#READ THE REST OF FENN’S WORK TOO IT MAKES ME WANT TO BLOW UP

[teahugsandcookies]

EVERYONE HERE NEEDS TO READ lavender scented baths by fennorians NOW I am NOT JOKING

Do u ever read a friend’s fic and it’s like holy shit how do you consider me qualified to talk to you?

[therealjammy]

Thanks for such a nice reply! Ep 2 left me with many feels so my prompt idea was heavily influenced by that. So here it is: Eve somehow manages to answer V's phone call and gets to her before she kills Julian. She takes V away from the house and reluctantly accepts to take care of V until she gets well without anyone knowing. I wanna see bratty V and Eve helping her cause she feels bad about the stabbing. Thanks for reading even if you decide not to write it in the end. Hope you have a nice day!

I changed a few things but I hope you like it regardless!

–

A Congregation of Birds

I’m doing this foryou, more than you could ever know

Fenne Lily, More Than You Know

—

Quick, be quick, Villanelletells herself, rushing to the pathetically old-fashioned phone on the wall. Shedials Eve’s MI6 number. Gets a secretary on the other end who thinks she’s aprank caller.

           “I get calls like this all the time, youknow,” says the secretary.

           “Tell themI’ll blow up the Houses of Parliament.”

           It does thetrick.

           The linerings.

           A robotanswers next. “Please give the name ofthe agent you wish to speak to.”

           “Eve Polastri.”

           “I’m sorry, that didn’t register. Please tryagain.”

           “Eve. Polastri.”

—

Eve is in the middle of a presentation on psychopaths whenher phone, tucked away in her purse, blares Kids in America. Embarrassed, shesteps out of the projector’s light and leaves the room. The number is from theMI6 desk.

           “Is this Eve Polastri?” asks thesecretary. A new woman, by the sound of her voice.

           “This isshe,” Eve replies, chewing a fingernail.

           “Someone wants to talk to you; I’m patchingyou through.” There’s static, and then someone breathing. Before she evenspeaks Eve knows it’s Villanelle.

           “Eve?”

           She swallows. “I’mhere.”

           “Trace this call.” The bang! of Villanelle’s phone hanging upstartles her; her own mobile jumps from her hand and onto the floor, almostlike a desperate fish would after being caught. Eve picks it back up, goesthrough the calls to see the area code. It’s from London. Maybe not even farfrom here. She shoots a quick text to Kenny, telling him something personalcame up and that the presentation would resume either sometime in the eveningor during the week, then makes her way to her car, pulling up the phone numberand a map from the secure network, using what Kenny taught her on tracing calls.

           It camefrom a house in the suburbs.

           “Oh my god,”Eve says.

           She speedsthere, the SATNAV voice robotically annoying. It takes about half an hourbefore she turns into the lane and finds herself faced with houses moreluxurious and larger than her own, with blooming trees and lush lawns outfront, picaresque things of people trapped in the same monotony of married lifeshe is. She hardly pays them mind; they’re not what she’s looking for. Shepasses an old lady walking the sidewalk in her nightgown, looking dreamy as shetakes in the world around her.

           “The destination is on your right.”

           It’s a brickhouse, looking almost Victorian in style, with white trim. The front door iswide open.

           Evestumbles from her car, leaving it running. Someone’s drumming in her chest andher ears and even though the weather is just starting to get warmer she’ssweating underneath her work shirt.

           Uponentering there’s an army of dolls and their houses, their faces expressionless,their eyes black and dead, staring listlessly ahead. What sort of freaky person…?

           There’s a deadman around the corner. Slumped in a chair, dressed in ordinary clothes that’resoaked red, a hole in the side of his neck. A silver knitting needle sits nottoo far away, four inches of it covered in blood. She picks it up withoutthinking, carries it around the house while she looks for Villanelle. There’s signsof a struggle in the hallway, more in the parlor; she’d apparently wrestledwith the man before fatally stabbing him in the neck.

           Upstairs isempty save for a still-humid bathroom and a guest bedroom that looks recentlyslept in.

           Backdownstairs, Eve hears rustling in the front yard. She freezes, listens. Pokesher head around the doorframe. Catches a glimpse of powder blue nightgownbehind a large shrubbery.

           “Villanelle?”she says.

           It’s her.Winded, sagging, her hair greasy with sweat, rust staining her stomach, buther.

           “Oh god.Oksana.” She kneels, touches Villanelle’s face, still holding onto the knittingneedle.

           “I thoughtyou were… going to make me spend the night in a shrub,” Villanelle says. Shejerks her chin to the knitting needle. “You’ll want to bury that.”

           It takes afew minutes. They smooth the dirt so that it’ll blend with the rest. Abovethem, two crows flutter their wings and take off.

           “Are yougetting me out of here?” Villanelle asks.

           “Yes,” Evesays. “Yes. Come on.”

           They hobbleto Eve’s car, where Villanelle collapses heavily into the passenger seat, herleft hand pressing against her wound. She smells like powder and salt andunwashed hair and rust.

           The carpulls away from the house and out of sight just as a red Volvo rounds thecorner.

--

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