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Mireille doesn't know how they got here.
Her memories are unambiguous. She remembers evading the group of men, then driving down the road, crossing the border back into Paris. They decided to remain in her old apartment for a few weeks. She was worried over Kirika's wounds, which healed all right in the end. There have been no sign of the Soldats since they left the Manor.
It's what came after that she fails to understand.
The dearth of attackers was the surest sign the trials of Noir were truly over, her reasoning went, with a grimace at the irony of having to rely on the Soldats for anything at all. Well, she hoped their trail was lost. And if the organization was still keeping tabs, she supposed they would be safe as long as they showed no interest in actually being Noir.
Even so, they left their lodgings, driving out of the neighbourhood with their meagre belongings spilling from the boot like any other couple. They would be two against the world, she said to Breffort before embarking on her mission.
But that was idealistic talk, Mireille admits, surveying her image in their largest mirror, situated in the spacious bathroom. Crooking an arm against her waist, she watches herself smile. It is a natural smile, at any rate, and crinkles the dim shadows that have been appearing under her eyes. She narrows her gaze critically. Her tan suit and skirt appear well-pressed. The pink blouse peeking out from beneath the collar adds a soft touch to what could have been a harsh facade.
No, she hasn't changed; it's not that. Mireille sighs, absently returning Kirika's toothbrush to the new mug beside her own. It's just that they should be happier.
After all, the little ground-level apartment they rented has met their needs just fine. The small size made for coziness, she remarked when they first found it. She strides across the room to retrieve her keys from the tabletop, purse slung across an arm, then remembers the plant and returns to the window.
She puzzles over the matter for a moment as she tips a few drops of water into the pot. Yes, the new surroundings have suited them very well. Kirika is displaying unexpected skill at interior decoration. They gain little knick-knacks every day that manage to blend with the surroundings and exude the kind of style Mireille favours.
Hooking the keys on her index finger, she makes her way to the door, undoing the bolt and easing it open with a light creak. She sweeps her hair back; steps into the freer air.
A cool breeze grazes her cheek at once, an autumn wind that suggests the pallor of winter.
Mireille falls into an even pace, ignoring the parked car by the curb. The brisk walk to the teahouse should do her good, wake her up before she gets there. There should be a fair amount of work today: she's been experimenting with different varieties of tea and is thinking of changing the supplier for their noodles. Customers seem to be enjoying the homely, Japanese feel of the place so far. As for Mireille herself, she can never enter the establishment without glancing at a painting just beyond the entrance, the first watercolour Kirika made since they settled down in Paris.
She presented it to Mireille, a shy smile glowing on her face, and when Mireille saw the words written at the back--she hadn't known what to say or do, so she looked her gratitude, and Kirika understood. But that was then, that was before.
She thinks there's something new in Kirika's eyes of late.
Like the last time they went out for a walk. She isn't sure what really happened then.
*
"Then we'll go to the park in the morning. You like the park, don't you?"
"Mmm." Kirika was watching her carefully. Mireille averted her gaze, stamping out the brief flare of resentment that arose.
"I used to like feeding the ducks. But there seem to be fewer and fewer each year." She poured herself some tea.
"Want some?" Kirika shook her head.
"Maybe it's just my imagination." She pressed on the faintest of smiles. "Sometimes we see things that aren't really there, you know."
Mireille doesn't daydream much. And they usually don't involve ducks, so she doesn't know what made her add, "The ducks could still be there although we can't see them. I think there's something funny about that."
"Mireiyu."
Mireille put the cup to her lips. "Hmm?"
"I really do like the park. But that is because you're there with me."
Mireille narrowed her eyes, but not before she could hide the surprise widening her pupils. "Well. I...."
She stood, turned. "I...."
"Let's go, Kirika."
They proceeded to the park in silence, passing the river on the way. Mireille glanced over. They kept pace comfortably with each other; they always did. If only everything else were this effortless.
She started. Her footsteps faltered. Kirika had approached in her distraction and slipped warm fingers into her palm.
*
Mireille closes her hand, watching her fingers as they curl inwards.
Really, Kirika can be very sweet.
But there are the little maddening things about her too. She startles Mireille quite frequently with her quiet movements. There are days she seems worried but remains stubbornly silent till she has come up with some conclusion of her own. She leaves her clothes in haphazard fashion around the house, yet irons their laundry with meticulous precision.
Mireille sort of likes picking up after her anyway.
An old woman toting a cane hobbles past. Mireille looks up at the friendly hailing of the local paper-boy. She smiles, waves. She takes this route every day, usually with Kirika. But Kirika has taken to leaving the house early these days; perhaps there is extra work to be done, what with the business picking up.
It could be something else, though, one of those things that go unspoken between them. More likely it's a mood that will pass, a phase everyone goes through once in a while. One or two days of awkwardness will happen in any relationship now and then, especially living in such close quarters as they are. Perhaps that stray idea of taking a short break will be helpful. They have left each other a few times already, and the relationship seems to have stabilized afterwards. It would merely mean one week, two, of not seeing Kirika's face.
Or it might be her face Kirika shouldn't see. The way she acts at times, Mireille is almost convinced she thinks too much of her. Other times Kirika looks at her like she's another person entirely. And then she asks one question too many, or tags along behind with watchful, narrowed eyes, like Mireille can't take care of herself. When questioned, she doesn't respond, just looks sad, and Mireille has about given up. She has her suspicions, and nearly went to cut her hair once but stopped herself.
Mireille tucks a blonde lock behind her ear. That would be asking too much of her. She is not a child in a tumultuous romance.
Before she can have further thoughts, her destination swims into view across the busy thoroughfare. The sights and sounds of the morning traffic seep through her awareness. Strollers, devoted old gentlemen and ladies on their way to church or coffee, younger couples holding hands, a boy dashing past toward somewhere important. Mireille pauses. Kirika is probably setting up the tables. Her presence is expected right about now, with a day of honest work in front of them. She may comment pleasantly on the bland television show she watched yesterday.
Suddenly, the thought of work repels her. She walks on, heels clicking upon the pavement. The teahouse recedes into the distance.
She lets her purse dangle at her side, lets her arms swing naturally with her gait, angles her thoughts over the current question. The weather is cool and her clothing comfortable. She feels she can walk for a long time, the rest of the day if need be. Home seems a distant place.
Then she sighs a little, and her shoulders fall.
Somehow she can't be objective about it. This isn't a case to be solved. There's no one to kill. Well, not unless she takes up her old mantra of swearing vengeance on her parents' murderer, she thinks with humour dry as a leaf, turning her steps towards their customary spot.
But that's over and done with.
Mostly. Kirika still dreams of that day. On such nights she whimpers, tension written across her face, and wakes staring blankly ahead of her. She looks right through Mireille if she happens to be awake to see this; and she more often is than not, ever since she found out about these stricken attacks at dawn. Quite by accident, too, since Kirika would never have told her--she can be very stubborn. Endearing in her stubbornness, but still very, very foolish.
She wouldn't have wanted me to worry, Mireille's conscience prompts her to tack on. Which would be just like her.
Yes, just like small, determined Kirika, whose image surfaces effortlessly, immediately. The Kirika whom Mireille thinks she knows well up till the very instant she surprises her yet again. She stifles a chuckle, then sobers quickly and lengthens her stride to make up for the lapse. Her mind wanders regardless.
*
Mireille was studying her partner's body the day before yesterday, fascinated by the way its curves shone in the moonlight. Kirika looked like she was made for swift stealth missions, she said to herself, raking sleep-misted blue eyes over the bare back in front of her, after which one would vanish into the crowd and never be seen again. She was very good at her job. That job....
"What're you thinking of?"
You, she wanted to say. Us, killing together. Instead she scooted down and settled behind subtly-muscled shoulders. Kirika's distinct scent was mingled with the freshness of soap on newly laundered sheets.
She woke to the sensation of gentle fingers combing through her hair. "You're awake?" she wondered, smiling.
"I couldn't sleep," Kirika admitted. "Mireiyu...."
"Yes?"
"Do you think it's possible?"
"What is?"
"Us together, like this, always."
Kirika also has an uncanny ability to render her speechless. Gazing upon her petiteness, round eyes wide with an emotion half awake in their depths, Mireille was hit by an upswell of awe and something like fear. So like a child, she is, and yet.
"As long as we can," she promised.
"Thank you."
Then, how unlike a child, Kirika stole into her, took her breath away.
On times like these, when they clung to each other as if they were holding on to life itself, it seemed to her that they might reach beyond themselves and grasp at something greater. Kirika had tears in her eyes, and Mireille wanted to wipe them away until she realized she was crying herself.
*
The trouble is, there isn't really anything to reach for in the end. No matter how hard they might try, they will still be themselves, Yuumura Kirika and Mireille Bouquet, who were once Noir and are now no longer.
Mireille frowns. Some distance below, the river gushes by, the same as always.
She approaches the small terrace they have gazed over more than a dozen times. An ornate balustrade runs along the outer edge for a couple of lengths, after which it is replaced by a simpler but no less elegant wall. The place isn't crowded at this hour; just a few schoolgirls and a pair of tourists looking incongruously gleeful. She comes to a halt a few feet away from the others and plants her elbows on an empty stretch of rail, props her nose behind laced fingers. They come here on clear mornings before work, and evenings once the washing is done and the utensils are in their proper places. She likes the spot. Occasionally they get birds wheeling overhead.
Closing her eyes, she wonders whether Kirika feels as out of place as she does, here. It's hard to tell since the past is never mentioned; one thing or another gets in the way. Gunshots still feature in her nightmares, but those will go away soon enough. There are just some things that refuse to be forgotten all at once. And it isn't Kirika's fault that she was brought up by Altena's faction and taught to kill with such proficiency.
She has killed; she understands. No one understands better than she does. Leaving their weapons behind is the only way they can forsake the darkness.
She visited the local shooting range three weeks ago, saying she was sourcing for supplies. Just once, she told herself the first time. Just once. One morning, firing round after round into the assigned target, she felt the rented firearm shake, and her next shot was off the mark. She gritted her teeth and carried on. Had Kirika been there, she would have looked on, brow furrowed in concern.
She lowered the gun and left the place for good.
They shouldn't need an actual shooting range to begin with. The regularity of the place got on her nerves. She didn't enter the game expecting life to be easy. Living a fairy tale didn't rank high among her dreams, at least past a certain age. She is no princess waiting to be saved, even if Kirika might look cute on a horse--Mireille leans over the parapet and smiles grimly at the river, notes the ripples stirring the unceasing water. She has been an assassin for most of her life, with an established system, dependable contacts, the works. By a strange quirk of fate, all of it means next to nothing now.
If only things were less complicated.
Relationships are never simple, though, especially if one or both parties kill--killed, she corrects absently--people for a living. Better to avoid them entirely, avoid entangling one's life with someone else's, avoid the consequences that arrived sooner or later. Those years, living on her own in Paris, Mireille got used to the idea of solitude. It clung about her like a familiar cloak, and she could walk confidently into crowded streets and deserted boulevards alike and still wear a contented smile. It was her way. A killer had to maintain a certain distance, even from her few intimates.
But Kirika came along, and as much as she wants to say they aren't in that kind of relationship exactly, she can no longer not see the resemblances.
There was a period when Mireille experimented. She temporarily shared her life with a couple of people. That stopped when the student she was dating was nearly killed by enemies of hers. Henceforth she chose to work alone: less need to worry about someone dying.
Still, this is different. What they have is different from the uncertain weeks she spent with Adèle, Mathilde, Hélène, or even Julien.
*
Sometimes, at dawn, Kirika is overcome by a spasm of sorts, her youthful features twisting into a tortured mask. She makes strangled yelping noises, and Mireille thought she was having a fit the first time, until she saw her face. She knows that face. She sees a stranger in that face.
She put out her hand, then withdrew it. Clamping her lips closed, she lowered herself, tucking her arms down and around the trembling girl.
Eventually, she learned that her caresses can calm Kirika down.
Numerous times has she repeated the same act, solemn with the weight of ritual: drawing her fingers up to a pulse point, tracing vessels fragile as butterfly wings. Reaching the jugular's main artery and lingering, longing to press down into the heart of comprehension, she feels her pulse, throbbing with irrational force.
There, the gulf between them thins for an instant.
Kirika lies limp in her arms.
Her own heart battering at her throat, it often occurs to Mireille that what joins them may be an inevitable fate. But she doesn't relate these reflections, and Kirika wouldn't know of star-crossed lovers anyway. The memory of those pained eyes and the burden they bear keeps her away some nights.
*
Some would call it love. Mireille has never uttered the word.
Hands tightening on unyielding metal, she succumbs to the easy, romantic answer for a moment, lets it wash over her. The aftertaste, burning on her tongue, reminds her of Paris.
Love. The two of them in a bright spring morning, living, loving like ordinary people, playing young couplehood on neat chairs in the morning sun, serving their customers with newlyweds beams lighting up their faces. She would surprise Kirika at the cash register with a rose; soothe rumpled hair with a kiss. There would be involuntary smiles across the teahouse, sly caresses over the dishwasher, and after closing time, the quiet conversations only intimacy can give, the heater's dull whirring a peaceful counterpoint to the evening. The picture has a certain charm.
And why not? There is nothing keeping them from living like everyone else. Nothing but spirits of the past, pale ghosts that she is sure are going to disappear any second now. She has always been confident of this single fact. She hopes her faith was not misplaced. Maybe someday--
The skin on the back of her neck prickles.
Mireille instinctively drops her weight onto one foot and spins in place, senses tingling.
A child, cap drooping over his head, takes off running down the path. She leaps into pursuit, flying over grass. As the fleeing figure looms nearer, she reaches into her purse. But her hands grope in vain; she exclaims in disgust and closes her fingers over her compact instead. Hurling it frisbee-style towards the boy, she gets him on the back of his thigh and the surprise causes him to lose his step. He drops to the ground, allowing her time to catch up.
To his credit, he scrambles to his feet almost immediately, staggering forward--only to be held back by the scruff of his jacket which foresight has made her grab. Grunting, he tries to shrug out of the coarse material.
Mireille takes the opening to deliver a well-placed kick she's certain will not cause permanent harm. He falls again, and stays on the ground this time. She bends to retrieve a ladies' handbag from the inner lining of the jacket.
By now, a small crowd has gathered.
"Thank you for your help!"
Mireille turns to face the owner of the dulcet tones and is surprised to find it is the middle-aged woman whose cries for help she heard earlier. She proffers the bag with a smile. "It was no trouble. But this boy should be taught a lesson. Should he be brought to the police station?"
"I think he's received his lesson." There is a twinkle in the woman's eye as she takes the bag from Mireille. "He looks young, though. Maybe he has parents still living. Ah--"
"Don't even think about it," Mireille quips, her hand already on the boy's arm. He lunges. The cap slips, letting loose a ponytail of dark hair and narrowed, angry eyes. An unmistakably feminine face, snarled into a rictus of rage, glares up at the former assassin.
Mind abruptly blank, she loosens her grip.
The girl dashes into the crowd.
"Miss?"
Her head swims.
"Miss? Are you all right? It's okay."
"I'm okay. I--I'm going home.
*
Mireille is barely conscious of the road she traverses next. It is familiar underfoot. The light is vanishing, and a vague sense of hunger gnaws in her.
Yet the apartment whose door yields to the turnings of her key is quiet. Mireille looks up at last, searches the darkness with blinking eyes. The shadows are empty. "Kirika?" she says softly, not wanting to speak too loud. Kirika is probably not back yet. She usually stays till late at night cleaning up, and since Mireille did not go to work today, their lone shop assistant probably needed the help....
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. The sound of her own voice inches her closer to reality; Mireille's dulled senses inform her that she is not alone in the house, as she had thought. She scans the room rapidly, and, finding no one, advances into the bedroom. The door lies open.
She sees the silhouette of Kirika before a cabinet, hands raised. There is something in her spread palms.
Kirika doesn't react to her presence. This fact alone is sufficient to send clarion calls ringing down her spine. She maintains her silence despite the sudden constriction in her chest.
Kirika.
She hid a gun in this cabinet back when she thought they would stop killing altogether. She told herself it might be useful someday.
Kirika.
Her vision dims.
Kirika's bleary outline stirs. Although she can't see them very well, the bright, yearning eyes she raises stab through Mireille's gut. Then Kirika lowers her gaze, and the pools disappear, bringing on a strange emptiness. Even Kirika's speech emerges strangely, weaving words through the curtain. "We did the wrong thing. It should have been this," she says.
Mireille moistens her lips just as a reluctant tear rolls down her cheek. "No," she whispers, husky-voiced. More loudly, she repeats herself. "No. Not yet."
Drawing in a breath of sorely needed air, she approaches Kirika. Her feet are heavy, her heels creaking as she moves through the oppressive silence. She stops a handspan away and puts up her hands, inching them closer to the cold glint of metal. Hands hovering above the barrel, she sidles her gaze to meet her partner's. What she sees closes her throat so that she has to swallow to clear the lump.
For once, the assurance of speech fails her.
The simplest movement seems difficult. Abandoning her original idea of taking the gun, she barely manages to grip, circling thumb and forefinger about, two cold fingers welded to the even colder firearm. They feel brittle and thin, but she perseveres, wrapping her palms over unresisting bony knuckles.
Finally, Mireille bows her head, breaks the unflinching eye contact.
"Isn't it better like this?" she says slowly.
Outside the window, dimly present streetlamps dot the landscape, competing vainly with the simplicity of moonshine.
What are we going to do now? Kirika said, a lifetime ago.
We'll talk about it later, Mireille replied. But there was the tea, and then they weren't in the mood for talk. Neither of them are very good at that kind of thing.
The weight of unspoken sorrow stirs a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. Kirika isn't saying anything.
"I really was thinking of not coming back." Without needing to look up, she senses Kirika's eyes on her. "I wanted to know what brought us to this place. It seemed life would be so simple after we quit the business." She chuckles, coldly. "But I was wrong."
Mireille know Kirika will not speak. She waits anyway, before continuing.
"Still, I came back. I thought of you, and I had to come home and see."
"Why, Mireille? Why."
"I don't know. It was a normal day. I was going to work, and then somehow I walked away."
"You weren't at home when I got back. I found this."
"How did you know?"
"I was looking at your things. I was...trying to remember how you...were. I looked for a long time."
"How I was?"
"Yes."
Momentarily, Mireille thinks of drawing her hand back, but decides it would be a bad idea.
"No," she says. "We weren't wrong. This, I'm sure of. I don't want to see you hurt again, Kirika."
Mireille falls silent. Perhaps her head droops. Movement flickers in her peripheral vision, colours shifting from one shade of grey to another. Something touches her hair.
There are words she has to say, has to say now, because she found them again. She's making a slight noise like a hiccup. It was a sniff, to clear her nose. "The other thing I do know is...I want to be here, Kirika." The desire to smile at how pathetic that sounds flutters in, then out of, existence. "With...you. I don't care why that is."
Warm weight under her. The gun is gone, somewhere. Mireille feels the tension ebbing from her, and then her arms are tightening and her face is resting in the prickliness of Kirika's sweater. She marvels briefly at how she has never known the wiry strength gently bearing her up.
"I don't want to see you hurt either."
When she straightens, bewildered, Kirika is looking up at her. The deep red of her eyes dazzle even in the dark light.
"Seeing you happy makes me happy. So...." She looks off to the side, blinks once, turns her gaze back. "Do what we both want. Tell me, Mireiyu."
"Looks like we still need to have that talk, hmm?"
Kirika nods.
"I guess we should sit down."
Minutes later, facing each other across a rectangular table, the gun safely tucked away in the deepest corner of the cabinet, Mireille awkwardly reaches for her partner's hand. "Tell me about the nightmares."
*
They first had sex in the new apartment two weeks after Kirika's convalescence. They were lying side by side, not looking at each other, and Kirika called her name, sounding inexplicably nervous.
Mireille eyed her for a moment.
Her expression gentled. She reached out, curving her palm against the slope of Kirika's face. Kirika covered her knuckles with her own, then shifted their joined hands to her lips.
With those deep pools of burgundy upon her, Mireille found herself incapable of anything else besides bending her head to kiss that little mouth. They paused again, inches from each other, simply breathing the new air of closeness.
"I don't know what to do," the smaller girl admitted in a whisper.
"Well, we'll have to learn, won't we?" she joked. "We won't be the Noir maidens anymore."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Kirika; Mireille was caressing the slight peaks of her collarbone. She gave way to louder, more tortured sounds as Mireille went on to touch her as thoroughly as she knew how, and then she needed no further encouragement to teach the pleasure she had been taught.
For them, the process of exploration was slow, slower than either could wish. The layers they peeled away lay around them, shattered fragments of the past, and they, struggling, terribly young, would hold on together, joined by the same longing.