He shot me down (short story/au)

Only a gunshot away

On Alexandra's seventh birthday, she blew out seven candles and made a wish. She wished that one day, her and Michael would reunite. Wishing her father back would have been a waste.
The man who took her was a very nice man, he took care of her and made sure she had a place to rest her pretty head. Alexandra was a sweet, perfect little angel. On the outside, she seemed to be fine, never cried, never pitched a fit. But what the man didn't know, was that Alexandra knew what he did to her daddy. She knew he took him away from her, and changed the course of her life forever. So she secretly held a grudge for years, until her 18th birthday, when she finally decided to leave him for dead. It was sad, and she was reluctant to execute the man who had taken her in and sheltered her, but she could never let herself forget what he had done, and he had to pay. She set his home on fire, as he was sleeping one night, and killed him. Then she ran. And she ran. And she ran, until her feet had been rubbed raw. Backpack secured, the red, sparkling dress she wore to her birthday celebration still adorning her slim figure, she collapsed onto the street and blacked out. Next thing she knew, she was fluttering her eyes open to find a man with a piercing gaze starring back at her. "Hello, doll." He drawled, cigar hanging from his lips, smoke thick in the air around her. This man was an affiliate of the gang her father belonged to. His name was Lance, and he recognized Alexandra the moment he saw her lying on the cold, wet ground. He was glad he'd found her, because she was going to help him finish what her father couldn't, whether she wanted to or not.

Michael was a mischievous boy. He would run from the cops, steal from local markets, sleep in alleys, under bridges, etc. No one ever asked him if he were okay. No one ever offered him a place to sleep, or shower. He had to learn to fend for himself, and also to fight. Fight off bums trying to take his things, from thugs messing with him, or anyone who was a threat to his safety. But Michael kept on going. Where? He didn't know. Had he given up on finding his childhood friend? Not completely. But by the age of 13, he had almost forgotten what her voice had even sounded like. Eventually, Michael was taken in at a shelter for the homeless, funded by the church. He had found his way to another small city, miles from home, and nested there for the next 9 years. By then, Alexandra was a faint, distant memory. Michael had other things to worry about. Making his money, dealing his drugs, and protecting his name.

The two never knew they were only a gunshot away.