Author's Note: Just a small scene from a much longer story that I will probably never get around to writing. It did turn out quite nice however, so I thought I'd put it up here.

”You cannot touch me,” he says and his voice has that far away quality it gains sometimes, when he is telling her of the universe, of his role in it, of secrets that shouldn't be known to mortals and of how insignificant she is, compared to it all. ”You cannot touch me; it will kill you.”

And she thinks about how tiny and insignificant she really is, at least compared to him, and if he really believes what he's saying when he tells her that.

”But not right away,” she says and as she takes a step forward he doesn't back away.

”Not right away,” he concedes. ”But it is a slow and creeping death and you will wither away and die.”

”Everything dies.”

He smiles at that, just a little.

”Somehow, it feels as if you are only listening to what I tell you when you feel like it,” he says, and there is humour in his voice and some of that ancient quality has slipped away.

”Of course. I'm just a tiny little mortal, my mind can't comprehend all the things you tell me.”

If she could slip through time as easily as he does, she would go back and slap herself silly for saying that because whatever light had been on his face fades away and he's watching her with eyes far too old and ancient for the face he is wearing.

”You are just a tiny little mortal,” he says and under that tone of his voice that makes him sound eternities old, there is an odd quality, almost as if he was sounding sad.

”Then what does it matter if I die? I will eventually, anyhow,” she says and takes another step towards him, almost succeeding in being subtle.

”Not like this,” he says and now he definitely is sounding sad. Sad and old and slightly broken. ”Not because of me.”

”Why would it matter how? And so what if it's because of you? Better that then because I slipped down some stairs or because I didn't look both ways before crossing the street or something equally as stupid, because we both know that's what's going to happen eventually.”

She's getting angry and she tries to calm down because if she gets too upset he will stop listening, or even worse, leave, and it feels as if she's finally making some sort of progress and she doesn't want to ruin this. She tries to calm down and she almost succeeds until he looks at her, tilting his head ever so slightly and she knows he wants to tell her that she is too young, too foolish and too mortal to understand this.

”Don't you dare,” she says, taking another step towards him and a tiny voice at the back of her head pipes up to inform her that he still hasn't backed away. She ignores it, because she is angry now. ”Don't you dare tell me I'm too young to make my own choices. It's my life, isn't it?”

”It is,” he says. ”And I should not be interfering in it.”

”You're not interfering!”

”But I am,” he says and now he looks tired. Tired, old, sad and broken and she marvels at how someone like her could ever make someone like him care this much. ”I am and I should not be.”

”Isn't that my choice?” she says and this time she doesn't step closer because she's as close as she dares to go and he still hasn't stepped back.

”It is mine as well,” he says and she thinks of how he told her once that he doesn't make choices, that choices are for mortals and she wonders if he is as unsure as she is, because this is all new to him as well. ”And I should leave.”

If she were braver, she'd tell him to do just that, that if he really wants to leave, he can, but she doesn't, because she is quite sure that if he leaves this time, it will break her heart for good, so she just looks at him silently, trying to figure out what he really wants. After what could have been mere moments, or several hours he sighs and looks away and she still isn't sure of the answer.

”I should leave,” he says and he stands up straighter, as if having made his decision and she thinks the hollow pain in her chest really is her heart breaking. She'd never thought the feeling would be quite so literal.

”Please don't,” she says and hates herself for begging.

”I am sorry,” he says and she actually believes him because why else would he sound so sad.

It is that sadness that restores some remnants of her bravery, that makes her take that one last step closer to him, because if he really wanted to leave, he wouldn't be sad, now would he? If he really wanted to leave, he wouldn't say should all the time, as if he's simply obeying orders, not making choices. If he really wanted to leave, he would have already, or he wouldn't even have come here in the first place, because he is eternal and can slip through time as if it didn't exist and surely he had to have seen this coming.

And maybe he did because he looks at her with an unreadable expression and a strange light in his dark eyes as she grabs a hold of his shirt and pulls herself up on her toes.

”Don't,” he says and it's the first time she's ever heard him use a contraction.

She doesn't listen, even if it is something that would normally have her teasing him for hours about going native, because she has far more important things to focus on, and even if he isn't helping, he's not pushing her away either, so she reaches up and plants her lips on his.

He's not cold, but he isn't warm either, cooler to the touch than a human would be. There's no heart beating in his chest and he doesn't breathe and it feels like kissing a statue, some replica of a human carved out of stone and she wonders if she feels warm to him and if he can feel her heart trying to beat it's way out of her chest, or if he just doesn't feel mundane things like that.

There is a bitter taste to his lips, like dust and ashes and old, dried-up blood and she wants to cry because he has never seemed more inhuman to her than right now, but she doesn't because that would prove him right, so she closes her eyes to hide from the way he's watching her and tries to feel some semblance of joy and peace, like there should be in a first kiss. But there isn't any, there's just despair and an acute sense of loss and she can't help but wonder if he does this on purpose.

She lets go of him and steps back and his face is unreadable as he studies her.

“I am sorry,” he says at last.

“I'm not,” she says, even though she knows he can hear the lie.

He sighs and flickers and she fights down the familiar nausea as he suddenly disappears, leaving her alone in her apartment again. It's not until she's sure he's completely gone that she folds her shaking legs under herself and sinks to the floor.