A/N: Asuko may not be a real name, let alone mean warm tomorrow. We (limegreenwordmachine and BeyondtheKilljoy, cowriters) apologize for this. BeyondTheKilljoy "found" it on a website, and it turned out she kind of mixed and matched two names without telling limegreenwordmachine -_- This means we may have just butchered a character's name (but rest assured, the focus in this story is not going to mainly be on Asuko). And we promise, you will find out that Asuko has a valid reason for having a Japanese name when she is apparently British.

This is the brainchild of two very strange and very bored and very caffeine-addicted teenage writers. Get ready for a long and demented ride.

Early in the morning, I emerge from the store with three jars full of blood-red pasty liquid, clanking and colliding in a paper shopping bag.

Sound ominous?

It isn't.

It's jam.

After unscrewing a jar lid, I dip my fingers in the jam and pull them out covered in strawberry goodness. I lick them, savoring the flavor as I walk. The sun is just rising and the street lights still haven't turned off yet. I watch as my breath puffs out in front of me, a translucent white cloud in the cold air. The chill in the air doesn't bother me - in fact, I quite like the sharp numbness of the wind.

It does bother me, however, when I trip over a pair of skinny legs sprawled out on the sidewalk, on the edge of a deserted alley. My jam flies out of my hands and crashes on the sidewalk.

My jam. Is on. The. SIDEWALK.

It is reduced to nothing more than a mess of glitter and red. Furiously, I turn to face the culprit, a feminine outline shrouded wild mousy brown hair. She hurls herself to her feet and sprints away from me. In her wake, she leaves a brown shoulder bag; I pick it up and run after her.

She enters a park and I follow her. People are sparse; we pass only a bag lady, too busy chatting with pigeons to notice us.

I am close to catching the figure when she trips over a tree root and hits the ground. Panic rises in her face, but my desire to wring her neck has long since passed.

I walk closer to her and kneel.

"You left your bag," I say awkwardly.

The letters floating above her forehead display her name; Asuko Tomlin. An English last name, which makes sense. But why a Japanese first name? She's clearly not Japanese.

I notice that Asuko Tomlin only has six months to live. Six months?

Who is this girl? What's so special about her circumstances?

She snatches her bag from my hands and says, "I'm sorry... I fell asleep and I guess my legs just got in the way..." She glances up at me, tired and lost. Her face stuns me.

She resembles someone I haven't seen in a very long time – someone I would very much like to see again, but never will. Her eyes are a strange shade of violet (contacts? More than likely...). I look deep into them, and she starts to fidget. I suppose I look quite peculiar just staring at her like that.

"What were you doing sleeping on the sidewalk?" I ask her, still marveling at the memories called up by her features.

"It was a place to sleep," she snaps. With that, she tries to stand. In that moment, I realize how thin she really is. She can't be more than fourteen. When I was a teenager, I had that same skinny, lost quality.

She gasps and stumbles. I immediately reach out and grab her upper arm.

I move my face close to hers and I say, "Everything alright?" She flinches away and I remember that many people are funny about personal space.

"My ankle..." She gulps.

I ask, "How much weight can you put on it?"

"None," she replies regretfully.

"Then I suppose you're going to have to trust me," I say, moving close to her. "Do you?"

"No, not really."

"Ah, well, nothing can be done about that." I say as I scoop her up. Though I have a thin frame, I am stronger than I appear. Besides, she's too thin to be a real challenge for much of anyone to lift. I can feel the fabric of her skirt, strangely placed over tattered jeans, neither of which appear to be very warm. The same goes for her sweater.

I start to walk out of the park. There's not really anyone there except the bag lady, still, who is now lovingly stroking a hairbush. As I carry Asuko, her hair blows in my face, which is quite annoying. It is clear she tried to straighten the mass of brown hair and near-white blonde highlights (such a horrible dye job...), but it's still a fluffy cloud of wild, wavy hair.

I carry her to the crappy motel I am currently occupying and dump her on the foldout couch. I shift my eyes to examine her ankle. My nose gets so close to her skin, it almost skims her ankle. She starts to try to move away from me. Oh. I have forgotten about the universal rule of personal space.

Her ankle is just dislocated, so I pop it back into place. There is nothing that can be done about the bruising and swelling around the ankle, so she will just have to stay off it for a few days. I get up and turn away, shuffling to the door.

"Wait!" she interjects. "Where are you going?"

"Well, when I come back, we're going to have a discussion about why you were sleeping on the sidewalk in Winchester in the middle of November," I say. A soft frown begins on her face, the space between her eyebrows creasing.

I turn away when she says softly but firmly, "You didn't answer my question."

My head snaps up. She seems sharp. I remember hearing those exact words in that tone, once upon a time.

I give her a long stare. "I'm going to get some more jam."

Alright! Review and tell us what you thought. Chapter 2 will be uploaded very soon, and from there this story will start to take a definite shape, plot, and tone. We promise there will be plenty of chocoholic girly boy and even more strawberry jam. And, if limegreenwordmachine has her way, a healthy dose of Matt much later on.