After the Rain
A Weiss Kreuz / Sandman crossover
By White Cat
The club was dimly lit and smoky, and the music was not so much a collection of notes than a low, steady throb, like a heartbeat.
He tossed back his drink in a single gulp and leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and stared at the faded, vague outlines of his reflection.
He'd been coming here for quite some time, now, and always at this time of year, and he treasured it, in an obscure sort of way, this one night where he was a simple no-name, a lonely man cracked and weakened by life - but not quite broken yet - with no friends or lovers or family members to hover him and fuss as he drank himself into unconsciousness.
One drink for every memory. One drink for every loss.
And now there was a new face added to the collection: young, still soft from the final lingering traces of childhood, with wide eyes that could so easily change from cheer to solemnity in a heartbeat.
He remembered sunlight on tawny-brown hair, and a quick-witted intelligence masked behind a teenager's ready grin.
Shivering away from those memories, he picked up his cup again and eyed its round mouth with a small scowl, then set it down with a *clink.*
He drank to make the memories go away. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't run away from himself.
"Are you okay?" The voice was light and feminine - a girl's voice, but tempered with the sort of maturity and understanding that would normally be heard in a woman's.
He looked up blearily, squinting through the dark film of his shades. She was small and slender, almost invisible in the black clothing that blended in with the dark backdrop of the crowd behind them. Her skin was ivory-white - paler even than Aya's - though it might have just been the drinks - and despite the haze in his vision, he could see her face clearly: pretty and young, with large, strangely understanding eyes.
"Do I know you?" he slurred. "You look like someone I should know."
She smiled brightly at him, sliding onto the bar stool at his side. "Sure, you know me. In fact, you know me very well."
He squinted at her. "Okay, hold a moment - let me see ... no." He shook his head somewhat regretfully. "I'd remember a name to go with a face as pretty as yours."
She laughed, a warm, contagious sound, then reached out and plucked the glass from his hands. "That's because you don't know my name. I said you know me, Youji. Not my name."
He blinked in surprise, then straightened a little, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "Hey, how did -"
Small white hands caught his face and held it still. He blinked at her in surprise, and though her gaze was still friendly, there was a deadly sort of seriousness in her gaze - a transition that was all too familiar.
"You do know me, Youji," she said quietly. "Think about it a moment. I don't normally do this sort of thing - but you're special to me. You and your friends."
He stared at her for a few long minutes, then jerked back wildly. "Get away from me."
Those soft dark eyes remained fixed on him, silently understanding, and he turned away, roughly pushing the wavy fall of hair from his eyes. "What the hell are you doing here? What right do you have to come to me here, like this?"
Her hand was a light presence on his shoulder, almost unfelt. "No right. Not really. But I thought you might like to talk - and your friend Omi can be quite persuasive, at times. He wanted to come himself, but there are rules about this sort of thing. The only way I could get him to stop bothering me about it was if I promised I'd come myself."
"Omi's dead," he snarled, pulling away from her touch, and his green eyes narrowed to glassy slits. "You took him."
"It was his time," she said simply.
"But you didn't have to take him, did you? You - you could have done something, and then he would've been fine. Omi was a good kid, damn it; kids are supposed to have years and years before ... before ..." He shook his head wildly. "It shouldn't have happened."
"Lots of things we think shouldn't happen do," she said mildly. "And the only thing we can do in response is try to accept and move on."
"But you're different," he insisted, finally looking back at her, his eyes bright with some dangerous, unnamed emotion. "You're - you're you. You could have done something."
"You already said that," she reminded him gently. "And, yes, I suppose I could have, if I had really wanted to. But there has to be a balance, Youji; for every life granted, there has to be a death that follows. Nobody is completely omnipotent - not even my family. You can argue this with my little brother, if you'd like - he's a real stickler for rules and responsibilities and such."
"But still - you could have saved him, right?" Youji insisted, and at the corner of one eye, moisture gleamed silver-red in the dim lighting. "If I were to - to offer myself, instead, could he come back? Could you save him?"
Her eyes were sad. "You know I can't do that. The dead are dead. There are ways to bring them back, but it's dangerous for even gods to attempt it, and I don't recommend you try, when you have nothing to repent for. Omi doesn't blame you - and neither does Asuka."
He pulled away violently this time, jumping to his feet. "Don't say that name!"
"Ignoring it won't make it hurt any less, Youji," she told him, swinging her feet. "It might make it worse. Come on and sit down; or we can leave, if you prefer. But don't hover: it makes you look silly."
He hesitated, still breathing hard, then finally crept forward, sliding back onto the stool slowly, staring mistrustfully at her the whole time. She drummed her fingers against the smooth glass sides of the glass she had taken from him.
"It's okay if it hurts," she said. "The process isn't easy for anyone. Even me." At his disbelieving snort, she raised one eyebrow. "I'm serious. I like people - they're all so fascinating - and so many times, not even the most depressed is ready to leave. I do what I have to, but it's difficult, especially when someone so happy with their lives has to go. Like your friend Omi."
He shifted, and his eyes were hidden by his shades once again. "Don't make up stories, lady," he growled. "The life Omi had - that's a life no kid should have. With that bastard of a father he had, with the whole fucked-up family he had - not to mention the existence he had to make, as a member of Weiss ... he couldn't have been happy. Not really happy."
"You can't measure the happiness of others for them," she told him. "Omi was happy with what he had, and he was sorry to see it end. Almost everyone is. That's just the way things go."
Youji eyed her a moment longer, then snatched his glass back. "So what does that have to do with you being here?" He thought about it, then began to chuckle - a low, humorless sound that seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside. "I'm dying, aren't I? I finally had one too many drinks, and I'm lying in some deserted alleyway somewhere with my throat cut and some two-bit diseased hooker going through my clothing, right? And this is all a dream - one last conversation to make me feel better about myself before I do. Right?" He raised his glass in salute to her, then drained the melted dregs and made a face at the taste.
She sighed. "No, Youji." He flinched when she reached out again, laying her palm against his cheek. "This is real."
He met her gaze for a few moments, then dropped his eyes to the silver ankh around her neck. "Right. So I'm supposed to believe you, of all people, wears one of these?" He reached out and took it in one hand, tugging lightly. Some small part of his brain noted that, to all appearances, they looked like a pair of lovers, meeting in the dark, and the idea chilled him. He released her necklace and pulled back a third time.
"I like it." She covered the symbol with the hand that had been pressed to his cheek. "It fits."
He snorted, and she continued, as if though no interruption had been made. "As for your earlier question - no, Youji, you aren't dying. But like I said, I like you. You and your friends are important to me."
"Important?" He laughed. "How are we important to someone like you?"
She smiled, dimpling at him. "In my line of work, there's not a whole lot of potential for ... ah, shall we say, 'long-term relationships,'" she said. "Most of the time, I only visit people twice. I've seen you and all your teammates quite a few times, by comparison."
He scowled. "And I'm supposed to be flattered by that?"
"If you want to be, you can," she said. "But I didn't like seeing you do this to yourself, and neither did your friend. Losing someone you care about isn't the end of the world, Youji. You care enough to die for those in need - so do you care enough to live? The last thing this world needs is another suicide, whether fully intentional or not. I know you're a braver man than that, Kudou Youji.
"But ... if it's really, truly, and honestly what you want, then I can give it to you." Her eyes were solemn now, and it seemed as if though the shadows had risen up from their dark corners, like a living dark cloak. "You want this sort of peace, Youji? You want it to end? Then take my hand."
Youji stared unblinkingly at her for a long time - a gaze that she met evenly. Then, finally, he dropped his head and laughed again - and this time, it was warmer, more genuine - still not quite the sly laugh he'd used eight months ago - but better than the self-mocking parody he'd used not ten minutes before.
"Yare yare," he sighed. "Don't let anyone say I never did anything for that kid. Don't worry, pretty lady. I don't plan on seeing you for real any time soon."
She smiled at him, dropping her arms and standing. "I'm glad to hear it," she said softly, then melted into the crowds and was gone.
For a moment, he continued to stare at the spot where she had been, then sighed noisily, motioning the bartender over and holding up his cup for refilling.
He looked where she had stood for one last time, and for a moment, he felt like someone was smiling at him - he couldn't see the face, or identify the presence, but he could feel the warm approval like the touch of some beloved hand.
One for every memory. One for every loss.
He raised his glass in a silent salute.
This one last time.
~owari~
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