Although he looked like a twelve-year-old boy and acted like a twelve-year-old boy and his voice was shrill like a twelve-year-old boy's, Chrono had been around for so long that he can no longer even remember having a childhood. So perhaps his playful side, his reluctant agreement to be Rosette's co-conspirator, his curiosity and attempts to fit in - perhaps they were all just his attempts to forget who he was and start again. He usually stopped once his train of thought gets there. There was no point in over-analyzing himself. That was Sister Kate's job. Every time he took his old form it was too like his old life; the one where he doubted, the one where he lacked the courage to say no.

It hurt when he looks at the red-head and he remembered a different girl, a girl whose hair was lighter and whose eyes were gentle and who was really afraid, horribly afraid. But she'd ignored that fear and the pain and the burdens and become something truly transcendent. Perhaps that had been another one of God's 'gifts'; perhaps it had only been herself. He'd begun to think it's the latter, lately. She and Rosette were not so very different - not because of their role or their faces or their bleeding wrists. They were hope. They represented life and light and everything, so far, that had been good in Chrono's life ever. And he wanted to forget Mary, because it hurt. He loved her but he frequently wished he'd never met her...

Odd, now - he was dying. He's known it for a while; he can feel Rosette's time running out tangibly, just as he can feel her despair and fear and (don't leave me alone, Chrono, please) her stupid, resolute hope buried deep beneath. And he's learned to hate his true self because half of those feelings are his fault.

"Chrono..."

When did she run over? No matter. There was no poetic rain now as he lay in a sprawl on the concrete. He heard the rustle of fabric, saw the corner of that stupid black dress as she knelt down, smelled blood and sweat and some kind of floral perfume (that was definately Aion's fault. bastard. nothing would give him greater satisfaction than feeling his flesh beneath his fangs and ripping it out). She buried her face in his hair and she cried.

He meant to say "Don't," but it came out as a croak. He was weaker than he thought. At least there was the faint, hollow ticking of the clock around Rosette's neck; it meant more than her touch right now, the fact that she would still live a little longer - he hadn't completely failed, he hadn't completely killed her.

He meant to do the usual thing; to lift his head, reach up, hold her back; but he couldn't. His body was made of lead right now, and her bleeding wrists against his skin made his flesh burn - but he wouldn't tell her that; he could burn forever if that was what she wanted.

The devil licked his lips. "Rosette," he managed to get out. "I never told you, did I-"

"I know," she replied. "Shut up." Pulled him upright, forced his lips against hers, crying and crying and crying and not willing to let go. She looped his arm around her back, or else he would have fallen over.

He never regretted her at all.