Chapter Text
Eve’s going to miss her flight. She knows it’s not her taxi driver’s fault that she didn’t leave the office early enough to beat rush hour traffic. Even so, she can’t help how her fingers tap against her suitcase in agitation.
Her phone chimes. It’s an incoming call from Kenny.
“What’s up?” Her voice is thin with impatience.
“I’m sorry, Eve. I know you already told me before, I wrote it down somewhere but I can’t find it and I didn’t–”
“Skip to the question, Kenny.” He’s a good assistant and a good kid, but he can get a little frazzled. Or a lot.
He lets out a breath. “Which safehouse are we sending Mr. Avery to?”
“The one in Bletchingley, out in the sticks.” The rain pounding against the car gets louder, and Eve raises her voice. “Oh, and tell the guys down in security to take the Jaguar. They love to show off with the Bentley, but the Jag’s more comfortable.”
She hears rustling on the other end, like Kenny’s scrambling for something to write on.
“And for god’s sake, make sure it’s clean first. Last time we had to shelter that asshole, he complained the whole way about how bad his clothes were going to smell afterwards.”
“Right, okay. Eight AM at Bletchingley.”
“We need to keep the schedule tight. I don’t want him there by eight, I want him tucked away in that house with security surrounding the premises by eight.”
Kenny stammers a mix of apologies and thank-you’s before hanging up. Eve digs through her pockets for a hair tie, pulling her black, curly hair into a bun.
The taxi driver veers into a different lane and several cars honk at them. Eve doesn’t give a shit. They’re going faster now – she might actually make it.
Her phone chimes again, and she answers without looking. “What now?”
“What now, is this the way you talk to your mother? You might work for the government, but you’ll always have to answer to me first.”
Eve presses a hand to her forehead. “Ah– Umma, sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
The driver skids around a corner without slowing, and a wave of water hits the side of the car from a puddle in the road. “What’s all that noise? Are you at the airport?”
“Not yet. I’m…running a little late.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to miss your flight, we only have a few days with you as it is. I have your room cleaned up and ready. I even asked your father to help me find all your old art from when you were little so you could look through it.”
Eve sighs. “Umma, that attic is full of asbestos and who knows what else. You shouldn’t go digging around–”
“But it’s been so long. Besides, I wanted to look through it too. We can’t seem to find your favorite one, though.”
“You mean the one of Chef Boyardee?”
“It was so good! There’s a reason we had it framed, you know.”
Eve smiles. “I thought you had it framed because I drew it on a page from a hotel Bible.”
“Well, that too.”
Based on the signs flying by, Eve can tell they’re getting close. She promises her mom she won’t miss her flight and hangs up, flinging her phone to the side.
The taxi slides into the drop-off area of Heathrow Airport and Eve tumbles out, barely taking the time to close the passenger door. Her suitcase scrapes roughly against the wet pavement.
She nearly slips on the linoleum floor of the airport as she sprints to the baggage check area, ticket and ID in hand. As long as the security line isn’t too backed up, Eve’s going to be on that flight.
She needn’t have hurried, though. Eve’s been too distracted by the panic of being late to notice that the storm outside has quickly worsened to the point of flight delays. According to the airport attendant it’s expected to blow through London in a few hours. Eve leaves the counter with a new ticket and a new departure time of 12:00 AM. Great, a red eye flight.
It’s not like those few hours of delay are that big of a deal. Eve can just sleep on the plane – though she might have to pick up one of those neck pillows at a duty-free shop.
She should probably let her parents know what happened. Eve pats her right pocket, looking for her phone, but comes up empty. She stops in the middle of the walkway, some guy in a business suit huffing impatiently and stalking around her. She fishes through all her pockets once, twice, three times.
An image flashes behind her eyes: her phone in its beat-up case, tossed casually onto the frayed seats of the taxi. Forgotten.
Eve closes her eyes. This is fucking fantastic. That taxi is surely long gone, and without a phone, she can’t exactly look up the taxi company to try and track it down. Hell, she doesn’t even remember what company she used in the first place.
Better try to find a payphone, if they still have those here. Eve opens her eyes and turns to rush back the way she came, promptly colliding with a blonde woman holding a large coffee. The paper cup tilts backward, spilling dark liquid all over the woman’s pale yellow blouse.
Eve stumbles back, eyes wide. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry.”
The woman holds her shirt away from her body with one hand and turns to dump the coffee cup into a nearby trash can. Eve can tell the fabric is completely ruined. If she had spilled it on her own shirt, she could’ve dealt with it easily enough. Eve isn’t all that attached to clothes. But the woman in front of her looks well-dressed, her pinstripe slacks perfectly creased. The blouse has to be name-brand. Pricey.
“Don’t worry about it. Yellow isn’t really my color anyway.” The woman smiles.
Her accent is a surprise. Something Slavic – maybe Russian? She looks at least a decade younger than Eve, placing her somewhere in her 20’s. Her hair falls in waves around her shoulders.
Eve’s eyes drop to the stain again and she cringes. “I’m such an idiot, I wasn’t paying attention at all.”
“Neither was I.”
“You weren’t the one standing in the middle of the walkway, though.”
The woman adjusts her purse, and Eve realizes she’s not carrying any suitcase. She must’ve already checked her bag, leaving her with nothing to change into.
“Here, I have, uh…” Eve digs around in her small carry-on. “I always keep a set of clothes in here for emergencies.”
The woman brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. Normally I wouldn’t accept, but…” She glances around and motions to a nearby restroom. Eve nods and follows her inside.
Eve continues rifling through her mess of a bag, finally finding the shirt and offering it to the woman. She internally curses her past self for thinking a simple wife beater would suffice in a clothing emergency. “I mean it’s nowhere near as beautiful as your blouse, but at least it’s dry.”
The woman accepts the shirt, smiling sweetly. The round apples of her cheeks remind Eve of a porcelain doll.
She sets her purse on the bathroom counter and without hesitation begins pulling her ruined blouse over her head, taking care not to brush against the wet stain.
Eve’s eyes flick to her bare midriff, then away. Aside from the two of them, the bathroom is thankfully empty. She turns to the mirror and focuses on her own reflection, trying to ignore the woman undressing a few feet away.
Her father’s oval face stares back at her in the mirror as she adjusts her striped t-shirt thoughtlessly. She’s the spitting image of her great aunt on her father’s side, or so she’s been told, but Eve didn’t make it over to Korea in time to meet her while she was still alive.
A grunt pulls Eve’s attention to the reflection next to hers. The woman is struggling, arms bent over her head as she tries to pull the shirt down over her torso. Skimming past her white bra, Eve sees a twisted scar on her stomach. At first she assumes it’s from a surgery, but it lacks the precision and care you’d see from a doctor. It looks violent.
The woman clears her throat and tucks the shirt down over her stomach, covering the scar. She cocks an eyebrow. “Thanks.”
Eve feels awkward. She’d clearly been caught staring – but she doesn’t want this woman to think she was ogling her body like a creep. “Sorry, I know I was kind of…gawking at you. But it was your scar. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”
“Oh, that.” Her voice is rich, accent curling each word as she speaks. “Well, I work in a kind of customer service role. I’m very good at it, but you still encounter bad eggs no matter what, you know?”
Eve nods, interested.
She rests an elbow against the countertop and continues. “One of those bad eggs was really bad. Bad enough to do this—” she points to her abdomen, “—all because he didn’t like what my manager had asked me to tell him.”
“What an asshole.”
“Yeah. I was in the hospital for weeks, got an infection, all that.” She leans in towards Eve conspiratorially. “But you know what the worst part was?”
Eve leans in closer as well, brow furrowed.
“I was wearing my favorite shirt that day. My best one. And he ruined it.” She pouts her lower lip.
A short laugh escapes Eve’s mouth. “Well, I’m very sorry to remind you of your past trauma – both with my invasive questions and my lack of attention.”
The woman doesn’t respond. A tendon in her neck pulls forward as she tilts her head to the side. Her face is open, but her eyes are completely closed off to everything, holding back something unknown.
Eve is curious. “Can I maybe buy you a drink as an apology? I don’t know when your flight is, but I have plenty of time to kill.” She offers a hand. “I’m Eve, by the way.”
“Eve.” The name is smooth with reverence. “Yes, please. I’m Villanelle.”
They wander around looking for a directory, finally ending up at a restaurant near Eve’s gate. The lighting is soft and golden, a long row of windows displaying the dark tarmac, hazy through torrents of rain.
It must be a popular place, as they aren’t able to snag a table. Eve doesn’t mind sitting at the bar. She needs some alcohol to wash down this disastrous evening.
The bartender approaches, and Eve opens her mouth to order her drink. The woman – Villanelle, Eve corrects herself – interrupts her.
“Don’t order yet. I bet I can guess, I’m good at this kind of thing.”
Eve settles into her stool and nods for her to continue, amused.
“Definitely hard liquor. You might enjoy a beer or a glass of wine after work, but not tonight. Not at an airport bar.”
“Go on.”
Villanelle leans a forearm on the counter. “Not vodka. You prefer something with a little more panache.”
Eve smiles, enjoying the game.
“Maybe whisky?”
Villanelle’s expression is calculating, yet playful. She purses her lips. Eve stays silent.
“No, no. Tequila?”
Eve inclines her head, revealing nothing.
“Not tequila. I’m going to say…” She taps a finger to her nose, and then points to Eve. “Gin.”
It takes everything for Eve to keep her face flat. She doesn’t want to give Villanelle any hints, part of her hoping she guesses correctly but stubbornly wanting to make it as difficult as possible.
“But what drink? Gin and tonic is too basic for a woman like yourself. It’s not that.” A muscle in Villanelle’s bare arm tenses.
Eve crosses her legs, suddenly self-conscious of her grungy travel outfit. Even in a plain white tank top mismatched with her slacks, Villanelle is luminously beautiful. She must be the type who could wear anything at all and still look like a model.
Villanelle lifts a hand to her own face, tracing her lower lip thoughtfully with her thumb. “That leaves the sweetness of a Tom Collins, or the simple elegancy of a gimlet…”
“Am I really so easy to read?”
“Not at all. You just happen to be my favorite genre of book.” Her casual tone almost causes Eve to miss the implication. Facing each other on the bar stools, their knees are only inches apart. Eve finds herself wishing they were sitting in a booth together. She wants to feel the heat of this woman next to her, wants to further dissect her own unexpected reactions.
Silence stretches between them as Villanelle deliberates. She lets out a long breath, eyes roaming over Eve’s face. “Gimlet.”
Eve doesn’t respond. She turns and raises a hand to call the bartender over. Watching Villanelle’s expression, she gives her order. “One White Russian, please.”
It’s not her favorite – not even close. In fact, she’s only had it a couple times. She had thought she wanted Villanelle to guess right, but now she feels unusually exposed. Someone she just met can’t know her so well. Definitely a fluke.
Besides, Eve’s never been one to knowingly give someone the satisfaction of being right.
Villanelle smiles and shifts her jaw to the side, eyes never leaving Eve’s. “Same for me, thank you.”
The bartender makes their drinks without comment and slides two glasses across the bar. Pale cream swirls decadently through the dark liqueur. A drop of condensation rolls down the side of Eve’s glass to form a small puddle on the counter.
“Are you sure that’s what you wanted?” Villanelle traces the rim of her glass with one long finger. “You can always change your mind. Get you that gimlet.”
“I don’t like gin,” Eve lies.
She takes a drink, the burn of the liquor tempered by the softness of cold cream. She enjoys it more than she thought she would. The taste of coffee resonates through her limbs, immediately energizing her.
“How are you enjoying it, Eve?”
“Delicious.” Eve swirls the glass, ice clinking. She likes the way her name sounds in Villanelle’s mouth.
“It’s not really my usual, but the way the cream and coffee mix into something deep and rich…” Villanelle takes another sip. “For tonight, it’s perfect.”
Rain pounds against the windows. Somewhere behind them, a speaker crackles with an announcement about more flights being delayed. Eve hopes the storm really does calm down in a few hours. As much as she’s currently enjoying herself, it wouldn’t do to spend all night drinking at an airport bar with a stranger.
That word feels like a thorn in her mind. Eve’s not especially friendly, and doesn’t make it a habit to befriend random people, even ones she spills coffee on. Under ordinary circumstances, Eve would offer to pay for the shirt and leave it at that, not wanting to extend an awkward encounter. Maybe it’s just the empty evening yawning ahead of her, or the peculiar static that runs through her chest when Villanelle speaks to her, but their interactions already feel more intimate than strangers.
A man eating at a nearby table loudly answers a phone call. Eve’s reminded of her parents, who are probably impatiently counting down the hours until her flight is supposed to land in Massachusetts that night.
“Ah, shit.” Eve looks back to Villanelle, embarrassed. “So I hate to ask this, but I lost my phone on the way here, and my parents were planning to pick me up from the airport. My flight was delayed, but they don’t know that. Is there any way—”
Villanelle doesn’t wait for her to finish. She pulls out her phone and navigates to the call screen. Eve thanks her lucky stars she still has her parents’ numbers memorized.
Her dad picks up on the second ring, and she explains the situation, keeping her eyes on the windows just beyond the bar. She tells her dad not to come pick her up from the airport, in case the flight is delayed again. Instead, she’ll just taxi over to their house whenever she lands. He argues on this briefly, insisting it’s no trouble for them to come wait at the airport for her, but ultimately acquiesces. Eve promises she’ll find a way to reach out again if anything else happens, and hangs up, passing the phone back.
“Are you excited to see them?” Villanelle asks.
Eve takes another sip of her drink. “Yes. It’s been too long.” She rubs her eyes. Talking to her dad brought her back to the real world, reminding her that she has bigger things to worry about than a sexy woman at the bar.
Sexy?
Pushing that thought aside, Eve continues. “My work keeps me so busy, I find it difficult to take time off. Not to mention, we live on different continents.”
Villanelle rotates the seat of her stool absentmindedly, shifting her body from side to side. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I work for MI6, actually. I do all kinds of things. Whatever they don’t know how to handle, they toss my way. Mostly it’s just boring security detail.” Eve taps her foot against the leg of her stool absentmindedly.
“Wow.” Villanelle raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I guess I’ll have to watch myself around you. Don’t want you to arrest me or anything.”
Eve smiles. “Arrest you for what?”
“Obstructing your way.”
“Is it really obstructing if I wasn’t watching where I was going?”
Villanelle shrugs. “How am I to guess what the government thinks is a crime?”
“If anything, I should be arrested for destroying your property.”
“That can be arranged.” Villanelle taps her fingers on the countertop. She’s watching Eve intently, and her eyes look hungry. “But I’ll let you off easy, just this once.”
Eve’s stomach drops. She’s suddenly very aware that they’re surrounded by people. Is she imagining these hints sprinkling their conversation? She’s never had a woman flirt with her, but this seems pretty overt.
“How merciful of you.” Eve shifts in her seat, trying to emphasize the curve of her hip. She feels silly.
Villanelle drains the rest of her drink, eyes roaming shamelessly over Eve’s body. She sets her glass back on the counter and turns towards the bar.
Eve takes the opportunity to study her. Villanelle’s profile is perfect. She has that type of skin you’d see in a magazine, except it’s flawless without needing any retouching. Her nose is straight and strong without overwhelming the rest of her features.
She seems to be pondering something. Eve wracks her brain – had she said anything weird?
“I’m not usually known for being merciful.” Villanelle’s eyes are empty as she stares at her reflection in the window. “In fact, quite the opposite.”
Eve senses the change in tone, though she doesn’t understand it. “Then I’ll count myself lucky.”
The silence between them is ruptured by a soft chiming. Without looking away from the window, Villanelle once again pulls out her phone. She checks the notification, reading something. Her expression hardens.
She turns to Eve and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry, I need to make a call. It’s my work, I’m sure you understand.”
Eve nods and lifts the corners of her mouth, not quite smiling but doing her best. She wants their interaction to continue, despite the weird mood that’s descended over them.
Villanelle pulls out her wallet and drops a couple bills on the counter. She gathers her purse, and with one last glance, walks out of the bar. Eve spends a moment admiring her long legs, and realizes too late that she should’ve asked for her number.