Damn it, the young man thought. Not fast enough. The solitary figure leaned in closer to the frame of the sport bike, making himself as small as possible against its bulk. I don't want to be late, he thought.
With this in mind he pushed the throttle down all the way it could go, and practically willed the machine to accelerate. Even when the bike started vibrating violently, he just clung tighter and prayed for more speed.
Night Rider an Evangelion fan fiction by Cook
Tokyo-2 lay miles and hours behind him, but his goal was still too far for his comfort. Mentally, he cursed the bike, even though he knew it wouldn't help any. For the first time in several hours he noticed the world around him, how the late October air was chilly as it rushed past him. Even though it made him shiver occasionally, it made him happy to know that seasons were returning to his homeland. He also noticed that he was very, very hungry. He cursed himself for a fool, but this would do about as much good as cursing the bike. He knew it, but cursed himself anyway.
How did I get into this? he wondered, as he passed a tractor trailer at speeds unbelievably insane.
He had barely gotten in the door when he heard the phone ringing. Ignore it, he said to himself. It'll go away. He closed the door, doffed his shoes , and was heading to his small fridge when the answering machine picked up. "Please pick up. Please. I need to talk to you S…"
He had the phone in hand, was saying, 'Hello?' before the jar of peanut butter hit the floor.
More speed, he almost whined. Feh. He felt disgusted with himself. I'm turning back into me, he spat inwardly. She needs to speak with me. In person. Why am I so terrified, even now?
She was crying. In all the time he had known her, she had cried maybe three or four times. 'You've changed…' he mumbled.
"What was that?!" came her startled reply.
'I said you've changed. You've hardly ever cried before.'
"Idiot." But she said it affectionately, and his heart had soared.
"Please come here. I need to see you. In person." Only to come crashing down.
'Hai.' It was little more than a whisper. It brought back some memories that he didn't want or need, but he brushed those aside as he walked to the door with a purpose. He barely remembered to scoop up his shoes, as he was already donning his helmet and leather jacket. He closed the door but forgot to lock it. He didn't even hang up the phone, just dropped it and let it dangle from it's cord.
The last thing he heard from her before the door shut was "Hey, I'm talking to you Ba…" and then the wooden barrier shut off the noise.
He flew past a small town. He didn't know its name. He didn't much care, but then that thought caught him. Why should I care? He thought, to be rebutted by his conscience saying, Why not? It only takes a little effort to care. But, he thought, everyone I care about gets hurt or hurts me.
Living means getting hurt. Caring only lets you know it's happening. Why did that slimy little conscience always have to be right? He leaned with his bike around a sharp turn.
Why do I care enough to drive all the way to Tokyo-3?
Because you love her, dimwit. And it still hurts, doesn't it?
Yes.
Loving her had always been painful. Early on, it had been mostly physical. Slaps, smacks to the back of the head, the occasional punch, and once, a knee to the groin. He still remembered the knee quite clearly, but didn't want to dwell upon it.
And then it changed. The pain became so much more unbearable. Loving her began to tear his heart asunder. When she lost everything of value to her, including the privacy of her tortured memories, his heart was put on a narrow ledge. When he learned of her attempted suicide, his heart took a running leap over the precipice and was dashed against the metaphorical rocks below. Very jagged metaphorical rocks.
And even after they had prevented catastrophe together, the pain got worse, if possible. The long hours in hospital waiting rooms began to gnaw at his fragile sanity. He was sick of not knowing. Not knowing how her latest surgery would turn out tore him down to the ground every time. But every time, and there were more than twenty, she pulled through. She always was a stubborn bitch.
That thought made him smile as he wove between a few late-night travelers. Not a full smile, but one more characteristic of a man he knew intimately and not at all. The realization didn't bother him very much anymore. The old bastard got what was coming to him. And that was that.
She had been there, at his father's trial. She had sat next to him and held his hand. He felt like the happiest person in the world, even though his father was most likely going to be put to death. At the very least he would rot in jail till he died. Her body was almost entirely covered in bandages. The only thing that could help him be sure it was actually her was her hair and her good eye. The other had just been operated on and would not see the light of day for another five weeks.
But he didn't care if she saw out of the eye again. It didn't matter to him if she had to spend her life disfigured. She was the most beautiful person in the world.
She still is. He smiled, a full smile this time, as he looked down at his instrument panel. There, between the speedometer, which he didn't want to look at, and the gas gauge, was a small, wallet sized photo of her after all her surgeries had been completed. He had had it laminated so he could put it on his bike permanently. Even thought it was dark, he could see very clearly the curves and lines of her face, even see the faint scarring around her left eye. He had seen that picture so many times that light was no longer necessary. Beautiful, the young man thought. So beautiful. Even on that day when Father got his. The word father came out like a curse.
She had testified, as had he and his best friend. They were not very kind with their language. The man he once knew as his father did nothing, said nothing in his defense. He just sat dispassionately at the defense's table in his characteristic pose. He even had the gall to smirk behind his steepled hands when his son took the stand. He did not smirk when his second in command took the stand against him.
Serves the old man right, the young rider thought, and continued his journey through his memories and the night.
She was the most permanent fixture in his life. For years they lived together. They were never intimate in the way of a husband and wife, but most people who saw them would swear they were married.
The most fearful moment in his life did not come while he was fighting for his father, nor when he fought for his life and the lives of the world.
No, that day came when he took her out to dinner, got down on one knee, and offered her a ring.
And her answer cut his heart more deeply than any ten thousand Lancea Longini ever could. Not in a million years.
She had told him she couldn't marry him.
'But I want to live with you always, and be yours forever, and you mine.' Heh. Not very poetic. Just very nervous.
"I want it too. But I can't have it. Sure, everything is fine now. But everyone I love ends up leaving me."
'So you want me to go now and save us both the trouble.' It was a statement, not a question. In the tone of voice of the one man he hated most in the world.
"Yes." This was one of the times he remembered her crying. "Just…Just go. Please. I love you too much to do that to you."
He hadn't looked back as walked out of the restaurant. He had left the keys to their car on the table. He could get a cab.
He cleared out his important possessions from the apartment they shared in the rebuilt Tokyo-3. They still barely filled the small duffel he had had since he was small. As he strapped it to the back of his motorcycle, he cried. He cried all the way to Tokyo-2. But he never took that small laminated picture off the dashboard. He couldn't.
Only another thirty minutes, he thought. He jammed down the accelerator even further than before. Somewhere in the corner of his mind the creak of metal being pushed beyond its limit registered. But he didn't care, not with his goal so close. The bike trembled, but the machine did what was asked of it. The lights of Tokyo-3 were visible now, as he hurtled around curves on the mountain road leading up to the city. Street lights suddenly sprang up overhead and became a continuous strobe. Each cycle of light and dark became a counter, a clock ticking down the time between him and his love.
He glanced at the engine thermometer. It was in the red. He grinned. How many times had he wished that he could run his machine this fast? A hundred times a week, at least. He felt the heat of his steel and fiberglass steed through the denim of his jeans. He loved it.
He could almost feel the heat of her body pressed up against him. That was what he loved about her most. He energy, her vitality, her warmth. Sleeping next to her for a long time had gotten him used to the warmth and security of another human being. Every day that he had woken up without her pained him. Every morning without her felt cold and lifeless.
He had cried many times after waking from a dream to find that she was not actually there.
This is her street, he thought. It was more of an internal whoop of triumph. He had had to slow down considerably once inside the city limits, and the agonizing slowness of having to go less than a third of his previous rate galled him. He screeched his bike to a halt in front of the apartment building. He barely remembered to turn the bike off and take the keys with him. Up four floors, down the hall, third door on the left. Apartment 405. He paused in front of the door. He got out his keycard. Where had he gotten it from? Oh, that's right, he always carried it. He swiped it in the reader and walked in.
'I'm…I'm home.'
"Welcome home."
The ring. The ring he had given her two years ago was on her finger, and there were tears in her eyes. 'Asuka…' was all Shinji could manage.
"Baka." They embraced for the first time again.
Author's note: I don't own anything but this idea which has probably already been done anyway, so don't sue a poor college student. Please review my first attempt at fan fiction.