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So Eve blows off the important dinner with the important government man who wants to stare at her breasts for probably really important reasons. Bill keeps calling her phone and she keeps absentmindedly muting the call, because:

She’s here. 

The assassin.

She’s still in Berlin.

Her hair is up in a braided crown, but Eve recognizes the way she moves; like a jungle cat, cutting through the crowds like they aren’t even worthy of her time. She’s wearing a perfectly-fitted suit and her hips move beneath it like–

Eve almost crashes into someone. Right. Time to stop thinking about the assassin’s hips.

Somehow she hasn’t noticed Eve yet; she’s moving with purpose, through back streets, attention focused like a laser directly in front of her. Eve follows her around a corner and through another crowd, at which point the assassin cuts the line and vanishes down the stairs into a club. Because of course it’s a dance club. Great.

“Bill,” Eve says into her phone while she wrestles her way through the club’s line, “I found her, I think – no, no, I know I found her, she’s here, she’s in a club and I’m following her in. I–” but she doesn’t know what else to say. If I die tell my husband I’m sorry I lost my suitcase is too light, but I love you is too dark. Instead she hangs up.

She’s lost sight of the assassin. Motherfucker. Eve elbows her way into the crowd, into the thrashing mass of too-young bodies in too-short clothing. Why would an assassin come to a club? Think. Think. There has to be something here she wants – maybe a back entrance? Ooh, maybe her handlers have their headquarters down here?

Eve loses herself in a daydream about a secret organization with headquarters below a dance club and, like, a shark tank – and then is abruptly pulled out of that when someone yanks the ponytail holder out of her hair. “Ow,” she yowls, and wheels around, but the crowd dances on without looking at her. “Hey,” she says to the nearest kid, “did you just pull my ponytail holder out? Why–” but she’s ignored.

She is in the middle of the crowd. Everyone’s bodies slam into hers, all knees and elbows, and she’s overcome with the dizzying thrill of it: she has lost the assassin, her killer, she’s gone. Eve trailed her into a dance club and then lost her, and honestly? That’s sort of badass. She nods to herself. She nods to the crowd around her. Huh. Look at her go.

She sort of gets into the groove, a little bit. It’s slightly awkward because her coat is still on, but she’s working it. Someone’s hands slide appreciatively over her waist and someone’s body presses up against her back and someone whispers in her ear, delicate and amused: “Hello, Eve Polastri.”

Eve recognizes the voice.

She sucks in a breath and the voice croons “Shh, shh shh shh. We’re just dancing. I like the way you dance. Very clumsy. It’s cute.”

Holy shit the assassin is right there. Her breasts are pressed up against Eve’s back, which is totally not the first thing Eve thought of and honestly isn’t even the third or fourth thing down the list. She’s barely even noticed them, only she has, and they’re nice. From what she can feel.

“You’re my fan,” she says, in a very calm and deliberate voice.

“And you’re mine,” says the assassin. She laughs a little into Eve’s ear, a pretty curl of a giggle. It’s a nice laugh. “I’ve never had a fan before! I like it. Every time I kill someone now I pretend that you are there, and you’re watching. It’s much more exciting now.”

“Oh,” Eve says faintly. “Great.” She swallows. Focus. She’s – this is her job, she’s good at it, she can do this. “What’s your name?”

“I shouldn’t tell you,” the assassin whispers. Eve closes her eyes for one tight second and then leans back into the body cradling hers, reaching her hands behind her to feel skin.

“Oh, but what’s the fun of doing what you’re supposed to do,” she says.

The assassin giggles again. “I know,” she says. “Mm. I’m Villanelle. Will you say my name for me, Eve Polastri?”

“Villanelle,” Eve says.

“Again,” says Villanelle. She has her mouth against Eve’s throat, now, open and wet against the skin. They’re both somehow rocking to the beat despite – well, like, everything.

“Villanelle,” Eve says. 

Villanelle bites Eve’s throat, licks it. “Eve,” she murmurs. “Eve. Are you happy that you’ve found me?”

Eve’s answer to that is just sort of a sound, which is extremely embarrassing. Villanelle’s thigh slides between her legs, curiously. Presses up. Holy mother of fuck.

“I learned how to do this for you,” Villanelle says. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Oh,” Eve says. “I. Oh.”

“Are you happy?” Villanelle says. “Eve?”

“Yes,” Eve says. 

That sound, right there, is the greatest regret of her life. It’s the sort of moment that stands out in sick relief – the lights of the club flash on her and illuminate Eve, searching her chest for feeling, finding that in the moment she is deeply and entirely happy.

“Me too,” Villanelle says, and then she has spun Eve around, pulled her close, and kissed her.

Eve doesn’t kiss women. Eve kisses men and they are – oh, who is she kidding, it’s not even a comparison. Villanelle kisses the way she murders, slick and gory and excited. She licks into Eve’s mouth and licks her teeth and bites her lip and seems very, very excited to be doing this. To be kissing Eve. She has pulled Eve so close that Eve can feel Villanelle’s heartbeat, unless that’s just the bass. Eve wraps her arms around Villanelle and kisses her back like she wants to eat her alive. Maybe she does. God, she would if she could.

They kiss for a long, long time; the songs all blur together into the wet eager heat of Villanelle’s mouth, the way that Villanelle’s hands touch Eve like she’s something precious and beautiful that Villanelle can’t bear to damage. The same hands that – oh fuck, oh fuck, Eve is going to shake out of her skin with how turned on she is and how desperately, ferociously giddy.

Villanelle stops kissing Eve, nips at her lip repeatedly like a puppy. She presses her forehead against Eve’s. “Eve Polastri,” she says again, the sound of it like worshipping. 

“Villanelle,” Eve says hoarsely, because she knows that she should.

“If you touch anyone else,” Villanelle says, popping up on her tiptoes to kiss Eve’s forehead, “I will know,” (she kisses Eve’s nose) “and I will kill them.” (She pops a chaste kiss onto Eve’s mouth.) “Okay?”

“No,” Eve says. “What the fuck are you–”

“Goodbye for now, Eve,” Villanelle says, and shoves Eve at the crowd. Eve thrashes for a few seconds and then finds her footing – and Villanelle is gone. Completely gone. Eve was an idiot to think she could tail her before; of course she couldn’t, of course she can’t, Villanelle just wanted her. Holy shit. Fuck. Villanelle wanted her. Villanelle wants her.

Eve licks her lips, and licks them again. She drifts her way to the edge of the crowd and then leans her weight against the wall. She is so insanely turned on that she can’t even think. 

“Villanelle,” Eve whispers, and shuts her eyes. The sound of the music dreams her up a whole new heartbeat.