I don’t know what it’s worse than,” he continues. “But it’s…”
“Shit,” she completes his sentence for him. And again, You don’t understand what that is.
—
The target arrives just in time, so Felix follows him in, muttering to himself “Stick to the plan, stick to the plan.”
Meanwhile, Villanelle stays on the bench and waits. And she hates it.
She should be in there instead. Her hands ache for blood now. She reaches behind her, and feels the gun tucked in her pants. Her fingers hover over the cold metal. It would be so much simpler.
Instead she takes out her phone.
I did understand.
Send. Pause. Not Delivered.
I still understand.
Delete.
—
After fifteen long minutes, she groans and walks into the building and straight into the men’s restroom.
There, on the tile floor is Felix, hunched over a bloody, twitching mess.
“What happened to the plan?” she demands, completely exasperated, throwing her hands up in the air almost comically.
“I improvised,” he admits, turning around to continue stabbing an already-dead man.
Villanelle rolls her eyes, and doesn’t even think. She just reaches for her gun, aims it at the back of Felix’s head, and shoots. All in one swift motion. Clean and clinical.
Except it’s not.
Except this is — she very suddenly realizes — the very first time she’s used a gun since Rome. And the weight of it — of the gun, of the body hitting the ground, of the blood (so much blood) — is too reminiscent.
Her chest tightens with a certain familiarity, and she wonders if she’s asleep. She must be asleep. The fluorescent lights flicker above her, but it’s the Roman sun she feels.
She rushes out, leaving bodies behind. Too reminiscent.
She leans her back onto the side of the building, letting herself topple down. She sits, pressing her back to warm brick, her knees up to her chest. She breathes heavily, in and out and in and out and — fuck — why can’t she breathe?
She looks down at the gun still in her shaking hands. Closing her eyes, she bangs her head back. Stop shaking. But she can’t. And there’s more, so suddenly. The sharpest pain in more places than one. And now, much hotter than the sun, are the tears streaming down her face.
Everything, Villanelle realizes, always comes back to ruins.
In a blind haze, she drops her gun and switches it for a phone.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
“Fuck.”
I’m sorry.
Send. Pause. Message Delivered at 9:08 AM.