She feared he would never come. Not tonight. It was starting to drizzle and a woman like her has no business standing alone in a dark alley, at the back of a pub at quarter past eleven in the evening.
But she was waiting for that man to show up.
That man who never failed to visit the pub after work for the last two weeks.
That man who would drink two glasses of rum and would spend the rest of his evening standing at this alley, cigarette in hand. (although she never actually saw him light one)
That man whose name is whispered in the Organization in both fear and awe.
That man who managed to take down some of the best, including her poor, dear, sister. (the sister she loved with all of her remaining soul)
That man who stayed with her sister who chose death over prison. (they say he held her hand until her very last breath)
That man they call the silver bullet.
She wanted to see that man up close tonight. She wanted to see the last pair of eyes that her sister saw. She wanted to know its color. How it looks like in the pale light of the streetlight. She also wanted it to be the last pair of eyes she would see.
It was getting late. That man is probably at home already, sleeping. Time to go--
But there he is. Exiting the back door. Going at his usual spot, except someone is already there. A woman in a black dress, with strawberry blonde hair.
There is something familiar about this woman.
The woman is walking towards him. Staring at him like she was seeing something there (at his face, maybe) that was fascinating.
She tries to open her mouth, as if to say something, and then she gasps.
Two crows in their long black trench coats are passing. Her heart beats faster. They must never see their brilliant chemist with the silver bullet. Not even if it was a perfectly innocent meeting. (they learned to stop believing in coincidence)
She did not want to leave this world anymore. Not after seeing those sad, sad eyes. Eyes who looked lost. Eyes who looked like the man who owned it carries a baggage bigger than anyone should ever carry. Those kind of eyes looked familiar. It was the same kind of eyes that looked at her in the mirror.
So she did the only thing that came into her mind to stop two funerals (if she would be so lucky to have one) from happening. To make the two crows passing look at a different direction. They say public display of affection makes other people comfortable so she grabbed his shirt and kissed him.
On the lips. She is kissing him like her life depended on it. (because it does)
He is kissing her back. He does not even know why. It was as if his lips -- no, his body, because his hands are now on her waist -- has a mind of its own.
And then just like that, she was gone. Like everything was just a dream. She was like a mirage of an oasis in a barren desert.
She was gone and all that was left was the sound of a slamming door and the faint sound of footsteps walking away into the darkness.