Author's Note: Beware of low-flying X references and massive, horrible messing with timelines--I don't recall if a year was ever mentioned in the manga for anything other than births/deaths, but since Hisoka died in '96 and they'd been partners for at least one year (possibly two) in volume 7 or so, I'm desperately hoping this has at least a shred of canon compatibility going for it.
Also, yes, I know a new century is supposed to start in the "01" year; it bugged me all through 1999-2000. ;
-,--
"You'll get the message by the time I'm through,
When I complain about me and you."
--Garbage, "Only Happy When It Rains"
Ten-thirty on December thirty-first, 1999, and the Bureau was holding its breath.
The Apocalypse, they all knew well, was not about to strike and incinerate the living world as soon as 2000 blossomed into being; the register of the dead was a silent but infallible witness to the fact that humanity would outlast the turning of a new century. The living, however, were nowhere near as well-informed. All year the shinigami had been handling cases of humans believing themselves messiahs and gods, of people waking demons and touching forbidden knowledge.
And then there had been Kyoto, full of secrets and burning nightmares and deep misery, and everyone had come away somehow changed. There was little way of telling whether that change had been for better or worse.
It had been nerve-wracking from start to finish.
And it was almost over.
Tatsumi eyed the bottle of champagne that sat, green and sweating, on the desk between them; it seemed out of place.
"You put that on the expense report, didn't you?"
He meant it as a joke, and it got a laugh. Watari shook his head, loose hair a flurry of gold highlights, overhead lights winking off of his glasses.
"I'm wasting my own money this time, Tatsumi-san. After all, it's my first brand-new century!"
"Mine, too."
That was strange when he thought about it: he'd been working steadily for sixty years after death, and yet when he stopped to take a deep breath and get his bearings, he was still twenty-nine, still tall and steady-handed. Time worked around him, or he around it, and yet this was the first event of its kind he'd witnessed--something even Tsuzuki hadn't seen.
"You want to open it?" Watari asked quietly.
"What, now?"
"Might as well." He shrugged, a loose roll of shoulders. "Hey, if something goes wrong and it all blows up, at least we can say we didn't wait around to enjoy ourselves."
That made him smile, for no reason he could clearly identify, and he reached forward to take the bottle and begin undoing the wire hood. It bit into his fingers--he supposed this must be what guitarists felt when they came back to the instrument after an absence. "I hope you have a glass."
Watari offered a sheepish smile. "I have coffee mugs."
"Close enough. If you could stand back..."
Obediently, he moved just enough to be out of range; Tatsumi popped the cork and it went skidding across the room with surprising force. Bang, and it was gone, like the minute before midnight.
He must have startled; it was the only way to explain why Watari suddenly reached up and touched his fingers where they curled around the neck of the bottle.
If something goes wrong and it all blows up...
"Let me get yours," Watari said, and took the champagne.
He remembered watching a serpent coiling into the night sky, muddied brown as his dreams, and knowing with absolute certainty that if he could not be enough to save someone then he could not deny that person his wish to be destroyed. Brown shifted into flame yellows and overbright gold, and he remembered the bite of his necktie and collar against his throat, remembered words pouring down on him in a harsh and nearly impenetrable accent. He remembered being afraid, and startled, as much from being physically threatened as from feeling the edge of the abyss behind him and knowing that someone else was holding him back from the fall.
"Happy New Year," Tatsumi heard himself saying.
"Happy twenty-first century," Watari corrected.
Outside, somewhere past the foam of sakura trees, someone was setting off fireworks.
Also, yes, I know a new century is supposed to start in the "01" year; it bugged me all through 1999-2000. ;
-,--
"You'll get the message by the time I'm through,
When I complain about me and you."
--Garbage, "Only Happy When It Rains"
Ten-thirty on December thirty-first, 1999, and the Bureau was holding its breath.
The Apocalypse, they all knew well, was not about to strike and incinerate the living world as soon as 2000 blossomed into being; the register of the dead was a silent but infallible witness to the fact that humanity would outlast the turning of a new century. The living, however, were nowhere near as well-informed. All year the shinigami had been handling cases of humans believing themselves messiahs and gods, of people waking demons and touching forbidden knowledge.
And then there had been Kyoto, full of secrets and burning nightmares and deep misery, and everyone had come away somehow changed. There was little way of telling whether that change had been for better or worse.
It had been nerve-wracking from start to finish.
And it was almost over.
Tatsumi eyed the bottle of champagne that sat, green and sweating, on the desk between them; it seemed out of place.
"You put that on the expense report, didn't you?"
He meant it as a joke, and it got a laugh. Watari shook his head, loose hair a flurry of gold highlights, overhead lights winking off of his glasses.
"I'm wasting my own money this time, Tatsumi-san. After all, it's my first brand-new century!"
"Mine, too."
That was strange when he thought about it: he'd been working steadily for sixty years after death, and yet when he stopped to take a deep breath and get his bearings, he was still twenty-nine, still tall and steady-handed. Time worked around him, or he around it, and yet this was the first event of its kind he'd witnessed--something even Tsuzuki hadn't seen.
"You want to open it?" Watari asked quietly.
"What, now?"
"Might as well." He shrugged, a loose roll of shoulders. "Hey, if something goes wrong and it all blows up, at least we can say we didn't wait around to enjoy ourselves."
That made him smile, for no reason he could clearly identify, and he reached forward to take the bottle and begin undoing the wire hood. It bit into his fingers--he supposed this must be what guitarists felt when they came back to the instrument after an absence. "I hope you have a glass."
Watari offered a sheepish smile. "I have coffee mugs."
"Close enough. If you could stand back..."
Obediently, he moved just enough to be out of range; Tatsumi popped the cork and it went skidding across the room with surprising force. Bang, and it was gone, like the minute before midnight.
He must have startled; it was the only way to explain why Watari suddenly reached up and touched his fingers where they curled around the neck of the bottle.
If something goes wrong and it all blows up...
"Let me get yours," Watari said, and took the champagne.
He remembered watching a serpent coiling into the night sky, muddied brown as his dreams, and knowing with absolute certainty that if he could not be enough to save someone then he could not deny that person his wish to be destroyed. Brown shifted into flame yellows and overbright gold, and he remembered the bite of his necktie and collar against his throat, remembered words pouring down on him in a harsh and nearly impenetrable accent. He remembered being afraid, and startled, as much from being physically threatened as from feeling the edge of the abyss behind him and knowing that someone else was holding him back from the fall.
"Happy New Year," Tatsumi heard himself saying.
"Happy twenty-first century," Watari corrected.
Outside, somewhere past the foam of sakura trees, someone was setting off fireworks.