"Ow. Damnit!" Dropping the file folder she'd just grabbed back on the pool table, Mirelle winced and sucked at her newly-bloodied finger, muttering another startling selection of obscenities under her breath in several different dialects. After a few seconds, the bleeding stopped, and she examined the sliced, stinging flesh with a frustrated glare. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. After last night, she'd thought life truly was perfect. Being home with Kirika had been flat-out wonderful. She'd showered with her new wash in no more than ten minutes – a record for her – then grabbed a pair of soft tan slacks and one of the button-down white shirts she usually wore to bed and the presents she'd tucked into her bag. Kirika had set up their plates by then, complete with drinks and a few fresh-cut flowers in a vase on the table. Dinner had been beyond fabulous, each dish restaurant-quality. The snide voice in her head piped up, obscenely cheerful. You wouldn't have cared if it tasted like sawdust and lead. Growling at herself, Mirelle snagged the file again and not-quite-stuffed it into a business-style carry case. The blonde Corsican had insisted on taking care of the dishes while Kirika made tea and served the pie. Not that there were many of them left; she'd discovered her partner had washed and put away most of her utensils already. I thought she gave in too easy, the little sneak. Then the two of them had curled up on the couch with their dessert so Kirika could open her gifts. The look of awed glee on that delicate face had been worth all three days of garbage, as far as Mirelle was concerned. Each present – the glittering glass sun-catcher in the shape of a dragon, the small stuffed cat holding a plush paint brush, the new novel and round pillow embroidered with the Kanji for "peace" – was held up and cradled in her hands, with an expression of such surprise and happiness it had been touching. Her mind flashed on the image of Kirika grinning shyly, the white and orange kitten plush perched on her shoulder, fingertips tracing the cover of the paperback in her lap and warm, liquid eyes seeming to stare straight into her soul. The thought sent an odd quiver of heat through her stomach, and her smirking subconscious gave a hoot of laughter. Oh, and you weren't out to get just that kind of response. Mirelle throttled the urge to throw something across the room, tucking her cell phone in her pocket instead. Yes, the night had been perfect for the two of them, right down to the gentle hug she'd given her little partner before flicking off the light. Kirika's pure happiness then had been almost breathable. Hell, they'd even woken up with their hands touching, fingers curled against each other between them on the mattress. A dark frown twisted Mirelle's full mouth. She should have known it wouldn't last. And it really hadn't lasted much beyond that glorious morning wakeup. They'd been talking about what to do today after their meeting with her police informant, and Kirika had happened to mention that she'd visited the new art store. And then she'd mentioned her meeting with her new friend Alexander. Mirelle's lip curled in something very close to a snarl. It had been quite a shock, her little Kirika admitting to a friendship. Oh, she hadn't called him a friend – just said very calmly that she'd met him at the art store, and that he'd talked with her a few days later and given her a ride – but the blonde Corsican knew better. Kirika had the same look in her eyes that she'd had when she first spoke about Milosh. A gentle light, that warming flicker in the depths of her gaze and a faint softening of her mouth. She cared about this young man. All of which irritated Mirelle, a lot more than usual. Damnit, she should know to be careful! What if this boy is a Soldat, or someone else out to get the two of us? She was alone – even armed, she should have known better! And that was more or less what she'd told Kirika, including Breffort's carefully-worded warning from the drive yesterday. The gentleness of her partner's sweet face had vanished instantly, lips thinning and shoulders tightening before she turned away to the bathroom. And their wonderful morning had disappeared behind cold walls of silence and frustration, irritation and hidden pain. A tingle of regret raced through Mirelle's chest, slamming head on into an answering wave of annoyance. It wasn't as though she was saying anything Kirika didn't already know already. Hell, they had been through this once already, and Mirelle refused to watch as the little bit of personality the Japanese young woman had carved out for herself disappear into self-loathing. You didn't have to be so rude about it. Her mental voice retorted. Its tone was mocking. Then again, that's not the only reason why you got prickly, is it? You hate that anyone else could ever give her that happy look. It bothers you. A looooot. Just like it did when she made friends with Milosh. And heaven help if someone like Chloe came along – Mirelle clenched her jaw, shoving that thought from her consciousness. Alright, yes, it bothered her that Kirika might be growing away from her. They were partners! It was a given, damnit. They relied on each other for their lives! The image of Kirika's sad eyes intruded on her mind, and she sighed, her anger deflating suddenly. That still didn't mean she had to be a jerk about it. It wasn't Kirika's fault they were raised as they were, became what they were. Mirelle had managed a few casual friends, a semi-normal life before Kirika came along. She couldn't blame the younger woman for wanting the same. As though on cue, Kirika slipped out of the bathroom, ducked head still damp from the shower. The small Japanese assassin trotted slowly toward the kitchen, avoiding her partner's gaze, every movement subdued and tense. It was a sight that made Mirelle's heart fall. "Kirika?" The younger woman halted but didn't look up. Mirelle padded over and gently brushed the fringe of bangs away from Kirika's face, fingers soft, half expecting her hand to be slapped away. Instead, rust-red eyes rose slowly, pain and very faint anger darkening their depths. "Yes?" Mirelle had to slam down her first instinct to chicken out. "I'm – " She paused. Apologies had never come easy for her, not even as a child. Now they were damned-near impossible. It was a weakness, a vulnerability, like soft emotions or trusting someone completely. Never mind that Kirika already hits all those. Her mental voice mocked. The Corsican locked that thought firmly away. She wasn't even sure what she was apologizing for, really. After all, she'd meant every word of her warnings. But still – "I'm sorry I snapped at you." She pushed on before she lost her nerve completely. Her voice was clipped, strong and offhand, calm as though she were stating everyday facts. It was almost believable. "And I'm sorry – I made you feel bad. I didn't want to." God, how stupid does that sound? Mirelle winced inwardly. She sounded like some kind of naughty, petulant child. For a moment, she was tempted to can the whole idiotic idea. They'd gotten over worse problems, after all – compared to Soldats and Altena, a spat over some fool in an art shop was just . . . stupid. It wasn't like this would make or break their partnership or some nonsense like that. But there was surprise in Kirika's eyes now, flickering across her face briefly before it melted away, taking some of the anger and hurt with it. Her eyes lightened, just a little; the corners of her lips curled up slightly, a faint, almost trembling smile. The warm brightness made Mirelle's heart skip a beat, softening her resolve to stay cool and collected. More words tumbled free before she even realized it. "I just don't want you to get hurt." Again, her fingers trailed gently through Kirika's hair, the gesture as soothing to the blonde Corsican as it was to her partner. "You don't deserve that." Kirika wondered if her own heart had stopped entirely. Mirelle was apologizing? That just didn't happen. Oh, she'd said "sorry" on occasion, if she got in Kirika's way or something like that. But the younger woman knew it was incredibly hard for her partner to admit any mistake. And to not only apologize for hurting Kirika, but to admit she cared about Kirika's feelings? It's a dream, it has to be. Mirelle was looking down at her, almost anxiously, her hand paused half-through Kirika's dark locks. The bare edge of worry in those azure eyes was enough. Reaching up, the Japanese assassin caught Mirelle's elegant fingers in her own. "It's alright, Mireyu. I understand." And she did, in all truth. Mirelle hadn't really been saying anything she hadn't already thought herself. It had only been the way she'd said it that was painful to hear. "And – and thank you. For caring." The Corsican's pale face warmed, and for just a moment, Kirika could have sworn she caught the briefest flash of heat glowing in the depths of her gaze, the embers of a smoldering emotion she'd never seen in Mirelle before. Then it was gone, the usual smirk settled firmly on those full lips as Mirelle squeezed their joined hands once before letting go. Tossing her head, she turned aside to look for her purse, voice casual and saucy. "Yeah, well, don't forget it." Kirika managed not to laugh out loud, but it was a very near thing. Instead, she gave a cheerful sound of agreement, reaching over to collect both her coat and Mirelle's pale brown purse from atop the half-wall. The blonde Corsican's eyebrow quirked, taking the offered leather handbag and settling it over her shoulder. Her sapphire eyes ran over their outfits critically. Kirika had chosen dark blue jeans and sneakers, matching the long-sleeved dusty blue shirt beneath her gray V-necked pullover. Her jacket was a brown leather one Mirelle had picked out especially for her, the one with soft sheepskin lining that brought out the vibrant color of her skin and eyes. Amazingly, they matched rather well, although they'd both chosen their clothes separately. Like her partner, Mirelle had picked jeans and sneakers, hers a slightly lighter shade of blue. The silken, sleeveless top she wore was deep green, a filmy gray scarf tied around her waist like a belt, her long leather coat a darker brown than Kirika's. Casual, but well put together, and quite stylish. Mirelle nodded firmly, pleased. "We look good. Come on, let's go. Andre's probably at the café already." --------------------------------------------- Andre Bridges – twenty-eight years old, detective second grade of the Western Paris Precinct – sprawled comfortably in one of the hard-backed chairs outside the Solar Café, sipping at some luke-warm coffee and soaking in the warm afternoon sun as he waited for his contacts to show. A white, button-down shirt, casual tan slacks and dark, sensible shoes did little to minimize or tame his lean, athletic frame, especially with the sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. Nut brown hair, trimmed short and faintly spiked at the top, glinted in a stray sunbeam. A square chin and firm, smiling mouth led up to a rather average nose, slightly crooked from having been broken during his more wild patrol days; chiseled cheekbones cradled warm hazel eyes, his intent gaze watching everything from beneath strong brows. If one didn't notice the gold shield, handcuffs and automatic tucked carefully in his belt, he would seem almost painfully ordinary, completely ignorable. Nothing more than a fellow Parisian enjoying his day. Which, of course, was how Mirelle liked it. Andre grinned mentally, taking a swig of the cup in front of him. He'd known Mirelle for four years now, and in her own way, she was as close to him as a younger sister. They'd met when she approached him during his stint on homicide rotation, before he'd been officially promoted. His grin widened. That encounter was still as fresh in his mind as the day it happened. "Andre Bridges?" Surprised, he glanced up from his coffee and the case notes he'd brought to the café with him as slight, slender shadow fell over his table, the feminine voice speaking his name in completely unaccented French. She was standing beside the other chair, a vision of sleek, sun-kissed beauty – long, thick blonde hair falling in waves down her back, creamy skin, a lean, lithe frame and delicate, aristocratic features. Her red, sleeveless top appeared to be silk or velvet, her short skirt black leather, and the knee-high matching boots clung to her well-muscled legs like second skin. A business-style leather case hung from one wrist, stylish sunglasses hiding her eyes. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. "Andre Bridges?" She asked again, one elegant eyebrow rising. Twenty-four-year-old Andre had managed to swallow his tongue and reply. "Yes. And you are?" "Mirelle Bouquet." The girl pulled out the chair across from him and sat without waiting for a response, leaning the case against one metal seat leg as she crossed her ankles. Leaning one elbow on the table, she propped her chin in her hand and studied him from behind those dark shades. "You would be the new Homicide patrolman. Second application for detective currently waiting for approval, already rejected once for a dispute with the captain over treatment of a suspect." Andre had wondered at the time if it weren't some kind of elaborate joke. Where the hell had this kid gotten her information? Just who the hell was she? He was sure she wasn't the daughter of any of the Homicide Squad members; she was too polished, too professional, with an air of confidence and leashed potential that was almost scary in one so young. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, m'am." He'd narrowed his eyes, not staring her down, but definitely intent. "You know quite a bit about me." "That's my business, Monsieur." Her full lips curled up in what he would come to know as her trademark smirk, removing the sunglasses with a smooth, practiced motion as she tossed that thick hair over her shoulder. "I am a private detective. Finding out about people is what I do, and I am very good at it." "I would assume you have to be." Andre had retorted before he thought. Her smile grew just a bit, and her eyes met his directly, frighteningly sharp intelligence with the wry humor in those sapphire depths. "So tell me, Miss Bouquet. Why would you have pulled up all my information? I can't think of anyone who might want it. I'm just a lowly public servant." Folding her sunglasses, she had tucked them in the business case at her side, and Andre had been struck all over again with how young she had to be. At least, on the outside – he had seen enough of the street on his time to know the mind behind that youthful face was obviously honed, quick and practical. "You don't do yourself justice, sir." Her tone was calm, no flattery, simply stating the facts. "In four years, you have an outstanding record, both on the streets and in more complex cases. You have a keen mind and a willingness to take risks in order to do your job well." "And that risk-taking is something you were looking for." Andre could see just a hint of it in her expression, and he couldn't help but think it was interesting. In spite of the strangeness in this whole thing, he was beginning to admire this girl's mix of forward manner and calculated secrecy. She reminded him of himself. There was a definite hint of wry amusement in her smile now. "Actually, yes. I've come to you with a – proposition, I suppose you might say." Elbow still on the table, she leaned forward slightly. "I have quite a few contacts in various areas of society, all necessary in my line of work. But I am looking for a contact higher within the department itself." "An informant?" He had made a tsk noise, surprised at his own daring. Something told him it was not a wise idea to antagonize this girl – and yet, something also told him that she would tolerate his light sarcasm. "I suppose this is the part where I ask for money in exchange for giving you classified information." Mirelle laughed. "Oh no. I know better than that, Monsieur Bridges. Everything I've learned tells me that you are a fine officer and an honest man." She shook her head, reaching into the case. "No, I'm looking for something a bit closer to a confidential contact, a mutual exchange of information. I will make sure you have access to the information my other contacts provide, as well as any information I can find myself." "And in turn?" Andre was cautious, but he couldn't help being intrigued. She withdrew two plain-looking file folders and set them on the table atop his own, a spark of definite pleased humor in her eyes. "In turn, I want access to the resources and information of the department. Running licenses, tracking down addresses, warrants and the like. You will, of course, be free to hold back any information you don't feel comfortable sharing." Opening the top folder, she tapped a photo clipped to the front, obviously taken in surveillance. "Proof of my value as a contact. I believe your team has been looking for Monsieur Devereux?" Andre had gaped for a second, all professional cool forgotten. Lucius Devereux had been fingered in four murders and a grievous assault as well as nearly a dozen drug offenses. One of the victims had been the young mother of two small children. His entire department wanted this bastard's hide nailed to the wall, but no one could find him. "And you know where he is?" "It's all here." She agreed with a nod. "It's a rather nice hotel, all things considered. There's also a list of the contacts within the public security office." Her eyes twinkled. "With his capture, I would say your detective application is assured, wouldn't you?" Andre had wondered if dancing gleefully in the middle of the café would be considered impolite. Though of course – "I assume you came to me because you didn't want any of this made official." "Right." The girl nodded again, the hint of approval on her face showing that she was pleased he had grasped the situation. "Few people consider someone as young as I am worth their attention, and fewer still would agree with my terms of privacy or information." "And you assume I will?" Mirelle's smirk was almost wicked now. "If you were going to ignore me," she pointed out reasonably, "you would have told me to get lost by now." Andre grinned in spite of himself. She was right. "So what's in the second folder?" He asked. "Some work I need. My client is looking for some background information on a former partner of his, and his address and phone number are both unlisted." Standing, the girl had flipped out her sunglasses and put them back on, case grasped loosely in one hand. "There's an unlisted phone number in the second file – you can use it to get in contact with me when you have the information." "Should take about a week." Andre agreed absently, mind already focused on the Devereux information. Still, he could hear the cheerful sauciness in her voice. "Good. Then I'll see you around, Monsieur Andre." Back in the present, Andre grinned wryly. The Devereux bust had been the biggest in his career, and he'd made detective two weeks later. He'd also done some checking into Mirelle Bouquet, her family, and her client. Not that it had been easy, or complete, by any means, but it had been enough to pacify the worst of his suspicions, and in the end, he'd passed on the information she'd asked for. It was the beginning of a beautiful partnership, all things considered. She made sure he had information about the current ebbings of the street world, and managed to dig up a wide variety of 'dirt' on any suspect he needed. He, in turn, passed on any tidbits he thought she might find interesting, and took care of discreetly running any information she needed. They met roughly once a month or so at various cafés around Paris, more if one of them needed something specific. Although her past was still little more than the barest details to him, after all the time they'd worked together, he knew that he knew Mirelle rather well. So he'd been stunned about a year ago when she'd suddenly brought home a 'partner' after an unexplained trip to Japan. Kirika Yuumura was a small, pretty girl, roughly two years younger than Mirelle and even more mysterious. At first, Andre hadn't known what to make of their apparent partnership; Mirelle acted as though she could have cared less about the other young woman, while Kirika was simply emotionless about the whole thing, following silently behind the blonde like a well-trained shadow. Neither of them had been willing to divulge anything about their connections to each other, and after the sharp warning glare Mirelle had given him the first time he asked, Andre had kept his questions to himself. But as time went on, he'd also noticed the changes between them. Oh, they'd been slight at first, so slight most people would never have seen it. Small moments of silent companionship and understanding, the flash of softness and warmth in Mirelle's eyes or Kirika's face, a touch of hands or arms that lingered for a few seconds more than strictly necessary. By the time their apartment had been shot up, he'd been pretty much convinced there was more to the personal side of their relationship than even they suspected. And once they'd returned – well, by now, he wondered if their feelings were obvious to everyone but the two 'detectives' themselves. Maybe not. Not everyone knows Mirelle like I do. Of course, saying anything about it to their faces would be just slightly suicidal. Not that he believed Mirelle would hurt him without a good reason; but then again, he didn't necessarily believe the two of them were simple private detectives, either. Normal PIs weren't attacked at home and their apartments riddled with bullet holes because some client or target got disgruntled with the way they handled things. They certainly didn't get kidnapped – Mirelle's hurried story about Kirika visiting her 'foster family' aside – or come home with gunshot wounds, knife injuries and enough bruises to give a whole new meaning to the term 'domestic abuse.' As far as Andre was concerned, he believed they did detective work when it suited their needs, but that couldn't possibly be their main job. Just because he'd never turned up anything to prove them dirty didn't mean they weren't, in spite of his own feelings to the contrary. "Thinking deep thoughts, Andre?" The teasing voice pulled him out of his reverie, and the brown-haired detective glanced up into Mirelle's smiling face, azure eyes sparkling wryly. As always, Kirika stood a step and a half behind, favoring him with a slight, shy smile. Andre flashed them both a wide grin, getting swiftly to his feet. "Only reminding myself once more that your incredible beauty is untouchable by my mere mortal hands, lady Bouquet." Kirika's lips twitched with laughter, although Andre caught a faint darkening in her amazing, coppery eyes. Jealousy, quite probably – not that she recognized it herself. He felt a bit bad about that, although he knew the young woman understood it was only teasing. Mirelle favored him with a haughty death glare, pulling her chair back and dropping into it with casual elegance. Her tone was pure mockery. "Now if only we could teach you to keep that glib tongue still." "But then how would we get his information?" Kirika asked quietly, straight-faced as she settled beside her partner. Only the flick of her gaze to Andre's showed that she was teasing. He chuckled under his breath, dropping back into his chair now that they were both seated. He'd always liked Kirika's rare flashes of humor. Mirelle glanced over and raised an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth quirking upward before she turned back. "You called the meeting, Andre. What's wrong?" Andre sighed and shook his head. When Mirelle decided to shift into business mode, he knew better than to keep teasing. Reaching for the battered briefcase at his side, the detective produced a thin case file and dropped it on the table. "Remember the Garrison case?" Mirelle nodded, eyes narrowed as she flipped open the folder. It had been one of their smaller cases – a white-collar executive had been accused of embezzlement by one of his partners, and hired a hitman to kill his accuser. Andre had no idea how Mirelle had gotten hold of that information, but they'd followed both money trails straight back to him, and he'd been put away for several years. A tall, thin waiter paused beside their table, pad in hand, and Kirika calmly ordered tea for them both, though Andre knew from experience her attention didn't waver from the neatly-ordered sheaf of paper in front of the blonde. Not that there was really much to it; the standard prison inmate forms, a few witness statements, and a scribbled page of notes from some patrolman's report. "Garrison's getting out in a few days, and we have a couple leads that suggest he might be looking for some revenge." Mirelle snorted, an unladylike sound that somehow still suited her perfectly. "After the ringer you people put him through, I'm surprised he would have any clout left." "He managed to get only three years." The detective pointed out. Taking a sip from his coffee, he set the cup aside and leaned forward on his elbows. "We're fairly certain he's got some assets hidden, probably in a Swiss or Caribbean numbered account. The search warrants didn't turn anything up, so we couldn't prove it, but – " "We all know that proving something and knowing it are two different things." The blonde smirked faintly, and Kirika nodded, eyes glinting with amusement. "So you think he might be going after you?" Andre hesitated. "We're not sure yet." He admitted honestly. "I was more worried because of these reports." Carefully, he handed over a second file, this one with pictures and more handwritten sheets. "All of this is unofficial, but we've had some surveillance done on some of his old contacts. They've been making deals with some factions of an unknown criminal syndicate. The department hasn't been able to track down more than a few bits and pieces of intel on the organization. None of it's good. And they all seem like pretty big, bad, well-connected bastards." "You're worried they might come after us." Kirika translated quietly. Andre's lips twisted in a frown, and he sighed, nodding. "I keep you two off the radar as much as possible, but nothing is fool-proof. These guys are good enough that they might be able to put together the smallest pieces." Mirelle looked darkly thoughtful, brushing back a hanging lock of thick gold curl with an absent hand. The detective knew she was thinking the same thing he had earlier; if Garrison found out they were the ones who tipped off the police, they would land themselves directly in his sights, and he definitely would not be happy. The two young women shared a look between them Andre couldn't quite read. There was deep, shadowy knowledge there, the soft flickering of question and answer, a flash of mocking humor and the barest touch of gentle assurance, all shifting and rolled together. It was like a puzzle, smaller pieces forming a picture he wasn't privileged enough to see in all its dark glory. Mirelle's brows drew together, the corners of her lips turned downward; Kirika nodded, ever so slightly, a hint of softness in her face. "Doing something like that, working with criminals, it can't be healthy." She commented quietly, as though to herself. "Even if he doesn't get caught by the police, he might get himself killed." Andre blinked, surprised by the strange moment of apparent concern for a merciless criminal, but Mirelle's faint, worried frown transformed into an amused smirk. "We can always hope." The blonde agreed, an undertone of laughter in her voice. Those sapphire eyes flicked to Andre, and for just a second, the detective honestly wasn't sure if the last bit was meant as a joke or not. There was something frighteningly – real in that gaze, a razor-sharp something that was both blazingly hot and icy cold. Whatever it was, it seemed like it could look right through him. The sight rendered him temporarily speechless; he could only blink foolishly as Mirelle pushed gracefully to her feet, Kirika following a few seconds after. The tall, slender blonde flashed him a surprisingly gentle smile, patting his hand. "Thanks for the warning, Andre. Take care of yourself too. Garrison wouldn't mind having your head on a pike, either." "Such a wonderful image." He managed to retort, his voice ever so slightly strained. Kirika's lips curled up with laughter, and Mirelle rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Reaching into the leather case at her side, she tugged out several plain folders and dropped them on the table. "Here's a couple of the cases you asked about. Call you if we get some intel?" He nodded, and with a wave, the two young women strode calmly away. Andre watched them go, noting the confident sway of Mirelle's hips and the smiling glow of her profile as she turned to listen to her partner. And of course, the predatory grace of Kirika's strides, the way her eyes danced as she spoke to the gorgeous blonde at her side. Taking a deep breath, he sighed and shook his head. Emotionally oblivious, smart-assed, cocky, mysterious little idiots, the both of them. Sometimes, he wondered just what the hell he'd gotten into with those two. --------------------------------------------------------------- (snicker) Trust me, Andre, you don't want to find out. On to the next chapter!
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