This fic has been written, re-written, lost multiple times, and abandoned over the past half a year. I can't apologise enough, Stavarn100, like seriously =_= You've reviewed pretty much every chapter of my Prophecy : Shin fic, and I should have gotten this out way earlier. Sorry!

Well, here it finally is. Hope you like it :')

Summary: One encounter, one chance; Lavi had always followed that motto since Day 1, and believed it to be so when he met a young Allen Walker whilst he was travelling with Mana. But, sometimes, the heavens are kind enough to give you a second chance. Oneshot, dedicated to Stavarn100.

Rating: T rated, just cause.

Pairing: Slight Laven if you squint ~

Disclaimer: I don't own D Gray Man, Katsura Hoshino does.

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One Chance

"Gramps, why are we here? It's so cold!"

"Shut it, brat! England has one of the best libraries in the entire world, so deal with it."

Inside of an empty train station, the bitterly cold wind relentlessly blowing in their faces, an old man and a young red headed child stood. The old man had a worn knitted hat covering his head, a long beige cloak shielding him from as much of the cold as possible. The young child wore a black eyepatch over his right eye, two strings coming across his face to hold it in place. He wore a long green poncho with a white scarf wrapped around his neck, his white trousers tucked into worn black leather boots.

The child looked grumpy, pouting as he tried to wrap his poncho tighter around himself, shivering from the wind. He looked up at the old man, who was his master and tutor in the ways of the Bookmen.

A Bookman was an impartial observer of history, recording important events without becoming attached to the events being recorded. Apathy was the most important thing a Bookman had to retain, and the young child was trying his best to imitate the apathy his master showed.

Bookman Junior, as he called himself when he had not yet adopted a persona, found it hard even though he had been training as a Bookman apprentice for at least 6 years. But, at the still tender age of 12, he had found it difficult to handle the bloodshed and monstrosities that humankind exhibited during war.

In the past 6 years Bookman Junior had seen war, murder, rape, torture, betrayal, genocide, patricide, anarchy, slavery, prostitution, trafficking, and goodness knows what else. And, due to his picture perfect memory, Bookman Junior could remember every event in detail, no matter how much a part of him wished to forget most of it.

But Bookman Junior owed his master his life and his sanity, and would have no meaning to living without him.

Before he met Bookman, he was someone's son. He was loved and cared for, and his reason for living was to make his mother happy; she had been forced to work in a brothel, and found it impossible to get rid of the depression that haunted her. Bookman Junior had a real name once, having had 30 alias since then.

He couldn't even remember his own name, not that it mattered now.

His life as a normal human, as a son, came to an end with the murder of his mother. Bookman Junior had met Bookman for the first time earlier on in the day, earning the attention of the old man with his eyepatch and photographic memory. When he came home, he found his mother dead.

The man that had killed her, who had been like a father to Bookman Junior, then preceded to rape him. During the act, Bookman Junior managed to take hold of the knife that the man had used against his mother.

He hadn't meant to kill him.

The death of his father-figure, whom he had murdered, and the death of his mother, who was his sole reason for living, Bookman Junior cracked and lost all remnants of his sanity, becoming an emotional wreck for quite a while afterwards.

Bookman had found him sitting in a pool of blood, half-clothed and staring blankly in front of him with tears streaming down his face.

Bookman took him in, despite the Bookman Clan's misgivings. With lots of hard work, he eventually managed to bring the young red headed child back to the realm of the sane, and began to travel around the world with him, teaching how to record the hidden history.

Bookman Junior liked knowing what others did not; it gave him a sense of purpose, which he needed after the death of his mother.

But it was not easy. Adopting personas was very hard for him, and he often struggled controlling previous ones or with his true self, which lay hidden deep inside, caged and barred from being in control.

Bookman Junior tried to feel nothing, and had managed to adopt an apathetic side to him by the time he had been with Bookman for a few years.

No-one had managed to sway him from his path so far and, as Bookman Junior stood in the lonely English train station, he felt pleased that he was finally starting to live up to his title. And, maybe one day, Bookman would be happy enough to let him be his successor and become the new Bookman.

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"Where are we going, Mana?"

"I'm sure I saw him here, Allen! I'm sure of it!"

The sound of their footsteps through the snow was the only sound Allen could hear, the soft crunch of his boots against the snow seeming loud to his ears.

The houses on either side of them were dark, the windows closed and hidden by curtains or blinds. There was no-one around, and Allen had not seen anyone around for a number of hours.

But, knowing better than to tell Mana he was wrong, which did more harm than good, Allen kept silent, diligently following Mana no matter where they were going.

"I can't find him..."

Mana sounded upset, taking his tophat off and holding it in front of him, gazing forlornly at the empty street before him. Wordlessly, Allen took hold of Mana's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"It's alright," Allen murmured quietly, giving the man beside him a bright smile when he turned to look down at him. "We can look more tomorrow."

"Yes. Yes we shall. You're right!" Mana said, nodding and putting his hat back on. He smiled and hoisted Allen onto his shoulders. "And you must be tired and hungry, so let's go find somewhere to stay."

Allen nodded eagerly, his stomach grumbling in agreement. Both he and Mana laughed, Allen happily bouncing along with Mana's long strides as they made their way to the nearest inn. Mana didn't have a lot of money, but he made enough from little side jobs to give them the most basic rooms with food. Allen also did his bit by helping Mana whenever he did street performances.

Eventually, they reached a small establishment just off the end of the town's high street. It was lit with a small light, illuminating the area around it like a beacon. Upon pushing open the heavy wooden door, a small bell tinkled as Mana and Allen stepped inside.

"Hello there! You're here late!"

A short fat man with a large moustache and a receding hair line leaned over a huge wooden countertop, smiling politely.

"We'd like a room please," Allen asked, trying to imitate Mana's polite way of speaking. As Allen grinned, the two adults laughed.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," the innkeeper replied. "It's £5 per night, sir."

Nodding and taking some coins out of his jacket pocket, Mana handed the money to Allen with a smile, letting the little brunette give the money to the innkeeper.

"Thank you!" the innkeeper said with a laugh, putting the money in a small drawer beside him. He picked up a key from behind him and handed it to Allen, smiling warmly. "Your room is number 7; it's the last one on the left hand side."

Nodding and scrambling off of Mana's shoulders, Allen headed up the stairs with Mana following close behind. The last door on the left was made of dark polished wood, a number plate with a 7 imprinted on to it hanging from a nail near the top of the door.

Handing the key to Mana, who turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, Allen walked into the room and sat down on the single bed, yawning.

"Go get some sleep, Allen," Mana said with a chuckle, ruffling Allen's hair affectionately. "We can eat in the morning."

Nodding and blinking sleepily, Allen took off his coat, carefully keeping the mitt in place on his left hand, and folded and placed the item of clothing on a nearby chair. Then, getting under the covers and getting comfortable, Allen relaxed his aching muscles and fell deeply asleep in a matter of seconds.

Mana stood and watched the young boy sleep for a while, before undressing a little and getting in beside Allen. Giving the boy one last pat on the head, Mana's features suddenly darkened as a detached smile came upon his face.

"Good night... brother..."

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By the time Bookman and his apprentice arrived at their destination, it was morning. Neither of them had slept since boarding the train the night before, and the entire journey had been spent assigning a new persona to Bookman Junior.

"Your new name is Michael," Bookman stated, his dark eyes focused on the red headed boy before him. "We're going to America after this to record more of Victorio's War, so you will remain Michael for the rest of our time in England."

"Got it, Gramps!" the child replied, nodding.

As master and apprentice headed down snow covered streets, making their way towards an inn to settle down in during their stay, Bookman Junior went through his new persona thoroughly to make sure it was all perfect.

Michael was an orphaned 12 year old, his parents killed during a hurricane when he was a little child. His grandfather, Bookman, then took him in and raised him as his own. Bookman was a historian, working as a freelancer for museums and universities in England and Scotland, so the two of them travelled the world, recording important historical events. Michael and Bookman got on, though Michael often aggravated the old man with his carefree attitude and light-hearted countenance.

Michael had a thing for classical music, and wished he could play an instrument. He found it easy to get on with boys his own age, but found himself shy around girls. Michael was good at baseball, but preferred reading over playing sports.

Michael was talkative and friendly, always smiling and laughing at one thing or another. Michael was fluent in a number of languages because of his grandfather. Michael did not like talking about his right eye, and would only say that it wasn't an injury.

Bookman Junior let 'Michael', the new persona, take over as they walked, adopting the persona's idiosyncrasies and mannerisms as he did so, becoming the persona opposed to pretending to be him.

"That inn looks good, Gramps," Michael called, turning towards the old man beside him with a smile. Nodding in approval, both at the improvements his apprentice was making and at the inn itself, Bookman headed towards the inn that Michel had pointed out. Upon entering it, a little bell tinkled, and a fat man who was no doubt the innkeeper gave them a friendly smile behind his counter.

"Hello there!"

"We'd like a room, please!" Michael asked, grinning. The innkeeper nodded, smiling.

"Of course. You're quite lucky; there's only one room left; it's number 8. Oh, and it's £5 per night, sir."

"Here."

Bookman parted his cloak and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out the necessary coins. Michael pouted, yanking on the old man's cloak.

"Aww Gramps, why couldn't I have paid the money?"

"Because only adults can handle money without spending it on sweets and baseball bats."

"But sweets are so good! And what's wrong with my baseball bats?"

Both Bookman and his apprentice continued to argue as they made their upstairs, with the innkeeper chuckling in their wake. They made their way down the hallway and entered the last room on the right.

It was a very basic room with a single bed and a small chair being the only furnishings. There was a medium sized metal basin under the bed, which they assumed was used for bathing, and the view out the window on the other side of the room showed a snowy view of the town around them.

"Sleep, brat. I'm going to go explore the town and gather some news," Bookman commanded, tightening the cord around his neck that kept his cloak around him.

"Okay, Gramps! I'm tired anyway..." Michael mumbled in reply, yawning.

Nodding his head, and giving him a warning look that said 'behave yourself', Bookman left the room, leaving Michael all alone.

The young red head sighed, clambering onto the bed and leaning against its headboard, looking thoughtful. Then, taking off his boots, scarf and poncho, Michael got under the covers and tried to get comfortable.

After a while, when Michael realised sleep was not coming to him despite him being tired, he sat up and sighed irritably. Thinking that food might help him fall asleep easier, the red head got out of bed, put his boots and poncho back on, leaving his scarf wrapped around the bed's headboard, and left the room.

Just as Michael left the room, he noticed that the door in front of him. which was the room opposite his own, was slightly ajar.

Sitting on the bed, head resting on his knees, hands wrapped around himself, was a young brunette boy. He was dressed in a patchwork coat, with a large mitt covering his left hand. He looked dishevelled and dirty, his hair slightly greasy.

But it was the boy's expression that seemed to make Michael freeze.

His expression appeared to be pretty blank, his silver eyes staring mindlessly forward. But, in his eyes, Michael saw something broken and torn.

The boy before him looked as if he had lost everything, or as if he never had anything to start with.

Blinking a few times then looking away with a morose expression, Michael turned away from Room 7 and headed down the hallway, making his way down the stairs.

"Where's breakfast served, mister?" Michael asked the innkeeper, who was polishing some shoes.

"It's in that room over there," the man replied, using a shoe to point towards a door behind him.

"Thanks!"

Heading past the man, giving him a friendly smile, Michael pushed the door open and stepped into a small dining room. There was only one other person in the room; an old man with a long beard, who was reading a newspaper. Michael could hear clinks and the sound of water boiling to his right, and he noticed that there was a kitchen right beside him. He caught sight of a slightly chubby woman, who was stirring something in a large metal pot.

Sitting down, swinging his legs as he waited, the woman came in after a little while carrying the large metal pot. She gave Michael a warm smile when she spotted him.

"Here ya go, lad," the woman said, the lilt to her voice indicating she was Irish. "Eat up!"

Brandishing a bowl out of nowhere, the woman ladled into it the most disgusting looking porridge Michael had ever seen.

Blinking, horrified, Michael eyed the bowl before him as if he expected it to suddenly start moving. The woman didn't notice this, turning towards the old man and giving him some porridge too.

The old man happily tucked into his bowl, looking as if he was enjoying it.

Gulping nervously, and wondering whether you could get food poisoning from porridge, Michael picked up a spoon and tentatively ate a small mouthful of the lumpy grey-white mixture.

It tasted somewhat like how porridge should taste, but it had an extra flavour to it that made Michael gag a little and put his spoon back down; it tasted a little like baking soda.

In fact, Michael spotted a pot of baking soda right beside the large pot in the kitchen.

Just as Michael started to wonder how he was going to get rid of the awful food, the door behind him opened.

Turning around, Michael froze when he saw that it was the young brunette boy from Room 7, who met his gaze and smiled shyly.

"Can I sit here?" the boy asked, pointing towards the chair beside Michael. The red head nodded, returning the smile.

As the brunette sat down, he spotted the bowl of porridge and froze.

"... What is that meant to be?" the boy asked, whispering and looking slightly scared by the lumpy mixture. Michael shuddered.

"The worst porridge I've ever tasted."

For a while the both of them were silent then, turning towards the brunette, Michael gave him a bright smile, trying to forget the broken look he had seen in the boy's eyes earlier.

"I'm Michael, by the way. Nice to meetcha!"

"Nice to meet you. My name's Allen."

Suddenly, the woman entered the dining room again and, when she spotted Allen, she placed a bowl in front of him and gave him some porridge, smiling obliviously.

"Thank... you..." Allen managed to mumble, looking as if the bowl of porridge was his death sentence. Michael patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Let's eat it together?" he suggested, picking up his spoon and smiling nervously. Allen nodded, grimacing.

It took 40 minutes for the two of them to eat their breakfast.

By the end of it, they both looked rather ill, placing their spoons in their empty bowls with matching disgusted expressions.

"For the first time in my life, I don't want seconds..." Allen murmured, placing a hand over his stomach with a wince. Michael nodded in agreement. Just then, the woman poked her head round the side of the kitchen door.

"Who wants seconds?"

Allen and Michael practically ran out of the room.

"Oh, I think I'm gonna throw up..." Michael exclaimed, wrapping his arms around himself tightly as he started to head up the stairs. Allen nodded in agreement, feeling just as nauseous. As they reached the upper floor, plodding down the hallway slowly, the both of them reached the end of it and paused.

Allen shuffled a little, his left hand firmly pressed against his stomach and the other nervously fiddling with a strand of his hair. Michael eyed the brunette curiously and tried to ignore said curiosity that had started to bubble inside of him; Bookmen were not supposed to become attached to other people, solely recording events as they happened with no emotional involvement.

But, for some reason, the boy before Michael intrigued him. And he couldn't seem to be able to get rid of it.

"We better stick together in case we start puking everywhere," Michael found himself saying, mentally slapping himself the instant the words left his mouth. "My granddad has a fear of sick though."

That was a lie, of course, but Michael couldn't let Bookman see him and Allen together.

"We can stay in here," Allen murmured, tilting his head towards his own room. "Mana won't mind you being in there."

"Who's Mana?" Michael asked curiously, heading into the room. For a brief moment Allen's eyes darkened then, disappearing as quickly as it appeared, Allen smiled and entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Mana... takes care of me..." Allen answered after a little while, sounding a little strained. Michael noticed this, turning around to look at the boy curiously.

Before either of them could speak again, Allen's eyes shot wide open and, grabbing the basin under the bed, Allen threw up rather violently into it. Groaning, and knowing he was going to be doing the same thing soon enough, Michael went into his own room and returned with the basin that had been under the bed, grimacing as Allen sat up, coughing and wiping tears away with a shaking hand.

"I am... never eating... porridge again..." Allen said between coughs, pushing the basin away with a disgusted expression. Michael nodded and, shuddering and knowing what was coming, he placed his own basin before him and vomited.

When he had finished, coughing and sniffing as tears slid down into the basin before him, Michael pushed it away and sighed.

"Gramps is gonna be so pissed at me..." Michael grumbled, knowing Bookman was going to berate him for being ill and useless to him. "By the way, where is this Mana guy?"

"I don't really know," Allen said quietly, shrugging. "I usually wake up without him being here, but he usually comes back before midday."

Nodding, Michael shakily stood up, stumbling a little as he made his way outside. Heading down the stairs and walking into the bathroom, which was located underneath the stairs, Michael rinsed his mouth out thoroughly. Then, finding a tower of cups beside the sink, he picked one up and filled it with water, heading back upstairs.

Upon opening the door to Room 7, he found Allen curled up on the bed, looking pale-faced and shaky. The brunette noticed the cup of water in Michael's hands and smiled gratefully.

"Here," Michael said, giving the cup to Allen. The boy then rinsed his mouth out, spitting into the nearest basin, before downing the rest of the cup, sighing afterwards.

"We should get rid of the sick," Allen stated, eyeing the two basins with a resigned expression. Michael nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Looking out the window, and seeing that there was nothing beneath them but lots and lots of bushes, Michael opened the window wide and picked up one of the basins, gagging a little as the stench of vomit hit him like a brick to the face.

"W-wait, Michael, we can't just pour it - !"

Ignoring Allen, Michael poured the basin's contents out of the window, being careful not to get any sick on the window itself or on the wall beneath him. Allen blinked a few times then, shrugging, picked up the other basin and did the same thing.

"It really smells in here now," Michael murmured, keeping the window open with a grimace.

"Yeah..." Allen said with a nod, sitting back down on the bed.

The two of them were quiet for a bit, both feeling pleased that their stomachs seemed to be settling down. Then, flopping down on the bed and lying on his back, Michael turned his head towards Allen and smiled.

"So, what're you and Mana doin' here then?"

Allen was quiet for a while. Then, almost looking nervous about saying anything, Allen gave the red head a small smile.

"We're looking for Mana's brother," he replied, looking to one side. "Mana... Mana just wants to find him. So we've been looking everywhere, asking about him and hoping someone knows where he is."

Michael could tell that there was something else behind Allen's words, for there was a resigned look in the boy's eyes that radiated hopelessness. But, at the same time, Michael could tell that Mana meant a lot to Allen and, no matter where they went, Allen would follow Mana to the ends of the Earth.

It reminded Michael of how he was with Bookman, and how he tried his hardest to keep in step with the old man, no matter what they were recording or where they were going. Even in the most gruesome of situations, Michael always tried to do his best to try and fulfil Bookman's expectations.

"I'm sure you'll find him eventually..." Michael said after a while, giving Allen a comforting smile. The boy turned towards Michael, returning the smile.

"Yeah... I'm sure we will..."

Silence once more took over the room, Allen sitting and gazing to one side thoughtfully whilst Michael glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Then, when Allen seemed to have finished thinking about whatever he had been thinking about, he looked down at Michael curiously.

"What about you? Are you and your granddad just travelling or...?"

"Me and Gramps are travelling historians for these museums and stuff! We go round the world finding stuff for them."

"That sounds really cool!"

"Yep! We're just checking in at the moment, but we're going to America afterwards."

"What's it like abroad?"

Michael blinked a few times as Allen asked this, noticing an emotion that he couldn't quite identify in the boy's silver eyes.

"It's... different. One place is never the same as the next, but then there are lots of things that are the same," Michael explained, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "It's cool, travelling around everywhere. But..."

Michael stopped himself from continuing, feeling a strong tug in his psyche from Bookman Junior. He almost said that he wished he had a home to go back to, but Bookmen had no home. They were like shadows, flitting from place to place, staying nowhere long enough to consider it home.

Dimly in his mind, Michael felt a little panicked; this had never happened before. He felt Bookman Junior inside of him, his anger and mild panic making him close his eye and sigh quietly.

Allen said nothing, thinking that Michael didn't really want to talk about his travels.

"I used to be in a circus. Kinda wished we went abroad though..."

The words left Allen's mouth before he could stop himself, and his eyes widened. He never talked to anyone about his past. Never.

"That's cool," Michael commented, smiling. "What did you do there?"

Allen was quiet for a long time, looking down at his left hand with a morose expression.

"I helped clean things and set things up at first," he said after a while, voice quiet. "But when I met Mana, he let me help him with performances sometimes."

"What did Mana do?" Michael asked, sitting up and grinning; he liked circuses.

"He was a clown," Allen replied, finding himself smiling as well. "It kinda got on my nerves a bit at first though; he was really annoying!"

Michael laughed at that.

Suddenly, the door opened and in stepped Mana.

He was a tall man, dressed in a black three-piece suit with a tophat. He had stubble on his chin and around his mouth, and he was slightly tanned. His eyes were dark, and in them Michael could see something hidden away inside.

It scared him.

"Oh, hello there," Mana said, tilting his head and eyeing the two boys on the bed curiously. "May I ask why...?"

"Oh, this is Michael! I saw him at the breakfast table, and we ended up eating bad porridge and got sick. I thought we should s-stay together in case we got really really ill," Allen stammered, smiling nervously. "S-sorry, Mana."

"It's quite alright," Mana replied politely, though a shimmer of something malevolent passed through his eyes briefly as he spoke.

Knowing that he should leave, Michael stood up and gave Allen a parting wave.

"See ya around, Allen..."

With that, Michael left the room, shutting the door behind him. As he walked into his own room, he leant on the door behind him and frowned, feeling concerned.

The look in Mana's eyes reminded him awfully of someone who was completely and utterly insane.

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By the time Bookman came back, he found Michael fast asleep in bed, virtually all of him hidden by the bedcovers.

"Wake up, brat!"

Bookman kicked the bed violently, making Michael jump awake as if he had been electrocuted.

This was not a good idea.

Before Bookman could ever register what was happening, Michael threw up over the side of the bed, narrowly missing Bookman's boots. The red head looked very pale, and he trembled as he sat up, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand.

"S-s-sorry Gramps," Michael managed to say, giving the old man an apologetic, and slightly nervous, smile; Bookman could be very violent at times, and Michael could remember past experiences from other personas.

The old man stared at him for a few seconds then grunted, closing his eyes and turning away.

"Since you're so useless you can't help me, you can clean that up and stay here."

As simple as that, Bookman left the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Michael winced at the loud noise, then looked down at the floor with a scowl.

"Well, this sucks..."

Getting out of bed, carefully avoiding the sick, Michael looked for his boots. And then he realised.

"Oh you are kidding me!"

Because Bookman had kicked the bed, he had ended up knocking over Michael's boots, which were now covered and filled with sick.

Looking as if he might cry, for he loved his boots, Michael picked them out of the sick and sighed, knowing they were ruined.

Opening the door with one hand, carefully avoiding the drips of vomit coming off of his boots, Michael found a bin at the bottom of the stairs, into which he flung his now-ruined boots. He whimpered, sniffing.

"Stupid porridge... And now I don't have any shoes..."

Sighing, and wishing he had never attempted to eat the porridge, Michael walked up to the counter and coughed, getting the attention of the innkeeper, who had been dozing in his chair.

"Can I have some cleaning stuff, please?" Michael asked, giving the man a small smile. The man frowned, looking confused, then opened a cupboard beside him.

"Here you go," he said, handing Michael a large bucket, brush, and sponge. "You can use the bathroom there to fill it up with."

"Thank you..."

Heading into the bathroom, and filling the bucket up with hot soapy water, Michael carefully carried the now heavy bucket upstairs, trying not to slop water everywhere. Managing, just about, to reach the end of the hallway without creating a mess, Michael put the bucket down, opened the door to Room 8, picked the bucket back up again, and entered the room.

Sighing, still not feeling entirely better yet, Michael put the bucket down beside the bed, got down on his knees and started to scrub and get rid of the sick. It took quite a while, and Michael actually ended up being sick in the bucket halfway through, though he didn't throw up much.

After about half an hour, feeling tired and just plain awful, Michael managed to finish cleaning up. Pouring the contents of the bucket out of the window, and keeping the bucket beside the bed just in case, Michael got back into bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

A few hours later, the sound of someone knocking on the door made Michael wake up. Luckily, he didn't throw up this time, actually feeling a lot better. Standing up and opening the door, he saw Allen standing in the hallway outside, smiling shyly. He was holding a basin, which Michael had left in Allen's room earlier on that day.

"You left this behind," Allen said quietly, handing the basin to Michael.

"Thanks. You feelin' any better?" Michael asked, taking the basin and putting it behind him in the room as he spoke. Allen nodded.

"Sleeping helped," he replied, smiling. "What about you?"

"I was sick twice earlier, but I think I'm okay now though," Michael said with a laugh. "I've ruined my boots though..."

Allen looked down at Michael's bare feet and gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Do you have any spare shoes?" Allen asked. Michael shook his head.

"They're the only ones I've got! Gramps is gonna kill me when I ask for new shoes..."

Allen was quiet for a little while. Then he gave Michael a bright smile.

"I'll go out and get you some!"

Just as Allen started to walk away, Michael grabbed his right arm and stopped him, frowning.

"You don't need to do that," Michael said quietly. "Plus, do you have the money to get some?"

"I can do a performance or two to get some money," Allen replied, voice firm.

Michael slowly let go of Allen's arm, looking away. Allen sighed and, murmuring a quiet goodbye, left the red head alone in the corridor.

Going into his room and shutting the door behind him, Michael sank down and sat down on the floor, whacking his head on the door behind him in frustration.

In the space of a few hours, he had made friends with someone. In the space of a few hours, he had felt emotion; happiness, sadness, concern, worry. He could not and should not feel for other people, even as a guise for his persona. These emotions went right through him, down to the core of his being.

For a brief moment, Bookman Junior pushed the persona aside and buried his face in his hands, shaking slightly. Thinking that perhaps the persona was flawed in some way, Bookman Junior settled for being 'himself' for now.

"I don't get it..."

Allen should be no more than a shy brunette with a lot of issues to Bookman Junior; issues that were none of his business. He should not feel worried about Mana, and how he treated Allen. He should not feel concerned that Allen was in too deep, and that he needed someone to be there for him.

He should not be thinking that he should be that person, either.

But, for a reason that Bookman Junior could not explain, he felt drawn to Allen. Maybe it was because it had been a long time since Bookman Junior had been around another child, or maybe it was because there was something about Allen and how he acted that reminded Bookman Junior of himself.

Either way, this couldn't continue.

Bookman Junior had chosen this path for himself, and owed Bookman everything for taking him in. He would have been left in that out-of-the-way town in China, orphaned and starving, if not for Bookman.

He couldn't let anyone make him deviate from the life he had chosen for himself, no matter what.

Suddenly, the door opened behind him, shoving him headfirst into the side of the bed, the bucket tipping over.

"What a stupid place to sleep!"

It was Bookman, who was carrying a bag with several books in it. He scowled down at the red headed child before him.

"Sorry, Gramps..."

Letting Michael take over again, warning him to behave and follow the Code, Bookman Junior receded into darkness.

"Where are your boots?" Bookman asked, frowning at Michael's bare feet.

"I was sick on them, and they got ruined so I threw them away."

Bookman sighed and whacked Michael round the top of the head.

"You idiot! Now I have to buy you new ones!"

"You were the one who kicked the bed and made me be sick, stupid old man panda!"

"You were the one who got sick in the first place!"

"I had no idea that porridge was that bad! You're so unfair!"

Michael crossed his legs and pouted, looking away moodily. Bookman pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

"Well, you'll have to walk bare foot until we reach a shop," Bookman stated, feeling satisfied as Michael's face fell. "We're leaving to get the next boat to America anyway."

Michael froze at that, looking up to meet Bookman's gaze.

"N-now?"

"Yes."

"We're... we're going now?"

"Yes, you fool! What's your problem?"

Michael fell silent, looking down at his hands.

"... There isn't one..."

Getting up and ignoring the emotions he was starting to feel build up inside, Michael put on his poncho and scarf and walked out the door.

He gave Room 7 a lingering look as he passed, feeling tears build up. Wiping them away with a scowl, Michael went down the stairs and left the inn.

Bookmen have no need of a heart. So why did Michael's hurt so much?

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

If it were even possible, it was colder than it had been the day before. Allen wrapped his arms around himself to try and stop himself from shaking so badly, and his breath came out in great clouds of white vapour as he headed down the high street.

Performing had warmed him up a little and, after doing a few one-handed juggling acts, since he couldn't use his left arm, and a few balancing acts over a rope, Allen had enough money to get some shoes for Michael.

He didn't really get why he was going to so much effort for someone he had only met earlier on that morning. But there was something about Michael that made him feel curious. From the red head's eyepatch, to the look the boy got in his eyes sometimes, to the grins and smiles he gave that seemed both fake and genuine.

Allen couldn't figure Michael out at all.

As he trudged down the street, eventually finding a shoe store, Allen stepped inside and sighed as a rush of warmth flooded over him.

Standing behind a counter was an old woman, her grey hair scraped back in a tight bun, making her features seem sharp and unwelcoming. She turned towards Allen as he entered the shop, turning her nose up at his dirty appearance.

The instant Allen pulled the money out of his pocket, the woman stopped glaring at him.

After a few minutes of looking, feeling the old woman's stare boring into the back of his head, Allen eventually found a pair of boots that he deemed small enough for Michael. They were made of black leather, and had three white straps across the top.

Allen swore the boots were only £15, but the old woman charged him for nearly double that.

Sighing as he left the shop, carrying the boots in his arms, Allen made his way back towards the inn. It started to snow as he headed down the street, and lots of people started making their way inside, eager to escape the biting wind and bitter flakes of snow falling to the ground.

But, when Allen crossed the street, a man walking by suddenly walked right into him, knocking him to the ground. He cried out as he hit the ground hard, twisting his right arm underneath him. The boots flew out of his hands and landed a metre or two away.

The man picked up the boots and ran away with them.

"Hey, those are mine!" Allen shouted, getting up with a wince and trying to run after the man. However, he soon lost sight of him and, due to how weak he was after being ill earlier, Allen found himself unable to run after him for long.

Feeling hot frustrated tears build up in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat, Allen made his way slowly back to the inn, cradling his right arm close to his body.

He had tried so hard and, like always, had failed in the end to achieve anything.

Upon reaching the inn, which was blissfully warm compared to the cold outside, Allen made his way up the stairs, dragging his feet and feeling dejected. He reached the end of the hall, and was just about to knock on the door to Room 8 when he noticed that the door was open.

There was no-one in there.

Thinking that Michael could be elsewhere in the building, Allen checked the bathroom and the dining room. He wasn't there.

"Excuse me," Allen asked politely, pulling on the edge of the innkeeper's jacket, who was putting a key back on the shelf behind him. "Where are the people who were staying in Room 8?"

"Oh, they left a little while ago," the innkeeper replied. "The old man said they weren't coming back, so they must be moving on somewhere."

The tears slid down Allen's cheeks and pattered onto the floor silently.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

6 years later...

The hospital was quiet, the sound of faraway ticking clocks being the only sound to punctuate the silence. Then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet hospital.

A pair of booted feet headed down one of the corridors, the swish of a scarf and the sound of someone humming disturbing the silence. A nurse headed in the other direction and, when she was out of earshot, an appreciative whistle was given in response to the woman's swishing hips and rather shapely figure.

"Strike!"

A red headed teen, nearing 19 years of age, dressed in the customary uniform of an Exorcist of the Black Order. An orange scarf was wrapped around his neck, a long black and white coat reaching down to his knees, his white trousers tucked into black boots. A black eyepatch covered his right eye, and the teen's red hair was pushed back with a green and black bandana.

The teen eventually reached a door, which he opened as quietly as possible.

Lying down in the bed, bandaged and beaten up, one eye completely covered over with white gauze, was Allen Walker.

"Oh, hey there Lavi. Can you keep watch on Allen? I need to go check up on my sister."

"Sure thing, Chief!"

The Chinese man, who had been sitting by Allen's bedside, stood up and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, leaving Lavi alone with the sleeping teen.

Lavi found a chair to sit down in, looking down at Allen's sleeping form with a thoughtful expression. He certainly remembered Allen, though his hair was now white and he had a scar on the left side of his face, and it was strange to see him again after so long.

The minutes passed by, and soon the sun was nearing its highest point in the sky. Lavi sighed, leaning back in his chair and wondering how he was going to go about this.

Allen knew him as Michael, his 30th persona. Lavi had had 18 more since then, being his 49th persona at that moment. Allen didn't know about any of that, thinking he really was called Michael, and that Bookman really was his grandfather.

Lavi didn't really want to explain it to Allen, and he could remember feeling bad at the time about leaving without saying goodbye. Lavi promptly ignored this memory, berating himself internally for even remembering it.

Then Allen started to stir.

The teen's features screwed up as he woke, looking pained as his visible eye fluttered open.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

Allen froze, looking to the side, eye wide. When he saw Lavi, his eye widened further still, and he sat up, astounded.

"Long time, no see, huh Allen?" Lavi said quietly, giving Allen a small awkward smile.

"... Yeah..."

Allen blinked a few times, looking very out of it and confused. Then he frowned.

"Why are you here? Why are you dressed as an Exorcist? Why did you just leave and not say goodbye? I don't..."

Allen fell silent, looking at Lavi with clenched fists.

"Me and Gramps are members of a Clan called the Bookman Clan," Lavi explained, looking up at the ceiling. "We record historical happenings, which is why we're Exorcists right now. But we have to lose our identity and adopt a fake one everytime we go somewhere new."

Allen frowned, looking confused.

"I'm not really called Michael," Lavi muttered. "That was my 30th name. I'm called Lavi now. And Gramps said we had to leave, and I couldn't..."

Lavi stopped speaking, sighing a little. He then looked up at Allen and gave him an apologetic smile.

"Wanna start over?"

Allen blinked a few times, then smiled.

"Sure. My name's Allen Walker, nice to meet you."

"Nice to meetcha, Allen! Name's Lavi."

"You know, I've never liked porridge since then."

"Same here! That stuff was awful!"

The two sat in silence for a while, then Allen started to laugh. Lavi soon joined in.

"By the way," Lavi said after he had finished laughing, leaning back in his chair. "What happened? Did you get those boots in the end?"

"Someone stole them off me before I could get back to the inn," Allen replied, lying back down with a huff. "They cost me £30, as well."

"Sorry..."

Allen shook his head, giving Lavi a warm smile.

"It's fine. I was just glad that I had made my first friend."

Lavi's eye widened at that. Then, after a few seconds, he returned the smile and chuckled a little.

"Yeah... I was glad too..."

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Shitty endings ftw :L Well, I hope you liked it, Stavarn100, and that it was worth waiting all this time for ~

xrowa-chanx