A/N: Rewatching DtB. This needed to be written. Leave a review, if you don't mind.
Misaki Kirihara has done questionable things in her life, she would admit that. She doesn't really consider buying an eight-year-old a pack of cigarettes to be one of them.
Seven in the morning, leaving a crime scene she's been trapped at since midnight, she stops in a corner convenience store. She'd never go into it normally; she's fine sticking with classy cafes or 24-hour-diners and avoiding the peeling-paint and bars on the windows of places like this. It's a store with grass overgrowing the parking lot and more gum spots than pavement outside, with too much neon in the window (all proclaiming that the place is open and sells liquor and tobacco) and a bored, sleepy-eyed cashier who doesn't want to be there.
Only one other person is in the store at the time, and she doesn't pay them a second glance until she hears the cashier speaking. "Sorry, kid, I'm not selling you cigarettes. No way you're eighteen." She turns and the cashier is obviously right—it's a blond boy who can barely see over the counter who has said nothing.
"They're for my father." His tone is emotionless, impeccable if accented Japanese. She freezes when she realizes where she has heard this voice before, in what feels like another lifetime. You heard the boy. Another voice echoes in her mind, from the first time she'd heard the child speak.
"Then tell him to buy his own. It's against the law." The voice of the worker breaks her out of her thoughts, and July has turned to go. She approaches the counter, and speaks, careful not to make eye contact.
"A pack of cigarettes." She pays (eight dollars for something that will kill you, but…) and darts back outside, forgetting the coffee she came for.
He is sitting outside, emotionless as always. "Hello," he greets her flatly, hand pressed back to the glass of the scratched and neon-covered window, looking at something that is not her.
"Here." She puts the pack in his other hand. His fingers close around it, and he looks down, pulling back from the glass and then glancing up at her.
"Thank you." He stands up and starts to walk, and she catches him by the shoulder.
"Where are you going? I'll give you a ride," she tells him, and he gives her clipped directions with one palm pressed to the car window. Like a GPS, she thinks, and then hates herself for reducing him to an object.
There is no one there when he assures her they have reached their destination, and the bottom of her stomach drops out when she realizes where they are.
July steps out of the car when it's parked, and walks with small steps around the cars to the curb. He neatly leans the pack against it. He nods, as if approving, and then twists as though to walk back, but sits down next to the cigarettes instead.
She is out of the car, tears pricking her eyes, kneeling next to him on the pavement as the sun climbs in the sky. She cries, briefly, and hugs him, while he stares up at the sky.
"I thought you might be here." Another voice from another life, and April sets down a beer can next to the package. "Hello, Misaki."
"April," she nods. She's pretty sure it looks like she's been crying, but she doesn't care.
"What have you been doing?" April asks, and Misaki has never heard a Contractor make small talk before, but she's also never cried over one or seen a Doll mourn, so this is a location for firsts.
"Kidnapping small children," she says, and as April stares at her, "Only joking." The words fall from her lips before she fully considers them. They stand in silence for a moment, the gravity of where they are standing overwhelming, before the latest arrival breaks the silence.
"November eleven," the British woman draws out the name, and Misaki nods. "He has a grave, in England. July just likes to come here, when we're in Japan, as well." April does too (it's obvious by the beer she's left and the very fact she knew where to go) but she doesn't say it. "You should drop by, if you ever visit."
April makes it sound like she'd be visiting a casual friend, not visiting the grave of someone who died in an attempt to keep her safe. It's better, that way. It half-sounds like she's joking. November had always liked a joke.
"Maybe I will." The rising sun blinds her slightly, reflecting off her glasses, and she angles her gaze down towards her feet.
"Let's go, July, got a schedule to keep." April is still speaking Japanese for Misaki's benefit, but she knows that she'll probably return to English once they're gone.
"Yes," the small boy monotones, and stands, turning his head to look at Misaki. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she looks at the Doll, and then asks, "What are you here for?"
His fingers are closing around April's hand as they walk away, but he stops and turns back to look at her. "We're assassinating the president."
"What!" her hand flies up to her face, shocked.
"Only joking." His tone doesn't change, and he doesn't smile.
When they are gone, she stands there alone for a minute and looks down at the beer can and the pack of cigarettes. Then she gets in the car and drives home.