Gospel 1:12

Makoto tossed, trying to find a comfortable position on the couch. After a lengthy search, he finally found a spot that didn't leave too many springs digging into his back and pulled his blanket around him tighter.

The woman of his dreams was sleeping in his room. He was in the living room. The woman of his dreams was sleeping in his bed. He was on the couch. Makoto rolled again, pressing his face into the cushions and wondering if in his wildest (or most deranged) dreams he'd ever dreamt of a situation like this.

He'd gotten Misato a cup of coffee, practically running to and from the machine, afraid that something might happen if he left her alone for too long, and she'd taken the mug without actually seeming to notice that he was there. She'd taken three sips then set the mug down staring into it until the steam stopped rising.

He'd sat down next to her, but said nothing. He'd begun to feel a vague sense of anxiousness as he sat watching her watch the cup; he wasn't sure if she was even blinking. "Misato?" he'd asked tentatively, unsure if disturbing her was the right thing to do.

She blinked then, her eyelids gradually dropping then climbing back up. She turned her head towards him slowly, as if the muscles in her neck had turned to stone, and he stammered a few times under her torpid gaze before actually getting any coherent words out. "Would you like me to take you home?" It'd seemed to take her much longer than it should have to give him a single, languid nod.

She didn't say anything as Makoto helped her to her feet, nor as they staggered from the lounge with Makoto supporting more of Misato's weight than she was. "I'll get you to your car and then I'll take you home. Does that sound alright to you?" he'd asked. Misato's only response had been to grunt, which Makoto hoped was meant as an affirmative.

He'd sighed in relief when they finally reached an elevator and once inside he used the wall to help him keep Misato upright. When the elevator finally stopped at the first out of twenty floors of the parking complex, Makoto realized he had a new problem: he had no idea where Misato's car was. "Misato?" he asked quietly, frowning when he failed to get a response. "Misato?" he asked again, shaking her gently. Her breathing didn't alter in the least; she'd passed out.

Makoto sighed in time with the hydraulics as the elevator door wheezed shut. Even if he had the time to search all twenty levels, he didn't have the strength to drag Misato along with him and he certainly wasn't about to leave her behind. That brought a second, even greater problem to his mind. Even if he beat the odds and found her car, he had absolutely no idea where she lived. He may have nursed a slight fixation for her, but he was by no means a stalker. He ordered the elevator to take them aboveground and when it stopped, he readjusted his hold on Misato and half carried, half dragged, her to the closest lube-line station.

It was late enough that all the salarymen were home but those who kept less regular schedules were still out and when Makoto carried Misato onto the train and eased her into a seat. He knew that they were the focus of every pair of eyes in the train. They must have made an extremely odd pair: carrying Misato had left his uniform in disarray and she was wearing only a set of medical scrubs, her face covered with pink streaks and her hair standing up in thick spikes. No one got too close to them as Makoto still had the bag of Misato's clothes clutched under one arm, the stink of bakelite radiating from it in almost palpable waves. He hoped that they didn't run into a police officer, because he had no idea how he would explain this.

The train deposited them a couple blocks from his apartment and by the time he finally reached it Makoto was panting and sweating heavily despite the touch of chill in the air; Misato was a lot heavier than she looked. He carried her into his room and laid her on his futon, staying only long enough to grab a change of clothes and a blanket before retreating to the living room. He still had her clothes and took those into the kitchen, tucking them away in the farthest corner possible.

He'd gone back into the living room and changed his clothes, throwing his uniform under the coffee table and wrapping himself in his blanket then lying down on the couch. Which was how he found himself in his current situation, tossing on the couch and torturing himself with thoughts of the woman in his room.

He finally gave up on ever falling asleep and sat up, kicking the blanket off. If he was going to be awake then he might as well do something useful with himself. He went into the kitchen, ignoring the stink already lacing the air and pulled the lid off of a pot whose side proclaimed 'rice flour,' in delicate brush strokes. He reached inside and grabbed several thousand yen worth of loose coins and bills then picked up the bag containing Misato's clothes and headed out of the apartment.

The laundromat was only a couple blocks away and it was now late enough that the only people still on the street were the night owls. There was only one other person in the laundromat, a young man who was sitting by the door, reading a magazine. The man nodded at Makoto in greeting as he walked in and he returned the nod. "Pretty late to be doing laundry," the man said in a tone that indicated he talking only to pass the time. Makoto shrugged rather than reply and emptied the bag on a counter, straightening the clothes out before feeding them into the cleaner. "You're girlfriend's?" the man asked, his eyes flickering up from his magazine for only a moment.

"Uh, yeah," Makoto said, half-expecting Misato to appear and berate him for having the gall to affirm such a claim. In fact, it did feel like someone was watching him and when Makoto suddenly looked up, he caught a glimpse of movement through the laundromat window, a figure in a familiar blue suit vanishing around a corner.

A Section 2 agent, Makoto thought to himself. He'd noticed more of them hanging around after the attempt on the Commander's life, so it made sense that the attempt on the Children's would make them even more prolific. He wondered if it was only coincidence that had brought the agent here, or if he was keeping tabs on the Major. If it's the latter then he really should have given me a hand carrying her, Makoto thought sourly.

The other man looked up from his magazine, his nose wrinkling as the smell of bakelite finally reached him. "What is that?"

"Accident at work," Makoto replied hurriedly, but the man accepted the explanation and went back to his magazine. Makoto finished feeding Misato's clothes into the cleaner, although he hesitated a moment when he reached her underwear, fighting down a blush as he loaded them into the machine. It accepted his coins and hummed into life as it started the cleaning process.

The laundromat was quit except for the low hum of the cleaners and occasional rustle of the magazine as the man turned a page. Makoto began pacing slowly, a single question in his mind: what was he going to do in the morning? He was glad that he'd fought down his baser impulses and could face Misato with nothing to regret, but no matter how chivalrous he'd been there was no way that the relationship between the Major and himself was going to be the same.

His friends’ gibes aside, he'd never imagined that he'd ever have much of a chance with the major. She was just so…attractive, and whenever she was close by he felt himself drawn to her like the proverbial moth to the flame. He'd known that he could never hope to impress her with his looks, so he just tried to be himself and hoped that by doing anything she asked of him, he could gain her favor.

That thought brought him up short. He'd put his life at risk more than once in order to obtain classified data for her without receiving anything in the way of a reward for it. Was she using him, using his infatuation as leverage? He shook his head. He was sure that Misato wasn't that type of woman, wasn't she? Could she be callous enough to abuse his trust? He shook his head. No, when he'd stolen the information on the 5^th Child for her, she'd recognized the risk he'd put himself at, and appreciated his efforts. She knew his feelings for her, but she didn't manipulate him through them, but then again, she didn't acknowledge them either.

He'd always thought that that was because he was in direct competition with Kaji Ryoji but if the other man was gone… Thinking about him made Makoto queasy. Kaji wasn’t just gone—he was dead. What were his chances of ending up the same if he involved himself with Misato? Then again, he countered himself, what where his chances of living to a ripe old age with Angels trying to blow the entire city to oblivion and half the human race seemingly out to get NERV anyway?

Makoto let his pacing lead him over to the line of vending machines and he idly fingered the coins in his pocket as he debated whether he wanted hot or cold coffee. Before he could make his decision, one of the cleaners spat out a neatly pressed and wrapped bundle of clothes, which the other man picked up then left without a further word.

Makoto sighed as he glanced at his watch and then fed his coins into the cold beverage machine. The night only seemed to be getting longer.

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Gendo stared into the darkness hanging above of his face. It had an almost physical presence and he could hear it move, hear it laugh, hear it mock him if he listened hard enough. You almost lost him, it whispered. You almost lost it all. The words gnawed at his insides and he could feel the mass of the dark suckle at his worries and doubts, using them to bolster its presence. He was losing control, events were carrying beyond where they should have and the tighter his grip became the more they seemed to slip from his hands.

The room was small, almost stifling but it had never been intended for use as a bedroom. It'd been an office before Gendo converted for his own use. He'd had an apartment once, a place that he called home, but it was only that because Yui had been there. Wherever she was, that was his home. After she left him he'd rarely returned to the apartment and after he passed care of Shinji to Yui's brother he abandoned it completely. Everything that needed him, everything that he needed lay within the geofront.

He secretly dreaded having to get another apartment when Shinji returned to Tokyo-3. It shamed him to admit that he was afraid of his son, afraid of what it would be like to again share an apartment with the boy. They had treated each other like cordial strangers when he was three, what would it be like now that he was fourteen? It had relieved him more than he'd ever admit to anyone when Major Katsuragi requested to have the 3^rd Child live with her, allowing him to keep his converted office in the Geofront, where he slept on a futon with a too-thin mattress.

Beams pressed uncomfortably into his back. All that he had to do to relieve the pressure would be to shift slightly, but the darkness seemed to be poised, waiting for him to move before it pounced. The light-switch lay just beyond his reach; he could banish the dark if he stretched out his fingers and threw the switch, but he could feel the darkness waiting for him so he lay still, the beams of the futon continuing to press into his back.

His hands quivered at his sides, wanting to reach over and caress the place on the mattress that had once held her body and it was through force of will alone that he kept them still. The darkness had lost its potency when he lay in her embrace, the warmth of her body next to his keeping fears and doubts at bay. She'd been his talisman against what came out when the lights were off.

But her place on the futon was empty. He'd thought that she would be with him again and so Ritsuko was no longer be necessary. The old man had needed a sacrifice, and it had seemed so fortuitous to give her to them, the timing so perfect. But then the old men had moved more slowly than he'd expected and there was no way to kill the seed of hate that he'd so carefully planted within her that would not also fatally undermine himself.

He decided that if he couldn't kill the seed he'd nurture it. For the sake of his goal he kept her distant, because if the time came and he was not completely focused on his goal, he would fail and the world would suffer for his weakness. He fed her hatred, made himself callous to her feelings, oblivious to her pain. Her defenses were completely open to him and he knew where to press to make her hurt—and did so with ruthless precision. Her retaliations were made in anger and she didn’t care where she struck him so long as she struck him, steadfast in her belief that he was using her just like he had used her mother. She would call him a liar if he told her that his heart bled as much as hers.

He would be a liar, if he claimed that he felt guilt for using Naoko. He'd felt nothing but contempt for her more than professional interest in him, but after he lost Yui… He hadn't expected to have her torn from him so soon and it ripped his bearings from beneath him. He would've taken any lifeline offered him and Naoko offered him much more.

He never fully understood why she sought him out. Their relationship went no further than their bed and as time passed and the pain in his heart dulled, his sense of clarity reaffirmed itself. He'd always known that Naoko had her own agenda but he couldn't see to what end she hoped to use him. He did however know precisely how to use her, and once he'd squeezed every bit of use from her possible, she once again became an object of contempt, albeit a dangerous one. Although she'd long taken his bed she'd never taken his heart, and the only pang of conscience that he felt was for the loss of Rei's first incarnation.

Ritsuko assumed that he meant her fate to be the same as her mother's. She'd shared his bed, just as her mother had, and she saw her usefulness to him ending, just as her mother's had. She saw her own fate locked in a course parallel to her mother's.

The line of thought brought him to a disquieting realization: Ritsuko hadn't started consistently dying her hair until after she had started taking to his bed. He was forced to wonder how much did she see herself as mimicking her mother, and how far would she be willing to go in order to keep herself dissimilar?

His hands twitched again, wanting to go to the empty spot next to him. The darkness noticed the movement and pressed even closer. Yui, it snickered. Naoko, Ritsuko.

He had to keep Ritsuko at arm's length no matter what the cost, and as the darkness whispered in his ear, pressed against him and tried to smother him with the weight of his own fears, he knew that he was paying the price.

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Rei inhaled slowly, conscious of the LCL flowing through her nostrils and into her lungs. She knew that it wasn't so with the other pilots, but she preferred breathing LCL to air. Air had no substance, gave no resistance, but with LCL she was excruciatingly aware as it passed through her nose and down into her throat, filling her chest then back up, caressing her tongue and teeth as she exhaled through her mouth.

When immersed in LCL, she felt she had control. Control was all-important, especially now. She was acutely aware of her body again subsiding to her control, her cells no longer seeking to fly outwards and return to the LCL from which they were created. It would still be a while until she could safely leave the cylinder, but she did not mind the LCL and was content to float and breathe.

Maya entered the lab, sparing Rei a single darting glance before setting to work. Rei watched Maya as she set up the neural transfer system, her movements abrupt, and nervous. Rei closed her eyes rather than continue to watch the obviously frayed Dr. Ibuki.

She was intensely aware of the clones in the tank behind and she could practically feel their eyes on her back. They were conscious in their own way and when she was in the lab their eyes never left her. She shuddered at the half-formed memories of anticipation that she'd had when she was in that tank.

She forced her thoughts away from them, and against the backdrop of her eyelids summoned the image that had come to represent a knot of perplexity that she had been working at for a long time: Terry.

The events of the preceding day had cemented her suspicion that he was attempting to cultivate a serious romantic interest with her. When she'd first met him, she'd assumed that his bumbling attempts at braggadocio had been an effort to establish his place within the rather exclusive pecking order of Eva pilots. Some might have called his repeated attempts to gain her attention charming: she'd found them annoying. Until he gave her the first rose.

She'd felt uncertain how to react when he gave her the flower, and when he'd kissed her, it'd befuddled her completely. She'd been relieved when he'd fled, because if he'd remained, there would've only been two things she could've done: slap him, or… She wasn't sure what the "or" would've been.

However, she couldn't deny the certain amount of flattery that she felt at the continued flow of flowers and she even came to anticipate his light kisses in a giddy, unsure sort of way. At least, she was sure that the sensation was anticipation, because she felt a sense of disappointment whenever her other duties required her to miss him in the morning.

It frustrated her that she couldn't adequately define her feelings about the attention that he gave her. The sensation of his lips brushing her neck was not all too unpleasant, and, in the flower shop when his lips were suddenly pressed against hers—the moment had been almost electric. For that single instant she was aware of nothing save for the hammering pulse of his heart transmitted through his lips and the answering echo of her own. Her lips moved slowly in the LCL, the words sounding only in her mind. It was as though my veins ran with fire, and his touch the spark that lit me. She couldn't remember where she'd heard those words and the memory itself was almost completely washed out with age, but they sprang clearly to her mind as she remembered that moment in the flower shop.

During that kiss emotions she didn't understand had taken control and after he pulled away, looking at her with an equal mixture of apprehension and expectation, it had been those emotions that forced her lips to say, "it's all right," and her finger to slip around his. The loss of control frightened her, more so because the emotions that fueled it were so far beyond her understanding.

Again, she futilely wished that her predecessor had left her with more memories, with whatever understanding that she had gained. Rei clearly remembered Shinji wrenching open the superheated hatch of her entry plug, his actions an uncanny pantomime of his father's a month before. It was a collage of blurry shadows that she saw a zebra-striped sphere shudder in agony, blood fountaining from its sides as something terrifying tore it apart from within. She'd familiarized herself with the reports of the incident, but they didn't hold the awe and fear that underscored the memory. In those final faint and washed out memories she felt the dawning of comprehension, but they were too tenuous to be of help to her now. She knew that her previous incarnation had reached some level of understanding, had even established empathy of sorts with the 3^rd Child, but all of that was lost to her.

How was she supposed to relearn such things? One simply couldn't simply pull aside a stranger on the street and ask them what it was to be human; especially when her questions concerned the morass of human romance that she was trying to decipher. Until now, the Commander had been the only person with which any of her incarnations had had any real interaction. His had been the first face she'd seen each time she'd been born and it had been his voice that guided her first steps. The Commander's feelings towards her were deep and complex, but at the same time very impersonal. To him, she was more than a daughter, but at the same time she was also less. She held no rapport with her peers at school, having been content to let them pass her by like a river parting around a rock, so there would be no help from them.

The simplest solution was to reject all of the 6^th Child's advances, but as she considered that option, the picture of Terry she held in her mind changed. He looked bewildered, hurt, and she found the thought of causing him such distress repugnant.

The core of her problem lay in the horrible tangle of behaviors that humans insisted in wrapping around the fairly simple task of reproduction. She understood the mechanical concepts behind sex, attraction, and even romance, but it was deeper subtleties that she had so much trouble comprehending. Popular culture seemed to be the accepted means for collecting information on relations to the opposite sex, but Rei disdained watching television. She despised the so-called "girls" programs for the vapidity of their stories and the artificiality of their romances. Programs intended for boys were even worse, where the women were all delicate, shrinking damsels and what the men engaged in was more suitably labeled 'conquest' than 'love.'

Rei sighed heavily, the muscles in her chest tightening against the viscous resistance of the LCL. She knew that it would be much simpler to wash her hands of all such dealings, but again emotions beyond her understanding whispered in her ear, telling her that to remain involved would be much more rewarding.

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Makoto eased the front door of his apartment shut, careful not to make a sound. He dropped the plastic wrapped bundle of Misato's clothes on the coffee table and glanced at his watch: he couldn't believe that it was only 1:45.

He heard shuffling steps and Misato stumbled out of his room, relying on the doorframe and then the wall outside to keep her upright. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Misato peered into the darkness, trying to find the source of the voice. "I…don't feel so good," she said weakly.

He guided Misato to the bathroom and she winced at the sudden brightness when he turned on the overhead light. She barely made it to the toilet before her stomach erupted and by the time she was down to dry heaves the front of the scrubs were soaked and stained.

With a final cough, Misato forced herself to her feet and with Makoto's help stumbled into the shower. She sank into the corner of the stall, her breath coming in rasping gasps as she dropped her head back. "Water," she croaked, gesturing for Makoto to turn the shower on.

She didn't move when a blast of cold water struck her full in the face nor when Makoto adjusted the water to a more reasonable temperature. She sat in the spray without moving for a few moments before beginning to struggle with the top of the scrubs. "Help," she demanded when the top defeated her attempts to take it off. Makoto blushed furiously as he helped Misato remove it, his eyes ironed to a point just above her head, trying not to imagine what his fingers were brushing against.

Misato began struggling to remove the scrub's bottom half, meeting with no more success than she'd had with the top. Makoto grabbed the cuffs and pulled as he turned away from the shower, ignoring Misato's startled squeak as her pants were pulled out from under her. He slid the stall door shut, then wrinkled his nose at the soiled and sodden surgical scrubs on his bathroom floor.

"Do you need anything else Major?" he asked as he wadded them up and threw them in the trash.

The sound that came from the shower sounded like it could have been a 'no,' so Makoto left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He glanced down at his watch, noting that the numbers were still climbing towards 2:00. Despite the timepiece's assurance, the night did not feel like it was getting any shorter.

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Asuka started screaming.

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"Damn it, Asuka! Wake up!"

Her eyes snapped open to stare into the fluorescent lights overhead, a scream still boiling in the back of her throat.

"Do you always shout in your sleep like that?" Terry demanded. "I can't imagine how Shinji or Misato get any sleep with you around."

"It's none of your business, dumm Bastard," she snarled.

"It is when I'm trying to sleep, you crazy bitch," Terry snarled back.

Asuka's voice turned to ice. "What did you call me?"

"You heard me. That knock to your head might have shaken the last of your wits loose, but I know it didn't hurt your hearing."

"You're talking about me loosing my wits? Who's the one with a lobotomy scar?"

"That's not from a lobotomy and you know it, you flipped out bitch."

At that moment, Asuka hated Terry to the core of her being. She hated the look of his face. She hated the way he parted his hair low on one side, making his head seem lopsided. She could see the thin scar just above his ear before it vanished into his hairline from where he'd split his scalp so many years ago, and she hated that most of all. "I should've killed you when I had the chance."

Terry's face went completely white and his hands curled into fists. "I should have let you drop, you crazy bitch."

"I should've emptied that cannon into your back!" she shouted and smirked in satisfaction as her fist connected with his jaw. The smirk vanished as his fist thundered into her stomach, blasting the air from her lungs and doubling her over. She straightened with a snap, knocking Terry back and sending him crashing into several chairs and a table. He picked himself and threw himself at her, knocking them both to the floor.

The room was suddenly boiling with Section 2 agents and it took a half dozen agents to pull the two of them apart and another three to hold Asuka down.

Once she stopped struggling they allowed her to stand, although they didn't let her go. A trio of agents was likewise hauling Terry to his feet and Asuka allowed herself a smirk of triumph when she saw blood running from a cut on his lip, until she tasted blood and realized that her own lip was bleeding.

Two of the agents had a heated argument by the door, before one of them left and returned a few minutes later with the Deputy-Commander in tow. "I don't suppose that either of you would care to explain what was going on in here?" he demanded, visibly vexed at the situation that had been dumped in his lap.

"I was asleep," Terry said sullenly, refusing to meet Fuyutsuki's eye.

The Deputy-Commander stared at Terry incredulously then turned to Asuka. "And I suppose you were asleep as well?" he asked sarcastically.

Asuka glowered at Terry, then stared down at her feet. "Yeah."

"Where's Major Katsuragi?" Fuyutsuki demanded, turning back towards the Section 2 agents.

One of the agents gave the two Children a surreptitious glance then leaned over and whispered in Fuyutsuki's ear.

"I…see. Has the Commander been informed?"

The Section 2 agent shook his head.

"Do so immediately," the Deputy-Commander ordered. "Then separate these two and keep them under watch until Major Katsuragi takes custody of them."

"You can't do this!" Asuka and Terry both shouted as Section 2 Agents took them each by the arm and began to drag them off.

"Shut up!" Fuyutsuki snapped. He took a moment to collect himself, but they could still see a spark of anger in his eyes. "My time is too important to be wasted mediating the squabbling of children. If you insist on acting like spoiled brats, then that's how you'll be treated." He indicated for the Agents to take the two pilots away, then turned on his heel and stalked down the hall, ignoring their protests.

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Makoto looked up as the sound of the shower shut off. He held the plastic wrapped bundle of Misato's clothes in his hands and wondered just how he was supposed to present them to her. He was considering knocking on the door and then sliding the clothes into the bathroom when Misato solved the problem herself. The door slid open and she stepped out wearing only a towel, barely.

The words that Makoto planned to say were trapped behind a sudden lump in his throat and all that came out were a series of strangled gasps. Misato turned at the sound and her eyes again had that disconnected look that made him wonder if she saw him at all. Makoto wished that he had turned on more lights so that he could tell for sure. The only illumination in the hall came from what spilled out of bathroom, throwing everything into deep shadow.

He quickly amended his wish as she took a step forward and the towel slipped; in the dark she couldn't see him blushing.

"Why?" Misato asked, her voice distant.

"Why what?" Makoto asked, then glanced down at the bundle in his hands. "Why'd I clean your clothes? Well, I didn't think you'd want to go to work tomorrow smelling like bakelite, and…" he trailed off as Misato stopped right in front of him, all of his will power occupied with not looking down at what the towel barely covered. "Um, Major?"

Her eyes snapped into focus and the intensity of her stare told him that now she saw him all too well. "You idiot!" she hissed.

Makoto took a step back in confusion. "What?"

"How could you!" she hissed again, advancing on him. She still smelled faintly of bakelite, and her breath was heavy with alcohol.

Makoto's back hit a wall and he thrust the bundle of clothes in front of him like a shield. "I'm sorry! I thought that I'd be doing you a favor! I didn't mean to do anything wrong!"

Misato pressed forward, crushing the bundle between them. Her arms went around his neck, and her eyes were beginning to shine with building tears. "Would it have been so hard?" she half sobbed.

"W-w-what?" Makoto stammered, trying to press even farther into the wall.

"You idiot, why'd you do it? Why!" Misato cried and her grip around Makoto's neck tightened to the point of strangulation. "No one forced you."

"I-I thought it would be nice," he gasped.

"Would it have been so hard, would it have taken so much to just say them?"

"Huh?"

Misato's grip tightened again and Makoto tried to pry her hands off as black spots began to dance before his eyes. "Eight words!" she hissed. "If you had just said eight words to me. All that you had to do was tell me eight…simple…words…" she trailed off. Her hands fell from Makoto's throat and he gasped as oxygen flooded back into his lungs. "If you had said those words, I know you wouldn't have gone, and I wouldn't be…" she trailed off and with a sob, and then her voice rose to a wail. "Kaji, you idiot! Why!"

Makoto tried to pull back but Misato's arm's again tightened around his neck. "No, Kaji, please, don't leave me. Not this time, not again," she sobbed against his chest.

Makoto carefully stroked her head as her sobs quieted and her breathing became deep and regular. "Major?" he asked gently. He received no response: she'd fallen asleep again.

With a long suffering sigh, Makoto picked her up and staggered back to his bedroom, leaving her clothes on the bed beside her before returning to his couch.

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Outside, a man in a blue suit carefully detached the listening device he'd placed on the wall of Makoto's apartment then disappeared into the night.