A/N: Characters belong to the Killing Eve showrunners who ran this story into the ground. Spoilers all, folks.
A Different Kind of Dance
The air is cool when she re-emerges from belowdecks; it's only been a few minutes, but evening has fallen in earnest. Raucous music replaces the ceremonial silence, just as swaying bodies replace the rows of chairs. Everyone dances. Everyone smiles. The music grates at Villanelle, as do the movements, graceless compared to her own dance with The Twelve. She glances outside at London in the distance, the bridge like a darkened frown as she remembers their faces, their panicked, pleading eyes.
Glorious.
The word comes in Hélène's voice, hissed just before death, with a rasp that travels down Villanelle's spine, delicious and dark. It was glorious. All assembled, all together. All dead.
She glances down to find a smear of blood across her front. Sighing, she pulls the tank top over her head and tosses it to the floor, catching the eye of one of the revellers; he looks away just as quickly, and Villanelle rolls her neck. Her sports bra and loose pants are comfortable – more so than she'd care to admit – and she feels the gorgeous tension of work well done seeping through her muscles. She considers going outside onto the deck to soak up the evening air, to let the clean hum of the ship wash away that tension. But a possibility winks at her from the bridge.
I owe you a dare.
And she can feel it now: something daring her to go outside, away from the crush of dancing bodies, away from the cloud of dark hair Villanelle sees from the corner of her eye. She doesn't turn, doesn't look away from the bridge. She can feel eyes – sights – on her. The tension heightens, her hands clenching as Villanelle stares down the dare, as she returns the stare of the sniper she can sense in the distance.
The music shifts, one song giving way to another. Villanelle releases a slow sigh. She steps back from the door and finally turns to the wedding – to Eve. She's at the centre of the crowd, that cloud of amazing hair bouncing as she sashays and swings her hips, her feet confident, her arms aloft. Eve catches her eye and grins, not bothering to confirm the kills below decks, not sensing the death waiting without. No; just her Eve, dancing as though they are the only ones on the ship. All Villanelle can do is blink, hardly noticing when tears trail down her cheeks. Eve pauses, her grin falling away, her eyes hardening just the tiniest bit. It's this hardness, this unexpected intensity, that draws Villanelle close – that has drawn her from the start. Dancers move aside as she walks to Eve, her eyes the only thing Villanelle can see, the question of the kills dissipating between them, the confirmation needing no voice.
Eve reaches for Villanelle, drawing her into a different kind of dance, one where the two of them sway forward into a kiss that threatens to knock her down. Eve holds her up. They stay that way, moving to a beat slower than the music, their kiss saying more than either of them need say aloud. Villanelle knows this dance will end eventually; the wedding guests will disperse, and then it'll be time to take a trip down the gangplank and into the open. She'll steer Eve into the very midst of the crowd, positioning her at its centre, just like now – safe and anonymous. They'll disembark, then move like shadows across London to where they left the shitty old caravan on a one-way street. They'll drive north to Scotland, or west to Wales; they'll piss by the side of the road, and kiss on the shoulder. Together, they'll find a rhythm to match their beating hearts.
Her plan in place, Villanelle pulls back to look at Eve, who returns her stare with that hard, brilliant grin.
"What's next?" Eve asks.
"This."
She squeals as Villanelle grabs her hips, hoisting her up and spinning them both, a blur of long hair and breathless laughter. As they continue dancing, she wonders if Eve would agree that this could very well be their wedding, complete with unspoken vows, a first dance, and a blessing in blood. The caravan could be their honeymoon; the endless expanse of the world beyond The Twelve, their marriage.
Villanelle looks down and sees her future, close enough to kiss. In Eve's shining eyes, she sees the sun.
