Demi Lovato Imagines

Come Back to Me

"Please, Y/n, you don't have to do this! You can walk away!"

You push air out through your nose, picking up the SIG Pro and tucking it into your waistband. There's a sniper rifle in the wardrobe upstairs but something about the small, semi-automatic pistol injects you with adrenaline. You like how unassuming you can appear, walking the streets with the weapon under your clothes. You like the thrill of keeping it hidden. The rifle confines you to the back of vans and climbing fire-escapes to get to the top of buildings, which can be a chew after so long. 

Besides, you won't need a rifle for this one. 

"I actually do have to do this," you shrug. "I get fifteen-thousand a pop. You think I'm gonna start passing that up?"

Demi shifts her jaw back and forth as if trying to fit her teeth together. Her eyes are hurt. 

"You're killing people, Y/n! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

The thing is, you've heard this all before. If it was going to bother you, it would have been years ago when you were just starting out. It would have been before you did two to three on the daily. 

"These are innocent lives you're taking!"

"Oh, they're not innocent," you cackle, grabbing your cap from the side and putting it on, threading your ponytail through the back. You shrug on your jacket. "You think there are people hiring assassins for fun? You think all of this is just for jokes?"

The hurt from her eyes vanishes, replaced with disbelief. 

"I do this job to keep other people safe. To keep you safe. I mean, what kind of person do you think I am?!"

You know that last part was a dick move and Demi's protests against you doing this have nothing to do with her insulting you with a perceived notion of your cruelty or inability to be a good friend. They're more to do with the fact you kill people for a living and she's only just found out. But let's not dwell. 

"I just can't believe this is what you do! I mean, God-dammit, Y/n! You're just a kid! And you're out here with guns and God knows what else - murdering people!"

You sink down onto one hip, crossing your arms across your chest as if to ask when she's going to finish with the lecture. When she realises she isn't getting anywhere, she leaves the mic open for you. 

"Okay," you say, lifting your hands up and forming circles with your thumb and forefingers, "First of all, I'm almost twenty-three so...the whole 'kid' thing is invalid. Second, you didn't have a problem with any of this until now. So, like, what's changed?"

The disbelief lingers, her mouth opening and closing as she can't figure out what to say back. 

"Because--," she stutters, brain tripping, "Because I didn't know you were a fucking assassin until half an hour ago! That's what's changed."

You roll your eyes, knowing it will piss her off. 

"You're not going out that door, Y/n. I mean it."

You reach back, placing your hand on the doorknob, a look of feigned shock on your face.  

"I'm not kidding. Call whoever the fuck you need to call and tell them you're not doing this anymore. Tell them you quit."

You push more air out your nose, a smile dancing on your lips. Looking at her now, one of your best friends, with her dark hair she recently got cut, with her bare face, glittered with freckles, with her gold personalised necklace you got her for her birthday resting just between her collarbones, you wonder why you revealed all this today. Because, now, you try desperately to slap away the itching anxiety that tells you that this is it, you've lost her, you've ruined the friendship. Feeling the hard grip of the gun in at your spine, it's hardly outside the realms of possibility.