Her Prince Charming
Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl belongs to Yu Aida.
Chronology: This story precedes Life Goes On by several months. It happens several months after the Gunslinger Girl anime.
Dedication: To Ilvinaeda, whose review of Princess, Princess spawned this little yarn; and pysali, whose Princess, Princess was simply too good to be allowed to rest unfulfilled.
Updated: 16 July 2015. Time to correct Hilshire's name.
Something has been plaguing my mind for some time now. It's silly but important. And I think I need an answer right now.
(Bear with me, please. I'm feeling whimsical today. That, plus my period is acting up like the bitch it is. I just love being alive.)
Each Fratello has a different kind of operational relationship. Each handler plays a unique role to his cyborg. Giuseppe is Henrietta's big brother. Jean is Rico's wielder. Raballo was Claes' teacher. Marco was– and maybe still is– Angie's father. And Lauro was Elsa's unrequited love.
That leaves Hilshire and me.
So the question is: what is he to me?
I don't know. I can't say for sure.
Why? Everyone knows why. It's Hilshire's fault. He doesn't try enough to make himself seem like anything to me. And when he does, he's all too obvious. I see it coming a hundred miles away. And it hurts to just look at it, at him. Much more be the recipient. And pretend you actually like it.
Not that I don't. But, still. It's annoying.
Like when he wants me all dressed nifty and neat, making me look like a fashionable undertaker in the process. Or when he wants to ask me if I'm all right, but then decides to go with "Never mind," while I'm bleeding in between the legs and from the arm.
Of course I'm not damn all right, damn it. Any idiot with eyes can see that.
Or– and most heinous of all– when he dumps a whole horde of teddy bears on me without warning and without asking me if I want a teddy bear. (And then there's Marco Possi. But he's another story.)
Gifts, he calls them. Headaches, that's what they are to me. I have to think of a name for each and every one of them. Why? It's to make them special, of course.
What do I look like to him? A manager for a teddy bear orphanage?
Hilshire is such a pain. Like Henrietta at times, but Henrietta is way cuter and has endearing qualities to make up for it.
Hilshire isn't cute. He's as endearing as a cannonball. And just as dense. His awkwardness only makes things worse. I almost can't stand it– can't stand him.
I swear; he's almost like a shy guy who's trying to get to know a girl he's trying to date or something when it comes to me.
…
Wait a minute.
Did I just say what I think I just said?
No. Dear God, no. Please, no. Not that. Anything but that.
Like a shy guy trying to get to know a girl he's trying to date or something when it comes to me?
Oh, God. I think I'm going to shoot myself. Now. Or have Claes do me in. She owes me a favor. I'll give her the option of ensuring I won't be able to rat on her.
"Triela?"
Speak of the devil. There he is at my door.
He's wearing his usual dark gray business suit. I wonder if he ever changes it. Maybe he has closets full of them. I wouldn't be surprised. Hilshire has no fashion sense whatsoever. He's so… so… bland. So stoic. Stolid. The Teuton kind of stolid. As if he came from a mold and not a womb. A wall has more personality than Hirscher. Germans are no fun.
I wish he was.
He stares at me. He's trying to think of something to say. Or maybe waiting for me to say something. Yeah. Probably the second option. It sounds safer for him. He might end up saying something he doesn't want to. Which shows how smart he is.
"Yes?" I ask.
"We've been requested to go to Section One."
Yippee. There goes my afternoon. So much for spending my time constructively. Like brushing Angie's hair while we chat about her pet dog Perro. Or advising Henrietta or Rico (or both) on what to do with troubles, their handlers and troubles with their handlers. Or trying to fluster Claes by catching her red-handed while she was reading one of her romance novels. And all the other simple delights available to me on a holiday.
Instead:
"Roger."
.
I hate Section One. Selfish adults so full of themselves who think they know it all. And nosy. Not my kind of nosy. Not cutesy endearing and honestly concerned nosy. The irritating, insensitive, selfish kind of nosy, that's what they are. Almost like a bunch of gossipy girls. At least Hilshire knows when to shut up. It's just that he doesn't know when to start talking.
"Hey, guys! Guess who's here again?"
"My, oh my. It isn't the Princess now, is it?"
"She's just as cute as ever…"
"Where's her Prince Charming?"
"Right where she wants him, I wager."
They laugh.
My cheeks burn.
I'm actually blushing.
I want to pop all their kneecaps with my Beretta. I fantasize doing that. It doesn't make the blood in my face go away.
This day sucks.
The laughter suddenly stops.
Hilshire has just emerged from the office.
Amazing. He's actually useful for something. How nice.
With him is my good old friend Inspector Fermi. He's the new Chief of Section One, by the way. The previous Chief– Draghi, was that his name?–, had died several months ago. Officially, an accident did him in. If a ballistic-induced nine-millimeter aperture in the back of the spine can be called an accident. Of course, the latter is just unofficial speculation plus the odd hint dropped by Jean. Which I'm more inclined to believe, privately. Not that I'm complaining. Fermi hasn't given us any hassles so far. Live and let be.
"Ah! Triela! Nice to see you here." He's nice to me. But I get that all the time. I'm a magnet for that kind of attention. "Sorry if I don't have the gift I owe you from last. Then again, I'm the party being troubled for something now, am I?"
And he has an okay sense of humor. I like him. I'm happy he has the sense to get married when he did. Elenora ought to keep him out of trouble. We women really have to look after the men. Otherwise, they'd mess up. And we'd have to clean up after them. Again.
"Thanks for the update, Hilshire," Fermi cheerily announces. Then he adds: "Don't let me delay you bringing the Princess to the ball."
"You're too kind," was the stolid-seeming answer– unless my read on it is counted.
Is that sarcasm I detect in his voice?
Oh, my. Someone found a chink in Hilshire's armor.
Not that it's hard to do that. Just say the word 'sex' out aloud and all innocently. Or ask what a condom is. It's one of my baser forms of entertainment. Needling my handler, that is. Yes, Your Honor. Guilty as charged. And yes, sinning is so sweet.
It's night already. We walk back to the car. Hilshire looks a little perturbed. I pretend to ignore him.
"Princess?" he wonders aloud at last.
"The Section One people coined it for me." I try to sound as indifferent as possible. Then I wonder why I bother. He'd never notice, anyway. "They think it's cute, funny or both."
"Do you think so?"
"No."
Some more silence. Then:
"I can tell them to stop if you want to," Hilshire slowly suggested.
I shake my head daintily. "Nah. Let them be. They're a bunch of big babies despite their guns and badges. If you take their favorite toy away from them, they'll bawl their lungs all day long."
He actually smiles a little at that. Wow. He's actually a flesh and blood human being.
Come to think of it, this is probably the longest we've talked in quite a while. I must be in a good mood somehow. Sure, my period still hurts, but not as bad as usual. I guess him standing up for me now makes me feel different.
I think I vaguely remember a night like this. Not so long ago– or was it? I remember snow and bright little lights. Christmas? What? The exact memory escapes me.
Oh, well. It's probably not important.
What is important is this moment. Me and Hilshire walking together through the night. Talking. For all it's worth, this is the best night in my life.
And I'm happy.
Really. I am.
.
So here I ask myself the question again: what is Hilshire to me?
And now I can finally answer for sure.
He's my Prince Charming.
And where's my Prince Charming?
Right where I want him, I daresay. Right where I want him.
End