Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the wake of the Holy War, the destruction of the Akuma and all Innocence had seemed inevitable. The fate of the Black Order, the Noah, Akuma and Innocence alike, would disappear.

Yet an exception remained, Allen Walker, and in turn, the innocence in his arm, and the Noah in his head.

~

For years, Nea had been a mere shadow at the back of Allen’s mind, his voice no longer mocking Allen. He simply observed, and slept, and observed again, without speaking a word.

Sharing a body and conscious with Allen Walker was nothing short of hell,but within the first century of their curse, his feelings began to sway.

He watched Allen, who had no purpose, no place in this world, keep walking, struggling to survive, pushing forward without a reason.

Some days Allen reminded him of Mana, other days, he reminded him of himself.

Nea had planned on staying silent, giving allen some peace, at least in his head. And yet, when Allen walked past a sign with bold letters wording "WELCOME TO GOTHAM" Nea had a feeling that his silence would no longer cut it.

Allen was unaware that Nea, the 14th, had stopped sulking and instead gained the resolve to speak once more.

Chapter Text

The air inside the shop always smelled faintly of copper, oil, and age. Gears clicked in quiet protest as the wall clock struck the hour, a beat too slow, just enough to irritate someone who listened closely. But Allen Walker had never minded the delay.

He stood behind the scratched glass counter, wiping his hands with a soft cloth. Pale fingers, deft and careful, still carried traces of oil despite his efforts. He always forgot how stubborn machine grease could be.

Across from him, the old man who owned the place was locking up the register. His name was Mr. Callahan, half-deaf in one ear, white hair like steel wool, and an impressive collection of magnifying lenses that he wore like a jeweler’s crown. He didn’t talk much unless it was about timepieces, and even then, it was usually muttered under his breath like a confession.

“You sure you don’t want to stick around, kid?” Callahan asked, voice gravelly from too many years and too many cigars. He didn’t look up. “You're the only one I’ve had in this place who doesn’t slam the drawers and chip the glass.”

Allen smiled, small and polite, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, but I’m not planning on staying in Gotham long.”

The lie rolled off his tongue with the same smoothness it always had.

Callahan snorted. “Nobody plans to. The city keeps what it wants.” He finally looked up, squinting through his lenses. “Still...you’re polite. Respectful. That’s rare these days.”

“If only he could hear what you’re really thinking.”

The voice arrived without fanfare, slinking in like a shadow between Allen’s thoughts. Nea sounded lazy, mildly amused.

“‘Polite’ my arse. If he had any idea what kind of language you think in when you strip a cogwheel, he’d send you packing.”

Allen resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, he bowed slightly. “Thank you for letting me work here.”

Callahan waved him off. “Bah. You did more than half my grandkids would’ve managed. If you change your mind, door’s open.”

Allen nodded, slipped his satchel over one shoulder, and stepped outside. The small bell over the door jingled once before the sound was swallowed by Gotham’s usual cacophony, horns in the distance, water dripping into alley grates, the low thrum of tired neon.

He walked down the street with the quiet grace of someone used to moving unseen. His boots, though worn, barely scuffed the pavement.

“I give it a day before you start fixing something again,” Nea said, stretching inside Allen’s thoughts like a cat waking from a nap. “You can’t help yourself. One loose screw and you’ll have your sleeves rolled up, muttering like an old man.”

Allen didn’t answer. He turned a corner and passed a chain-link fence rattling in the wind. A light flickered overhead, buzzing with just enough energy to mimic life.

“You haven’t said anything in weeks,” he finally murmured, keeping his tone low. “Why now?”

Nea made a thoughtful hum. “Didn’t want to interrupt your whole… ‘drifting quietly in tragic silence’ thing. Very dramatic. Very sad. I figured I’d let you stew in peace.”

Allen rolled his eyes.

“Also,” Nea added with mock cheer, “I was bored. You’ve been painfully dull. Fixing clocks? Patching pipes? Feeding stray cats? Even I have limits.”

There was a pause as Allen stopped at the edge of a cracked crosswalk. A delivery truck passed, tires hissing over wet asphalt.

“Maybe I like boring,” he said softly.

“Maybe you’re full of shit,” Nea replied, not unkindly.

They walked in silence for a while. The city stretched before them, crumbling and alive all at once. Allen adjusted the strap on his shoulder. His coat, stitched and resewn a dozen times — flared slightly in the breeze.

Then Nea’s tone shifted, playful again.

“Hey, what about that little café down the street? You know the one. With the cute pastel chairs and the drinks that probably taste like sugar mixed with regret?”

Allen glanced at the corner ahead. He knew exactly which one Nea meant. It had popped up a month ago, tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, somehow untouched by graffiti or grime.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar. You’ve had one rice ball and a sad orange all day. Go. Sit down. Pretend to be human for five minutes. It’ll be fun.”

Allen sighed and turned toward the café.

~

The café looked like it had wandered into the city by accident.

It sat quietly on a corner where the sidewalk dipped into a shallow trench of cracked cement and litter. The building itself was old brick, but the storefront had been painted over in soft pinks and creams, pastel hues that didn’t belong anywhere near Gotham’s grime.

Fairy lights twinkled along the awning in defiance of the dim sky. A chalkboard outside offered hand-drawn pastries and a cheery little cat waving a paw.

It was an eyesore. A charming, hopeful, unapologetic eyesore.

Allen stared at it with the mild suspicion one might offer a kitten with a knife.

“I’m still not hungry,” he said aloud, half to himself.

“You’re always not hungry until you are,” Nea replied, annoyingly reasonable. “Besides, I’m hungry. Do you know what it’s like watching you survive on stale bread and pity glances?”

“I don’t eat for you.”

“No, but it’s cute you think you have a choice.”

Allen rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake Nea off physically. It never worked. The Ark’s sigil pulsed faintly beneath the glove on his left hand, a constant reminder of things that refused to stay buried.

He crossed the street anyway.

The inside of the café was warm, not just temperature-wise, but in the way of small, cared-for spaces. The walls were soft cream, decorated with framed sketches of flowers and birds. The air smelled like cinnamon, roasted coffee, and something floral he couldn’t place.

There were only a handful of customers: a man reading the paper near the window, a woman scrolling her phone at the far end, and a tired teenager behind the counter attempting to refill the sugar containers one-handed.

And then there was her.

The waitress.

She moved like water, very graceful and slow, with a practiced elegance that didn’t match her surroundings. Her uniform was immaculate, her makeup perfect. She wore a smile so polished it felt painted on.

Allen’s eye twitched faintly, not because of his cursed, but because of how bright the café was.

“Well, she’s pretty,” Nea said lazily. “Too pretty. You ever notice how they get the symmetry wrong? Always just a little too clean. Like someone tried to guess what ‘normal’ looked like and overshot.”

Allen didn’t answer. Instead, he walked towards the corner booth, near the window, back against the wall, and sat. He set his bag on the seat beside him and leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded.

The waitress approached.

“Good evening,” she said, smile still fixed. “Would you like to hear the specials?”

Her voice was smooth. Pleasant. Empty.

Allen tilted his head.

“No, thank you,” he said softly.

"What type of tea do you carry?"

There was an almost unnatural pause, like the waitress forgot she was taking his order, before she answered with disregard to her timings.

"We only have green or black tea in stock right now, both decaf, unfortunately".

"What type of café only has two types of tea and neither have caffeine?" Nea whispered, astounded by the lack of resources the café has despite its 'over the top' decorations.

"I'll have the black tea, and if you don't mind, a cup of milk?" Allen's voice had become much softer as he spoke, and when he stopped he said his necessary 'Thank you'.

The waitress nodded and turned, walking with a learned precision that prevented her heels from making noise as she moved.

“I’m telling you,” Nea whispered, “If we don't get something to eat while we're here I'm knocking you out and going shopping".

Allen didn’t respond. He watched the woman glide back behind the counter.

The waitress returned with a small tray balanced expertly in one hand. A pale ceramic cup steamed gently beside a smaller one filled with milk, both placed on a saucer with deliberate care.

“Here you go,” she said, voice like sugar water. “One black tea, one cup of milk.”

Allen gave a small nod, murmuring his thanks again. He noticed how her fingers didn’t tremble. Everything about her was too smooth, too deliberate.

She turned without another word and glided back to the counter, where she resumed stacking napkins into tidy squares.

Allen shifted, watching the reflection of the café in the polished metal napkin holder. The angle was distorted, stretched. No distortion in his cursed eye. No ripple in the air. Nothing screaming Akuma.

Allen sat a moment longer, sipping the tea. It was lukewarm. Slightly bitter.

The café had emptied while he wasn’t paying attention. The man with the newspaper had vanished without a sound. The woman on her phone disappeared after a brief call. Even the bored teen behind the counter had retreated somewhere into the back.

Only Allen remained.

He stood, brushing a few crumbs from his lap, and walked toward the counter. His footsteps were soft against the tile.

The waitress stood with her back to him, dabbing a cotton puff over her already-pristine face. A thin tube of lipstick rested beside the register, half uncapped. Allen opened his mouth to speak, but she saw him first.

Her smile curled slowly into place, like it had been hanging behind her ears waiting for an excuse.

“Changed your mind?” she asked, tone light and lifting. “Or were you just looking for another reason to talk to me?”

Nea laughed, Allen blinked. “Ah, no. I just… wanted to... actually..."

Her smile grew, and then she let out a small chuckle. “You're adorable when you’re shy.”

He let his shoulders shift slightly, fidgeting like a flustered boy too polite to reject attention outright. But inside, his skin crawled.

Allen rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away. "Could I order a slice of the lemon bread please?"

"To go?"

"Ah...", Allen paused, if it was to go, he should get another. "Yes, but can you make it two slices?"

The waitress nodded and began to ring up his order.

Allen turned just slightly, letting his gaze catch on the mirror behind the bar, tall, gilded, with a few spots of makeup.

Those spots appeared almost unnatural, almost purposefully marked to give the mirror a look of use.

For a heartbeat, it reflected only the café: the fairy lights, the warm walls, the soft haze of late-night comfort.

Then it showed his face.

Allen froze.

It was a simple thing, a mundane thing, something people did every day, glance into a mirror. See themselves. But Allen hadn’t seen his reflection in awhile, he had no clue his hair had began to turn back to its original color.

Before mana died, before he was cursed, his hair was a burnt sienna, or was it burgundy red?, he'd forgotten over time, but now the root of his hair had color again.

Was this something to celebrate? Sure he used to be insecure about his appearance, with his arm that didnt always look like an arm, and his hair being white despite his young age. But was this a good thing?

Allen didnt know.

Not yet.

But It was progress.

Allen took a moment to really look at his apreance, toucing his face as the waitress struggled with the register.

The boy in the mirror looked tired. Pale, skin stretched thin over sharp bones. A faint line of scars trailed beneath his left eye like a broken seam.

Behind him, standing just over his shoulder, hands folded behind his back, stood Nea.

Just a flicker like all the other times,but now, now with a face, a face that looks more human then allen remembered.
Maybe his white hair suits him now more than ever, he seems to forget more things, especially over time, but that does come with age.

Allen might not look any older than 20, but he has been on this earth for centuries, decades even.

Nea had a smirk plastered on his face, it looked just like Allen imagned it whenever Nea would make snarky remarks.

Suddenly his smirk shifted into something more mischievous.

Crack

A jagged line split the center of the mirror.

"Uhh..?"

The waitress blinked. “Oh no!” she stepped back from the counter, frowning. “How did that…?”

Nea sighed.

"I was hoping for a different reaction, kinda wanted her to break with the mirror....oh well."

"What?! I thought we agreed on not making the Akuma self destruct anymore!" Allen exclaimed In his head.

"It was worth the shot"

The waitress finshed putting allens order in than walked off to the back.

She returned moments later, broom in one hand, a small box in the other. The lemon bread was still warm, lightly glazed, the slices laid with a kind of precision that almost made it unsettling.

“Here you go,” she said, her voice airy. Then, gesturing to the cracked mirror, she added, “I’ll get this cleaned up in a second. Can’t have shards flying around, right?”

Allen accepted the plate with a muttered thanks and tried not to look at the mirror again.

"Im sorry about that, I don't know what happened there..She hesitated. “I…It’s old.”

"Don't worry about it, things happen."Allen placed the cash on the counter. He offered her a slight, polite bow of the head, respectful, quiet, distant.

He stopped at the door, “Thanks again for the tea.”

And then he left.The bell above the door jingled. The lights hummed.

~

The bright warmth of the café evaporated the moment he stepped back into the rain. Gotham's chill sank through his coat like needles, threading ice into his spine. His breath fogged in the air before briefly fading.

Rain clung to the edges of his coat as Allen turned down a narrow side street, his steps unhurried, posture casual.

Streetlamps flickered above him, casting fractured pools of gold onto wet pavement. A gutter dripped steadily nearby, echoing like a ticking clock.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t have to.

She was following.

He turned into an alleyway then stopped beside a stack of wooden crates and knelt, pretending to retie a bootlace.

Seconds later, she appeared. Umbrella in hand. Smile still painted. Hair perfect.

“Fancy running into you again,” she said lightly, her voice wrapped in velvet. “Small city, huh?”

Allen stood back up.and turned to look at her. “I guess so.”

She stepped closer, umbrella tilting to shield them both. “You left in such a hurry. I didn’t get the chance to ask if you were free tonight.”

“I’m not.”

“Pity,” she said, stepping closer again. “You’ve got the kind of face I like. Lonely. Pretty. Would’ve liked to get to know it better, if you know what i mean."

Allen looked away, jaw tight, he coudnt help but think of how humane this akuma apeared.

“Not interested.”

“Oh?” Her lashes fluttered, and she moved her body as close as she could without stepping on allens shoes. “You sure? I could keep you company. Warm you up.”

Allen took a step back. “I said no!"

She pouted, delicately, perfectly.

“You don’t have to be so cold boy, the lady wants to warm you up , you should at least turn her down nicely." Nea was getting his entertainment in tonight.

“I’m not trying to be rude. I just—” he hesitated, then said gently, “I'm sorry."

She stared at him, lips parting slightly. Then she stepped out from under the umbrella and let the rain hit her, droplets catching in her hair like stars. She folded her arms tight and hunched her shoulders, suddenly looking fragile.

“I see,” she murmured, voice trembling just enough. “Your sorry...” she sniffled, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "You must be pitying me. I just didnt want to be alone again."

Allen hesitated.

He said nothing.

He knew what it was like to not want to be alone.

But he also knew what he had felt wasn't what the Akuma felt.

Allen knows Akuma feel nothing, and only mimic the souls they trap. Allen knew, and yet he reached his arm to grab her shoulder.

He apologized again.

But this time something shifted in the waitress demeanor. Allen backed off, something in him shook. His left eye flared.

There was a faint click in his skull, like a gear sliding into place after years of rust. The world sharpened at the edges. The colors around the waitress began to twist.

And behind her human shape, beneath it, he could finally see akuma, along with the soul, trapped inside of it.

A mass of wires, bone, and writhing ink. A face like melted porcelain, too many teeth where none should be. And a smile so wide it split the illusion’s throat.

Allen didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The waitress...no, the Akuma, straightened suddenly, her false expression melting into something cold and precise.

And she started to laugh.

“Well,” Nea murmured from inside him, smooth as ever, “I guess it's a good thing you rejected her?"