Chapter Text
The sea gnaws at the beach as always, only able to lick at Shinji’s boots as he walks without purpose, earbuds wrapping his mind in a cloth of sound as The Smiths croon to him. A cycle of giving and taking roils below his feet, as his eyes rested upon the Mother-and-Children rocks marking the easternmost part of the beach, before it gave way to an aggressive outcrop of basalt that most animals would not even dare to touch. It had looked like the thirteen-fingered hand of God trying to escape the earth, only to be smothered beneath the sand. Like what little remained of Adam’s carbonized corpse for all to see.
Most people were wary of these monoliths, once believed to be a sign of the end times, now better known for being a preferred nesting colony for the local seagulls; their childish cries cut through the music and forced him to return to reality. The avoidance of the strange formations was something moreso born of superstition and town gossip. Then again, there was a genuine risk of getting bird poop on oneself. Or attacked. They could get notoriously vicious during the summer months.
Of course, that had turned in Shinji’s favor when he could be left alone for a little bit of consistent peace and quiet— well, at least until he was called over by the fishermen who considered themselves his “friends”, or when his shift started.
His peace and quiet is dashed when this time, among the thirteen fingers reaching out for the overcast sky, was a strange, strange boy all by himself. Among the birds, the scene was more believable in a story, or maybe a hallucination. Had he finally snapped? He seemed at home sitting upon the slick rock, atop the thumb of God’s hand, with his alabaster form left bare for all to see, blood-dark eyes locked onto the horizon, almost angelic, almost inhuman. He kneels while maintaining his balance, hands gripping the rock upon which he perched himself.
First of all, he doesn’t think that he knows the boy, or recognizes him from anywhere. He looks a lot like his half-sister, Rei, but she never mentioned anyone else involved in the NERV scandal, besides what remained of the workers or what had lurked within what she had only said to be a research facility and nothing more. They could have been twins separated at birth, except his hair was silver, not the palest of blues.
How he wanted to forget the way it hung over their lives like a miasma. Small towns like these are hotbeds for rumors, especially with the conspiracies regarding NERV, the recently shut down paramilitary research organization that had once governed over his life. Even now, Shinji hesitantly runs a hand across the worn hoodie keeping out the cold, knowing well of the jagged scar across his chest, alongside its brethren of testimony.
Second of all, Shinji instinctively backs up because one moment the mysterious stranger is on the rock and the next suddenly face to face with him, almost uncomfortably so. Way, way, waaay too into his personal space.
“Hello there,” the stranger murmurs, his voice unfathomably gentle, familiar in a primal sense, like an old friend after years without contact. “Who are you?”
He cannot help the blood rushing to his face, or maybe it is the breeze buffeting him. For all his strangeness, the stranger is beautiful, not in the exact way a person could be said to be beautiful, but something more conceptual, or primal. Like the way a whale breaching the air is beautiful, or the passage of seabirds overhead, but nonetheless beautiful, an albatross wrapped in human skin. A part of him wants to get away from him, to run away from whatever is so very wrong with him, and yet some other part of him also feels deeply drawn to his presence. He gives up his jacket to him, to give him some modesty.
Even when he was slightly shivering from the blustering autumnal wind, it was still more for his own sake.
“Ikari,” he finally answers. “Ikari Shinji.”
The boy hums pleasantly, seeming to take the hint and wrapping it around his waist, before he offers his hand.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Ikari Shinji. Nagisa Kaworu.”
Nagisa seems strangely giddy when they shake hands, grip just a little too firm, and letting go just a little too early. This has got to be some of the most attention that he has gotten from another person in what has most likely been months, excepting whatever “family” that the pilots and Katsuragi had. He looks happy, his smile reaching up to his eyes. “But you may call me ‘Kaworu’. We will meet again.”
First name basis? An interesting choice.
“Alright then.”
He looks out to the inland.
When he looks back, the beach is no longer a residence to his grace, the only traces of his existence being footprints leading into the very waters itself; even then, they remain clear of all humanoid forms. Nobody in their right mind would go swimming at this time of the year anyways, and especially not a skinny guy like him.
Strange.
He picks up his hoodie, and walks back to the docks.
“The hell was that all about?” he mutters, finding himself unable to understand the encounter, scratching at the remnants of stubble just beginning to sprout from his jaw.
With nothing else to do, he goes back home, the key slotting into place.
Misato is in the middle of her remote work, typing furiously.
“Hi Shinji,” she says, glancing once in his direction, “Rei’s in her room, and Asuka’s out at work.”
He takes his salt-encrusted boots off at the door, and he pads upstairs.
Maybe she will know what to do. She knows more about these sorts of things than he does.
A stack of books sits on the desk that he helped move into her room a few months ago, alongside bottles full of sea glass and a few small pots of lavender. A few choice photos from when they were “pilots” adorn the walls as well, false but somewhat happy memories of no consequence. She must be scrolling on some sort of forum when she notices Shinji in her peripheral vision with the slightest irritation.
“What is it?” she asks coldly, without malice. “Did something happen on one of your walks?”
“I saw someone at the beach today. He looked a lot like you.”
Her upper lip twitches, but she says nothing. “Do you know anyone like that?”
“No. Why were you walking around the Mother-and-Child rocks anyways?”
“How did you know I was there?”
“Because nobody else would. Besides, you have a penchant for finding yourself in… interesting scenarios already. I wouldn't be surprised if something finally happened.”
“I… Okay…”
Shinji rubs his neck. He has gotten absolutely nowhere regarding the weird angelic-albatross boy, but he just drops it for now. He knows better than to pry. “Thank you anyways. Sorry about the intrusion.”
“Just don’t end up on the news.”
“I won’t.”
And with that he leaves her room and enters his own.
It lacks personality, as Asuka would say; posters Misato picked out alongside him, a closet that still bears the outfit he used to wear if he has the gall to rifle through, and his nightstand. It’s comfortable enough for him to sleep, and that’s all he really cares about. Shinji lies down on his bed, and waits for the light to die.
There’s too much time on his hands, but that was what he negotiated. Working during the night, with plenty of time during the day. Decent enough pay, alongside Asuka and Misato’s earnings. More than plenty to support four people in the same house.
It’s cold in his room, even with all the windows closed. He pulls the covers over his head, a simple protection from the biting air, seeking warmth like blood.
The first time he went into the abominations classified as Evangelions, he was about nine years old. His mother had been dead for about four years. At that point most of his waking life revolved around a white cube with a cot, getting along with the others, the closest equivalent to school, and training.
Instinctively, a hand shifts under his shirt, blindly feeling about the skin, muscles clenching away from cold fingers made foreign if they weren’t his own; they could be if he focused hard enough. Did he miss anything? Are the scars still there? Is there still a chance to return to normalcy, back to Hakone and pretend that nothing bad had ever happened?
A plugsuit had been pushed into his hands, as well as the little headclips that connected his mind to the beast. Everything was in its proper order with the sucking of air. Back then, Shinji was only a little thing in protective rubber guided along by scary adults in suits and guns. Not a single gram of resistance or rebellion in his body. They nudged his back until he got into the plug, guiding him with prods of cold steel.
The hatch inside had sealed shut, before it buried itself into the spine of the Evangelion with a nauseating crunch.
A watery substance floods the cockpit, cold, quick, and he is afraid. Breathing it in burns at first, the body’s survival instincts alight for the first few seconds until it doesn’t. Because Shinji somehow isn’t drowning despite the taste of blood and meat in his mouth. Alive, in an artificial womb. His skull buzzes with connection and a warmth deep within his very being before it severs itself.
Shinji knows exactly how the memory is going to end. A frenzy of pain, a murky wrath that a child should not have at such a tender age, and the heady taste of iron burning his throat. His chest stings from where he lazily clawed at the scar running from his sternum to just below his navel, trying to reopen the sealed wound back up again, reaching into his insides, and taking out all the terrible things that he was almost molded into, before he stops. The skin is raw, red and angry, but…
It’s only memory. He’s safe now.
His father can no longer harm, not after he was sent to prison for all the terrible things that he did to him and the others. The vestiges of his work will remain, but he cannot hurt him anymore than what he already has. That’s what Misato said, at the least.
He rubs soothingly at the skin, before he gets out of bed. Time to go to work.
The docks thrummed steadily, with people and the conversations they held. Some of the fishermen acknowledge him, as they pull up their hauls, bringing forth the powerful stench of the sea from their seines. Soon enough he will take it to the fish plant where thousands of strangers will tear their teeth into it.
The keys to the company truck jingle in his pocket, to remind him of his duties.
Shinji waits in the vehicle while it’s being loaded, and then by the time he turns on the ignition, the sun has long gone to rest, bringing the engine to life with an unceasing hum. A thing of metal, without a single speck of flesh in body nor heart, something that cannot see or hear, or share his thoughts. He clicks play on his walkman before he starts his journey on the route, with a practiced ease.
The roads are darkened with the night, fog rolling in from the shore and blurring the roads ahead, clinging to the frostbitten grass. The ocean is still visible from along this part of the route, and the sea reflects the moon, covering every surface with a dim light that clings like oil. Some people’s houses still have their lights on at such a late hour. There is beauty in the silence, when everything else is asleep except for him and the occasional car driving home from faraway places. He turns on the floodlights that further penetrate the unknown depths, instinctively driving more slowly with his sight more impaired.
He squints as he sees a blur of something that comes up ahead, some kind of deer or some— oh god it’s walking into tHE ROAD SHIT—
Shinji slams the brake with all the force that his meager little body can muster, the gravitational force pressing him into his seat with the cry of his tires grinding into the asphalt. The truck drifts, moving on its own before it skids to a stop. Adrenaline runs through his system as he almost tears open the door and runs into the bitter cold of the dark, steaming escaping from his throat in small, quickly forming puffs.
The lanky form of Kaworu Nagisa cowers before the light, hands armoring his sight away from the light. Alive, and unharmed. The truck had stopped inches away.
One hand pulls away.
“Fancy seeing you here, Ikari,” he says, sheepishly.
He quickly pulls him onto his feet and pulls him into the passenger seat, finding that to his pleasant surprise that he isn’t soaking wet for once, and that he is a bit soft. Increases the temperature in the truck interior, and waits; he watches him tug at something on his ear, before he keeps driving.
Neither of them talk for a long time, passing a few signs, and at least one convenience store before he stops for gasoline.
“You want something?” Shinji asks, before Kaworu raises his head.
“Oh don’t worry about me, Ikari.”
“Alright.”
He pauses, before he looks out to the rest of the stations. “Wait here, and hide if anyone sees you.”
He nods in understanding, observing in curiosity while he works the pump, eyeing the cost and not the click of the tank, and inserts his cash under the far too bright lighting.
“Where are you driving to?” Kaworu asks.
“Fish processing plant a few miles from here,” he answers.
“Is that your job now?”
The pump is returned to its original place. No receipt.
“Always been my job, Kaworu.”
He only hums in answer, watching, always watching, before he rests his head on the dashboard like some kind of dog. Shinji doesn’t ask or pry, just starts driving again. Maybe he can drop him off somewhere where he’ll probably disappear again. That’s what he did the first time anyways.
But he stays in the passenger seat, huffing softly, with his face on the dashboard, watching the landscape blur by them. The occasional bump in the road or pothole causes him to jump in his seat before he relaxes again. Kaworu is so quiet that for a time he ends up forgetting that he’s in the other seat until he sees the lit asphalt of the loading bays.
Shinji pulls over the truck, turning off the ignition for a few seconds, nudging his shoulder only to find the sight of him in sleep. He gently pulls his arms through the hoodie which he sloughed off, and shakes him a little more forcefully.
“Kaworu. Kaworu,” he says. “Wake up.”
Only the softest of murmurs comes from his throat. A sight that tugs at his heart with a stirring fondness, but not helping at all.
Thus with the grace of a bomb-defuser, he folds his body into the space in front of the seat. There is nothing else he can do at the moment, but he cannot be seen. He sees the metal of an ear tag, and torn off plastic, but keeps moving.
It’s not like he can ask him anyways.
He pulls the truck up front to the loading bay, and waits. Someone opens the back, and he taps the wheel nervously. What if someone sees Kaworu? His ear is tagged like some sort of animal, or one of those lab rats. It’s not like anyone comes up to him here, so he should be fine.
Despite worrying so much, nobody comes.
Worse, he hears a soft moan, and a mop of silver juts out from where it was jammed. Dark red eyes look up to him with confusion, tinged with caution.
“Where are we?” he asks rather quickly.
“The processing plant,” Shinji answers. “We’ll be here for a while.”
With a quiet chuff, he curls back up again, pulling the hood up. He looks comfortable despite being in such a cramped space, staring up at the ceiling.
“Do you believe in angels?”
Shinji turns to him.
“What?”
“Angels. Do you believe in them?”
No. Yes.
Maybe?
NERV had claimed to capture four of them during the Second Impact, writhing in agony within large trawling nets to be taken to god-knows-where for research purposes, almost obliterating Antarctica in the process. But they knew there were seventeen recorded angels, supposedly threatening to end the world.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious, that’s all.”
What if Kaworu was one of the seventeen angels?
He grips the wheel. He seems off, yes, but he doesn’t seem to be one of them; he’s too human to be one of those monsters. Too gentle to be an orchestrator of such violent destruction. “I heard that before the Impact, angels were considered messengers of the word of God. Pillars of light, wheels within wheels, creatures with the faces of humans, oxen and eagles. Do you fear them?”
“Um… a little?”
He isn’t lying, but he isn’t telling the truth either. There are the angels that speak to long-dead prophets, and then there are the angels that were once trapped in the ice. Only one was real.
“It’s alright to be afraid of them.”
“What?”
“Angels are meant to be terrifying. They scare away evil with their visages, otherwise there would be no reason for them to say ‘Be not afraid’ at all.”
“They are meant to scare off evil? I thought they were messengers.”
Before Kaworu answers, the back of the truck slams shut, and it is lost.