Noir - Kirika, Mireille
Sep. 6th, 2010 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lirillithTitle: Waiting
Fandom: Noir
Characters: Kirika/Mireille
Length: 605 words
Summary: Kirika watches at the window.
Warnings: None
Notes: Written for theme #19, Red, at 30_kisses, for a claim I managed to miss a deadline on not long after.
****
She'd known the night before that Mireille was planning something - a job, or just a contact - because of the nail polish. Mireille rarely wore it. Kirika would have said "never," but the bottle wasn't full and didn't look new.
She sat in her chair and watched as Mireille, sitting on the floor in her nightshirt, bent over her hand, carefully, slowly stroked red onto the fingernails of one hand with the unpainted other. "It's like watching paint dry," Mireille said, in English.
"It... is watching paint dry, isn't it?" Kirika replied, also in English. But maybe this was an expression she hadn't heard, slang or part of a proverb, or a quote from some book. "Or... not paint..."
"I meant that it's boring," Mireille clarified, in French, and shifted positions so one bare foot was in front of her before she began painting her toenails as well.
"I've never seen you do that," Kirika finally said, in the same language. She'd been trying to practice her French, though Mireille said she'd probably always have the accent.
"I'm beginning to remember why I never do," Mireille replied. "Hold out your hand." When Kirika complied, Mireille took it, her hand surprisingly warm, especially compared to the cold kiss of the brush on her pinky fingernail. "Don't touch anything until it's dry," Mireille cautioned.
Kirika held her hand up, looking at it. It looked as though one finger belonged to someone else's hand, and the nail felt thick, almost heavy. Varnished. "It feels... strange," she said.
"Doesn't it?" Mireille agreed. She was working on her other hand now, concentrating. Kirika watched the way the hair fell over the back of her neck, and wondered how to ask Mireille about this, but the only part she could think to ask was why.
The next morning, Mireille rose early. Kirika tried and failed to return to sleep, and as she sat up, Mireille rounded the partition, fully dressed, in the outfit she almost always wore for jobs, though she wore it often on ordinary days as well. She had dozens of almost-identical red tops in her wardrobe. "I should be back by noon," she said.
"I can get ready," Kirika said, tentatively.
"That's all right," Mireille replied, and then she was on her way out, bootheels clicking briskly on the floor. After the door swung shut, the silence was deafening. Kirika climbed out of bed, after a while, dressed and ate and checked Noir's email, and tried to keep herself from checking the clock.
Sitting near the window, she saw a flash of red, of blonde hair swinging, and her heart leaped before she realized the hair was too short and a shade too dark, the shirt cut too low. The girl waved, and a young man stepped out of a car and embraced her.
As they kissed, Kirika wondered again how that distance was ever crossed, how two people went from the sort of casual touch anyone might share to something so intimate as that. They walked down the street, holding hands, and Kirika jumped as the door to the flat opened.
"Did you have an exciting morning?" Mireille asked, in that tone Kirika couldn't quite read. Red top, red nails, red lipstick, and the incongruous pink purse, the one she was always vowing to replace, though she never seemed to use any of the other purses she bought.
"Was it... business?"
"In a way. How did you know?"
She wore red all the time, job or no. And it wasn't really the color of blood. Blood was darker, or deeper, red than that. "Just a guess."
****
Fandom: Noir
Characters: Kirika/Mireille
Length: 605 words
Summary: Kirika watches at the window.
Warnings: None
Notes: Written for theme #19, Red, at 30_kisses, for a claim I managed to miss a deadline on not long after.
****
She'd known the night before that Mireille was planning something - a job, or just a contact - because of the nail polish. Mireille rarely wore it. Kirika would have said "never," but the bottle wasn't full and didn't look new.
She sat in her chair and watched as Mireille, sitting on the floor in her nightshirt, bent over her hand, carefully, slowly stroked red onto the fingernails of one hand with the unpainted other. "It's like watching paint dry," Mireille said, in English.
"It... is watching paint dry, isn't it?" Kirika replied, also in English. But maybe this was an expression she hadn't heard, slang or part of a proverb, or a quote from some book. "Or... not paint..."
"I meant that it's boring," Mireille clarified, in French, and shifted positions so one bare foot was in front of her before she began painting her toenails as well.
"I've never seen you do that," Kirika finally said, in the same language. She'd been trying to practice her French, though Mireille said she'd probably always have the accent.
"I'm beginning to remember why I never do," Mireille replied. "Hold out your hand." When Kirika complied, Mireille took it, her hand surprisingly warm, especially compared to the cold kiss of the brush on her pinky fingernail. "Don't touch anything until it's dry," Mireille cautioned.
Kirika held her hand up, looking at it. It looked as though one finger belonged to someone else's hand, and the nail felt thick, almost heavy. Varnished. "It feels... strange," she said.
"Doesn't it?" Mireille agreed. She was working on her other hand now, concentrating. Kirika watched the way the hair fell over the back of her neck, and wondered how to ask Mireille about this, but the only part she could think to ask was why.
***
The next morning, Mireille rose early. Kirika tried and failed to return to sleep, and as she sat up, Mireille rounded the partition, fully dressed, in the outfit she almost always wore for jobs, though she wore it often on ordinary days as well. She had dozens of almost-identical red tops in her wardrobe. "I should be back by noon," she said.
"I can get ready," Kirika said, tentatively.
"That's all right," Mireille replied, and then she was on her way out, bootheels clicking briskly on the floor. After the door swung shut, the silence was deafening. Kirika climbed out of bed, after a while, dressed and ate and checked Noir's email, and tried to keep herself from checking the clock.
Sitting near the window, she saw a flash of red, of blonde hair swinging, and her heart leaped before she realized the hair was too short and a shade too dark, the shirt cut too low. The girl waved, and a young man stepped out of a car and embraced her.
As they kissed, Kirika wondered again how that distance was ever crossed, how two people went from the sort of casual touch anyone might share to something so intimate as that. They walked down the street, holding hands, and Kirika jumped as the door to the flat opened.
"Did you have an exciting morning?" Mireille asked, in that tone Kirika couldn't quite read. Red top, red nails, red lipstick, and the incongruous pink purse, the one she was always vowing to replace, though she never seemed to use any of the other purses she bought.
"Was it... business?"
"In a way. How did you know?"
She wore red all the time, job or no. And it wasn't really the color of blood. Blood was darker, or deeper, red than that. "Just a guess."
****
