The wind was sharp that night, and even though the sky overhead seemed about to burst with rain, there were a few strips of black night peeking through, dotted with bright stars. Crawford stood on the pedestrian bridge overhanging a busy highway near the edge of the city, the buildings thinning out here and giving way to forest and field. He leaned with his forearms on the low railing, head tilted upwards at the rent in the clouds and the pinpoints of light showing through.

The walkway was all but deserted, and Crawford looked over his shoulder when he heard footsteps crunch behind him. Schuldich appeared out of the deepening shadows, wearing a long dark grey coat.

"There you are. What're you doing out here?"

Crawford turned back to the outskirts of the city. "I felt like looking at the real stars."

Schuldich grinned slightly; he could identify. He moved beside the older man, resting his elbows on the railing and facing back towards the buildings. "Do you feel like talking?"

"No."

Schuldich sighed. "Look... if it were anybody else, I wouldn't think it was my business."

"And because it's me, it is your business?" Schuldich didn't answer. After a few moments, Crawford's gaze moved from the sky to the rows of cars passing below. "There isn't much to tell. But yes... I did see it before it happened." Schuldich looked over at him, waiting for the rest of an explanation which never came.

"Well? Why didn't you do something?" He couldn't see Crawford's face.

"It would have compromised the mission."

Schuldich whirled on him. "The mission? The mission?! Is that all there is to you? Nagi's dead, Crawford!"

"I know that," he said forcefully.

Schuldich settled back against the railing with a cross expression. "If you were so worried about the 'mission,' you should have thought about what Nagi's dying would do to your ability to concentrate."

Crawford's head jerked up.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Schuldich went on. "You make it seem like you've been getting all sorts of work done, but all you really do is sit and stare at the keyboard."

Crawford turned back to the street below, speeding headlights flashing over his face. "Leave me alone."

"Not a chance."

For a while they stood there in silence. Crawford had raised his head to the sky again.

"The stars have gone. We should be getting back." He made no move. "I suppose artificial stars are better than no stars at all."

"Crawford..."

Schuldich came up behind him as he leaned, bent, over the railing, and wound his arms around Crawford's shoulders.

It began to rain.

* * * *

The rain pattered against the seventh story windows of the hospital, curtains drawn because night had fallen. Behind them the figure of a girl sat up in bed as another figure of about the same size sat down next to her on the mattress. She held a stuffed animal close to her chest.

"Do you have to go?" the silhouette in bed asked, mournfully.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I must return to them."

The girl bowed her head.

"But I promise... when this is over, I'll come back for you."

"And then we can live together?"

"I promise."

* * * *

"Farfarello, how long are you going to go without eating anything?"

Schuldich stood outside the door to Farfarello's chamber, leaning against it and knocking every so often with his knuckles. He had a plate of something-or-other that Crawford had made for dinner three hours earlier (the most silent dinner of his life, he noted irritably) and a glass of water. There was no answer from within.

"Farf? Hello?"

Schuldich rattled on the knob. "I'm coming in."

It was dark. In the dim light from the room of stars Schuldich could see Farfarello sitting on the floor, leaning his shoulder and head against the wall. His expression was considerably more blank than usual, and blood spread across the bare floor from a gash in his right wrist.

"Ah, shit!"

Schuldich shoved the plate on a table outside the door and grabbed Farfarello under the arms, dragging him out into the room of stars. He propped him up against the front of the couch, his head lolling on the seat cushions, and went to get some bandages and water. When he returned Farfarello was looking at his bleeding wrist with a little surprise. Schuldich knelt in front of him, grabbed his hand, and stretched his arm out to start cleaning the wound.

"Imbecile, what are you trying to do?"

Farfarello frowned a little. "I got a bit carried away, I think. When nothing I do to myself hurts, I forget that losing too much blood might kill me."

"Well, we're already down by one, we don't need to make the odds even worse."

Farfarello's brows furrowed slightly, as if he was pondering something. "But would it hurt God for me to kill myself?"

"No, you idiot. God would be happy if you killed yourself because then he wouldn't have to be bothered with you anymore."

"Wouldn't it hurt God if I went to Hell?"

"How do you know you're going to Hell at all? Anyway, I think it would 'hurt God' more if you stayed alive trying to think up ways to hurt him."

"I'm going to Hell because I don't want to go to Heaven."

Schuldich glowered at the cut on his wrist and the reddening cloth he was using to clean it. "Just shut up and let me fix you, all right?"

They were silent for a minute as Schuldich began wrapping gauze around Farfarello's wrist.

"What do you want from him, anyway?"

Schuldich glanced up briefly. "From who?"

"Crawford."

"I dunno." Schuldich sighed. "I wanted to know if he saw what was going to happen to Nagi before it happened. He said he did, but he wouldn't give me a good reason why he didn't do anything to stop it."

Farfarello rolled his head over on the couch cushions to look at him. "You don't ever listen, do you?"

"What are you talking about?" Schuldich said grumpily.

"Crawford can't see more than a few moments into the future. Even if he did see Nagi die, he couldn't have had time to do anything about it."

Schuldich looked up sharply. "What?"

"He's told us a million times. Just a while ago, even... oh... that's right, you weren't there."

Schuldich ran a hand back through his hair. "God, I completely forgot about that... Wait, when?"

"We were fighting Fujimiya Aya-- I don't know where you were, probably off harassing that Kudou guy. Fujimiya couldn't get a hit on Crawford because Crawford could see his moves before he did them, but he told him that he couldn't see farther than a couple of minutes so his gift didn't do him much good."

Schuldich sat back heavily, the bandaging momentarily forgotten. Then why didn't he...

It was if Farfarello could read his thoughts. Perhaps he had inadvertently sent them, or maybe the other man just had a talent for guessing what he was feeling. He had never been terribly good at masking his expressions. "You didn't expect him to actually admit to that, did you?" Farfarello asked, in the same matter-of-fact tone. "Admit to helplessness? Crawford? If you thought he would do that, you're more of an imbecile than I am."

Schuldich said nothing, staring hard at the floor, then went back to bandaging Farfarello's wrist.

"...and I told you that worrying would only make things worse."

* * * *

Schuldich stumbled into the kitchen the next morning looking like he hadn't slept at all. The fact was that he hadn't, at least not much, but he rationalized that it was Crawford's fault because the prick had locked the door to his room and wouldn't answer. Considerably more annoying was that Crawford hadn't exactly refused to talk to him, he just wouldn't say anything. Yeah, right, 'asleep.' Even Crawford couldn't stay asleep with Schuldich banging on the door like that.

Schuldich didn't know what he'd planned to do if Crawford had answered him anyway. He knew better by now than to expect much-- that was clear, at least. But if there was anything Schuldich hated more than feeling stupid, it was not being allowed a chance to fix it.

Crawford was cooking breakfast. Schuldich sat at the table in silence for a rather long time, absently tapping the pronged end of a fork on the table then flipping it over to tap the other end. Finally he stood and went over to the stove where Crawford was putting butter into a pan.

"Hey."

"What?"

"Heavy sleeper."

Crawford ignored him.

Schuldich sighed and scratched his forehead with his thumb. If it was up to Crawford, he didn't think they would ever speak to each other at all-- at least not about anything other than the "mission." Farfarello was probably right. But the fact that he shouldn't worry didn't make him worry any less.

He had been kicking himself all night for not seeing it before, for thinking he understood someone that he clearly didn't understand. And he wasn't just going to let it go because other people chose to ignore it.

"I'm sorry."

For once, Schuldich got the desired result. Crawford stared at him with an expression that clearly said, 'Schuldich is sorry?'

He went back to spreading the butter around the frying pan, silent for a while. Then he asked softly, "For what?"

"You know what." He paused. "I know that if you could have done something... you would have."

The knife Crawford was spreading the butter with stopped momentarily, and the butter began sizzling. Crawford's hand, with the knife still in it, rested on the porcelain surface of the stove. Schuldich tried to read his expression, but it was useless. It was just like the first night, the first time Schuldich had tried to talk to him. Schuldich stood beside him for a moment, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes, then turned and began to move towards the door.

"Guilt... is an annoyance..."

Schuldich halted.

He turned, slowly. "That's it." The sliver of light. The cracked door.

The only sound was the butter hissing in the frying pan.

"That's what I heard. When we left in the helicopter." He returned to Crawford's side.

Crawford moved, picked an egg out of the carton and cracked it into a bowl.

"Sometimes," he said, "You see things too late."

"And sometimes it's not a gift," Schuldich said slowly, almost to himself. "Sometimes it's a curse."

Crawford turned toward him, lifted a hand. His fingertips brushed Schuldich's cheek. He barely smiled.

"How do you like your eggs?"

* * * *

It was cold in the room of stars. Crawford set a mug of coffee down next to Schuldich, who was reading on the couch. Farfarello was sitting on the floor with a length of barbed wire, and Crawford held another mug in front of him. To his surprise, he took it.

Crawford was about to settle at the computer when, in the stillness, they heard a muffled clicking as if coming from somewhere outside the room. A thin vein of light sliced the starry wall, traveling up, then over, then down again in a rectangle shape.

The door swung open silently. There was a glare of light from outside, shadowing and silhouetting the slight figure who stood there before he stepped into the gloom and shut the door behind him.

Schuldich stood.

"... Nagi..."

Nagi moved farther into the room, wearing the same serious, large-eyed expression as always.

Schuldich awkwardly ruffled the boy's hair.

"Okaeri nasai," Farfarello said. He smiled, for once without malevolence, as if he wasn't surprised in the least, and went back to uncoiling the wire.

Crawford hadn't moved. He and Nagi stood facing each other, not speaking; then he went into the kitchen and returned with something that he dropped into Nagi's hand.

"What's this?" the boy asked.

"Medicinal cream. For your cheek."

Schuldich only then noticed the dusky bruise on Nagi's face.

Nagi nodded, and his hand closed around the tube.

"Tadaima."



~Owari~