Hello, everyone! After quite a long hiatus, I return with an offering from a new series. Those familiar with my other work, hello to you! And for those who still remember my Marimite fic, no worries! I am in the process of writing the last two chapters. I have been plagued by work, school, and an incurable writer's block which I hope this will banish once and for all! This is my first Noir fic, but it's a series I've long loved so I hope this does the series justice. This is just a small vignette from Mirielle's point of view, and it came out more heavy handed than I planned, but I suppose my style has just more drama. But enough chit chat. On to the fic, and fans of my Marimite fic, keep on the lookout!

Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, although I wish I owned Mirielle.

Enjoy!

-WaterGhost (Sarah)

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Time

She remembers this quote. Her mother used it, and it is one of the only living memories she has of her, besides her smile. As a young girl she would hurry, would trip and fall, but her mother would pick her up and dry her tears. And as the girl cried over bloodied knees and torn skirts, her mother would speak to her in soothing tones. Don't rush, little one. You have plenty of time.

"All that really belongs to us is time; even he who has nothing else has that."

Her mother once told her the author of the words, but like so many memories the name faded.

She hadn't really heeded the words until just recently, when time seemed to be all she had left.

But that wasn't true.

She does have someone to share that time with.

The rocky professional partnership that they started out with turned into something much more when they emerged from the flames of the Manor, cleansed, with a new purpose. They were free, and they had each other, and no one else. Another pair of eyes to gaze into hers, another pair of arms to grasp hers in embrace.

A delicate smile forms on delicate features.

The warm sun beats down on the French countryside, revealing a lazy summer afternoon. Although Mirielle Bouquet preferred the liveliness of Paris, the quiet air of the country was very peaceful as well. As of late, she hadn't had much reason to travel outside Paris, much less the country, so today was an odd day for her, combined with the fact that Kirika wasn't by her side.

Today is different. A pilgrimage, of sorts, and the tying of loose ends. What was it that Kirika's first email had said? Make a pilgrimage for the past, with me. The Japanese girl's thin voice echoes in her mind, like a bell in a tower. This was, of course, a much different pilgrimage.

She is on her way to her uncle's country house, his private getaway from his bloody lifestyle and a return to the bourgeois. It was a house that she herself had spent quite a bit of time in, reading books like a normal girl, and learning how to fire a gun and take life, unlike a normal girl.

The jeep bumps along the road to the villa, the last time the worn tires will make this journey. She hadn't spent much time here in the past few years; Uncle Claude was always off on one secret mission or another and didn't contact Mirielle very often, which she didn't have any quarrel with. She holds little ill will towards the man now, he took care of her and raised her when she had no one left, taught her the trade that fed and clothed her for all these years. What issues was held between them died along with Noir, with Altena and with Chloe.

It had been a technical nightmare getting the property in her name. She was, of course, her uncle's heir as his next of (and only) kin, but the Soldat's roots ran deep in the French legal system as well as law enforcement, and Mirielle had to contact the heads of the Soldats once again to prevent them from taking the property. In a way, it was merely for pride's sake. She refused to let them take the last small bit of her family legacy, even if she had no interest in keeping the property, or the house. And once the Soldats got wind of Mirielle's intention to sell the house, the man named Remy even hired an attorney for her, perhaps as an additional thank you, to ensure all transactions were properly made.

But she didn't want the house, pure and simple. There were too many painful memories. This house wasn't her home.

She had a home. In Paris. With Kirika. The thought made her smile, that she would be going home to their apartment, to her eyes and her arms. Solitude had been her life before, but no longer.

She hits a few ruts in the dirt road, and the jeep emerges from behind the thick tree cover to reveal the house that her uncle once called home. It looked just the same as it had the last time she saw it, though as she neared she sees how the once perfectly groomed lawns and hedges are now overgrown with time and neglect. A black, unmarked car is parked in the front circle. Mirielle tenses instinctively, hand flying to the small purse where she kept her Walther. But she forces herself to relax.

Mirielle pulls the jeep in front of the house and cuts the engine. As she emerges, so do the passengers of the other car, a middle aged couple. Of the many buyers Mirielle had come in contact with, she ultimately chose the Millers, a wealthy American couple with a large family. For some reason, Mirielle had always wanted to see her uncle's house as a family house, with children and laughter, free of corruption and of death. Perhaps it was because Mirielle had never had such a family. But then again, neither did Kirika.

There are still times when Mirielle can't wrap her head around the sorrow and compassion she feels for her partner. Yes, Mirielle's parents may be dead, but she at least spent a little time with them, knew people who knew them, to get some sort of idea of who she was, where she came from. The Bouquet family was still spoken of in whispers around the dinner tables of the rulers of the underworld, quiet fairytales to serve as a warning of the power of death in their business.

But they were still Mirielle's family, an undeniable genetic bond to a legacy that would die with her.

Kirika had nothing. Although a human is only 23 chromosomes from each parent, to not know, to have no way of knowing who your parents are or where you came from, Mirielle couldn't even imagine. Her partner never made a mention of it, though, and when Mirielle looked into those warm brown eyes, she knew that Kirika didn't need any verification.

"Hello," the man reaches out a hand for an American handshake. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Bouquet." He speaks French with a heavy American accent, but his phrases are grammatically sound.

Mirielle shakes hands with the man and his wife. "And the same, Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Welcome to France."

They stroll around the house, and Mirielle lets the older couple do most of the talking; slightly saddened at the stark emptiness of the rooms and corridors. Everything is gone, the furniture sold, clothes discarded. Mirielle had no doubt the place had been rifled through by the Soldats in her absence, looking for any documents or books that could be helpful to their business endeavors. To the untrained eye, the place looks like it hasn't been touched, but Mirielle knows better, spotting the slight dimples in the walls, slight scuff marks from boots on the floorboards where they had checked for hidden rooms or storage spaces. But the Millers are oblivious and enthralled, chattering on about in English about how this room would be perfect for this child, and how this room would make a great play room, and so on. Mirielle leaves the couple to wander the rest of the house, as she makes her way to the one place she needed to see one last time.

The greenhouse is now merely a shell of its former self, the bright green exuberance and life that once filled it was in brown ruins. Shattered glass littered the floors, bullets lodged in plant pots, dry dead leaves covering rusting tools. She recalls her last time here, as if it were yesterday. The day she took the life of her last surviving family member.

She steps around the tables, strolls the narrow passage where her uncle roamed and grew plants of all shapes and sizes. Here is where she fired her shot at him, to protect Kirika.

At that time, it hadn't been about friendship, or love; it was about revenge, and the need for the truth.

How things had changed. After they had escaped the Manor, it was a race against time to get Kirika to a doctor, never mind the questions. Kirika flatly refused to be taken to a hospital, so Mirielle contacted Marie once again, to get the name of a doctor who wouldn't ask any questions. They limped back to Paris to lick their wounds, knowing they were lucky to be alive.

After that, there was time. All this time. All the time in the world, it seemed.

Mirielle was a little unsettled by the thought, having lived from gunshot to gunshot all her life, but Kirika seemed to melt into the quiet life so easily that Mirielle couldn't help but follow. There was, after all, an entire world they had been missing. There was no doubt though, even after all this time, her partner's skills were just as sharp. Mirielle knew it every time Kirika's keen eyes darted around a room, sizing up a stranger. Every time her body tensed next to Mirielle's it sent her heart racing, but it was also a reminder of their brutal past.

At first, Mirielle contemplated sending Kirika to a Parisian high school to finish the education that had brought to such an abrupt end, but in the end decided against it. At the time, she had no real reason, but it nevertheless her decision. Instead, she encouraged Kirika to take up painting and drawing again, buying her an entire art set, sparing no cost. She gave it to Kirika two weeks after their return from the Manor, when Kirika was still nearly bedridden from the severity of her wound.

She remembers. Kirika cried.

A bird stirs Mirielle from her reverie, and she hears voices from the front part of the house. Time to go.

She exits the greenhouse slowly, and turns to take one final look before closing the doors.

At the front of the house, the Millers wait, chattering in English in excitement. They both smile widely as Mirielle approaches.

"Miss Bouquet," Mrs. Miller speaks in halting French, "we love it! So beautiful!"

Mr. Miller laughs. "If it's still available, Miss Bouquet, we would like to purchase it from you."

Mirielle smiles and nods. "Very good."

"When can we move in?"

Mirielle draws a piece of paper out of her pocket. "As soon as the papers are taken care of. Here's my lawyer's number, we'll sort all these details out as soon as you're ready."

And so it is done.

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And now, back in Paris, they have dinner together, a simple affair of pasta and a salad, and afterwards, they have tea. Mirielle knew that Japanese culture placed such a high emphasis on the revered tea ceremony, but this wasn't a ceremony. And at any rate, Mirielle doubted that was the reason Kirika seemed to enjoy it so much. It was because they did it together, in their own secret little world. Free from the Soldats, free from Altena and Chloe.

They talk, while they have tea, simple discussions about their days. Mirielle tells of her uncle's house, the family that is going to purchase it. She plans to get a substantial amount for the property, as it's worth roughly one a half million Euros at least, but if the attorney Remy hired has any brain in her head she can get two million for it.

Why did she sell it, the younger woman asks Mirielle as they finish their tea, begin to do the evening's dishes together.

"I have no attachments to it," Mirielle keeps the answer short. Kirika watches Mirielle silently for a moment, lets out a small noise of understanding.

Money was not an object, even though the sale of the house would bring in a large amount. Mirielle had accumulated, through clever business dealings in her trade quite a large amount of money to assure a comfortable lifestyle that could easily accommodate both Kirika and herself without working for awhile.

Mirielle also realized that both of them could easily survive on their own, more than able to adapt and carry on after Noir. But what would it bring? More jobs, more death, but most of all, more loneliness. Mirielle wasn't prone to bouts of loneliness, but late nights sometimes brought the empty feeling into her belly that she had been conditioned to be rid of.

And after all that she and Kirika had went through together, they realized they didn't have to be alone any more. They didn't have to work, if they didn't choose. They could do whatever they wished, together.

Afterwards, it started as companionship. Together they lived simply, built a small life and lived in peace. And despite the differences in their personalities, they found they could talk, not just about combat or trivial day to day matters, but deep and emotionally charged conversations about life in general. Kirika's knowledge of art, literature, and politics were limited of course, and she began to read on her own. They visited museums, trendy shops, fancy restaurants. They were having fun together.

And they began to open up to each other. Kirika told her of the man named Milosh, the painter and ex soldier who she had befriended all that time ago, and of her time with Altena and Chloe at the Manor. Mirielle learned to discuss her feelings more, although it was a slow process.

And all during this time the letter to Mirielle had remained an unspoken matter. Mirielle had never mentioned reading it, but in all probability Kirika knew. She was being patient with the older woman, content to let her work it out on her own, and Mirielle was grateful. It was a few months before Mirielle hesitantly brought it up. They were in a park, Kirika drawing a grove of trees across the river, and when she looked up from her sketchpad her eyes held such hope that Mirielle almost stopped speaking.

But she didn't.

They finish the dishes, and Mirielle changes into the loose white shirt she wears to bed. Kirika is standing the window, gazing into the heart of the city she now called home.

"Anything interesting happen today?" Mirielle puts an arm around the waist of the younger woman in a loving embrace. She feels Kirika sink into the touch.

"Mmm. Not really."

"Did you draw anything today?"

Kirika shakes her head. "No, I went down to the art store and bought more charcoal, though."

Mirielle presses her lips to the dark haired woman's head softly. "Mirielle?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want to come with me to the river tomorrow? I think I might like to paint something tomorrow."

Mirielle smiles. "Of course."

It wasn't announced by either of them, rather an unspoken acceleration of what was happening between them. That fateful day beside the river, Mirielle hugged Kirika for the second time. A real, full hug, not the half hug and minus the gun in her hand. It was weird, and exhilarating to hold the younger woman close to her body, to feel flesh and blood and warmth and a beating heart next to her own. It was so utterly human.

Slowly life was breathed into Mirielle. Kirika had always been more open with her feelings, especially her feelings for Mirielle, but nevertheless as they started the blonde was wrought with reserves. Physical and emotional intimacy wasn't something she was very adept at, but then again, that wasn't a surprise considering the life she had led up to this point. Kirika hadn't had much experience, although admitted that Chloe had kissed her on the lips. It was tough for Mirielle to take in.

They learned how to trust each other, to share their thoughts, to hold each other's hands. The thread that connected them was slowly turning from black to red. And all the ice that had caked around Mirielle's heart was completely melted away. She was falling in love with Kirika, and Kirika was falling in love with her. She couldn't quite believe that it could happen to her.

It was Kirika, not Mirielle, who made the first move that night, bringing her lips so close to Mirielle's that they could hear each other's breathing, which was becoming more and more rapid. Blood pounded in her ears and heart thumped wildly in her chest. But after only a second of hesitation, her lips descended to meet the other girl's and their two worlds collided like never before. It was the first time she said I Love You to her partner; and the first time she'd heard the words back and truly believed it with everything in her being.

Mirielle feels the younger woman move beneath her embrace, feels her turn to look at Mirielle in the eyes, brown meeting blue in a loving gaze that Mirielle had so come to cherish.

"Mirielle," Kirika asks in a soft voice, "are you going to be okay?"

Mirielle smiles, leans her forehead against Kirika's.

"I've never been better in all my life, Kirika." Then, she grins lecherously, a smile that ignites a spark of passion in her partner's eyes. "Now, are you ready for bed?"

The final step in their transformation came almost two years since they had first met. Mirielle had never desired another human being so much in her life, but nonetheless she was hesitant to allow their relationship to progress to a physical stage. Mirielle herself was sexually experienced, but Kirika wasn't, and even then, Mirielle had never really made love to someone in her life. Every single one of Mirielle's lovers had been fucks, a means to ease frustrations and stresses for a little while. She never even allowed those men and women to kiss her on the lips, it was too intimate, too human an act for Mirielle at the time.

But they were in love, and finally they gave into their passions for one another. That first night, while they kissed and touched each other's lithe, battle hardened bodies, inexperienced but instinct filled, Mirielle felt like her entire body was full of light. She had never experienced anything this beautiful, and they gathered each other out of the darkness until they both found release under each other's touch. That first time led to many others, which would lead to many more.

Kirika's eyes stir with a passion that Mirielle has come to know all too well. The gap between them closes suddenly, passionately, soft lips working against the other's lovingly, desperately. They finally part, meet eyes again. Mirielle cups her lover's cheeks with her hands, her breathing coming in short gasps.

"I love you," she whispers, voice shaking with an unexpected torrent of emotions. The girl buries her head in the taller woman's chest in a fierce passionate hug.

"I love you too, Mirielle."

Finally, Kirika takes Mirielle by the hand, gently tugs her towards the bed they share. "Yes, let's go to bed."

It seemed surreal, sometimes. The girls who become killers. The killers who became lovers. Their lives were now forever intertwined, joined first by death, but forever by love.

So many lives had been taken by their hands. How many families mourned the loss of a loved one, a child, a sibling, a spouse because they had been cut down by the two assassins? The path each woman had chosen would all too soon catch back up with them, but not now. Tonight things were peaceful, they were happy, the world was a little bit brighter. And when that change happened, they would have each other.

There was time now. Whether it be a little, or a lifetime, both women were ready to face it, hand in hand.

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Well, then. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading.