DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction. Noir is not mine and no commercial profit will be gained from this piece of writing.
Communication
"The thread that binds you and I is the colour black—of this I am sure. Blacker than pitch, blacker than night. Blacker than the darkness itself," Mireille said, head tilted at the stars.
Kirika looked at her. The nighttime desert seemed a world of shadows, with only the flare's light still rising above them and a thin moon in the distance. The signal burst into vermillion fire, then evaporated into the sparse air.
"Do you think they'll see it?" Kirika whispered.
Mireille gave a slight nod. She glanced over at Kirika, barely visible in the penumbral night. Long seconds passed while they studied each other. So it was that Kirika understood the thread Mireille had referred to. Its web twined through her fingers, tethering each of them to the other with a force she scarcely recognized. Was this necessity? Hate? Affection, Kirika thought. Friendship. She turned the word over in wonder. Was this what friendship was like? She knew of the term, how it should feel, had sensed a twist in the gut like a distant memory of emotion. But was this real?
Mireille had that enigmatic look in her eyes again. Kirika blinked slowly. Perhaps not. She scanned the sky for remnants of the vanished flare.
"Your wound—"
"Hmm?"
"Does it hurt?" It looked as if Kirika had a makeshift bandage on.
"No."
Mireille nodded. "Let's hope the rescue teams get here soon. I think we are three hours from the outpost."
Then there was silence. They seldom engaged in long exchanges. Not that they hadn't tried. But a unknowable weight had fallen between them once too often. There were simply too many unanswered questions. Answers had to be waited and worked for, and real conversation, honest conversation, necessarily took a back seat.
Kirika put her arms around herself. Faint shivers were creeping up her spine.
"Cold?" Mireille asked, a little too sharply.
The dark-haired girl shook her head in denial. Mireille glanced down at her jacket. She only had the one, and the skin-tight shirt underneath would be quite useless against the cold. She knitted her brow. "We should stick together for warmth," she said. Kirika just looked at her.
Making a decision, Mireille held out her arm, fingers crooked in invitation.
She waited.
Kirika studied her. Noiselessly, she stole over. Their shadows, dim and moon-cast, made contact, drew apart, then joined. Mireille was gripping Kirika's shoulder lightly. Kirika felt another shiver ripple through her; her heart had leapt strangely.
They sat in the stillness like statues of eternity. Kirika tried to remember a time when someone had been this close to her. Not Mireille, who had never intruded upon her space even when they had shared a bed. They were both much too aware of distances, of unwritten codes that governed the invisible lines dividing souls. But it seemed some barrier between them had fallen that night, for Kirika knew Mireille could have drawn either of their guns, pulled the trigger, and she wouldn't have squeaked a syllable. However, she was not entirely comfortable. The gun in her pocket was wedged uneasily between them, a cold reminder of the darkness that enveloped their truth.
Mireille broke the silence. "Better now?"
She sounded overly cheerful. "Yes. Thank you," Kirika said.
Mireille adjusted her hold on Kirika's upper arm. By instinct, the shorter girl moved towards the warmth, and found that it was cozier where she landed up. She glanced over questioningly, an inexplicable heat churning her insides. Mireille gave a soft, contented sigh in answer.
Their gazes locked.
Kirika blinked, once. "Mireille," she said, very quietly, looking directly at the other assassin.
"What—"
But Kirika struck before Mireille could finish her question. Clouded blue eyes widened as Kirika crossed to her in one swift, unseen step—and kissed her lightly, on the lips. Confused, Mireille caught at the first thought that came to mind. "Kirika's... full of surprises. I... I didn't expect her to bring the cat back to our hotel. And befriending the old man like that... a killer like her... She..."
"Kirika," she mouthed, and realized that she had been staring.
Kirika smiled. They regarded each other, unsmiling lips bespeaking a strange solemnity. Without another word, the smaller girl leant back into her partner. Mireille kept an arm around Kirika, whose black hair brushed her nose pleasantly.
It was Kirika who first heard the rumble of the landrover moving towards their position. She clambered to her feet, and Mireille stood. Raising their hands, they waved to the rescue party.
Neither of them spoke on the journey to the government outpost. The driver of their vehicle tried to make awkward conversation with Mireille, but her silence was more than sufficient rebuff, and he gave up soon enough, sullen for the rest of the journey.
It was dawn when they were returned to the hotel. Interrogation had been minimal. No one suspected them to be the skilled assassins they really were. The camping pretext was frowned at, but all papers were in order, and the local authorities could see no reason to detain them.
Kirika's schoolgirl appearance probably helped, Mireille reflected as she climbed into the plush bed, brought about by their newly abundant funds. Behind her, Kirika was undressing, replacing one tank-top with another more threadbare than the first.
She sank into her pillow, feeling soft silk against her cheek. Beside her came a light swish—Kirika slipping under the coverlet. Even with her back towards her partner, Mireille was acutely aware of the little movements that were uniquely hers: the sigh that wandered across her pillow, the shift of an arm, then a leg. Fabric worming across silk as the girl scooted forward. Kirika. Noir. Who was she?
Soundlessly, Mireille turned. Inches away, wide eyes stared, unblinking, at her.
As they discovered, there was no need for words.
- end -