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The first time Kirika wakes with Mireille pointing a gun at her, she flips from sleep to full awareness in an instant. Kirika blinks awake, closes fingers around the cold steel of her own gun underneath her pillow. Perhaps real sleep was a mistake.
Instinct takes over though. Kirika’s arm comes up, fast and easy, perfectly practiced and effortless. In one smooth motion, her own weapon is drawn, the safety toggled, and Mireille squarely in her sights.
There is silence in the night, only their quiet breaths in the background, eyes wide staring at each other through their gunsights.
Mireille's breathing is steady and even, not at all nervous. Kirika has a thrill running down her spine. Her face remains impassive though, eyes unblinking for several long seconds. And Kirika wonders if this is how it ends, a messy finale to a short brutal life. It seems fitting that it should be by Mireille's hand.
But before that realization can set in, Mireille is turning, her gun falling away. The blonde does not speak, simply leaves the room as though nothing had happened.
Kirika nods to herself in the moonlight, heart pounding now that the moment of tension is gone. She inhales once more, drawing in a long breath, and resets the safety on her own weapon.
Neither of them sleep the rest of that night. Kirika lies awake in bed, cradling her gun, and listening to Mireille pace the apartment.
The second time Kirika wakes to the sight of Mireille’s gun, muscles tense, but she does not move.
She is clearly at a disadvantage. Mireille is standing close this time, gun up and arm outstretched. Kirika knows she cannot draw and fire faster. The sheets too, are tangled near the foot of the bed, not even shielding Kirika's body from view so that she might be able to maneuver undetected.
She runs through scenarios in her head: try to kick up the blanket and obscure the view, roll off the bed with her own weapon in hand, all while hoping Mireille doesn't fire through the fabric. Perhaps throw the pillow too, which might deflect Mireille's aim if it strikes the gun.
Should she roll left or right? To the right is the edge of the bed, and the solid floor with room to evade. To the left is Mireille's side of the bed, a longer distance to cover, but perhaps an unexpected move, taking the worse position to confuse her opponent.
On the right is also the window, an escape route if needed. The other side has only the wall and the bathroom door. A dead end. Going left means flipping the bed to use as cover and holding her ground. And it's not that she doesn't think she can win against Mireille. But the plan was never to kill the other. At least not for Kirika.
So she holds her breath, notes that the safety is not engaged on Mireille's weapon, that the blue eyes behind it are like ice, unfeeling and cold.
Kirika tightens her grip on the pistol under her pillow, shifts one knee imperceptibly, bringing it in line to kick up the sheets, preparing to execute her plan. If this is how her pilgrimage ends, then so be it.
Before Kirika can move though, Mireille presses the trigger.
Kirika exhales, steels herself to breathe through pain that doesn’t come. The hammer clicks against an empty chamber. Mireille’s gun is not loaded.
“Goodnight,” the blonde intones. And just as quickly, she is gone.
Kirika does not release her grip on her hidden weapon, but she allows herself to sleep once more. If Mireille meant to kill her, there had been plenty of other opportunities, and plenty more to come.
When Kirika wakes the next morning, the bed next to her is empty, and a hand searching for warmth confirms it hasn’t been slept in.
The third time Kirika wakes with Mireille’s gun in her face, she does nothing but turn her head towards her partner. This hasn’t happened in some time. There is quiet acceptance between them now, if not peace. Perhaps there can never truly be peace for Noir. Both their pasts are stained with blood.
They are facing each other in bed, Mireille’s gun between them, the blonde holding it up to point right at rust coloured eyes. Kirika doesn’t know what woke her. Mireille is in bed and there are no other sounds around them. Blonde hair is ruffled with sleep, and Kirika can see Mireille’s pyjama shirt poking out from the blankets. There is the sheen of sweat on Mireille’s brow though, and her breaths come quick and shallow. Bad dream?
So Kirika lifts her head barely off the pillow, tilts towards Mireille in a small motion of acquiescence, but her true motive is to open up access to her own weapon. The hand under Kirika’s pillow slides the pistol free from the weight of her head, but leaves it hidden. Kirika’s not sure why she keeps up the pretense. Mireille must know about the weapon. After all, Mireille too, sleeps with her gun nearby, and a backup under the mattress. And they both know which kitchen drawer has a gun taped to the underside as well.
Silently, Kirika turns her weapon just a little, points it down towards Mireiile’s torso because the angle is wrong to aim for the head on a pillow.
“Mireille?” She asks, in her usual timid voice, and it sounds almost caring in the darkness. Never mind that they both have weapons pointed at each other.
"When this is over,” the blonde says, “I will keep my promise.” And she turns away, taking the gun with her.
"I know." Kirika accepts her fate. “Sleep well,” she continues, but that doesn’t garner any response.
Mireille pulls the sheet over her shoulder.
Kirika watches without a sound, counts the up and down motions of Mireille’s breathing until they settle into the rhythm of sleep.
Sometimes, Kirika isn’t sure which one of them watches the other more. Sometimes, Kirika doesn’t know why that should matter. They are partners after all. And not just for convenience. There’s another thread that ties them together, though neither of them can name it.
Kirika allows herself to drift back to sleep.
And when Kirika wakes again at dawn, with her fingers still wrapped around the gun beneath her pillow, Mireille snores beside her.
Kirika jolts awake to the sound of gunfire. She reaches under her pillow, wincing at the pain in her side, but there is no weapon there. Mireille is sitting in the bed too, and the blonde does have a gun in hand, pointed in Kirika’s direction. The gun is held loosely though, drifting such that Kirika thinks a shot would be aimed at the window behind her rather than at her head.
The sound comes again, a muffled rat-a-tat-tat from beyond the hotel window. Kirika turns towards it. Mireille is up and padding to the window, pushing the curtains just a bit to see outside.
“Jackhammer. There’s a construction site down the street.”
Kirika notes the gun is pointed at the ground now. She looks down at her bandages and there is a fresh bloom of red starting to seep through. “Do you think they followed us?”
“I didn’t see anyone on the road. But we’re not far from the Manor.”
Kirika nods. Closes her eyes against the pain as she lays down again, trying not to use torn muscles but not knowing how.
Mireille gestures towards the wound. “Put pressure on it and try to rest. I’ll get some more ice.”
The door closes as the blond steps into the hall, and Kirika is left in silence. Afternoon light is peeking in from the window even though the curtains are closed. It’s an old hotel, built decades ago and seemingly never redecorated. But they accepted cash and didn’t ask questions of the two haggard women who showed up at the front desk.
“Room for two,” Mireille had requested, “ground floor.” Kirika wasn’t in any shape for stairs.
“It’s one bed.” The clerk had responded.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mireille answered. But Kirika was secretly happy about that. Even if she is dying, at least that part will be like home.
So she’s lying in curtained darkness, in the last available ground floor bed, breathing slow due to a gunshot wound, and waiting for Mireille. She’s splayed out on the bed, because that’s the way it hurts the least, and she can feel the latent warmth from Mireille on the other side of the mattress. She’s tired, exhausted even, from all the previous days, but she strains for the sound of footsteps beyond the door.
Part of her worries Mireille might not come back. It would be so easy for the blonde to just get in the car and drive away. So no matter how heavy her eyes feel, and how much her muscles scream for rest, she has to be sure first.
The construction continues in the distance. Each time the jackhammer sounds, Kirika is reminded that Mireille also left with the only weapon they have.
It’s eleven minutes by the hotel alarm clock before the door rattles once more. Mireille is back with fresh towels and a bucket of ice. Only then, does Kirika let herself relax.
Something cold is placed on her forehead, and Mireille presses more towels against her torso. The gun slides underneath the pillow once more, but Kirika notes the barrel is pointed away from her. The mattress shifts as Mireille curls up alongside her once more, lifts Kirika’s arm to make space, and puts the hand back down on top of her own.
“Thank you,” Kirika whispers, but Mireille does not speak.
They fall asleep holding hands.
Months later, Kirika wakes to a fleeting touch across her face. It's Mireille, of course. Intent eyes flick around the room as the blonde holds a finger to her lips. In her other hand is a weapon — Kirika's gun — pointed straight at her partner. When their eyes meet, the pistol is twirled around so that the grip is towards Kirika.
"We have to move," Mireille whispers. "They're here."
Kirika takes the gun without a word, notes that it is in fact loaded, though the safety is engaged. She nods.
Mireille slides off the bed and scoops up her purse, drawing her own weapon and motioning towards the door. This apartment is different from the last, closer quarters, not as open. But lower to the street if a window escape is required.
Kirika is crouched by the door when Mireille points down at bare feet. "You should get your shoes."
As Kirika fetches those, Mireille pulls a sweater from a nearby drawer as well. Hands it over. "In case it's cold."
The sweater is slipped on quickly over pyjamas. "How many?"
"Two cars, at least four men, plus two drivers. And likely an extra car at the back door."
Again Kirika nods.
Mireille flings open the bedroom door and runs into the main living area of the apartment. The front door crashes open at the same time, but Kirika's gun is already up, and two quick rounds stop the first intruder. The blonde is into the hallway immediately, and Kirika counts three shots before she makes it to the door herself. Mireille is covering the stairs, a second body on the ground next to her.
Kirika moves without a thought. They've rehearsed this dozens of times. Up to the roof and then across the buildings next door. Back down to the street from a fire escape, and disappear into the Parisian night.
Mireille follows close behind.
An hour later, they are seated at a cafe overlooking the Seine. Tourists mill all about, and neither of them has spotted anything suspicious. There is an untouched plate of dessert between them, with two forks lingering nearby.
"I'm sorry," Mireille says, and her eyes don't stop sweeping the entrances.
"It's not your fault." Kirika takes a fork, twirls it twice to get a feel for the balance and weight. She too is watching the people outside.
"I wanted to stay in Paris, but it's not safe."
"I wanted to stay with you."
Their eyes meet over the plate. Mireille smiles, a tight-lipped curl that's barely perceptible, but to Kirika it means the world. She smiles back, quiet and shy, just for a moment, before her eyes return to scanning the crowd.
Kirika is the one who eats most of the cake.
The next time that Mireille wakes Kirika, it is entirely by accident. There is no weapon pointed at her, just the first rays of morning light on her face. And there is Mireille, holding a breakfast tray, laden with fruit and pastries. One lonely orange has rolled off the tray and hit the floor with a thud that drew Kirika from her slumber.
Kirika sits up, takes the tray from the blonde so Mireille can retrieve the fallen orange. "What's all this?"
"Breakfast in bed? It was supposed to be a surprise."
Kirika smiles then, a pure perfect smile that Mireille has never seen before. "I can't eat all this."
"We can share." Mireille takes a knife from the tray, starts peeling the orange that had escaped previously.
Kirika chooses one of the viennoiseries, something chocolatey of course, takes a bite and hums her approval. Mireille gives a little laugh, leans closer when Kirika breaks off a piece and offers it to the blonde.
"It's very good."
"It's from the bakery across the street." Mireille admits as she raises a section of orange in her fingers, and it's Kirika's turn to be fed.
So they eat sitting in bed, passing bits of food back and forth, talking about mundane things, and Kirika can almost believe that they live normal lives.
When they're both full, and Mireille has taken the tray back to the kitchen, Kirika stretches and goes to find her partner. Together, they sort the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher, wipe the counters and the sink. Kirika starts a pot of tea as Mireille gets ready for the day.
When the blonde returns she is dressed and made up. She accepts the teacup handed to her, takes Kirika's hand at the same time. "What do you want to do today? We could go to the park down by the river. Bring your sketchbook."
And Kirika doesn't know how they came to this point, this comfortable familiarity that's both too much and too little all at once. The only thing she does know is that she is grateful for Mireille, and that nothing would be the same without her.
"Thank you," is all she says, even though there are so many more thoughts and feelings she can't quite put into words.
I love you. That's what she really wants to say, because that's how it is in all the stories, and that must be the name for this, even if it can't ever be for them. But Mireille smiles at her, reaches out to stroke her hair and pulls her in for a hug, such that Kirika thinks Mireille must feel the same. So they cling to each other, Kirika returning the hug tenfold, breathing in the scent of her partner.
And though neither of them ever dare speak the words, they both want to believe.