A/N: Random trivia bit that might or might not be of use, c/o the dictionary:

Potshot (n.) - a casual or aimless shot.

Oh, and these drabbles aren't at all contiguous unless otherwise noted. Just so you know. XD


ii. Potshot

They sit together, legs tucked under them on the metal of the roof of the tower of the Castle that Never Was. The city falls away beneath, a mass of hulking dark silhouettes peppered with neon stars.

"Xigbar?"

This high up, the wind is cruel. It steals the word from Roxas' mouth before he even hears it come out in his voice. Lucky that his companion has good ears, otherwise…

"'Sup?"

The gunner doesn't look up as he responds, doesn't stop staring right down the barrel of one of his pistols. It looks like a pretty dangerous thing to do, like it's a pretty dangerous thing to be sitting so close to the edge of the roof, so far above the ground—but Xigbar seems to live on the edge of everything.

"Do you ever remember?"

The other pistol sits in Roxas' lap, with the scrap of black rag he ought to be cleaning it with hanging loosely in his fingers. He's been staring at the same spot on the handle for a good few minutes now, hands idle, brow knitted in thought.

"Remember what?"

Roxas doesn't answer, not for a good few minutes. The frown lines deepen across the boy's forehead, and he stares down at his free hand, watching it clench, unclench, clench, unclench. Trying to find words is harder than it seems, but he'd rather pitch himself off the edge right this minute than admit to Xigbar—even if he could do worse than Xigbar, really—that even he doesn't quite know what he's trying to say.

"…Anything, really. Anything from when you were…"

Another long, unnecessary, awkward pause. The meaning drops away from the words and nearly falls down, down, down like the city beneath—then it would have been lost—but lucky that Xigbar has good eyes, too. He reads it so fast it never gets the chance to disappear.

"From when I was human, you mean? Ah—from when I was whole?"

A cough. Roxas' fingers finally move, lifting the rag, rubbing away the spot on the handle until it shines.

"…Is that what you call it?"

Xigbar watches him, with a critical eye and a little noise in his throat that sounds like, You ask too many goddamn questions—but might just be You're not cleaning that thing right.

"What else would you call it? And, well. Sometimes I remember, I guess. What we were working for. What wanting felt like. Or I think I do, I don't really know anymore. To tell you the truth, Rox… I can't say I care."

A resigned sigh and the gun passes between them, but the topic of remembering is not so easily dismissed.

"I don't. Remember anything, I mean."

There is another rueful half-cough from the sniper at this, one that might mean to say Lucky boy. It's not like you're missing much. Except the wind sweeps by again, snatches up the words—and Roxas' eyes aren't nearly as fast. The next few that reach his ears through the gusts are a sure dismissal, this time.

"Yo, kiddo. You missed a spot—and don't give me that look. You're gonna get early wrinkles."