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Listen to me," Andy says. She's already a little breathless, and Quỳnh's already slammed her into three walls, and she can feel the bruises forming up and down her back. They're in Paris, the city of love; of course there are bruises.
"No," Quỳnh snarls, kicking at Andy again. "I won't. Traitor!"
Andy dodges. It would be easier to fight Quỳnh if she wasn't so constantly tempted to stare at her. It's like a dream, seeing her here. The first time, she'd been half-convinced it was a hallucination, and then Quỳnh fought her, and she knew it wasn't. Dreams don't leave her bleeding.
It's been long enough now, enough for Andy to expect to see Quỳnh out of the corner of her eye in each and every city she is in, enough to know that Quỳnh doesn't want Andy's excuses or her apologies. Enough to know that she's just as beautiful as she always has been, and that she says Andy's name the same way as she always has, and to be reminded that there has been no one in the past five hundred years who knows her the same way as Quỳnh does.
"Quỳnh," she says, for a lack of anything else to see, just to hear the name in her own voice.
"I'm glad Yusuf and Nicolò are well," Quỳnh spits, which means she's seen them, she's gone to see them, and Andy wasn't there.
That's a crushing blow, and she's breathless under it, as breathless as she is when Quỳnh shoves her again, pinning her up against the wall. There's a knife at her belt; she hasn't gone for it yet, but Andy doesn't know what she'll do when she does.
"You," Quỳnh says, sharp and to the point. "I don't forgive you."
"I know," Andy says, and it burns out the way out, but she'll accept it if this is all she can get, if this is all the contact she can have with Quỳnh, who she's missed like a limb, like an organ, like her own heart has been beating in a cage under the ocean for five hundred years.
"Good." And then Quỳnh kisses her, bruising, with too many teeth. She's got Andy's wrists pressed up against the wall above her head, and there's a gorgeous burn in Andy's shoulders when she stretches against the hold to kiss Quỳnh back.
"Quỳnh," Andy says, when she's given space to breathe, breathless again. She can feel her mouth bruising with a mortal tenderness. Every line of Quỳnh is pressed up against Andy impossibly, thighs and knees and hips, breasts and elbows and nose, each and every exquisite strength and boney point of her. Andy knows the taste of her mouth and her sweat and her skin, and she has not had them for five hundred years. She has died of starvation before; it did not feel as desperate as this.
"I don't want to talk," Quỳnh says, a breath away rather than five hundred years.
Andy can do that. Andy can -
Quỳnh kisses her again, and Andy gives up on anything other than loving her.