YULETIDE FIC: they're gunning for me... (Killing Eve, Eve/Villanelle, R)
TITLE: they're gunning for me, and now the army's after you... for loving, too
RATING: R
FANDOM: Killing Eve (TV)
PAIRING: Eve Polastri/Villanellle
SUMMARY: Love on the run.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for mautadite for Yuletide 2018. Spoilers through the season one finale. Title from Janelle Monáe’s “Violet Stars Happy Hunting.”
Eve has said it at least twenty times, but it bears repeating: “This is all your fault.”
Villanelle looks bored. They are seated outside a bistro, which is not Eve’s definition of laying low, waiting to meet a man with papers. Eve is too nervous to eat, but Villanelle is spreading jam on English muffins with a knife Eve wishes she would put down.
“I think framing you for treason is just recompense for you stabbing me in the gut and leaving me to die,” she says. She puts the knife down, finally, and crunches into her English muffin.
“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” Eve says.
“What, lunchtime?”
“I hate you,” Eve says.
Villanelle sucks jam off her fingers. “No, you don’t.”
Eve sighs. Maybe she doesn’t.
***
They are on a train in Tokyo. Every car, including this one, is packed full, so Eve is crushed against Villanelle, which Villanelle doesn’t seem to mind. She is humming, holding onto Eve’s waist with one hand. She has come to Japan to kill somebody. Eve has come because she doesn’t know how to be on the run on her own. She hates it, and she wants to scream, to tell the entire train that Villanelle is going to murder someone, but then she’ll be stranded in a foreign country with nothing but an international warrant on her name. Eventually, the feeling will pass, she knows, which is worrying in its own way.
Villanelle doesn’t make her watch when she goes on these jobs, which is as considerate as she gets, and surprising, in its way.
Eve closes her eyes. The train moves beneath her, all around her. She feels Villanelle’s hand on her waist and listens to the notes of her humming, tries to pick out the tune. After a long moment, she gets it: “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” Eve was 15 when the song came out. She remembers teasing her hair so it looked like Whitney Houston’s, hearing it play at a school dance. Villanelle probably wasn’t even born yet. It’s just one more jarring thing, in a life now filled with jarring things.
The train shudders to a stop, and passengers stream out the open doors.
“This is our stop,” Villanelle says, and Eve follows her out onto the platform.
***
“As much as it pains me,” Villanelle says, “sometimes you will have to hide your hair. Your face.”
In Villanelle’s bedroom, Eve tries on wigs. Villanelle watches appraisingly from the bed, like this is a fashion show, a fun, festive occasion, not one more symptom of Eve’s ruined life.
“Shake it,” Villanelle says. “Pretend that is the hair you were born with.”
The wig in question is blonde and straight, and it looks ridiculous on her, but Eve gives her head a quick shake so Villanelle can see how the fake hair moves. She applauds, clapping and hollering. Eve pretends not to feel the blush spreading over her cheeks.
Later, her hair still pulled back, they try makeup. A false nose, small fake eyelashes glued on one at a time with tweezers and Villanelle’s steady hand, three different blushes and six different lipsticks. Villanelle traces the curve of Eve’s lips with a soft pencil, then fills it in with a brush, her eyes squinting and serious, her mouth twisting as Eve’s does.
Eve flops down on the bed. “This is exhausting.”
Villanelle lies next to her. “Look at the bright side,” she says. “At least it’s not boring.”
***
Villanelle is back from a job. She washes blood out of her clothes in the sink, whistling cheerfully, then stretches the wet clothes out to dry near the radiator. She walks around the apartment in her bra and panties, and Eve tries not to watch, presses down hard on the mental bruise that is, she just killed another human being.
“Come help me,” Villanelle says from the closet, and Eve thinks, Oh God, what now, but she only wants Eve to zip up the back of her dress. It is short and skin-tight, a black sheath with a sweetheart neckline and no straps.
“Where are you going?” Eve asks.
“We are going to a party,” she says. “I have a dress for you, too.”
Villanelle has excellent taste. The dress for Eve is wine-colored lace, more conservative than Villanelle’s dress but still sexy. It fits Eve like a glove.
“Is someone going to die at this party?” Eve asks.
Villanelle frowns. She turns around in a quick circle. “Do you see somewhere on this dress I could hide a weapon? Not everything is about work. It’s time to let our hair down.”
“Literally,” she says, and plucks the pins from Eve’s hair. The curls come tumbling down.
***
The party is at a great, white marble mansion, and Eve doesn’t ask who it belongs to. Villanelle hands her a flute of champagne, and she sips it. It’s sweet and crisp, and, drinking the champagne and weaving between all the beautifully dressed people, it’s easy to forget everything else.
There’s a string quartet in the ballroom. Villanelle holds out her hand. “Dance with me.”
No one else is dancing, but it doesn’t matter. Everything Villanelle does looks like it’s on purpose, looks natural. She can fit in anywhere, which is, Eve knows, part of what makes her dangerous. But right now, this-this doesn’t feel dangerous. Villanelle has Eve’s hand in one hand and the other hand on her waist, and she steers her expertly over the marble tiles, and maybe it’s the champagne, but Eve just feels so very alive.
***
Hours later, they are back in Villanelle’s room. She turns around. “Unzip me.”
Eve unzips the dress slowly, watching Villanelle’s spine bared inch by inch. She should let go, but instead she traces down Villanelle’s back with her forefinger, and then she puts her hands on Villanelle’s hips as the dress falls to the floor. Villanelle lets out a pleased sigh, and Eve steps closer to her and slides her hands over Villanelle’s stomach. She breathes her in, the expensive perfume smell of her, and beneath that, something raw and youthful. Villanelle leans back against her, her hand tangling in Eve’s hair, and she twists her head to kiss Eve, and Eve lets her.
They lose their clothes en route to the bed. Villanelle is strong, much stronger than she looks, and she lifts Eve off her feet and lays her gently beneath her on the mattress. Her mouth is hot and sweet and it slides against Eve’s, falls over Eve’s neck and collarbone, her breast. Villanelle’s hands are clever and fast, and they slip between Eve’s legs, pressing expertly against her sex, and then up into her. Eve pants. She looks at Villanelle and the shine of her eyes in the dark, the openly adoring expression on her face, which is kind of scary, in its way, and she winds her hand through Villanelle’s hair and pulls her down to kiss her again. Villanelle closes her eyes as they kiss, and Eve doesn’t, and she ruts against Villanelle’s hand and cups her breast in her own, squeezing gently until Villanelle moans, and hours later Villanelle is curled up on her chest like a milk-drunk kitten, and Eve looks at her and says once more, “This is all your fault,” and Villanelle just laughs.