Author's Note: Despite the fact I loathe this time of year (Christmas especially), after finding a decent translation of volume three of Fake, I couldn't resist writing up the short scene featured in the manga. It's fluff in the best sense so do forgive any sugared-coated sweetness.
[Written on December 22nd of 2002; Edited 8/10/15]
Disclaimer: Sanami Mato/Matoh holds all rights to Fake. I just borrow the characters for a couple hours and then return back to their proper place no worse for wear. Usually. Kracken (the author on ), who hopefully doesn't mind me using it, wrote the translation below, which I found on a mailing list and made use of. ^^;
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"The Twelfth Hour"
An empty, dark, and downright desolate apartment greets me as I step through the open door, shoulders hunching downward as the heavy winter coat begins to slip off my lanky frame.
"Bikky?" I question out loud, making slow progress towards the small closet near the bathroom. I belatedly realize that Bikky has made other plans for Christmas Eve involving a small party at Cal's house. How could I have forgotten when the boy has been raving about it all week?
After returning the coat to its proper place, I make a small stop at my bedroom to change from my working clothes into a warm comfortable sweater and blue jeans. I stride into the kitchen to pull the teakettle off the stovetop and draw some water from the tap. As the water begins the process of heating itself up, I pull a chair from the kitchen table and straddle the chair, knees meeting the wooden edges with a soft thump, and arms coming to rest on the back of the chair.
"I'm so lonely. I should've gotten a girlfriend," I mutter, hardly aware of the fact I've spoken out loud. Immediately, the image of a certain raven-haired man springs to mind, and I feel my face flush with sudden warmth as I push the thought aside. Not him. The mention of the word girlfriend should not bring up thoughts of Dee.
However, my mind refuses to obey me and I idly speculate whether or not if he was indeed planning something as he alluded to at the 27th Precinct. With a resigned sigh and more than a little anxiety, I bury my face against my arm. Stop expecting something, I chide myself, legs moving of their own accord as the teakettle begins to hiss noisily.
Not more than a few minutes later, I am settled against two large throw pillows by the window, hot cup of tea clutched in my grasp, and legs stretched out in front of me, ankles crossed over one another comfortably. When did I last spend Christmas Eve alone? I ponder, sipping at the lukewarm tea, savoring the liquid as it rushes down my throat. It was when I was eighteen years old, when Mom and Dad died.
I can still recall those days very clearly, when I was just barely an adult, about to suffer the tragedy of my life that would eventually prompt me to this particular career as a means of revenge. It was afternoon…
I had just finished chatting with my friend Jeff, whereupon I returned home to find my Aunt Elena, fists pounding wildly across the front door of the house. Her face should have been a sign, but I was too surprised to really grasp the significance of her presence. Shortly after, she'd informed me of my parents' accident. At the hospital, it was more than a shock to find out both of my parents had not survived the misfortune. I remember feeling the stinging bite of tears but I'd held them back, summoning strength from seemingly nowhere.
When the police had lingered for a time, I had asked my aunt just what was going on, to tell me the truth. Even after hearing of my parents' demise, the thought the two had been involved in illegal activities was yet another surprise, another trick of cruel fate. I denied it fervently, of course, and was reassured to hear my aunt believed the same.
Even at the funeral, the rumors and speculation had not subsided as I stood before the grave of parents in hearing range of the attendees' constant bickering. Shortly after that event, my aunt Elena had taken me under her wing, providing as best she could the love and comfort I had been denied of from my parents.
I scold myself, as I rise my hand to my face and I brush aside a half-formed tear. I have too many good memories of Xmas. It's awful being alone...
"I'm being strange tonight," I mutter to the empty air of the apartment, taking a sip of my tea before realizing that before this I had only once been left alone at Christmas Eve, and even then, my aunt had sincerely apologized. The rest of the times I had either spend with friends or amongst my aunt and uncle's pleasant company.
"I'm alone any other night. I shouldn't care about tonight," I tell myself sternly but somehow the words ring hollow, and an ache begins to develop inside my chest. The sound of a familiar voice falls through the wood of the bedroom door, and I raise my head, curious as to who had taken it upon themselves to visit.
"Ryo? Are you there?"
"Dee…"
"Hey, you should lock the door. Oh, it's warm in here, Dee informs as he shoves through the bedroom door, two large plastic bags clasped in his hands. As he sits them down, I give voice to the question that has been haunting my mind for the last few seconds,"What are you doing here?"
As he begins speaking, I sit aside my cup of tea on the window still, a select portion of instinct, and basic common sense hauling me through the motion. It is Dee I'm going to have to socialize with here. Most of his conversation is spoken not with words but with actions, most of which are of the closest physical contact possible. It can be a bother sometimes, but over time, I am finding myself growing less and less resentful of the man and more on the appreciative side, however disturbing that revelation may be.
"Oh, the case was an easy one, so I got off early. The Chief told me that you already went home. Here's champagne, a little food, and a small tree. Let's have a little party together." Quite suddenly, I find myself frozen to my position on the bed, the ache that had begun in my chest not moments ago dissipating with swift speed to fill my eyes with hot wetness I recognize as tears.
"Hey, what's wrong with you? Why are you crying?!" he exclaims, clearly disturbed at my show of emotion, and perhaps distraught that he is the one who had produced this effect. Slowly, the paralysis loses its clutch on me, and I sniffle, raising a hand to wipe uselessly at my left cheek and wetted eye. My first words come out huskily, and then slowly gain in strength as the last syllable spills out of my mouth. "I'm just…happy…"
Within a moment, Dee's eyes soften and he leans forward, embracing me with tender gentleness, a sharp contrast to the often violent method in which he grips me. A warm hot tongue catches the remains of my tears as they fall down my cheeks. After Dee has accomplished the task of consuming the salty liquid, he presses his mouth to my own, the kiss not at all a light peck but a deep imploring caress that demands feelings be raised and examined.
Before I can react, his mouth slips from my own and I follow his lingering gaze just beyond the window. "Snowing again," Dee mutters, perhaps more to himself than to me alone.
"Oh, yes." The spell of the snowfall lulls the last residue of hurt from my chest, and captures my gaze quite skillfully as if I'd ever had a choice in the matter. "Do you hear a bell?"
If one listens closely, the slow steady rhythm of a church bell rings out repeat ably, proclaiming the passing of another hour. However, this hour holds a meaning deeper than most. "It's midnight. The twenty fifth already," I said, eyes locked across the small artificial distance between Dee and me, meeting his always intense gaze. This time, I make the overture, taking hold of his neck, and whisper just inches from his mouth, "Merry Xmas."
The meeting of mouths is brief, it's sweet and I feel slightly lightheaded as I pull back. Watching Dee happy smile, I find myself making a sullen vow to never be without Dee's company during this time of year again. Merry Xmas, indeed.
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