DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction. So Close is not mine and no commercial profit will be gained from this piece of writing. Femmeslash, based on subtext in the movie itself, which is, incidentally in Mandarin/Cantonese. I couldn't resist doing English fic. Had to compromise the dialogue though, because most of it was visualized in Mandarin and then translated back to English.
Additional note: Qun is pronounced, approximately, "Chueen", and Hung would be "Hoong". I just like these spellings because they underline the fact that the characters have different accents and backgrounds.
Sheathing the Gun, an Epilogue
Chapter 3
Qun moves in three days later, driving a nondescript moving van into Hung's parking lot, a pair of scruffy moving-boys sitting on packing crates at the back. Hung is surprised to see how little she has when everything actually gets lugged into the house. Most of her "furniture" takes the form of electronic equipment, carefully foam-wrapped into unidentifiable lumps and stowed in styrofoam boxes. When she remarks on it, Qun grins and jokes about renting her some. Unpacking takes the rest of the afternoon and eats into their evening, but by the end of that Saturday, they're sitting by the windows delving into rice and canned beef.
Hung sleeps a little better that night.
Life falls into a routine over the next week. As far as Hung knows, Qun is going out every day to look for a job. She doesn't ask for details, just finds herself noting Qun's entrances and exits from the apartment, peeking in on her a couple of nights to make sure--she tells herself--the younger woman is in bed and not messing up her house, picking up a few stray drink cans beside the sofa when Qun does leave her things lying around. They appear to be honouring the truce between them.
She wants to learn some moves, Hung thinks, catching Qun watching her stretching exercises one morning. She used to work out in her living room every day, but Qun's appearance somehow restrained her morning activities, and she's taken to jogging around the neighbourhood instead, only using her living room once in a while. Qun never speaks of her past, but Hung supposes she must miss it. Assassination, like fighting, is a craft one doesn't easily leave behind.
Sitting with legs folded, Hung closes her eyes in meditation. The sunlight streaming through the bay windows surrounds her in uplifting warmth.