Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, as much as I would like to.
Author's Note: I have to say, right off the top, that this is definitely one of the most plotless things I've ever written. I was originally going to post this as part of a Noir role-play; then it got too long and too centered around Mireille. Anyway, I'll definitely understand if you think it's utterly weird or makes no sense. I haven't bothered to actually think up a time period for this fanfic; let's just set it a year or two after the end of Noir, ne?
Oh, and major spoilers are ahead. Enjoy!
= = = = = = =
Mireille was late.
Then again, there was not really any time that an assassin was due to be home; she simply worked whatever hours were dealt her. And a good deal of the hours she passed at home--home meaning any place where a gun didn't have to be held ready at all times--were spent planning for the next mission, or brooding over what had gone wrong.
She placed her handbag on the table and took off her long overcoat. In the dim light, accompanied by a soft clatter, the candy she had purchased tumbled out of her handbag. Mireille reached into her pocket and added two more pieces, of flavors she couldn't distinguish in the moonlight, to the pile.
The shopkeeper had eyed her curiously when she entered the shop at three A.M. in the morning and silently purchased some candy. Mireille had stood with her back to him, not really noticing which flavors she selected, but wanting to take as long as she could. She needed someplace to brood; not at home where Kirika was, and not at the café she had just visited.
Claude-ojisan.
The name came back to haunt her now, as she stood somberly in her room, a solitary shadow accompanying her. Mireille frowned and placed one hand on the table for balance as she unzipped one of her tall black boots.
It's all in the past, she reminded herself.
Yes, she was Mireille Bouquet, most reliable contract assassin in the world; yes, she was a beautiful young woman with a don't-mess-with-me attitude that left many young men disappointed. Yes, she was Noir. But there were dark parts in her history that would, inevitably, draw out her deepest emotions.
Kirika was one of those parts, one of the few gems of a memory that she possessed and treasured.
She wished she'd finished brooding at the candy shop, but brooding was one of those actions that couldn't just suddenly be stopped. Mireille smiled somberly to herself in the darkness. Even now that she was almost twenty- two, there was so much to learn. Particularly about herself.
How Kirika had adapted, she would never know—and even if she did, she doubted she would understand. Sometimes Mireille wondered what it would be like to be happy. She wondered if she would ever know true happiness.
She switched feet and unzipped her other boot.
The days after they got over "The Manor" had been somewhat happy, she reasoned. Mireille remembered each of those days clearly—Kirika healing from the bullet wound, herself tending to the wounds she'd sustained from Chloe's knives and Altena's shots. With a large sum of money left, neither she nor Kirika had felt like returning to Paris—and besides, the apartment was smashed. Her plant was dead.
So they had gone to one of the few places they had never been to for an assassination—Tampa, Florida. Mireille lounged on the sand and slept. Kirika found a passion for collecting seashells. They went swimming with dolphins and snorkeled. Mireille got stung by a jellyfish and shrieked; feeling very silly afterwards—after all, what was the pain of a jellyfish sting compared to that of a bullet?
It was Kirika who sweetly reminded her that they were there to have fun—not to think about guns and bullets.
Afterwards, Mireille did have fun. She purchased a surfboard and swallowed several gallons of water while attempting to use it. While she was being given tips by some of the male college surfers (and often tumbling into their arms when a wave came), Kirika found a simple pleasure in talking with some girls her age on the beach. Mireille found the art of making up personas both easy and amusing.
"We should write a book," she joked with Kirika, who laughed—a wonderful sound.
The sound echoed in Mireille's head as she stepped barefoot to the window and looked outside. The streets were empty and the buildings dark. What else was to be expected at 4:30 AM?
A soft breath and fluttering of blankets.
No, she wasn't alone. Mireille turned around to see Kirika spread-eagled on the bed, her hands stretched out in sleep. Amazing, how Kirika had adapted to their new life so much better than her. How it was Kirika who had let go of everything and was willing to embrace life with all she had. How it was she who could never let go of the past.
After all, hadn't it been Kirika who had come looking for her, trying to find out her past?
Mireille cast a glance at the sky. In a few hours the clouds would be tinged with various shades of red and orange, and she would be facing another day.
This nonsense has gone on long enough, she told herself. She undressed and got into bed, balancing herself on the edge.
Why did Kirika take up so much room when she slept nowadays?
No sooner had she closed her eyes than the image of the coffee shop swam into her mind.
= = = = = = =
"Just tea, please."
The waiter bowed. "Are you sure you won't have some of our famous cheesecake? Just a piece?"
The Corsican blonde paused to consider. "All right, a piece then," she replied, smiling.
The waiter bowed again and left, calling out her order to the kitchen in rapid French. Mireille crossed her legs and placed her elbow on the table. Balancing her chin on her fist, she turned to look at the Seine River. Children ran up and down its banks yelling and pointing at the ships that sailed gracefully across the black water, lit by several specks of gold. The restaurant was situated on a small cliff hardly a story tall, and Mireille felt very high and mighty looking down at them.
"Your tea and cake, mademoiselle."
Mireille turned back to the bright inside of the café. "Merci beaucoup."
She sipped the tea warmly and grimaced a bit. Nothing could rival Kirika's tea. She picked up her fork and cut off the point of the triangle-shaped slice, immediately glad she had decided on having some. Not even Kirika could make such fantastically creamy cheesecake.
Half of her slice was gone when a blonde man in his early thirties arrived, leading a shy-looking young girl by the hand. Her hair was short and tied back by twin pink ribbons, and her blue-gray eyes were large with fright. As the waiter stepped over to greet them, the man bent down to exchange a few quiet words with him.
"Pardon me, monsieur," Mireille heard him say, as he stood back up.
"Not at all," the waiter replied. "You have a beautiful daughter."
"My niece," the man corrected with a smile. "Thank you."
Mireille's fork clattered to the floor and she choked on her piece of cheesecake. As other diners looked at her in concern, she quickly bent her head under the tablecloth to pick it up. Through the thin white fabric she saw the shadows of the man and his niece and heard the clanking of her little shoes, controlled by her hesitant feet.
She backed up and hit her head on the top of the table with a loud clank. Her face was red as she emerged, rubbing her head. Several feet away, the young girl gave her a frightened look.
Mireille sat back on her chair, her appetite suddenly gone.
"Are you all right, mademoiselle?"
"Yes," she replied, a little thoughtlessly, and suddenly she couldn't wait to get away.
Strolling down by the Seine River ten minutes later, Mireille wore a frustrated and worried expression. Things should really not be haunting her like this. The past was the past, she reminded herself, as Kirika had done many times.
She glanced at her watch.
Mireille raised her head slowly, a shower of golden strands dancing around her shoulders. The café was emitting a dusky glow of gold and red. She wondered if the girl and her uncle were still there.
The soft waves lapped gently at her feet as she walked, kicking an occasional pebble astray.
As much as she tried to forget it, she would always feel regret for what she had done in that summery greenhouse.
She didn't even know where he was buried, had never visited his grave. Then again, Mireille thought, a bitter smile coming to her face, how was an assassin supposed to know what became of the corpses?
There were so many memories of her first years in Paris. Shopping with Uncle Claude. Buying new flowers for his beautiful greenhouse. Helping him tend to his plants. How ironic that the happy days they had shared would end in the room they had been most happy in.
Flashback after flashback swam through Mireille's weary mind. The image of Uncle Claude's face took shape in her head as she recalled the resigned, rigid expression he had worn just moments before her death.
Why, why did it have to happen?
Why do I have to remember?
Mireille made an extra effort to kick at a pebble and it flew through the air, landing in the black water with a splash. She tucked both hands into her pockets and gazed thoughtfully at the boats.
It wasn't just little girls and their blonde uncles that drove her over the edge. Anything that reminded her of the past would send her spiraling into memories she had locked away. She had first experienced it after seeing a purple-haired girl on the streets of Paris. Then seeing two little girls chasing each other up and down the streets, waving circlets of yellow blossoms. The hurt lessened with each blow, but Mireille felt as if tonight it had returned afresh.
Kirika had always been there to help her when one of these experiences occurred; it was Kirika who automatically knew what was happening and knew how to comfort her without a single sound emitting her lips.
Kirika.
Mireille glanced at her watch again, tilting it to read it in the moonlight. It was late. Kirika was probably getting worried at home. She kicked another stray pebble and tried to forget the greenhouse.
It was nearly 3 AM when she entered the candy shop.
= = = = = = =
"Mireiyu, are you awake?"
Mireille groaned and swung an arm out to block out the image of the candy store. Kirika jumped aside with the skills only an assassin such as herself possessed; the tea in her hands barely swilled.
"Ohayoo gozaimasu."
"Ohayoo." Mireille's words were muffled as she opened her eyes. "You made tea already?"
"Un. Happy Birthday, Mireiyu."
Mireille was quiet, uncomprehending.
"Mireiyu?"
The Corsican blonde blinked to clear her mind and sat up. Kirika handed her the tea. "Arigatoo."
Kirika smiled, something that warmed Mireille's heart and seemed to happen quite often these days. "We should do something to celebrate."
"All right."
It was the Japanese girl who did all the planning, speaking on the phone in fluent French while Mireille showered and dressed. By the time she emerged, Kirika was waiting, holding up a large package wrapped in pink and white paper.
"Is that for me?" Mireille asked teasingly, watching Kirika in the mirror as she blow-dried her hair.
"Yes."
"Hmm. How interesting." Mireille smiled to herself as she brushed her long hair out.
"Would you like to open it now or later?"
"How about later, after we finish our day out?"
"That's fine."
Kirika was ready first, waiting by the door. She was dressed simply in a light blue t-shirt and a matching skirt. Mireille had yet to get dressed.
After several minutes had passed, Kirika called out her name.
"Just a minute!"
Mireille glanced at herself in the mirror. A well-cultured young lady looked back at her, smiling. A girl who had never experienced the dark days of shouldering the title of noir.
I'm twenty-two today, she thought.
Mireille snapped her makeup case shut, tucked it into her purse, and walked briskly towards the door.
The past is the past, she thought. I can let it go.
"I'm coming, Kirika!"
= = = = = = =
So there it is... I honestly don't know what I think of this fic, so I'm waiting for all of you to tell me. Drop me a review :)
Oh, and to Cian, if you happen to be reading this, come back to us at oyasumi.nu! We miss you!
Author's Note: I have to say, right off the top, that this is definitely one of the most plotless things I've ever written. I was originally going to post this as part of a Noir role-play; then it got too long and too centered around Mireille. Anyway, I'll definitely understand if you think it's utterly weird or makes no sense. I haven't bothered to actually think up a time period for this fanfic; let's just set it a year or two after the end of Noir, ne?
Oh, and major spoilers are ahead. Enjoy!
= = = = = = =
Mireille was late.
Then again, there was not really any time that an assassin was due to be home; she simply worked whatever hours were dealt her. And a good deal of the hours she passed at home--home meaning any place where a gun didn't have to be held ready at all times--were spent planning for the next mission, or brooding over what had gone wrong.
She placed her handbag on the table and took off her long overcoat. In the dim light, accompanied by a soft clatter, the candy she had purchased tumbled out of her handbag. Mireille reached into her pocket and added two more pieces, of flavors she couldn't distinguish in the moonlight, to the pile.
The shopkeeper had eyed her curiously when she entered the shop at three A.M. in the morning and silently purchased some candy. Mireille had stood with her back to him, not really noticing which flavors she selected, but wanting to take as long as she could. She needed someplace to brood; not at home where Kirika was, and not at the café she had just visited.
Claude-ojisan.
The name came back to haunt her now, as she stood somberly in her room, a solitary shadow accompanying her. Mireille frowned and placed one hand on the table for balance as she unzipped one of her tall black boots.
It's all in the past, she reminded herself.
Yes, she was Mireille Bouquet, most reliable contract assassin in the world; yes, she was a beautiful young woman with a don't-mess-with-me attitude that left many young men disappointed. Yes, she was Noir. But there were dark parts in her history that would, inevitably, draw out her deepest emotions.
Kirika was one of those parts, one of the few gems of a memory that she possessed and treasured.
She wished she'd finished brooding at the candy shop, but brooding was one of those actions that couldn't just suddenly be stopped. Mireille smiled somberly to herself in the darkness. Even now that she was almost twenty- two, there was so much to learn. Particularly about herself.
How Kirika had adapted, she would never know—and even if she did, she doubted she would understand. Sometimes Mireille wondered what it would be like to be happy. She wondered if she would ever know true happiness.
She switched feet and unzipped her other boot.
The days after they got over "The Manor" had been somewhat happy, she reasoned. Mireille remembered each of those days clearly—Kirika healing from the bullet wound, herself tending to the wounds she'd sustained from Chloe's knives and Altena's shots. With a large sum of money left, neither she nor Kirika had felt like returning to Paris—and besides, the apartment was smashed. Her plant was dead.
So they had gone to one of the few places they had never been to for an assassination—Tampa, Florida. Mireille lounged on the sand and slept. Kirika found a passion for collecting seashells. They went swimming with dolphins and snorkeled. Mireille got stung by a jellyfish and shrieked; feeling very silly afterwards—after all, what was the pain of a jellyfish sting compared to that of a bullet?
It was Kirika who sweetly reminded her that they were there to have fun—not to think about guns and bullets.
Afterwards, Mireille did have fun. She purchased a surfboard and swallowed several gallons of water while attempting to use it. While she was being given tips by some of the male college surfers (and often tumbling into their arms when a wave came), Kirika found a simple pleasure in talking with some girls her age on the beach. Mireille found the art of making up personas both easy and amusing.
"We should write a book," she joked with Kirika, who laughed—a wonderful sound.
The sound echoed in Mireille's head as she stepped barefoot to the window and looked outside. The streets were empty and the buildings dark. What else was to be expected at 4:30 AM?
A soft breath and fluttering of blankets.
No, she wasn't alone. Mireille turned around to see Kirika spread-eagled on the bed, her hands stretched out in sleep. Amazing, how Kirika had adapted to their new life so much better than her. How it was Kirika who had let go of everything and was willing to embrace life with all she had. How it was she who could never let go of the past.
After all, hadn't it been Kirika who had come looking for her, trying to find out her past?
Mireille cast a glance at the sky. In a few hours the clouds would be tinged with various shades of red and orange, and she would be facing another day.
This nonsense has gone on long enough, she told herself. She undressed and got into bed, balancing herself on the edge.
Why did Kirika take up so much room when she slept nowadays?
No sooner had she closed her eyes than the image of the coffee shop swam into her mind.
= = = = = = =
"Just tea, please."
The waiter bowed. "Are you sure you won't have some of our famous cheesecake? Just a piece?"
The Corsican blonde paused to consider. "All right, a piece then," she replied, smiling.
The waiter bowed again and left, calling out her order to the kitchen in rapid French. Mireille crossed her legs and placed her elbow on the table. Balancing her chin on her fist, she turned to look at the Seine River. Children ran up and down its banks yelling and pointing at the ships that sailed gracefully across the black water, lit by several specks of gold. The restaurant was situated on a small cliff hardly a story tall, and Mireille felt very high and mighty looking down at them.
"Your tea and cake, mademoiselle."
Mireille turned back to the bright inside of the café. "Merci beaucoup."
She sipped the tea warmly and grimaced a bit. Nothing could rival Kirika's tea. She picked up her fork and cut off the point of the triangle-shaped slice, immediately glad she had decided on having some. Not even Kirika could make such fantastically creamy cheesecake.
Half of her slice was gone when a blonde man in his early thirties arrived, leading a shy-looking young girl by the hand. Her hair was short and tied back by twin pink ribbons, and her blue-gray eyes were large with fright. As the waiter stepped over to greet them, the man bent down to exchange a few quiet words with him.
"Pardon me, monsieur," Mireille heard him say, as he stood back up.
"Not at all," the waiter replied. "You have a beautiful daughter."
"My niece," the man corrected with a smile. "Thank you."
Mireille's fork clattered to the floor and she choked on her piece of cheesecake. As other diners looked at her in concern, she quickly bent her head under the tablecloth to pick it up. Through the thin white fabric she saw the shadows of the man and his niece and heard the clanking of her little shoes, controlled by her hesitant feet.
She backed up and hit her head on the top of the table with a loud clank. Her face was red as she emerged, rubbing her head. Several feet away, the young girl gave her a frightened look.
Mireille sat back on her chair, her appetite suddenly gone.
"Are you all right, mademoiselle?"
"Yes," she replied, a little thoughtlessly, and suddenly she couldn't wait to get away.
Strolling down by the Seine River ten minutes later, Mireille wore a frustrated and worried expression. Things should really not be haunting her like this. The past was the past, she reminded herself, as Kirika had done many times.
She glanced at her watch.
Mireille raised her head slowly, a shower of golden strands dancing around her shoulders. The café was emitting a dusky glow of gold and red. She wondered if the girl and her uncle were still there.
The soft waves lapped gently at her feet as she walked, kicking an occasional pebble astray.
As much as she tried to forget it, she would always feel regret for what she had done in that summery greenhouse.
She didn't even know where he was buried, had never visited his grave. Then again, Mireille thought, a bitter smile coming to her face, how was an assassin supposed to know what became of the corpses?
There were so many memories of her first years in Paris. Shopping with Uncle Claude. Buying new flowers for his beautiful greenhouse. Helping him tend to his plants. How ironic that the happy days they had shared would end in the room they had been most happy in.
Flashback after flashback swam through Mireille's weary mind. The image of Uncle Claude's face took shape in her head as she recalled the resigned, rigid expression he had worn just moments before her death.
Why, why did it have to happen?
Why do I have to remember?
Mireille made an extra effort to kick at a pebble and it flew through the air, landing in the black water with a splash. She tucked both hands into her pockets and gazed thoughtfully at the boats.
It wasn't just little girls and their blonde uncles that drove her over the edge. Anything that reminded her of the past would send her spiraling into memories she had locked away. She had first experienced it after seeing a purple-haired girl on the streets of Paris. Then seeing two little girls chasing each other up and down the streets, waving circlets of yellow blossoms. The hurt lessened with each blow, but Mireille felt as if tonight it had returned afresh.
Kirika had always been there to help her when one of these experiences occurred; it was Kirika who automatically knew what was happening and knew how to comfort her without a single sound emitting her lips.
Kirika.
Mireille glanced at her watch again, tilting it to read it in the moonlight. It was late. Kirika was probably getting worried at home. She kicked another stray pebble and tried to forget the greenhouse.
It was nearly 3 AM when she entered the candy shop.
= = = = = = =
"Mireiyu, are you awake?"
Mireille groaned and swung an arm out to block out the image of the candy store. Kirika jumped aside with the skills only an assassin such as herself possessed; the tea in her hands barely swilled.
"Ohayoo gozaimasu."
"Ohayoo." Mireille's words were muffled as she opened her eyes. "You made tea already?"
"Un. Happy Birthday, Mireiyu."
Mireille was quiet, uncomprehending.
"Mireiyu?"
The Corsican blonde blinked to clear her mind and sat up. Kirika handed her the tea. "Arigatoo."
Kirika smiled, something that warmed Mireille's heart and seemed to happen quite often these days. "We should do something to celebrate."
"All right."
It was the Japanese girl who did all the planning, speaking on the phone in fluent French while Mireille showered and dressed. By the time she emerged, Kirika was waiting, holding up a large package wrapped in pink and white paper.
"Is that for me?" Mireille asked teasingly, watching Kirika in the mirror as she blow-dried her hair.
"Yes."
"Hmm. How interesting." Mireille smiled to herself as she brushed her long hair out.
"Would you like to open it now or later?"
"How about later, after we finish our day out?"
"That's fine."
Kirika was ready first, waiting by the door. She was dressed simply in a light blue t-shirt and a matching skirt. Mireille had yet to get dressed.
After several minutes had passed, Kirika called out her name.
"Just a minute!"
Mireille glanced at herself in the mirror. A well-cultured young lady looked back at her, smiling. A girl who had never experienced the dark days of shouldering the title of noir.
I'm twenty-two today, she thought.
Mireille snapped her makeup case shut, tucked it into her purse, and walked briskly towards the door.
The past is the past, she thought. I can let it go.
"I'm coming, Kirika!"
= = = = = = =
So there it is... I honestly don't know what I think of this fic, so I'm waiting for all of you to tell me. Drop me a review :)
Oh, and to Cian, if you happen to be reading this, come back to us at oyasumi.nu! We miss you!