DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my own name.
SPOILERS: Spoilers for Season One, then we go off script and into a possible future. Love, angst, introspection, and spy stuff.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To spheeris1[at]yahoo.com

The Two of Us In the Unknown
By spheeris1


Chapter Three: Danse Macabre

She takes hold of your hand, fingers interlocked as she struts beside you. God, she does love to preen in public – a fucking peacock, indigo feathers spread wide – but you knew this about her, so you can't be too bothered by it and besides, you don't want to ruin this night.

This night – a night out, to be exact – is a rarity for the two of you. For one evening, death is in the rear-view and all other tasks have been put on hold. She'll be gone tomorrow, flying to places you don't ask about, and you'll be back to your own life – to all the spaces that consist of just you and your intellect and your work and your own brand of madness.

'You're just as bad as me...'  she loves to say, whispering it in your ear like it is some kind of secret, even to yourself. Perhaps it was once that, a side of you that you didn't like to acknowledge, but now you are a woman without pretense. And no, you are not as bad as her – you don't kill people, nor do you want to.

But you don't mind her killing people.

As long as you can make sense of it. As long as you tell your heart that they deserve it. As long as it is a job and not for fun, as long as there is a paper trail for you to follow. As long as you want this life – a life with no set hours, with danger on your doorstep, with her... well, you have to figure out the ways in which to sell a white lie or two to your own head.

But you are mentally drifting now and she finally notices, grips your hand to cause discomfort, and you shoot her an angry glare. She looks at you so pointedly, eyebrows raised.

"Just so you know, these tickets were not cheap. You could at least pay attention to me."

You roll your eyes at her.

"Everyone else is looking at you, one less stare won't kill you."

She lets go of your hand then, as petulant as ever, and crosses her arms. She doesn't walk ahead of you, which is quite the achievement, but she is ignoring you.  Pretty peacock, colorful enough to catch anyone but the one she wants...

...and yes, okay, you were thinking of other things – the things you tell yourself to not think of at all, not if you want to keep all of this up – and so you were the one being the dick, falling into the maze of your mind and not enjoying what is right in front of you, who is right in front of you...

Fine.  Fine.

You move quickly and get in front of her, palms already up in a placating manner.

"I'm sorry. Truly. You know I never stop thinking, about everything, and I actually don't want to think about anything other than you tonight."

She watches you, but you know so many of her tells now. You know the dark from the light, the false from the wicked truth. You know that her wants outweigh so many annoyances, help to shuttle her past small grievances. Does she forget? Oh no, never. But does she forgive?

Probably not. At least, not until she feels reparations have been made. And goodness knows – after stabbings and mistakes and so many other roadblocks – you are very good at making amends.

That's why you don't hold back, not anymore. You don't hold back in this lobby, surrounded by suits and ties and haute couture and old men with their old wives, and you reach up to cup her cheek, you draw closer to her, feel the heat of her body behind these ridiculously expensive clothes, and you press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"You are all I see."

She slowly exhales at the sound of your voice so near and then slides her arms around your waist. Hot and petty words are muttered against your cheek – "...luchshe byt', ya velikolepnyy..." – and so you kiss her properly because you love to hear her speak in Russian, even if you still only know a smattering of what she says, and she kisses you back, kisses you like no one else is around, and her tongue creates a whole new language within your mouth.

A language both lovely and obscene, wonderful and oh so very wrong.

Your dress feels much too tight and her hands are starting to wander. You step away, clear your throat, and she is smirking at you. You can see it, though – a blush of desire crawling up her neck – and your hand snakes into hers once more.

"C'mon then... we don't want those pricey tickets to go to waste, do we?"

And you pull her along, waiting until you aren't facing her to grin to yourself in delight.

It's a little bit modern, a little bit old-school, and you don't know a damn thing about ballet but the music is nice and whenever you cut your gaze to the left, she looks entranced. All in all, it is worth it – the fancy clothes, the rich dinner, the balcony all to yourselves – just to see her like this, neither sly nor cold, but simply watching and liking something, as close to innocent as she could ever be, and you feel such a deep swell of affection, so strong that it causes your heart to stutter in your chest, and when did that happen?

In between the murders and the grief? Among the loss and the insanity? It wasn't always there, that much is true; it couldn't thrive in that mixture of lust and hate that sustained you for so long. Obsession breeds so many things, but affection – of the real, strangely tender kind – only grows after time, after acceptance, after something else leaves you and is replaced by... by...

You blink as she looks over at you. You think she is about to chastise you for not keeping your eyes on the stage, but her expression is still one of faint awe and a fine tendril of heat starts to spread throughout your body, stopping at pertinent points to make itself fully known – the base of your spine, low in your gut, the pulse at your wrist. This is nothing new, of course, you know want when it finds you. You know your want of her, it has plagued you and owned you more than once, it has fed you and kept you warm, too.

She smiles at you, gleeful, shades of that day on that dirt road so very long ago – a gun to her lips, a kiss kicking up dust by your feet – and you've been thinking all damn night, despite your best efforts to the contrary, and frankly, you are tired of it.

You are all I see.

It's been that way for such a long time. Back then, now, tomorrow and who knows how far down the rabbit hole – in the end, who knows how long any of this will last? But it is still true, she is all that you see, especially right now, and that spark within you turns into a flame.

You are all I want to see.

The orchestra picks up speed below, going from romantic to almost frantic – an ocean of strings, echoing against these opulent walls – and you slip from your chair and into her lap and your lips crash down on hers, no grace or style, some teeth and some pain instead and you can't hear it over music that grows ever louder but you feel her moan into your mouth, a vibration that only makes you kiss her harder.

You are...

You drag your fingertips over her neck, down her shoulders, tugging on her dress – if you rip anything, she'll probably want to kill you, but you really don't care – and teasing the top of her breasts with your touch and her whole body pushes towards you, so very ready, and you can feel this delicious ripple of need move through you, this beat-beat-beat of eagerness, and you suck her bottom lip into your mouth as one of your hands dives down – over her stomach and between her legs, pressing the pads of your fingers against her, firm and sure, no matter the nice material you are messing up in the process.

...all I want...

You feel her hips lift and start to shakily roll into the pressure you are exacting upon her. You lean away from her lips and they stay parted in your wake, open and inviting, and you watch her stare begin to grow dark, dark and oh so deep, and her longing comes tumbling out of her, voice fraught with wondrous tension – "...god, yes, yes..." – and you want to strip her down, right here, and absolutely fuck her senseless. Fuck her until your name is all she knows, all she can say. Fuck her until all she can see is you, all she can want is you, until you are everything, right down to the air she breathes.

...you are everything to me.

Crescendos of sound from below, timpani drums booming like thunder, and your palm skirts up her thigh and you slip your fingers inside of her underwear and find her so incredibly wet and she trembles in your hold, the sharp bucking of her hips threatening to toss you both to the floor, and you sink your teeth into her exposed neck and this time you hear her, this time you hear her groan and it reaches into you, buries itself into your very soul so that you'll never forget it, and you love her...

...you actually fucking love her, more than you should, more than is normal... but you love her all the same and when she comes, which is quick and fast and with her begging you to never, ever stop, with your name falling off her tongue like a prayer... when she comes, you almost say it, out loud...

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Her head falls onto your shoulder, gasping breath hitting the skin, and her fingers clench and release over and over on your arms, and the music has suddenly gone very quiet and delicate and your heart pounding is now the loudest thing in the entire world – the thrum of so many feelings, resounding against your ribcage – and her lips make a lazy ascent from your neck to your jaw and, dear god, you love her, you love her and that's beyond lunacy, isn't it?

"We can call it even then, the ballet for a mind-blowing orgasm... that's fine with me..."

You can hear the smile in her voice, hear the warmth there, hear the fondness – from an international assassin, from a killer, from one of the most vain and cocky people that you have ever met – and holy fuck, you have never loved anyone like this. Not your first crush, all sweaty palms and nerves in 8th grade. Not the first guy you slept with, beautiful in bed with hair in his eyes. Not even Niko, sweet and steady Niko, the one who slipped a band of gold onto your finger.

She kisses you. Hands in your hair, keeping you close. And you can't make sense of any of this, because it makes no sense, it shouldn't make any sense at all. But all you want is her, all you have ever wanted is her – first, as a fantasy, then as a cold and hard reality, and now... oh, now... and you kiss her back, slowly and deliberately, and she'll be gone tomorrow and you'll be back to maps and trails and codewords and endless espionage and no, you can't say it – not yet, not now – hell, maybe you'll never say it and you'll let those words hide inside of you forever.

"Mmmm, let's go. What we are doing is much better than whatever they are doing."

You can't speak, not really, but you nod your head in agreement and you rise up from her lap, feel your own arousal subtly spike as your legs shift, and she takes your hand – fingers interlocked – like she belongs there, like your hand and her hand are made for one another, as natural as can be, and her thumb brushes over your knuckles – once, twice, soothingly – and she glances over at you and you see it in her gaze, you see that same flutter of awe in her eyes, and you can't say it... not yet, not now...

...but suddenly 'maybe never' seems like the biggest lie you've ever told.

Part 4

Return to Killing Eve Fiction

Return to Main Page