children of the stars

she blinks. not the reassurance that she wants, but he hasn’t made any move to push her away. she prides herself for being the person who knows him best. she can read every movement of his brows, every twitch of his lips and the subtle change in his tone when most see a man of few words and even fewer expressions. she can read him, usually, but this time his expression betrays nothing - and neither does hers. 

she stands up slowly and places the cup on the desk beside his empty one. in the five hours that she has spent in his apartment, he hasn’t gotten up to get himself a refill. she remembers how he would raise the cup to his lips long after he finished his drink, not for lack of paying attention or forgetting, but to chase the remnants of the bitter elixir until there’s absolutely nothing left. his little finger twitches, the one on his right hand and the one closer to the kitchen door. he doesn’t notice it, but she does. after all, she’s the one who knows him the best. 

they stare at each other for what feels like hours, and then the portrait is ruined when her hand raises slowly until she has two fingers against the middle of his forehead, thumb pointing at the ceiling.

“right about here, 71 grain from a .32 auto.”

sunwoo’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for her to know that it’s recognition. she’s the only one in the branch, hell, maybe even the entire organisation, to still carry that calibre even if it’s just as a last resort. a little gun for a little girl, they used to say, and while sentimentality does play a part in it, her keltec p32 has never once failed her in the nearly fourteen years that she has had it. it hasn’t felt as heavy as it does at the moment, holstered to her hip under her jacket.

he’s silent for the longest time, a blank canvas for her to project her deepest fears onto. while she’s wholeheartedly convinced that he can never do it, she wouldn’t be surprised if he pulls out his own gun from the drawer and shoots her right then and there. in their world, it’s never a matter of why or how; it’s merely a race to kill the other person before they can kill you. she watches motionless when he finally leans back into his chair and closes his eyes, a serene smile gracing his lips.

“it would be a privilege to die by your hands, corina jung.”

she laughs. she laughs so hard that her entire body shakes and it’s near imperceptible if it’s from relief or fury. she knows what it means to work for the organisation. she knows that there’s a universe out there where one of them will meet their end while facing down the barrel of the other’s gun. she knows that there’s a chance that it might just be this one.

the laughter dies down and she wipes the tears from her eyes (of mirth, she tries to convince the both of them) and takes his empty cup to the kitchen to brew him a new one because she can tell that he’s moments away from doing it himself. because she knows him best. because she doesn’t know how much longer she can stand to be in the same room as him without breaking down all over again.