DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my own name.
SPOILERS: Spoilers for season one finale, darkness and dreams and desire. Oh, and I've not mentioned it before, but I'm a fan of second person POV with these ladies.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To spheeris1[at]yahoo.com
it's gonna hurt
By spheeris1
You sign the papers, after a fashion. And then that's it, Niko is out the door and you are alone. Well, not totally alone – you have alcohol and you have some semblance of a job (not because they want you, no, but because they have to, you know too much, how hilariously movie-like) and you have this new face that sneers at you from the mirror.
A little bitter. A little crazy. A little blown wide fucking open.
You sleep for three days straight. Elena says you seem depressed (no, she used the words "you look like a sad lump", don't make it sweet). She's kind-of right. You are kind-of down.
Because the legal separation.
Because the mistakes made.
Because the other side of the bed is empty.
You've really gone and done it now, haven't you? Driven away the kind, the caring, the soft and gentle man who you married. You tap the kitchen table with your finger – tap, tap, tap – and the sound is irregular, just like the beats of your goddamn heart.
You are a series of sounds that no longer make any sense.
After you stabbed Villanelle, you should have headed back to London. Maybe you should have done that ages beforehand, but why cry over the milk that you flung all over Europe, right?
You badgered that old lady for any information she had, wiping at the blood on your hands (god, so red and sticky and wrong wrong wrong) and you started to come down off your champagne-and-vengeance fueled high (jesus, how your head pounds) and then the inexplicable sensation of terror washed over you.
At what you almost did. At who you almost killed. At the realization that if Villanelle died...
...then what the hell would you have anymore?
"Fuck fuck fuck."
The old lady raised one eyebrow at you, not even a comment on the state of Villanelle's apartment, and handed you all the notes she had taken over the past year or so. She walked away and you started following a dotted trail down the stairwell, down and down further still, forgetting whatever was left of that life you once had.
Three months and all your leads have grown cold. Oh, the murders have started up again – you see things, you hear them, too – but they don't have her style. It's not her and you know it.
You never found a body. You never heard of one found either. It's like she disappeared from view, turned a corner you could not find. You asked for answers and you didn't get them, were told to shut up and move on. And you pretended to do just that, at least for a while.
You and Niko pretended, too.
Six months and he couldn't look you in the eyes much anymore. And you kept your needs hidden, the ones that got you into trouble in the first place, but you both knew. You both knew that things were not the same, not anymore. Because he was still a good man, nice and sweet, and you had become something else, you had become something much darker.
Oh, sure, you're not a full-fledged killer.
But it's not from a lack of trying, is it?
Eight months and the dreams start. Niko has been gone for 40 days. You plowed your way through a bottle of white wine and five episodes of some documentary about wild animals (you are so fucking bored, so so bored), haphazard notes strewn over your lap – it's harder to pin down details without a Kenny at your disposal – and you fell asleep that way.
...she likes to come to you in your dreams, just like you last saw her... though maybe a little nicer, better clothes, face less of a mess... and she wraps her hands around your throat and she laughs at you and it's funny how good it feels... the pressure of her, the sound of her... you don't fight her, you don't want to fight her, you just want to give in... and she is bleeding all over you, sliding her tongue into your mouth... and she's so warm, so very warm... and you tell her, over and over, to go ahead and take you... "it's okay, this is okay" and you can't breathe... you can't breathe and she's smiling at you...
You wake up on the floor, stiff and disoriented. You've got the imprint of fingernails in your palm, where you were digging and gripping in your sleep. You move slowly and feel the wetness between your thighs.
You groan and put your head in your hands.
At almost a year, your phone rings and you pick it up in a rush, half out the door with your bag slipping off your shoulder. A car goes by, it's loud, and you glare at it as you say hello.
"You already sound annoyed and I haven't even said a word yet."
Your bag falls to the ground. It's lightly raining outside and it'll get wet. But you are stock still in your doorway, phone pressed against your ear, and you aren't sure what you are feeling now, now with her voice on the other end of this call.
"What, nothing to say? And after all this time, too..."
You hear her mutter a 'tsk tsk' and you try to jump-start your brain again, to form words instead of just doing nothing at all, and you hear her sigh.
"Fine then, Eve Polastri, have it your way."
You hear the tell-tell tone that lets you know that she has hung up on you. And you finally fucking move, fingers tripping over themselves to check to see if there is a number to call back – which, strangely, there is – and you aren't sure you recognize the code, but you don't care.
It rings and rings and rings (no voice-mail ever comes up, still such a dick) and you grit your teeth, pick up your bag, and stomp out into the world.
And no, it's not like you are happy to hear from her. How could you ever be happy to know that she is alive? That she could show up at any moment and exact her revenge upon you? That this maddening game could start all over again?
(no, don't smile, goddamn you, don't you fucking smile)
For a while, you would jump at every noise. And you'd rationalize the sensations passing through you – fear, obviously, and panic, too – but there was more there with every creaking stair or random knock. It was anticipation. It was eagerness. It was sick and twisted, but some part of you was desperate for her to arrive.
You got a gun. You got good with handling it. You placed items around the house, things that looked inconspicuous to the common gaze, but that you could use – if need be. A letter opener just a little too sharp. A heavy paper-weight, fitting perfectly in your hand. A small bottle, looking like basic air freshener, but containing pepper spray instead.
You were nervous and you were ready for her. If she ever came back. If she ever came to find you and kill you. If she were even still living and breathing and still wanted you...
...you know, in whatever way she wanted you.
Honestly, you never stopped jumping. You never stopped being scared and excited and all those other things. You just got used to it. You just got used to waiting, forever fucking waiting.
Does she dream of you, too? Does she wake up lost and turned-on and a little bit angry?
You've not forgotten what she said, all those days and days and days ago. And you wonder what is true, how much was a lie, and does it even matter anymore? She has a type, you know this, you've seen it, and so it isn't a stretch to believe her when she says that she masturbates while thinking of you.
You don't do the same. At least, not consciously. But you're starting to lose sleep.
...she's tugging you along, out of the city and into the woods... underneath a canopy of trees, dew falling down into your eyes... and she is gorgeous, dressed like a goddamn model... but she moves too fast, much too fast, and you can't keep up... "slow down, you asshole" and you can't see her anymore... until she is behind you, nails into your skin... she's caught you, pinned you to the ground... and when she finally touches you, lips against your breast... the sun pushes past the shade and you are blinded...
You stare at your reflection, after the hottest shower of your life, and you've never felt more exhausted.
"Hello?"
"Oh, hello, you want to talk with me this time?"
"You... you called me..."
"I know."
Why is this so awkward? Or was it always this awkward? They've never had a real conversation, well, not a real conversation that wasn't overwhelmed with double-speak and power shifts and so on. They were real but they were heightened, they were face-to-face. Phone conversations are the worst, no matter who you are.
"I hate talking on the phone."
You laugh because she's read your mind. Or you laugh because you don't know what to do. It's both, you decide.
"I don't like it much either."
"Okay. So, I'll come over."
"Are you here?"
You say it with more anxiousness than you want to reveal, but you suck at hiding how you feel. You don't know how you hid any part of yourself for so long. You don't know how you led that other life, the one before you started feverishly hunting down an assassin.
"I can be there, in a little while."
"Okay. Uh... okay, sure..."
"We can talk all about our lives, like old friends, right? Maybe compare wounds."
Oh, right. You stabbed her. You wish you hadn't, but you also don't want to take it back. You want her here. You've been waiting. You are ready. You're not sure what you ready for, not fully, not really, but you know you are tired of just standing still.
"Okay, yes. See you soon."
...she asks you to stay for a bit and you say you will... and you kiss her... and something sharp pierces you... her teeth, just like knives... oh, she's deadly and you hold her close... and you close your eyes as she devours you...
...she asks you to stay for a bit and you say you will... and she caresses your face... and you reach into her chest and you pull out her heart... and she blinks at you, owlish and lovely... and you weep like a child...
...she asks you to stay for a bit and you fall back onto her bed... and she curls around you... "are you afraid?" and you want to say yes... but her eyes are your own, looking at you... you want to kill her, you want to own her...
...she asks you to stay for a bit and so you do... so you do...
"You are alone."
Not a question, just a statement. You nod your head 'yes' and she sort-of nods in return, glancing around idly. Hands in her pockets, clothes less fashionable and more utilitarian. Her face, though, is still the same – perhaps an extra scar or two – but still somehow smooth and youthful, still untouched by all the lives she has stolen.
"Yes, I am."
You move at the same time, neither one of you wanting to be in the back of the other, and it is silly, all of this is silly and insane, but just like that meal from a million years ago, you are both sitting in the living room – her in a chair, you on the couch. And this is insane, isn't it? So fucking insane.
"So, uh, how have you been?"
"Good. Busy. You've haven't been keeping an eye on me?"
"My access to information has been limited since Paris. "
"What a shame. You'd have liked some of what I've been doing, I think."
She hasn't smiled yet, though her demeanor is entirely pleasant. It unnerves you. You aren't sure if that means that she is going to snap your neck or that she just doesn't care anymore. You are crazy because you'd almost prefer the former to the latter.
"Do you still work for The Twelve?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Where did you go, after what happened? I looked for you."
"They have people who can fix me up and who can tuck me away. I must say, Eve, that was a shit move, very dirty of you..."
"Yeah, well... I'm not a trained killer so I gotta take my chances when I get them."
Oh. Oh, there it is. Just a flash, like a hint of amusement or glee or something, shooting through her eyes like the tail-end of a comet. It dances at the edges of her mouth and it takes all of your resolve to keep watching her, to not look away, but you've been waiting for this. You can't look away now, can you?
"I won't give you another chance like that one."
"I know."
She grins at you then (finally finally finally), wolfish and playful, and you are mesmerized by your own body's reaction to the sight. Agitation and lust, building up inside of you, a whirlwind beneath your ribcage, and you know she means it – there won't be a softness again, not even a fake one – and yet she'll come closer, because she must. You'll get closer to her because you must. Because neither one of you can stay away.
And my god, this is what you've been waiting for.
Aching for. Begging for. Desperate for.
You see desire flutter across her face – along with a million other things, a million other terrible, wonderful things – and you want to destroy her, whatever the fuck that means, and this is insane, isn't it? All of this is so, so insane.
"So, Eve... want to watch a movie?"
You can't help it, you laugh – a chuckle escaping your lips, the room suddenly brighter and more vital than it has been in a long, long time – and you lean back, infinitely more comfortable than you should be, and you smile at her. Like really smile at her, like you mean it, because you do.
My god, do you mean it.
"Yeah, yeah, I do."
The tension mounts between you, over the course of weeks, weeks where she just shows up – sometimes calling from right outside your house, but still – and you watch her as she notes every hiding place that everyone else is blissfully unaware of.
You like this about her. You always have. She is so very good, so very smart.
And you watch movies. And sometimes she sits away from you, sometimes she sits beside you. You offer her wine and she takes it. You think about never washing the glass, never washing away where her lips have touched. You think about the reckless trust you are both indulging in – it could be poison in that glass, she could reach over and slice open your throat.
And the tension builds and builds. She gets closer still, arm pressed against your own. It's like one of your damn dreams, you can't fucking breathe. She nudges you when something funny happens, even if she doesn't laugh out loud. You nudge her back, because you can, because she's here and she's driving you mad. Mad, mad, mad.
You feel her move first, then you hear the words, oh so quiet into your ear.
"You should let me fuck you."
She's always been forthright. Unafraid. And you both might be working up to something else, in the end – her death, yours, does it even matter? What does any of it matter right now? Because, of course, she is right.
You move on instinct, pivoting on one foot and swinging yourself into her lap, taking a moment to soak in her expression – absolute delight, unbridled and pure – and you aren't going to question what you are doing, not now. Not where your hands go (one against the center of her chest, the other firm at her neck) and not where her touch finds you (already under the hem of this shirt, already on your skin) and you kiss her.
You kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.
And it's better than your dreams. And she won't let you go, not even for a second. And you both pull and push, tearing fabric in your haste, and you watch her as she watches you – eyes open, wide wide open – and her fingers find you, oh they find you, so stupidly hot and keen, and they press and slide against you, hard and sure and fast, and something uncoils deep within you, something wild and needy, and when she slips inside of you, you feel your hold tighten around her neck. Tighter and tighter still, faster and faster still.
Her groans reverberate along your tongue, like a delicious, delirious hum to a tune only the two of you know, and that's more than enough to tip you over the edge.
Oh, it's going to hurt. Eventually, they are going to be the end of each other. They are going to ruin one another. It'll be glorious, true, but it won't be pretty.
But those are thoughts for another time.
… and so you flutter your touch over that scar, the one you gave her, the place where you staked your claim, where the old you died and you were reborn... and maybe you want to stay here, right here, and never, ever leave... maybe she wants that, too...
You sigh, satisfied and sleepy, and you don't ask her to leave, not just yet, and her body feels amazing against your own (her palm on the small of your back, her lips near your temple) and, god, this is going to really fucking hurt, isn't it?
This is going to really, really hurt. In the end
The End