#watching dasha go around the hotel room talking about everything

[rolandkaros]

purely from a linguistic perspective, the code-switching/code-meshing in what the vlog is absolutely fascinating

[wittygaypuns]

102.) “I take care of myself, that’s what I do.” Happy pre-4th!!!

Thank you for the prompt. :D 

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The meeting at the bowling alley had put a foul taste in her mouth that Eve could not, would not shake. That woman, Dasha, was the sort of beast that crawled down your throat and stuck there, the twisted frog in your gullet that you could never truly shake until it slipped down and latched on to your heart instead. Dasha, she realized now with perfect clarity, had stabbed Niko and had left that note there assuming that Eve was stupid enough to believe that the blocky, inelegant handwriting was hers. She had done so believing that Eve, in her grief, would blame Villanelle for it. That, in her grief, Eve would rail against her, would lose focus, would want Villanelle dead the way she had in the past. Further, she believed that in her confusion about the rekindled rage, Villanelle would either kill her or would distance herself enough for Dasha to squeeze her last limb around her heart like the parasite she was.

Niko, however, was alive, and Eve still recalled the strong, curling script that adorned the note inside the perfume box.

If Villanelle had decided to kill Niko, he would be dead.

And Eve was tired, too tired for grief.

That was why Eve now sat in the drivers seat of a rental she had bullied Bear into ordering for her across the street from a hotel in Bucharest, Romania.

She had followed her for a full twelve hours. Maybe more. She hadn't slept. She had barely eaten. She stalked and waited, a leopard cat crouched with wide eyes in the brush, her prey making its way towards its burrow. Eve had followed her all the way to Romania without stopping, determined, knowing that Dasha would lead her to Villanelle. She spoke about Villanelle as if she were a machine detached from higher purpose, a murderous automaton who obeyed command without question, perfect and flawless.

“I took raw shit and molded it into steel.”

“I broke her back and gave her wings!”

Villanelle was anything but perfect despite her outward confidence. She was broken in a way that was so profound that it would take Eve years to unravel all the layers if she tried. Eve had always assumed that outside forces had forced Villanelle into her path, taking a young girl with violent tendencies and a poor upbringing to “mold” her. It made Eve feel sick to think of, that Villanelle was targeted and groomed in such a way. It made her sick how much she cared, even after everything Villanelle had put her through. Her shoulder throbbed at the memory of her and she grimaced, rolling it as she saw Dasha enter the hotel.

She had no plan.

She had no real strategy.

All she knew was that she needed to see Villanelle, and that Dasha would show her where she was.

She exited the rental and crossed the street, not caring enough to lock the doors. She wasn't even sure she closed the door the entire way, so focused was she on her task. She followed silently after Dasha, keeping her eyes trained on her until she hit the elevator. Eve slipped in behind her, slamming the door close button before anyone else could follow. Dasha's eyes went wide when she realized who it was. Eve stared at her, hard, stared in a way she hoped to god was intimidating or at least crazy enough to come across as a threat.

“Turtleneck. So nice to see you again. You come for a rematch? I didn't bring my ball.” Dasha said, thin brow raised.

“Where is she?” Eve asked, teeth gritted. Just the sight of Dasha angered her, made her want to... something. She didn't know what she wanted to do to her. Hurt her. Force her to admit everything she had done. Force her to admit that she speared Niko – force her to admit what she had done to Villanelle in the past. Anything to explain why Villanelle was the way she was, and why Eve was the way she was now by association.

“She is in a room in this hotel. She doesn't want to see you, Eve. Go back to England. She doesn't need you anymore.” Dasha, small though she was, crowded Eve, tried to puff herself up all big to intimidate her.

But Eve was tired, too tired to be intimidated.

She was tired, and angry, and sad, and confused, and Dasha was small and vile and at least partially responsible for Eve's self-destruction.

Without further thought, Eve reached out and gripped her throat, hard, as hard as she could, and crowded her back to the other side of the elevator, shoving her stupid little head against the wall back there. It wasn't an arbitrary choking. She squeezed, pinched, aimed for the carotid artery, squeezed so hard her hands shook. She wanted to choke the life out of her, to see her die, to leave her in a pile of old, worthless bones. Dasha tried to gasp for breath, flailing her fists at her, one hand going up to try and gouge her eyes. Eve shifted her head left to right, and then slammed her forehead forward with all her strength. It connected with her nose and broke it, and Dasha's head hit the wall behind.

“Bring me to her and I'll let go. You can kick and punch and do whatever you want. I promise it doesn't matter what you do to me – I'll take you with me. I have nothing left other than my life, and I don't give a fuck about that either.” Eve hissed. It was as if some demon had taken hold of her tongue. She barely registered her own words, mind swimming in a pool of lava that trickled down into every vein. “Take me to her.”

Dasha could not move in Eve's grasp, eyes getting cloudy – she choked something out.

“Do it now.” Eve loosened her grip, but did not let her go. She walked her to the panel, where Dasha brought a hand out to stab a number.

“Let me go! I'll take you.” Dasha croaked when she had breath enough to do so. Eve watched her as she removed her hand.

“Try anything and --” Eve said, backing away from her. Her forehead throbbed from where it had connected.

“I can see why she likes you. She's always had a... liking, for women like you.” Dasha muttered, tilting her head back to pinch her nose, aiming to stop the bleeding. The other hand massaged her quickly bruising throat.

“Don't talk to me.” Eve snapped.

“Why are you here, Eve? Do you expect she'll be happy to see you – or do you come here to kill her? She doesn't want you anymore. She is strong. She was promoted, you know – she is a Keeper now. My hard work with her finally paid off. Soon, I will go home...” Dasha seemed incapable of shutting up, and her voice was like nails hammering into her brain. Eve stepped off the elevator the moment it opened, looking to her.

“Bring me to the room.”

“So serious!” Dasha scoffed. “I could kill you right now...”

“You won't. Because then she'll kill you. You won't even touch me because you know what she'll do to you. She wouldn't make it fast.” Eve snapped, taking her by the shirt and yanking her forward. “So go. Walk. Bring me to her.”

It took only a few moments to get to the room; Dasha produced a keycard, which Eve snatched away from her.

“Now leave.” Eve demanded.

“I'm not leaving. You'll have to kill me. Open the door and we'll go in together.” Dasha said it dismissively.

Eve considered her options... Then sighed, moving to the door to open it.

Before Dasha could react to get in behind her, Eve slipped in and shoved the door shut behind her.

“Hey! You little shit, open this door!” Dasha yelled from behind it, pounding her fist against it.

“Go home, Dasha.” Eve muttered, looking around.

The pounding persisted, but Eve's focus became singular the second she saw it. A droplet of blood, and another, a slow trickle that led through the hotel room to the bathroom. Her heart lodged itself in her throat as she followed, and more firmly when she heard something. A soft, pitiful weeping. She raced towards the noise and opened the bathroom, where she was faced with a sight that broke her in more ways than she could ever have anticipated. Villanelle – no, not Villanelle. Oksana sat on the bathroom floor against the tub, sobbing softly, trying with a shaking hand to stitch a wound on her arm closed.

“Villanelle...” Eve mumbled, moving to her and sitting on her knees.

“E... Eve?” Villanelle choked through tears.

Her hair was a wreck, and her body seemed so small compared to normal. She looked so out of sorts, so... terrified, so unlike Villanelle. It was Oksana she saw there; a young woman whose life had never been her own. She brought a hand out to gently, tenderly stroke her cheek, as if offering it to a wounded animal to show she was no threat. Her eyes closed and her features bunched together as a sob escaped her throat, cheek pressing into her hand as if desperate for the touch.

“Eve... I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want – I -I want to be free.” Villanelle sobbed, bringing a hand up to rest over Eve's, to make sure she didn't pull away.

Eve had seen her fake tears before. She had seen her play at emotions she didn't truly understand but had observed in others. She had heard her say that she didn't want to continue the life she led before in an effort to manipulate her. This was different, though. Oksana was raw, laid bare and vulnerable on the bathroom floor, face pale and blotchy pink from tears and blood loss. She was uncomposed in a way that Eve had never seen her before, and she almost couldn't bear to see it.

“Here... This wound needs to be taken care of, okay? Let me help.” Eve said.

“No... It's fine. I take care of myself. That's what I do. That's what I always do, it's – it's...” Oksana's voice broke again as she spoke, disarmed by the way Eve's thumb stroked her cheek.

“Let me help.” Eve insisted. All the anger had drained out of her, all the acidic vitriol burning up her insides dispersed. “You have to walk me through it, but let me help. You're shaking.”

“You don't need --” Oksana began to insist, but Eve shook her head.

“I'm not leaving, and I'm not letting you do this alone. So either shut up and let me fumble through this alone or walk me through it.” Eve insisted, pulling her hand away and looking to the wound. It looked horrific, half-stitched and still oozing.

“Okay...” She mumbled. “I'll pinch it closed. Just... stitch it when the sides are together. Don't do it too tight.”

Eve nodded; slowly, she stitched the wound closed, hyper-focused on the task and frowning heavily at the whimpers that Oksana let out. She kept mumbling hurried apologies as she worked, to which Oksana gave no answer. When she finished, she went to fetch a wet cloth to clean her with, removing the remnants of blood first from her arm, then the area around her. She cleaned to busy her mind as well as to take care of the woman on the floor, whose eyes closed to take in the relative silence of the room. When she finished, she sat beside Oksana and, compelled by some need she didn't entirely understand, pulled her into her arms.

She pulled Oksana into her arms, and Oksana folded, crumbled against her, body going limp and chest heaving with sobs. It was the sort of cry that came from somewhere even deeper than just within the chest. It came from the soul and shook the body, and all Eve could do to offer comfort was to hold her and let her weep. She wept out every emotion she had been holding back for years, every hurt, every bit of pain that she had never allowed herself to express before. She wept for her fate, for the fates of those whose lives she had taken. She wept for what she had become. She wept, perhaps, because after everything, Eve was the one who had come back to her and was holding her, consoling her.

Eve asked no questions, and expected no explanation. She offered no words of consolation, no platitudes to soothe Oksana's mind; that wasn't what she needed. Eve didn't know how she knew, but she knew that all Oksana really needed was to be held, to be looked after, and to be understood.

She needed the only thing that Eve had left to give; herself.

And Eve would give it freely.