Disclaimer: Persona IV is the property of Atlus. The slightly elevated rating is due to somewhat dark imagery.

Gunpoint

A rule she'd followed since childhood: Only point a gun at something you are willing to kill.

Precision at crafting gadgets, manipulating wires, slotting batteries into place. Focus on detail, an open door, a cut, a fingerprint. The comfortable pressure of her finger cradled in the trigger's curve. Details that bound her world.

So she noticed the white flecks on his fingers, flyspeck scar tissue pulled by the slip of a needle. To her steady hand and careful eye, threading a needle posed no challenge, not even the first time when he asked her with surprising casualness to help him out at the shop. The result, a shirt, interested her less than the process itself, the exact stitches, the folding and streamlining of cloth. He saw the shifts in her attention and started sewing her gloves with concealed pockets in the wrists, a scarf that could tuck itself into a handkerchief, a jacket that perfectly hid the contours of a pistol.

She had little interest in sewing, but she was fascinated by things that could hide in plain sight. If she blushed when the gifts were offered, she still never refused them. She and Souji admired them together.

Once she tried to repay him, made him a combination watch, radio and gps with a hidden switchblade. Because she knew the trouble he attracted, and when you needed to hurt someone to save your life, there was no settling for anything less. He'd turned it over in his hand, the scars hardly visible, then searched her face. She looked away. She never knew what he was trying to find there, and time made it harder to bear scrutiny. She had to meet Souji. She was sorry, but she couldn't make him wait. Enjoy the watch. And thank you.

When it was cold again, Souji removed her gloves to warm her hands himself. Just as well, the tip of the right pointer finger had frayed and parted, and she couldn't face the idea of asking for a repair.

When she visited Inaba for a day in the spring, she spent a long afternoon catching up with another friend. On their bureau, she found the watch, was told that it had been there on loan since winter. Kept forgetting to return it, you know? She almost wondered why he never asked for it back, but decided she didn't want to know. Asking a question demanded answers. She remembered him studying her eyes, asking a question without risking a word. She could look away this time too.

She walked quickly past the shop that summer, would've gone on without a glance but that he was suddenly in front of her. Irrationally, her hand moved to her gun, then dropped to her side.

He couldn't have looked more startled if he'd read her mind. He stuttered, then fell into the calmer conversation she preferred. She looked at the pavement a little to the left of his boots, answered shortly, put her hand on her hip and reminded herself that nothing was wrong.

Abruptly he asked if she was all right. Of course she was. She didn't look up to see his dubious nod, his hand twitch toward her. More abruptly, challengingly, he asked what he'd done to annoy her. He hadn't seen her for so long.

She gestured dismissively, a backhand without a victim.

No nod, not even the pretense of belief.

There was unfinished business between the two of them, she found herself saying, telling herself not to even as the words emerged. What unfinished business she didn't know. You've always been so reluctant to talk to me, but you always used to stay so close. I thought I'd come to understand it through familiarity, but I don't. I don't understand you at all.

He looked away, and she could finally raise her eyes and scrutinize his face as payback, try to translate each detail. They were her being: batteries, fingerprints, bullets, stitches, eyes. Each as small as a pulse.

He looked back too quickly, catching her in the act. She glanced down, half expecting to see an entry wound in her chest. Irrational. Again. Thoughts shifted through her mind, like the slow drift of gun smoke. There should be a rule. Only look at someone you are -

Only look at someone you are willing to kill?

When he took her hand, she felt the varying textures of his fingers, the warmth of his skin stippled by scars. Her hand was limp, cradled. With a turn of his wrist, with the right leverage - and it would be slight - he could snap her fingers, and then her gun would be powerless. It wouldn't matter where she looked or what she said, he wouldn't feel a thing.

With a relief so swift she could hardly acknowledge it, she said she had to meet up with Souji.

Her hand was cold when he dropped it, the wind shifting against her as he passed by, heading for the shop. She turned too quickly, which accounted for the light head. She drew her pistol, pointed it at him. Almost to prove to herself that it was still there, the connection, she was still a danger to him, he still had to study her face to understand her motives, he still had to understand because she could still hurt him. Because Souji never had to study her eyes, because he'd always been safe from her.

He looked at the pistol, not her, raising his eyebrows. It's for you. Her finger slipped from the trigger. I don't want it anymore. Maybe she didn't need it. Souji always protected her, even though she told him not to.

Her finger almost crouched back over the trigger as she saw the shift in his face, the uncomfortable glance to the side, the quick shake of his head. For once, she saw no uncertainty. Take it, she said as he turned back to the shop's door. It's not mine anymore. It's powerless. Souji knows I'll always stay. He'll protect me. He never has to protect himself. I can't hurt anyone anymore.

Hardly looking back at her, he asked if that was what she'd wanted. To hurt him?

She'd once known she could. He also knew, so there was no point in saying it.

And passing the gun to him spoke of what? Neither said. He shook his head again and went through the door.

She dropped the gun back into her pocket and turned to go find Souji. Her hands shook.