Whom I Cherish
Twenty, in the partition between the bed and the rest of the room; there's still water, thank god, but the plant, the plant's dead, without a shadow of a doubt, and those twenty bullets aren't going to remove themselves, not by any measure.
She's already double-dosing. Still wound in her leg is burning like hellfire, still her face is throbbing, still there's a deep dark ache inside her somewhere and everywhere that makes it impossible to move and impossible to sleep. Instead she leans against the wall in a stupor, listening to the girl's ragged breaths, waiting for that terrible moment where the breathing stops and Kirika—
—fifty-fifty, the surgeon said.
He didn't ask questions. She paid him what she had and let him have the car too, on the condition someone drove them back. It wasn't hers anyway. Let the Soldats worry about it.
Fifty-fifty. She can't sleep. She can't take that chance. She has to wait.
The bullet was meant to have been lodged in her. He had asked if she wanted it. She had declined.
It was—
—the car journey had been the longest, most hellishly painful thing of her life. And all the time trapped in there with them no matter how far she wound the windows down, blood, the stink of blood and death, and with every little bump Kirika whimpered like a wounded animal.
Mirielle slumps next to the bed and listens to make sure the girl she promised to kill is still breathing.
Fifty fucking fifty.
Mirielle leans back, tries to focus, and begins counting the bullet holes in her apartment, in her life.
It wouldn't be so bad if they hadn't had to run away. It was losing all the blood that did it, the surgeon said, losing the blood and fatigue and all the wounds and the gaping hole in her side, but mainly the blood.
Mirielle can still smell it. The gorge rises in her throat.
She holds her head in her hands and manages to choke it back, for now.
Mirielle, whom I cherish—
"Kirika," she says, "I got your letter."
Nothing, just the rasping as the girl's chest rises and falls.
"I got your letter." She repeats. "I…I read it."
It's cold now all the windows have been smashed. The fact that this isn't a crime scene means the landlord is more intelligent than she gave him credit for. Mirielle thinks, he'll want paying, though.
She huddles in on herself. Cold.
Something stops her crawling into the bed. With Kirika.
"I wonder what you meant…you always were bad at…expressing yourself."
For the first time in around three years, Mirielle has a sudden craving for a cigarette. She ignores it. She also ignores the fact that there's a packet at the bottom of the drawer somewhere and it wouldn't be hard to light it off something, probably the stove.
"You're a real dummy, you know. Pretty stupid."
She wants a damn cigarette. She wants a drink of water—desperately—she wants to stand up and stretch but it's hard enough staying upright against this wall. So damn tired, that'll be the adrenaline and the wounds and the fighting and the drive, longest hours of her life, that'll be the heart in her mouth minute after minute after gut-wrenching minute.
Because of her.
Because of Kirika.
"You're trouble." She says. "I blame you for this, you know. Someone's going to have to foot the bill."
Someone passes by on a motorbike. Everything's louder with no windows. Mirielle feels like her head's going to split open.
She swears. It comes out in Corsican.
"And Uncle." She mutters. "I had to choose. They made me choose."
Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Breathe.
"They're all dead. All of them. My informants. My…friends. I guess. Not really friends."
She stares at the bullet holes in her wall. The bed's okay, for the most part. Needs replacing though. She could get twins. Or bunks.
They don't have to share a bed anymore.
They don't have to share a life anymore.
"I bet if I asked to kill you," she whispers, "I bet you'd let me, wouldn't you?"
The girl rasps. Still breathing. Still breathing, for now.
"…I hate breaking promises."
The apartment falls silent. Mirielle touches her face, feels the cut there, wonders if it'll scar. She's been lucky so far, very lucky, and that's the thing about being a pretty, leggy blonde; beneath suspicion. No one ever suspects Barbie. Of course, facial scarring might interfere with that. Then again, there's always plastic surgery: and that's well within her means.
They can do anything nowadays, Mirielle thinks. I could probably have a new face if I wanted.
I could be somebody else.
"What will we do, Kirika?"
Something makes a thudding noise. Mirielle has the gun pointed at it without even thinking, before she remembers that her apartment was sprayed with submachine gunfire and that now everything's falling to bits.
"We're going to have to move out for a while so they can fix this place up, you know. I know this house by the beach we can stay in. God knows I need a holiday."
Mirielle looks at her feet, pale in the moonlight. She tries to wiggle her toes. A jolt of fire goes up her injured leg.
If the have Soldats followed them, they're finished.
She looks over at Kirika, laid prone on her back, arms outstretched, face tight with pain, and sees again her face looking up at her from the pit, smiling, smiling as she waits for Mirielle to let go, smiling patiently as she waits for the woman to do what she promised she would and finally, finally, land the killing blow, smiling with something soft and heart-rending in her eyes, something that Mirielle cannot name, as she waits for Mirielle to drop her down into the fire.
Mirielle, whom I cherish—
—Is she going to make it, doctor?—
—Well….to be honest, I'd call it around…fifty-fifty, Miss Bouquet—
"Kirika," she says, but the rest of the words stick in her throat and instead she just looks down into her lap, into her open palms, and listens to the girl's breathing. Her eyes are hot.
When the thickness has gone and she can breathe again, Mirielle moves over to the bed. She pushes up with her good leg, biting back a gasp; she pulls herself on with the good arm, and finally she lies there, staring into the dark.
Kirika is still alive beside her.
Mirielle turns and looks at her. It never occurred to her to ask how old she is. She knows approximately (probably around fifteen to eighteen, or seventeen, maybe), but then again, even that could be a lie, just like her name, just like the birthday on that student card of hers.
Kirika, who has probably never had a birthday.
Kirika, whose face, even her face, could be a lie.
Right now, even flecked with blood, bandaged, she still looks like a child. And in some ways, Mirielle thinks, she is.
Just a child.
And yet…
"Kirika," she murmurs, "we promised we'd have tea. You better not let me down."
No response. She didn't expect one anyway.
The bed is almost obscenely comfortable compared to the wall. She resists sleep a moment, wounds still hurting; and then from beside her comes the smallest of sounds, maybe a whimper.
Mirielle turns over and sees Kirika's eyelashes flutter. She holds her breath.
It takes a long moment, but eventually the girl opens her eyes.
"Mi…re…yu."
And Mirielle Bouquet feels like her heart might burst.
#
A.N: So, a Noir post-fic, first draft (and by first draft I mean posted at 4.30 a.m as soon as I wrote the last sentence, lol). I love criticism on my fics, constructive or otherwise, as one is helpful and the other makes me laugh. So, hoped you enjoyed reading.
edited to remove some pretty stupid typos, thanks for the heads up on that one. 4.30a.m: not great for grammatical/typographical/spelling accuracy, let me tell you.