DISCLAIMER:
I own nothing but the general plot idea. Everything else is from The Book Thief, and belongs to Markus Zusak.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Just a little idea, because we all wanted Rudy to have his kiss, I think.

I am Death. It is not negotiable, deniable or a reason for the reader to fear. You may wonder: Death — is it a definition? I see it so much it may well be defining. But a fighting soldier sees war, is he a war all himself? I will allow you to make your own mind up. Humans so often do this without my permission anyway.

Perhaps it may be best described as my occupation. It is certainly something which occupies me.

~ A thought occurs to me ~

It may be described as a job for life.

However, only in the same way that a butcher is a job for... animals.

Do you understand?

I doubt you do.

I cannot have an opinion on my job. I do not have the luxury of choice. I get to meet plenty of people though, and a lot of my work is outside, in the fresh air.

~ Minor notes ~

I will meet every single person there ever was at least once.

Is this a bonus?

The reader is again granted permission to decide for himself or herself.

And, it may interest you to know:-

The air is not so fresh when I meet most people.

Yes, I lied earlier. I beg your forgiveness. Most often, the air is fetid, dank; it reeks of death. It reeks of sorrow, of sadness, of fear and anger. There is so often anger. A red suffusing mass that enters everywhere. So red. So terrible.

~ I would ask this: ~

Why do humans become angry at death?

I would strive to answer:

The resentment is directed to their own failings.

They could not help.

The anger is ugly. Untamed, rough, brute. The sorrow is... cleaner, somehow. A pale, pale blue. Cleansing may be a better way to describe it.

But the people, oh the people. The humans, they constantly surprise me. Some say they are wonderful; I say they evoke wonder, yes. I will meet them all, in time, and they will meet me.

~ Q&A ~

A question: Will I ever forget these people?

An answer: No.

I will never forget any one of the souls I carry away. In some way, they become a part of me; a whisper of identity that attaches itself to something that is entirely without any of its own. They are my burden, if it can be described as such, and I will carry them. Someday I may be able to get rid of my burden, but I shoulder it until then.

But, the people I meet... some are not so forgettable as others. Some linger for a while; a nagging feeling that something is not quite forgotten, not quite remembered. Others tickle me briefly, like feathers, with their passing.

There are a few, not favourites, just... special, in a way. The brave, the weak, the frightened, the strong... there are many types.

Rudy Steiner was a type of his own making.

His hair was the colour of lemons. It tells me so in Liesel's book, oh-so many times. As if I would ever forget the boy's hair. Or indeed, the boy himself.

~ Rudy Steiner's current activity part 1 ~

He will not leave.

~ My subsequent current predicament part 1 ~

Rudy Steiner will not leave.

Yes, Rudy Steiner will not leave me, not without Liesel Meminger. He stays with me, an observer to my work. I do not talk to him. I would like to, but it is beyond me. I struggle to understand how he can stay. I confess I know what the boy would say if I asked why he stays.

~ The answer ~

A kiss from a Saumensch, sir.

He is a kind boy. He does not interfere in my work. There is so much of it now. He sees it all, too. He often weeps as I pick up the Jew's souls, in such terribly large numbers. All witness the destruction and cruelty, but Rudy sees the aftermath; the total cost of a short man with a fussy moustache's perverse ideals. The wool is pulled over other people's eyes. Rudy is hidden under no wool; he peeks through from under his coating of dust.

One day, or night, or afternoon —time here holds no significance, it is simply passing— he tells me of a secret, of Liesel's Max secret. I let him tell me; I do not tell him I already know. He tells me, to pass the time. To hold out the waiting.

~ Rudy Steiner's current activity part 2 ~

He waits for Liesel.

~ My subsequent current predicament part 2 ~

Rudy Steiner waits for Liesel.

Rudy is both brave and frightened. He is both weak and strong. He waits, he waits for his Saumensch. For Liesel, for a kiss.

He stays with me, waiting for her. The perfect little Aryan boy, so young, so precious... but so irrevocably broken. The boy is still broken. He would not be with me if he were not. Broken, but not hurting. He does not hurt; he is simply waiting. This is something I feel I must stress.

~ Rudy, the boy ~

He is still dusty.

Dust sits in his hair, in his pyjamas.

It sits in the dimple on his chin when he grins; in the laugh lines that etch his young face.

He tells me it is Engel Staub, angel dust from Himmel Street.

Oh Rudy... you sweet, sweet boy.

That, that one tragic thing he tells me, it shows me humans. The boy is gifted; he moves me beyond description. And, I tell you now, I know for that boy who the angel that dusted Himmel Street was. I did not tell him she almost washed the dust from him with tears.

Liesel, his hair is the colour of lemons. I wish you would come and see it for yourself.

Oh Rudy...

I swear, the boy knows how to pull strings of a heart I do not in fact palpably have. He waits so eagerly, so hopefully, it breaks the aforementioned heart.

If there was a window where we are, he would have his nose pressed against it like a hungry child pressing themselves against a confectionary glass pane. His eyes greedily devour Liesel, whatever she does. He watches her live, and waits for her to die. Is this unhealthy? Is this selfish? Poor Rudy just wants a kiss that a bomb denied him.

She tasted his lips, he tells me excitedly, and he will taste hers in return. It is only fair, he tells me.

Fair. Oh Rudy, you use that word in such an innocent context. How do men twist its meaning so far it is all but distorted?

The day when I collect her, I almost feel excited for myself. And Rudy, oh Rudy, he is quiet.

"Rudy?"

She was old, Liesel, and her voice was cracked with age and emotion. Rudy, bomb-struck Rudy, was young. Still dusty.

His waiting was over. He did not need to tell her he had been waiting. I am sure she could read it in his hungry eyes, his nervous smile.

There was a moment, several moments, of the two simply looking at each other. Eating each other with their eyes, every tiny detail. And then...

And then they were eleven years old again, and Rudy was standing waist-deep in the cold water of the Amper river, holding a book. Not dusty, not bombed. The book thief, so young, so small, was standing at the edge of the river. Not old, not weary. The boy waved the book and yelled, with a big grin on his face,

"How about a kiss, Saumensch?"

And this time, this time the girl waded into the river beside him and took his face in her hands and kissed him, so gently, so carefully.

Then she stepped away, love and regret and sadness clear in her face. And Rudy's face... he looked so surprised it was almost comical, so proud of himself, so pleased.

"Ja, nur für dich, Saukerl." Liesel whispered with a smile.

Yes, only for you, pig.

As I led them away, a hand reached up to tug at my cloak. Rudy, dear Rudy, pulled me down further and, cupping his hand to my head, whispered me something.

~ The whisper of a triumphant boy ~

"She tasted like Frau Diller's mixed lollies, sir."

Oh, Rudy... of course she did.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is my first published attempt at FanFiction. READ AND REVIEW; I'd love to hear what you think.