Author's Note: Day 6 of the 12 Days of Witchyness!

Chained

No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky.

Bob Dylan

You stare at his photo again. You've done it at least a hundred times over the past week. It's unprofessional. It's startling because while you've obsessed over things before – and that's all they were: things, not human beings or worse, targets – it's never been this bad. You stare at his photo and wonder where things suddenly started to go wrong.

It could have been from the very first moment:

You sit down on the park bench, dark sunglasses blocking out the sun even though the weather outside is unbearably cold. You prefer staying in the warmer climates but you've been hired to do a job in a city that's cold and unforgiving and ruthless. Like you are. Maybe it's why you don't like it.

A man sits down beside you, his gaze straight ahead overseeing the frigid lake. "Birds fly in a flock together," he murmurs. Still doesn't look at you.

You barely twitch. "Easier to pick them off one by one."

The man beside you smiles. "I trust for the money I'm paying, this will be done with the utmost discretion."

"Of course," you reply. You're a professional. "Any indiscretions would be solely done by yourself and your associates." Well, maybe not that professional.

The man smiles, thin and bitter. You know that smile. It's the smile of death. "We don't make mistakes."

"And yet," you continue, unable to stop yourself. "The target is one of your very own." Out of the corner of your eye, you watch the smile grow harder, his gaze turn sharper. "Now, leave before I change my mind. Your money, frankly, is cheap but I'm bored." Tilting your head to face him slightly, you add, "And killing you would only take three seconds."

When the man leaves, a manila, unmarked envelope is left in his wake beside you. You sigh, for you've been at this for a long, long time. You don't grab it, don't open it immediately. You watch the lake, know deep in your bones that it would be so cold if you simply chose to leave everything behind and jump right in.

You wonder, just for a second, if the lake's wildness could be enough to kill you once and for all.

It could have been when you first saw his photo:

You go back to your hotel room, a one-night stay that's far too luxurious. It makes your skin crawl, the way everything is so clean and shiny. Nothing real in this world is remotely clean – there are stains everywhere, on every surface, on every face, on every soul. The desk you place the envelope on is spotless but you ignore it as you open it up, pull out the file.

The first thing you see is his face.

He's angry. You can tell that instantly, one familiar soul to the next. His gaze is golden and his hair is silver. There are two animalistic ears on the top of his head. Demon– No, half-demon. His mother was human. Dead. So is his father.

You stare at the photo for a little longer than necessary, but there are so many parts to him that call out to you. Birds of a flock. It's almost funny. You read the rest of his file and smile. He has so many reasons for people to want him dead.

A little part of you thinks for that alone, it'd probably be more fun to let him live.

You sit on the rooftop and feel the sun beat down on your back. It's warm, a caress over your clothes. You're secretly thankful for it. The cold wind is a complete and utter bitch. Your dark eyes scan the street below but you know it's too early. You told him you'd meet at two p.m. It's barely one-thirty. It leaves you with too much time to think. A smile flits across your face. Old Kaede always told you that thinking was a dangerous thing for people like her. Action is your game. Movement. Instinct.

Assassination isn't for everyone.

You look down at the street again and remember. You remember what you said and did, like the ultimate preacher: lying through your teeth for something you believe in. You close your eyes and feel again, for one brief moment.

You remember:

Feigning a stumble, something a clumsy girl would do. And you are. You're clumsy and shy, a little starry-eyed in situations bigger than you. It's not difficult – no. This is all a part of who you are.

The stumble works exactly like you plan it to. His chest is warm and solid beneath your hands as you brace yourself, and you feel even warmer the moment his hands circle your arms. You look up, startled, because only a second ago you were rushing through the doors of the shop and the next, you're pressed up against a man more handsome than any boy you've ever known.

"Uh," you mumble, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"You okay?" Gold eyes. Silver hair. Dog ears. Scowl.

"Yes! I'm so sorry," you say quickly, almost tripping over the words. You look at him some more, completely taken aback. You blink. He looks at you a little strangely and then his gaze lowers, shifting down to where your hands still rest on his body. "Oh god." You look mortified. You remove your hands as if you've been burned.

The scowl on his face changes, only marginally softer, and a part of your brain registers it. Wonders what it would be like to completely change over. "It's fine," he says, not unkindly.

"I was rushing and totally lost in my own head." You shake yourself, in horror of your own actions, and it makes you nearly crash into a chair. He looks at you exasperated. You lock that information away. "Sorry," you repeat. You look down to the ground, a little sheepish. You're not a threat. "Um, can I…get you a coffee?" You wince, only slightly, because you're awkward as hell.

He looks at you, looks like he's going to pass but thank you anyways. You reach out, touch him again on the chest and meet his gaze head on. Dark brown clashes with gold. You think there's a metaphor in there somewhere. "Please, just five minutes. As an apology."

The way he stares at you makes you shiver. You know so little but you actually know so much. Know how his hands could kill you so quickly, how there's nothing but raw power in those arms. You lick your lips, and it's a nervous tick but you're not nervous at all. You watch as his eyes drift lower to your mouth.

Maybe this won't be so hard after all.

"I'm Kagome," you introduce. No one alive knows your name, except for a trusted few. He's not trusted but he won't be alive much longer anyways.

The guy smirks then, tiny but there. He holds out his hand. "Inuyasha." Inuyasha Taisho. Age twenty-eight. No family. No known associates who haven't turned on him. Burned by his own agency yet somehow still alive. No agent who gives out their actual first name should be alive so long.

You smile again and it's genuine this time. You even find yourself shaking your head in disbelief. When he stays for coffee, he promises five minutes. You internally vow to make it twenty.

It ends up being an hour.

There's a shriek in the street and even though it doesn't sound terrified, your eyes open and you look anyways. It's two girls, hugging profusely outside of the coffee shop. Another coffee shop. A better one than the crap you had the other day. The company hadn't been bad though.

You're smiling and you shouldn't be. You barely stop yourself from a good slap. These are the kind of thoughts that make people like you end up dead. Unbidden, your eyes land on his photo. It's distracting. You don't even know why you brought it. A reminder? Please. You're better than this.

A part of you whispers that you're not. Until this job, you would've argued with yourself. Now, you know better.

It's slightly before two but it's not hard to spot him. He stands out, even amongst the most colourful of individuals in the street. He lingers outside of the coffee shop, hands in his pockets. Even from the rooftop, you can see the way his eyes scan the street, looking for threats. It's something that you can't beat out of a person, in the game or not.

You hesitate because you should be setting up. You should be going through the motions. And yet, you think about:

It's all a game, really. Showing up again in a place he least expects it, without suspecting you at all. You watch him over a couple days and take a chance when you notice he's going into a grocery store he never frequents. It's the perfect setup. Once he's through the doors, you wait a moment before following behind. You grab a shopping cart and see the back of him disappear to the left of the store. You go right, fill up your cart with as many things as possible. You've been here for a couple hours.

You see him again, down an aisle. It's only sheer luck that he doesn't notice you and you turn around instantly. You focus on a gondola bearing food, staring at the contents like it's an important decision. It's a chance but your whole life is a chance. You wait, and wait, poke at the produce before you.

"…Kagome?"

You hold back your smile, instead look completely surprised. You stare at him for a moment too long before you let a grin take over. "Oh hi!" You wave a little; you're a hopeless case. "Inuyasha, it's nice to see you again! You shop here?"

There's still a wariness to his eyes that you need to remove, but that's something that can be accomplished. Little steps. Baby steps. "No, just happened to be in the area."

"Oh." You nod and then gesture wildly to the side. "I live a couple blocks from here. It's so close but my god, the prices are expensive." They are. It's one thing you instantly noticed. The type of random information you pick up every time you enter a building, along with all the escape routes and nearby objects that would make good weapons. You turn back to the gondola and grab one of the bags of food – you have no idea if it's good or not, but you poked it a lot so it's only fair to take it. Grabbing your cart, you start to move along again.

Inuyasha follows. This time, you let yourself smile anyways. "What brings you to this neck of the woods then?"

"An appointment," he answers, without really answering. He smirks at you. It's damn attractive. "Are those marshmallows in your cart?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Looking in my cart, are we? Is this judgement coming from you?"

Inuyasha rolls his eyes but he looks amused. The wariness is gone, enough so that you can't see it anymore. Doesn't mean it's not still there. "Typically those are for kids."

"Well that's good then, because I have three." You say this baldly because it's what he likes. Inuyasha is man who doesn't like shy, nervous types. You tried that in the beginning and it wasn't until you became awkward instead that everything you do is almost endearing. You're bolder but not less clumsy. It's all a persona, one you embody well.

Inuyasha stops dramatically in the middle of the store, eyes wide and unblinking. He's assessing you, you realize. His eyes rake over your body, as if it'll have a tell. You know yourself on this at least: there is no tell, unless you want to give one. You smile because you're going to let him sweat it out a bit. "You're lying."

"Nope." You continue away from him. It doesn't take long until he follows once more. "Also, for the record, marshmallows are great in hot chocolate. And on cookies. Better yet, on hot chocolate cookies."

Inuyasha's hand touches the side of the cart, directs you over to the side so he can look at you. "How old are you?"

And that's your baby face coming into play. You still get requests to see your ID at bars and liquor stores, even though you're well over the legal age. This is an opportunity though to get on even ground. You look him dead in the eyes before slowly – so slowly – you let your gaze wander down his body. He's bundled in a coat but you can still tell how muscular he is from the tightness of his clothing. Strange, that. Killers tend to have clothes that hide guns. There's no way he can feel so secure without it. When you catch his eyes again, you don't hide from the intensity. You give it back. When you look away, you lick your lips. A tease.

And then you nearly stumble into another gondola, because that's your kind of luck.

"Who are you?" Inuyasha asks. It sounds like wonder in his voice.

It's more of an expression you've ever heard coming from him. It jars something in you. You barely keep it together enough to reply, with far too much honesty, "Wouldn't you like to know."

It's the other way around though, and you know it. You stare at his photo for far too long. You think about him way too much. It's all-consuming and it's eating at you. This isn't professional, you remind yourself. You look down at the sniper rifle, ready and simply in need of positioning. This has gone on for far too long. It's over. It's done.

You position the rifle, the movements as familiar to you as the back of your hand. You go through the motions, take in the wind, the light. Inuyasha isn't moving from his spot in front of the coffee shop. It's two p.m. You should be down there. You should be meeting him.

Like you promised.

But there aren't any promises in your field. There's only one promise that's ever upheld and it's death.

For one second, you imagine a different life:

You meet him for coffee and you sit down inside because the weather is atrocious. You don't even understand why he waited outside to begin with. But you notice, the more and more you see him, that the indoors makes him restless. He likes exits and wind and the feeling of freedom. He's a bird that can't be caged, only chained to the sky.

You drink hot chocolate with marshmallows and he drinks his black coffee. You joke with him about the fact he truly thought you had three kids, and then go over all the ways in which parenthood would be a terrible idea for you. You tell him about the time you almost cut off your finger, or the time you almost fell into the lake. You don't mention how you almost cut your finger not from preparing dinner, but because you were in combat with a gangbanger. You don't mention how you almost fell into the lake, not because you tripped but because you jumped.

Semantics. Truth in the lies.

The wariness in his eyes is gone.

You realize thirty minutes in that you don't want this to end. You hedge a bit but eventually give in. In the most awkward, horrible way possible, you suggest that you go back to your place. There's food there – better food than the coffee shop. You should have lunch.

Licking your lips is almost subconscious at this point. The way he responds is like a fire igniting within you.

Taking him back to your place is quick, hurried. You barely step inside your apartment and he's there, so close, breathing the same air. The first brush of lips against your own is like fireworks, light blinding you from closed eyelids. How is this possible, you wonder? You grip his coat and pull him tighter against you. This can't end.

You take off his coat. He takes off yours. You take off his shirt and from there, it's an even match of take and take and take. Items fall to the floor, completely forgotten, and you hastily step backwards in your apartment towards the bedroom. You make sure to near-fall at least twice.

And when he's naked on top of you, surrounding you– Everything is in place. He breathes your name like a prayer and you move against him like you'll die without. This man with golden eyes and silver hair and a penchant for smirking. You kiss him, hard, harder because this can't end.

You rake your nails down his back. You let your hands touch every plane of his body, bask in the heat and gloriousness of it all. He touches you like he's starved for it. He watches you like you'll disappear otherwise.

And you cling tighter, holder closer, wish harder. Because this can't end.

This can't end.

This can't end.

You take a breath and let it out. You look down at Inuyasha – not his picture but the real thing – and you push away all the thoughts inside of your head. You push away the memories and the daydreams. You push away the heat and the fireworks, the amusement and mysteriousness. The coolness of the rifle is a stark contrast and you let it ground you. You control your breathing until it's normal. You feel the wind against your face, your fingers. You let the sun warm your back.

Staring down the scope, the side of Inuyasha's head is in the crosshairs. Right where it should be. Right where it's supposed to be.

You breathe in. Your finger is on the trigger.

You breathe out. Feel the wind.

You breathe in. Count down. Everyone knows you shoot on the exhale.

You breathe out.

This can't end.

So. Do you think she does it? No. There will be no part two.

(There may be a story that, if you so choose to believe, can be seen as a follow-up. I'm not completely evil).

Feedback, as always, is love.