http://clampfix.fanworks.net/others/sla1.txt </head><body><pre>Hi everybody, This has been sitting on my shelf since summer, and I finally dusted it off and did a few more revisions. It's still very open to changes, so comments and criticism are welcome. In fact, they are more than welcome. Feedback please!! /text/ = italics. WARNINGS: Spoilers for all 4 volumes of Clover; darkness, waff, and shounen ai. All characters belong to CLAMP. - Kristin kolson00@yahoo.com * * * Something Like an Angel [1] * * * When Gingetsu came home, the house was still empty. He had to place a hand against the doorframe for support as he kicked off his shoes in the entryway, moving clumsily, his head full of static. He had no notion of how many drinks he'd had; neither he nor Kazuhiko had been counting. The alcohol hissing through his veins, however, did nothing to soothe the ache within him as he entered the living room. His thoughts drifted to a red vial of painkillers in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Now, those would make for an interesting cocktail in his bloodstream. A mixture like that could do more than soothe. Enough of the pills, and he might not have to face tomorrow's hangover at all. The thought had a certain appeal. He hadn't wanted to go out drinking in the first place, but Kazuhiko had dragged him, insisting that it would be good for him to get out of the house. True, maybe, but getting out implied coming back, and neither he nor Kazuhiko had reckoned on the force of the impact when silence and darkness greeted his return. They were poor substitutes for a quiet voice and gray eyes full of light. Only with difficulty had he managed to keep the gruff watchdog his friend had become from following him home. Kazuhiko was worried--and rightly so, Gingetsu granted, as he contemplated the painkillers again. The man had even started brandishing the old promise he'd talked Gingetsu into making, back in their early army days. "You swore," Kazuhiko had growled, clinging to his scotch with one hand, jabbing a finger at Gingetsu with the other, and fixing him with an unfocused glare, "you swore you wouldn't die before me. You go back on that now, and I'll...I'll...shit, I'll kill you myself." Come to think of it, Kazuhiko had been drinking pretty prodigiously too, even for him. Well, he and Ran had been friends. With Oruha and Suu, Kazuhiko had faced more than his share of loss already, and not even that had inured him to grief. Gingetsu supposed nothing ever did, really, for someone with a heart so open. His own heart had been parted barely a crack, to only one person. He was not at all sure how to endure the consequences of that fracture now. He wandered unsteadily toward the windows that overlooked the city. It had been raining outside, thought it was merely drizzling now. Rivulets streaked the opposite side of the glass, just beyond his fingertips. The lights were dazzling as always, heedless of the man standing and watching them, alone. /"I was just thinking, even though there are so many lights out there..."/ His hand clenched into a fist. /"...none of them are shining for my sake."/ Drawing it back, he slammed it into the bulletproof, impervious glass. Once. Twice. Again. /"None of them ever will."/ It's not true, he said to that kneeling, sad-eyed boy of nearly six years ago, when he found that neither he nor the window would shatter. Everything, everything was shining for your sake. Nothing shines now. He would have to move out of the house, he realized. To continue to come home to this place as he had tonight, again and again, seeing in every room the shade of that slender figure winking in and out at the edges of his vision--he knew enough to realize he was not capable of that. Whether he had the will to continue at all, though--that was the question. He knew Kazuhiko's opinion on the subject already. Ran, too, had made himself very plain before the end. /Sweat-damp gray hair, messy as always, falling into eyes of the same color. The hand between his own squeezing weakly. "You'll keep going. I'm not going to make you promise, because I know you will." A pause for breath; talking was no longer easy. Himself, silent as always, not knowing what to say, his throat too tight to allow speech even if he had somehow found words. Ran watching him with that faint, wise smile. "If you start to doubt it, open that." A nod toward the bedside table, on which rested a small, white envelope./ /Himself, frowning, discovering his tongue at last. "What is it?"/ /Breathless laughter that faded into a cough. "A little project. Think of it as my will if you want."/ /"Your will?" Confusion, obvious on his face./ /Ran's laughter again. "Or maybe yours. Please live, Gingetsu. Wherever I am, I'll manage by myself for a little while."/ He had forgotten the envelope, he realized dazedly, in the midst of the aftermath. There had been calls from the Wizards, who demanded to know exactly what had happened, how the Three-Leaf Clover had died. More calls from white-coated men, Clover Leaf Project scientists, a few of whom looked familiar to him. They had wanted to recover the body--for research purposes, they said. It was a matter of great interest to them, to observe the final results of the accelerated aging process. He had stared at their faces on the video screen, wishing, with the part of himself that was not yet numb, that he could ram his sword through each and every one of them. Then the Wizards again, trying to probe his intentions. Even a mere Two-Leaf might be dangerous, especially one with the freedom he possessed, which was greater than that given to any other Clover. Perhaps they had expected him to go on some sort of grief-maddened killing spree. Had they forgotten, he wondered, that they could blow him up any minute they liked? The only person who hadn't yet appeared to harass him was A, and he no longer had the energy to dread even that. The envelope was probably still in the bedroom; he didn't recall putting it anywhere else. He made his way down the lightless hallway, running his fingertips along the wall to steady himself. As he neared the bedroom, his footsteps became hesitant. Maybe this would not be possible, after all. But no, it was just another empty room, another cast-off shell, a cageful of fluttering memories. He would simply not think of all the times he had walked this way, his arms laden with love. Even when Ran had finally gotten too big to carry, he had liked to make a fool of himself and try it anyway, feeling that laughter puff against his ear, hearing the teasing murmur, "Careful, you'll throw your back out...." No. He stopped, drew a long breath, then kept going. The door was open, as were the windowshades, and neon city gleam cast a low glow into the room. He focused on the white glimmer from the nightstand, only on that, and retrieved it with the same efficiency he'd brought to countless missions for the Hisokubutai. Then he turned and fled, back down the long corridor, out into the great windowed room, where at least he did not have to fear that the air he was sucking shakily into his lungs held the last breath of the person he had loved. Feeling lightheaded, he lowered himself onto the sofa, turning the envelope over in his hands. It was small, thin, unmarked. After a moment of study, he tore the paper at one end and pulled it open. Inside were two things: a folded leaf torn from a notepad, and, encased in a slip of clear plastic, a shimmering disc perhaps three centimeters across. He unfolded the piece of note paper first, recognizing the gracefully sloppy scrawl at once. Ran's handwriting always had been shameful. It read: /I won't try to say goodbye again, because we've done that already. Everything precious I've ever had, you gave to me. It all goes back to you now. Light the oil lamp now and then--it'll be sad and lonely if you don't./ /The disc contains a program that will run on any of my machines, but you can only load it once. It'll erase itself after that. Any attempt at duplication will also cause it to self-destruct. I didn't want to take any chances./ /I still don't know whether it was wrong or right to make this. I guess I never will. But if it takes away the hurt even a little bit, then it will have been worth it./ The signature was barely legible. Ran must have written it toward the end. Letting the note fall, Gingetsu held up the tiny disc. It shone like a halo between his fingers. He glanced up, scanning the room. One of Ran's portable machines still sat on the floor over in the corner, a toy cast aside when play had become too exhausting. Before he could change his mind, he rose and fetched it, then carried it back to the couch and set it on his lap. The little computer purred into life under his touch, like a cat at last being petted after long neglect. With trembling fingers he slipped the disc out of its transparent sheath and into the machine's drive. There was a pause as the computer whirred, absorbing. The screen remained utterly blank. He had begun to wonder whether something had gone wrong when a slender cord extended, serpentlike, from the back of the machine. It wavered in the air as though seeking something, back and forth. He watched it, rapt, recognizing Ran's magic. Then it curled downward to nudge against his fingers and nestle between them. Once safely in his grip, it went limp, and became once again a perfectly normal bundle of wires. Gingerly, as if handling a live thing, he held it up and examined the end of it. It seemed to be designed to match one of the ports on his visor, so, after another balk of uncertainty, he pulled it up toward the node at his left ear and plugged it in. He was holding himself tense, he realized, his whole body taut. Perhaps it was ridiculous--but judging from the precautions Ran had taken, the program might well be dangerous, even if not to him. The visual input of his visor flickered once, then stabilized to display his surroundings. He could distinguish no change in them. When he looked down at the screen, it revealed nothing. Puzzled, frowning, feeling strained in all his being, he wondered whether some sort of command from himself was required--and then a small sigh stirred the silence of the room behind him. He whirled. Between him and the window stood a dark-haired boy of seventeen or so, hands held loosely at his sides, his gray gaze falling on Gingetsu like gentle rain. He was dressed all in black, a set of clothing long ago outgrown, but from his shoulders there feathered, impossibly, a pair of pale, very modest wings. As Gingetsu stared, thinking nothing at all, the boy's lips inclined upward in that slight, knowing smile he knew so well. "Hello," said Ran. The smile, warm with affection, broadened just a little bit. "I guess you missed me." Before his heart could stop, Gingetsu grabbed the line attached to his visor and ripped it free. The apparition--if that was what it was--vanished, and he found himself frozen on his feet, searching an empty room with wild eyes. He spun around, glaring at all sides. The ghost had left no trace. Eventually his pulse started to slow, and he turned his gaze back to the computer he had dislodged so unceremoniously from his lap. It lay on the seat of the couch, humming quietly to itself. The cord dangled down towards the floor like the arm of a sprawled sleeper. At last his brain resumed functioning. Things connected, and he realized that the ghost was no ghost at all. Another memory came, this one tinged with disbelief. * * * "What are you working on now?" A fringe of hair hid the glint in the gray eyes that glanced up at him. It was after dinner, and they were both in the living room, Gingetsu reading over reports, Ran on the floor at a computer, coding away with preternatural ease. As usual, the reports had failed to hold his attention for long, and he had turned to observe Ran, whose intensity at work was wonderful to watch. He seemed, Gingetsu thought, even more keenly focused than usual tonight. "A little project." That was the standard answer, usually accompanied by downcast eyes and a dismissive tilt of the head, but this time given with a small and possibly mischievous grin. "Oh?" Ran sat up straighter and lifted a finger to his lips. "It's a secret." That surprised him. "From me?" "From you." He grunted then, a wordless acknowledgement that all Clovers had their secrets, even the two of them, side by side, who had grown so closely together. "You might get to see it someday. Maybe." Ran peered down at his screen and blew out with dismay. "If I can get it to work. I think it's the hardest thing I've ever tried to do." * * * The hardest thing, Gingetsu repeated silently. Yes, it would have been. He stared at the computer a while longer, suspiciously, as though it might at any moment leap up and bite him. Then, postponing judgement, he headed for the kitchen to pour himself another drink. Hangover or no, he was going to need it. Once safe in the kitchen, he lingered there with his glass, rolling the swallows around in his mouth, trying to fathom whether this was, perhaps, some kind of vengeance for a mysterious offense he might have unwittingly done to his lover. When he thought of the note again, though, he decided that the intent was not to haunt. It was, rather, to "take away the hurt," or try to. His surprise faded as the new shot of alcohol lubricated his emotions. Really, it was the sort of thing Ran would do. They had been bracing themselves against the end for a long, long time--ever since Gingetsu had first held out his hand and offered shelter to a lost little boy with nowhere to go. Sometimes they had managed to forget about it, and lose themselves in one another for a while. They had both become experts at the art of comforting, when the potential for so much pain lay latent all around, and the shadow of coming loss soared over each day on dark wings. And they had tried to make it last, every minute of it. Gingetsu had hoarded his money obsessively, scrimping from every paycheck in a fashion that bewildered Kazuhiko, all so that he could take the last year off, and resign from active duty to do part-time intelligence work that would let him stay at home. Ran had been so happy--quietly, so as not to instill any guilt about the years of solitude, but as happy as any caged thing could be. They had both known the inevitable outcome from the start, but it was like Ran to try to cushion it for him, to fling himself into the gap with arms outstretched. Ran, too, Gingetsu knew, had always wanted to protect. For now, he might as well let himself be comforted, even if it was just a little bit. To get through this night, he would need it. Back in the living room, the computer awaited him patiently. Setting his glass on the coffee table, he sat down on the sofa. The machine he placed carefully next to him. Shutting his eyes tight, he plugged in the cable. When he found the courage to open his eyes, Ran was sitting on the couch across from him, hands in his lap and sympathy in his expression. "I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't mean to startle you like that. It was going to be kind of a shock no matter what, though." He glanced down at himself, almost curiously, and a sly smile started to creep over his face. "I guess Kazuhiko was right all those times." At Gingetsu's blank look, he laughed a little. The laugh was the same, exactly the same. "I was programmed to appear in the form you most wanted to see." Gingetsu did not ask how such a thing could be determined; he knew he would never understand the explanation. Computers had never been his forte. "Oh, well, only a little bit underage. Not too bad." The wings were still there, too, and in fact were fanning idly back and forth, like a cat's tail twitching. Gingetsu found himself unable to look away from them. Ran's glance fell on the near-empty glass on the table. "How many of those have you had?" he asked. "I don't know," Gingetsu murmured, as though it were any normal evening with just the two of them, and then felt his chest constrict. The person I just spoke to no longer exists, he thought, but the boy across from him looked and sounded real, as real as himself. "Did Kazuhiko take you out drinking?" A sigh. "I suppose that's his idea of 'taking care of you.' Maybe leaving him in charge of that was a bad idea." Ran's fingers twitched, as though he were suppressing the impulse to clear the glass away, and possibly bring some tea to replace it. "But there really weren't any other candidates." Gingetsu stopped fumbling with questions long enough to produce the shortest one he could manage. "Wings?" The smile this time was laced delicately with sorrow. "To remind you," Ran said softly. "That I'm not really back." They gazed at each other. Then Ran spoke again, uncertainly. "Has it been very long?" He forced all the breath out of his lungs, laboriously. "No," he said. "Yesterday." The boy's face went a little green. "Have you...have you slept at all?" "No." "Oh." Even from this distance, he could see the boy's chest rise and fall, see the fine lines where each strand of hair lay like spun silk against the skin of brow and cheek. Yearning toward those things, Gingetsu asked what he most needed to know. "How real are you?" Ran's eyes went wide and serious as a raincloud. He gazed back soberly. "What kind of real do you mean?" Words were failing him. He had never been fully at ease with them, not even with this person, who had drawn him out of himself more than any other. "Can you--" he faltered. "Can I--" "Touch me?" Tenderness suffused Ran's face. He rose, soundless but for the brush of sleeves against shirt, and bridged the little space between them. He held out one hand. Fearfully, with something like desperation, Gingetsu reached. The hand he clasped in his own was warm, solid. In every sense that mattered to him at this moment, it felt real. A pulse leaped beneath his fingers as they closed around the slender wrist to pull the boy close to him, into his arms. Familiar weight settled against him, and a sigh caressed his neck. It had been a while, he thought muzzily, since Ran had been small enough to curl up like this in his embrace. Even the wings folded nicely. Seventeen...he had been of seventeenish size a little after Oruha was killed. Gingetsu winced then, wondering when he had begun to mark the years by the deaths of his fellows and friends. It's been too much, he thought, nuzzling into the dark, tousled hair and finding, to no surprise, that the smell was as sweet as ever. It's been too much for all of us. "Ran," he whispered, as the crack in his heart bled. "Ran." * * *</pre><p><a href="./">Back</a></p><p><a href=http://www.dreamhost.com/donate.cgi?id=216><img border=0 alt="Donate towards our web hosting bill!" src=https://secure.newdream.net/donate1.gif></a></p></body></html>