A/N: Well, I'm not sure how I feel about this one. But here it is.

Setting: A scenario in which Kaneki returns to Anteiku the night before the CCG raid.

Kaneki

To Kaneki, the world was a collection of words. Spoken and unspoken, read and written, these words were compiled and woven together into a tapestry that was as vast as it was intricate. Each sentence was a thread; each thought, a stitch.

It was the middle of the night. He was standing amidst the lazy fall of a first snow, staring up at Anteiku's shuttered windows and wondering just how he might describe the place to someone who had never been there before. It was just a distraction, really. A silly game that would allow him to gather his thoughts (procrastinate) before he went inside.

Assuming it was even unlocked at such an unspeakable hour.

It wasn't (he knew he should've asked the Manager for a key).

Kaneki leaned the crown of his snow-colored hair against Anteiku's wall and sighed. What a stupid idea—going back in the middle of the night. Of course everyone was asleep. They were, unlike him, relatively normal people (barring the fact that they were ghouls), who would rather spend their nights resting than sitting atop a roof and staring bleary-eyed into the distance.

Then again, perhaps a night of gathering his thoughts would do him some good.

For he would need to gather his thoughts before he spoke with Touka. Assuming she would allow him to speak. And assuming she was there in the first place. After their...encounter...on the bridge, speculations (frail, diminutive, and shadowed with guilt) were all he could make.

Kaneki closed his eyes. He pictured the inside of Anteiku, separated from him now by only a slab of concrete wall:

The chime of a golden doorbell. Footsteps clicking atop smooth, hardwood floors. A back shelf lined with jars of coffee beans and glistening mugs. A low, warm level of volume as customers lean across small tables, deep in conversation and deeper in coffee. The wrinkle that forms between Yomo's brow when he scowls. The way Koma tosses a rag over his shoulder when he chuckles. Irimi's unbreakable calm, as smooth and seamless as ivory. Nishio, ever-bored, propped against the counter. The way the Manager frowns and leans forward just slightly when he has something important to say. And Touka's eyes—violet and deep and mildly annoyed, but not always. Sometimes, they shine.

Those are the best days—the days when her eyes are just a little less brooding and a little more jovial.

Kaneki was yanked from his reverie by the grating sound of a window sliding open. "Oi, creep."

He stepped away from the wall and looked up. There, glaring down upon him in a frumpy sweater and a mess of dark hair, stood Touka. She seemed to lose some of her gumption when their eyes met; she folded her arms across her chest and swallowed.

Kaneki wiped a few droplets of melted snow from his forehead. "Touka-chan…."

"It's the middle of the night."

"I know. I, uh, don't have a key."

She sniffed; rubbed at her arms as the night's chill swept into her room. "Dumbass." Her gaze flicked away, then back again. "Well," her sigh was forced and unconvincing, "come on, then. You'll get sick if you stay out there all night. Not that I care, or anything…." her voice trailed away as she stepped back from the window.

Kaneki rubbed at his neck. "Should I climb up there?"

Her head popped out again, just as fast. "No, you creep. I'll come downstairs and let you in. One sec."

Left to wonder just how this conversation would go, Kaneki stood before Anteiku's door and waited.

Touka

To Touka, the world was a collection of actions. Choices, movements, and catalysts were things that she knew best. Ghouls were born with the unfortunate need to do something, after all, whether that be killing or saving or hiding or running. The specifics didn't matter. The consequences did. And there were always consequences, always, even if her only offense was inheriting the blood type of her parents.

Of course, once her parents were gone, Touka committed many legitimate offenses in the name of survival. Not just for her—but for Ayato. She learned that she had to act, had to do something, if she wanted to keep her little brother safe. Nobody else would, after all. Nobody else was there. And so she became quite adept at doing what needed to be done, in her mind. At fighting. Hiding. Running. Killing. Touka became so accustomed to choice and action—these being tied together as a singular unit—that she knew little else.

That is, until she met the Manager—who, at the time, seemed to be little more than an overbearing old man with a sempiternal squint. Still, he showed her another way. A way that required patience and restraint and trust. A way that required community, where before she had scoffed at the word—there is no such thing as a safe community of ghouls. But she had been wrong.

Touka slowly (painfully) learned the ways of restraint over the years. That is, she learned them academically, in her mind, through lecture after lecture by those around her. Think before you speak, Touka. Calm down. That attitude of yours isn't helping. There's nothing we can do right now, and you need to accept that.

But the process of absorbing these things into her will, into her heart and her bones and her blood, was far more daunting than the mind. She still lashed out. She still chose to act brazenly at times. She still failed to listen rather than speak. Even after all those years, she was still learning. Still changing.

And so, in full knowledge of this, Touka silently berated herself for her poor reception of Kaneki as she made her way downstairs, a bath towel draped over one arm. I told myself I was going to listen to him this time….she pulled on her rumpled sweater and ran a hand through her hair, scowling. Think before you speak, Touka. Think before you speak.

With a sigh and one last yank on her sweater, Touka unfastened the bolt on Anteiku's door and pulled it open.

It was strange: for some reason, it almost seemed as though she had only imagined him out there, standing in the snow. As though she would open the door to find nobody waiting.

But there he stood, a testament to her sanity. His eyes—silver and sharp—gleamed in the moonlight. Kaneki inclined his head. "Thanks," he said as she ushered him inside.

Touka locked the door behind them. "Here." She handed him the towel and flipped on a light switch, turning it to the lowest setting. When Kaneki saw the lights, his lips twitched upward in a curious smile. "You're soaking wet," Touka grumbled as she watched several clumps of snowflakes dissolve on his shoulder. "How long have you been out there?"

His smile faded in lieu of a calm, closed expression, similar to the one he wore on the bridge that day. "Only about an hour, I think."

Touka watched as he haphazardly scrubbed the towel through his hair. "Oh," she started, trying and failing to sound casual, "how about a cup of coffee? It should help warm you up."

Kaneki's silver eyes blinked at her, their neutral tones brightened by surprise, before he nodded. "Thanks. I can make it, if you want."

"I've got it," Touka said over her shoulder as she headed for the counter. "Besides, you aren't allowed to move until you've dried off. If you leave water all over the floor, I'll kill you." She pulled two mugs from the back shelf and began making the coffee.

Kaneki pulled the towel over his shoulders and slipped off his boots. She didn't look up, but Touka could feel his gaze as he watched her from across the room. "I thought you moved out," he said, his head tipping quizzically to the side.

Touka nodded absently. "I did," she confirmed. "But I'm scheduled to open tomorrow, and some of my stuff is still here. The Manager lets me stay in my old room when I need it."

"That's nice." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to determine whether he was safe enough to leave the doormat just yet. "So...were you staying up to study, or…?"

"Yeah." Touka carefully poured hot water in a circular motion. "Lucky for you, I happened to look outside and see your weird-ass white hairdo through the snow." She finished pouring as Kaneki chuckled nervously, and then he carefully crossed the room and seated himself at the counter.

They were quiet for several long moments as Touka finished brewing the coffee. She prepared a small mug for each of them, and then she came around to sit on the stool beside his. Kaneki stared into the hot liquid; Touka saw his shoulders rise and fall as he quietly sighed.

"Is Hinami still…?" she started, conflicted by a storm of eagerness and hesitancy to fill the silence.

Kaneki tapped a finger against the rim of his mug. "I tucked her in before I left," he answered. "Banjou and Tsukiyama will bring her over tomorrow."

Touka chanced a sip at her coffee; the steam, faint and enticing, curled into the air. She set her mug back down with a gentle clink. "Then...are you…." her gaze faltered as she considered how she might word the question. She decided (as she usually did) to go for the straightforward approach. "Are you back?"

He was quiet for a moment as he took a sip of his coffee, as well. She watched as his haggard features softened upon tasting the beverage, his tightened brow relaxing and his eyes opening just a tad wider. Then he faced her. "Yes," he said simply.

Touka supposed that she could've kept her smile at bay—small and nearly-indistinguishable as it was—but she decided not to. It was genuine, after all. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "Well...I'm glad," she said, decisively.

Kaneki looked stunned.

"I mean…" she swallowed and rubbed at her tired eyes. "I mean, it's about time. You one-eyed half bastard."

Kaneki smiled, then—a real smile, like the ones he used to give, back when his hair was black and his steps were unsure. It was much wider than Touka's. Much more open. But it was genuine in the same kind of way, and for some reason, her cheekbones felt curiously warm.

He took another sip of his coffee. "Well," he said, "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"I'm sorry, too. About...what happened. On the bridge." She said it quickly, as though the words would close themselves off if she didn't rush them.

Kaneki hummed thoughtfully. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and frowned. "It's okay, Touka." His features had settled back into that dismally sad expression he wore so often now. She wanted to wipe it away, to bring the smile back, but she didn't know how. "You were right, you know."

"..."

"It was...selfish of me to leave like that. I thought I was protecting you guys. But…." He tipped his head back and looked up toward the coffee shop's dimmed lights. "But I can't do it, you know? By myself, I mean. I'm not strong when I'm alone. All I did...was hurt you."

Touka did something in that moment that she had never done before—had never imagined herself doing—and she knew of it only as a fleeting sensation that others had done for her, during those times when she had been so lost. She reached out and pressed her hand over Kaneki's, where it lay bunched and desperate atop the counter.

"Kaneki." The white-haired boy stared at her, shocked, perhaps, at the atypical gentleness of her touch. "I forgive you. Don't...don't be sad, okay?" It was a rather childish thing to say. Simple and fleeting. But for her, for them, it was true. And that was enough.

"Touka…."

She half-smiled and pulled her hand away. "And...if you have to leave again...make sure you come back," she added, before finishing the remnants of her coffee. "You asshole."

Kaneki rubbed at his forehead and chuckled. "I will," he told her. "I promise."

And he meant it.

Twenty-four hours later, after the battle with the CCG, Anteiku was nothing more than a smoldering ruin. Touka stood before the wreckage, and she remembered his words.

The falling snow melted on her cheeks. It tasted of salt.

He'll come back, she told herself as she knitted her hands together in a prayer.

And he'll need a place to come back to.

She would build a place for him. For them. And she would wait.

He'll come back.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think?