Disclaimer: I own Chrono, yes I do! I'm a liar, how 'bout you!

Author's Note: See chapter one or chapter seven.

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Ticks of the Clock

Shells

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". . . I'm so, so sorry."

Rosette gave a small start at the unexpected sound of Chrono's voice, casting him an unreadable glance from over her shoulder. Waves rippled around her knees, nearly kissing the ends of her bunched-up habit. "What are you talking about?"

The devil swallowed, pulling his legs to his chest; upsetting the dry bump of sand on which he sat. "T—today. . . the seal. . ." He hung his head, hiding the tears that had begun glittering in the warm sunset. "I. . . am so sorry. . ."

". . . It's jake," she shrugged after a moment, dipping a hand beneath the gentle waves to pull up a shell. "As long as you're okay."

A soft snort, claws nearly puncturing the cloth he grasped. "It doesn't matter if I'M okay! It's you—!" He sighed heavily; sounding strained, sad. Silence returned for a few seconds— but was suddenly broken by more words. ". . . Sometimes I think," Chrono admitted quietly, barely heard over the lapping of the water, "that if I. . . because I'm— what I am—. . . It's all my fault!"

". . ." the nun blinked, the seashells clacking when her grip tightened. Then she blew out her cheeks, tossing him something from a pocket. Instinctively, he caught it— before even realizing the object had left her hand.

"?" Chrono jerked, pulling his eyes away from the rocky beach long enough to examine the thing in his hand. It turned out to be some sort of empty clamshell: clamped loosely shut, calcium exterior blanketed in slimy algae, splotched white and brown. He stared at it rather flatly. ". . . What is this?"

"It's a shell," Rosette replied in a cheerful tone, wading out of the lake and crouching next to her partner. "I found it especially for you."

Again, the demon looked mildly confused. "Er. . . thanks, I think," he said cautiously, clearing his throat to hide his sniffle. "But isn't it a little. . . uh. . ." He hesitated. ". . . not pretty?"

Rosette's beam widened, thumb and forefinger reaching out, prying the two shells apart—revealing the most gorgeous, opalescent coating within. Its iridescent interior glimmered in the remaining sunlight, smoothly changing from indigo to rose to golden to teal to pale cream. He involuntarily gasped, stunned by the simplistic beauty. "Ah," the girl then whispered, admiring the surprised expression on his face. "It's the inside that counts."

She walked away, back to the jalopy— giving him just enough time to uncover her hidden metaphor.

Smiling, he pocketed the shell and followed.

(Note: This one was inspired by a walk on the beach my mum and I took. We were looking for shells and talking about gays—me, 'supporting/for them,' for lack of better words, my mom hesitant to accept— when I picked up an icky looking shell and she asked: "That's not the kind you're looking for, is it? It's kind of icky." and I replied: "It's the inside that counts." Then I went: ". . . Ficlet!" XD Heehee.)