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 Six: You Know It


There were the days when you couldn't even accept it, couldn't believe that this was you and so you didn't. You ignored and you denied, you were steadfast in your delusions and that worked – at least for a while.

Losing Bill and still being captivated.
A knife point to your throat and still angry.
Slapping Niko and still walking away victorious.

There were days when you couldn't stand to look in the mirror, couldn't handle who you had become and so you didn't. You kept your gaze trained a little to the left, off center and off topic and off limits and that worked – at least some of the times.

Going against the rules and still feeling righteous.
Destroying property and still buzzing with exhilaration.
Plunging the blade into her body and still aching for her.

There were days when you didn't know a damn thing about yourself, pin-balling from one point to another without rhyme or reason. There were days and days and days, trapped within your own fiction, and you couldn't see your way out of it. Days of being a mess, days of too much wine and too much longing, days where you weren't sure if you were coming or going or if it even mattered anymore.

There were days when you thought you had lost your goddamn mind. Maybe you had, maybe you did...

...and maybe, now, you've just stopped caring.


You know what affection feels like, all soft and tender. You know what lust feels like, all hot and bothered. And you know what obsession feels like, all itch and no relief. You know all of these things and yet you still cannot comprehend how you can feel varying degrees of each one for just one person.

You stabbed her. She bled all over you. You loved it and hated it and she shot at you.
Par for the course, really.

She lived and she made you pay and you sweated and fretted and you have a scar of your own now.
Scales balanced and all that jazz.

You know what want feels like. You know what need feels like. You know how adoration can turn sour and how shame can grow warm between your legs. You know all of these things and yet you still cannot wrap your head around this addiction to just one person, this fixation on every aspect of them.

You kiss her first. It's almost owed by this point. You kiss her first and she makes you work for it – the asshole – but once your tongue slides into her mouth, she groans weakly and you know that every horrible, mesmerizing moment has been worth it. You want to hear that sound for the rest of your life, the sound of her giving in.

She has a flavor to her skin. Fresh and cool, salty and sweet. She has reactions that you catalog. Sharp intakes of breath, tremors beneath the bones. She has an indulgent smile, big and broad but it never fully reaches her eyes, and still you know she isn't lying to you now.

You know what a liar looks like, after all. You've lived with one for your whole life.


There's one less strawberry on your plate and you roll your eyes at her.

"Really? There's a whole bowl in the fridge."
"But they taste better when I steal them from you."

And really, what other answer did you expect? Some things will never, ever change. You sigh and she grins and you refuse to show that you still find her stupidly charming. Her ego is already the size of a fucking mountain, you won't add to it – at least not consciously.

"How was Tokyo?"
"Fine. Good food. Too loud in the morning."
"I always kind of liked that, hearing the traffic first thing."
"You would. Busy mind, busy surroundings."

You don't applaud her awareness of your personal quirks, but you like it all the same. You like that she knows you. She swipes another piece of fruit from you and then takes a sip out of your cup, makes a face at your coffee choices – "...always so sugary..." – and brushes by you, robe fluttering around her calves as she goes to shower.

"You could always drink your own, dick."

She doesn't reply. You didn't expect her to, though.

Your phone buzzes at you. A message from an unknown number, stirrings of another political coup d'état, and you've got a flight booked in your name. People to meet, stories to tell, shadows to slip in and out of. You gulp the rest of your coffee down and toss the plate into the sink, pulling your pajamas off as you go. The bathroom is swimming in steam and you step into the shower without announcing yourself, reaching out to flick your finger against her side.

"Excuse me, some of us are trying to get clean."
"It's my shower. I can get into it whenever I like."

If you had more time, you'd be playful, you'd tease her with touches and spray her with water and laugh at her indignant expression. You'd fuck her, as you have before – right here, with her leg hooked over your hip – but you don't have time, not this morning. She threads her fingers into your hair, looking as enamored as ever by the sight of you, and you used to hate that look in her eyes. You hated it because you had seen it before on yourself; hated it because she was you and you were her and wasn't that just a fucking nightmare?

"Where are you going?"
"South where?"
"You know I can't tell you."

She tugs you closer, the two of you warm against one another, and you watch the water run over her shoulders, down her chest, and she is staring at you so intently. That look used to torture you from afar, haunt you and hang you up, leave you broken and messed up, back when she was a mystery to solve and a killer to catch. Back before all of this became, well, all of this – you and her, here one minute and gone the next, as easy and as strange as always.

"I'm leaving later...," and she presses her wet thigh between your legs, leaning you both back, and the air gets caught in your throat, "...we won't see each other for a while, I think...," and it is instinctual to roll your hips, to move yourself against her, to let your lips part and eyelids slip shut in supplication, "...so we better make this count, yes?"

You murmur your agreement into her mouth.

Hours later, you on the plane and dozing with a book in your lap, you feel her everywhere and maybe you've lost your mind, maybe you lost it the second you knew about her or maybe you never had a great grip on sanity in the first place. It doesn't matter. All that matters is all of this – you on this plane, her hands in your hair, the rush and the heat and the danger, fucking her and being fucked by her, the hurt and the understanding, the blood and the beauty...

...and you know what love feels like, all-consuming and dumb and reckless and exquisite and perfectly imperfect and raw and real...

You know love when you feel it.
You know it.

Part 7

Return to Killing Eve Fiction

Return to Main Page