This essay contains spoilers for the season finale of Killing Eve.
I still remember the stray bullet that killed Lexa in The 100.
She wasn’t the first queer character to die on TV — according to Autostraddle, more than 200 lesbian and bisexual characters were killed off before her — and, sadly, she wouldn’t be the last. The ferocity with which fans reacted to her death wasn’t just about Lexa; it was about all the upset and anger of having to experience the tired “Bury Your Gays” trope over and over again until we hit our breaking point.
Intellectually, fans like me knew that part of the reason Lexa was written off the show was that the actress who played her, Alycia Debnam-Carey, had to leave to film another series, but that didn’t make the death of yet another queer character hurt any less — and ultimately, it was the manner in which she was killed that felt like salt in the wound.
The relationship between Lexa and Clarke (often shipped as “Clexa”) caused friction between their clans on the dystopian drama series, resulting in a death that happens solely because of queer love. The decision to kill off Lexa in such a tired way felt an unforgivable betrayal — one that caused many fans, myself included, to stop watching altogether. The hashtag #BuryTropesNotUs trended on social media. A fundraising effort raised more than $113,000 for The Trevor Project in the wake of Lexa’s death, and six years later, it’s still growing. The impact of her death was serious and lasting.
But despite the power of that fan outcry, I remained skeptical that TV writers would listen. Because of Lexa, my guard was always up against the possibility of disappointment. Whenever queer representation showed up on my screen, I resisted the urge to hold on to it with the kind of intense passion, bordering on obsession, that many straight viewers can’t understand because they’ve never been so starved of representation. It took me two years to find a show that made me say, “Okay, maybe this time things will be different.”
That show was Killing Eve.
Killing Eve, which aired its season finale on Sunday, was many things. It was a rare showcase for two remarkable lead actresses and a refreshing reinvention of the spy genre. But from the moment the lead characters, Villanelle (Jodie Comer) and Eve (Sandra Oh), looked at each other in that hospital bathroom in season one, it also felt like something more. Queer fans noticed their connection instantly, and we forged a connection with them. The complexity of these women was so alluring, their chemistry so intoxicating to watch, their cat and mouse game so thrilling to follow, that their intertwined fates felt sealed from the start.
I was hooked, and like most fans, hoped that this relationship would turn romantic. It may be unrealistic for a killer assassin and an MI5 agent to fall in love, but so were many other plot points in the show, and it was always clear that the characters wouldn’t really be complete without each other.
But from that promising beginning, a growing disconnect emerged between what the audience saw on their screens and how the showrunners framed the show. It was obvious to the audience that there was a strong bond, even love, between Villanelle and Eve, but the show kept them apart. When we thought we would get the moment we wanted at the end of season one, Eve stabbed Villanelle. When we thought it would come at the end of season two, Villanelle shot Eve.
Season three felt like we were building toward that acknowledgment of their romantic connection at long last. Villanelle reexamined her violent past and expressed a desire to escape the chains of her assassin organization. But Villanelle’s violence also brought out something subterranean within Eve. Yin and yang. Dark and light. It seemed that the couple was heading toward a new kind of journey together– even if it was going to end in a Thelma and Louise-style blaze of glory.
We were left strongly with that feeling at the close of the third season. In what many fans refer to as “the bridge scene,” Eve and Villanelle meet at London Bridge where they accept their similarities, realize how their lives have changed because of each other, and accept that their futures seem tied. Eve wanted all the chaos to end, and Villanelle understood her. Season three ended with a sense of peace.
But the question of whether they walked off the bridge together or walked off alone was never answered. Throughout the series, their relationship has suffered from an ever-changing rotation of writers and showrunners, with loose threads like these left dangling far too often.
That also explains why it’s been hard for accusations of queerbaiting to stick to Killing Eve: It’s been hard to tell whether the writers are stringing LGBTQ+ viewers along, or whether the decision makers behind each season understand Villanelle and Eve’s relationship differently.
Of course, Villanelle herself was always openly queer, which made it even more complicated to talk about the ways in which the show still seemed to be toying with its LGBTQ+ fanbase. The character’s queerness was only emphasized further in season four with Jodie Comer’s portrayal of Jesus in a vision. Villanelle’s Jesus includes a drag element that seems to reflect her own sexual fluidity. Throughout the final season, Villanelle’s dalliances with women continued, and she ultimately helped Eve discover her own queerness.
I have always viewed Eve and Villanelle as star-crossed lovers, and that perception was seemingly confirmed in season four through a visual reference to Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet in which Eve and Villanelle eye each other up through a fish tank. I trusted that the current set of writers could see what I saw: both characters were evolving to a point where they were ready to accept each other, however happily or unhappily, as their destiny. They were two halves of one whole, kept apart by various forces, government agencies, and world events. But they always seemed to find a way back to each other, and that’s what has kept hope alive for Killing Eve’s queer audience for all these years.
After waiting four seasons for Villanelle and Eve to finally accept they’re meant for each other, that fate was sealed with a kiss in the series finale — in fact, with several kisses. The two women didn’t discuss their feelings with each other, but nothing needed to be said. The special moments between them in the finale were earned, but they also came too late. By the time that moment came, both characters had lost too much. They had both been hurt and betrayed, by themselves as much as by others. Eve alluded to their possible fate at the beginning of the season when she compared herself and Villanelle to the fable of the scorpion and the frog. A frog agrees to give a scorpion a ride, despite knowing it could sting. The scorpion does, and by killing the frog, it drowns, too.
When I heard that fable, I felt like the show was priming the audience to prepare for the beloved characters to die together. And, honestly, that felt right. It would be the only way for them to find peace, and I thought fans would have been satisfied knowing they would be together, always, even in death. It would still amount to killing off two queer characters, but it wouldn’t be a classic case of Bury Your Gays. As long as it doesn’t end up like The 100, I told myself.
But then, in the final moments of season four, a bullet pierces Villanelle’s shoulder. Then, more in her back, fired by an unknown sniper. Villanelle dies. Eve screams in anguish. “The End” comes on the screen.
That is the last image we will ever see of Killing Eve.
The series finale has left me in an absolute state of shock and it’s still difficult to process my feelings. I didn’t have time to process them. The way in which the show just killed off Villanelle so suddenly, with no moment of pause before it faded to black – not to mention that it happened under the bridge that signified just how much Villanelle and Eve’s relationship meant to us and them — felt like a slap in the face.
There was no closure. I was angry — I’m still angry — and at that moment, all I could think to do was cry. Killing Eve fans spent four years watching this nuanced, dynamic relationship build, only for the show to end with the kind of cut-to-black shock ending that so many prestige TV showrunners reach for when they can’t come up with — or don’t want to deliver — a satisfying conclusion.
Villanelle’s death brought back the same pain that Lexa left behind. Ultimately, the show repeated the familiar pattern of gathering an LGBTQ+ fanbase — one that frankly kept the show going for so long — ripping all the joy right from under them, and robbing Eve and Villanelle of their joy, too. The decision to end their journey together like this is bewildering, especially when the novels by Luke Jennings end with both characters alive.
It feels cruel to leave Eve alone like that, with the last thing we hear being her heartbroken scream. It’s as though Eve and Villanelle were discarded like trash, with no thought to what this kind of ending would mean. It also does a disservice to Jodie Comer and Sandra Oh, who were tasked with bringing these characters to life, and who did it so beautifully and with so much care. For me, those gunshots tainted the show and erased everything it had built. I can only think about the bullets and the scream.
What made this ending even more shocking was that it seemed to almost intentionally double down on the damaging “Bury Your Gays” trope. It’s like the showrunners chose to ignore how badly this cliché plot point hurts queer audiences, totally ignoring the reaction to Lexa’s death. Instead, both shows ended up paralleling each other in disappointing ways: Lexa was killed after she and Clarke consummated their relationship. Villanelle was killed after she and Eve finally kissed deeply. Both times, I felt played. What was the point of all four seasons if the writers were going to essentially tell us that queer women are either disposable or doomed to solitude? How many more shows are going to tell us that?
Killing Eve took ten steps backward with seemingly no regard for its lasting cultural impact. If Lexa’s death traumatized me so much at 22, just imagine how the queer teens who watched Killing Eve are feeling right now.
When I was asked to write about the finale of Killing Eve, I thought it would be in celebration. I thought I would be writing a retrospective on the show, praising a fitting ending for two daringly original characters. But the only way I could put pen to paper after watching the finale was to write about my feelings as a queer viewer who has stuck with the show from the very beginning, through the accusations of queerbaiting, and through its low points.
Killing Eve may have given us two of the best characters on television (I can’t thank Jodie and Sandra enough), and allowed its audience to discover new aspects of ourselves, just like Eve and Villanelle did. All that good feels sullied now. I need time to heal. I think most fans might. I feel a sense of hopelessness that will only make me put my guard up again the next time a show like this comes along.
Killing Eve was the scorpion and we trusted it. But just like the frog in the fable, we were stung. The legacy that Killing Eve could have left behind is underwater now, and it drowned my love for the show with it.
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