Hello, lovely humans!

Cass here, with my new (and first Shingeki no Kyojin) fanfic! This one is a new story starring my latest OTP obsession, Jean Kirschtein and Sasha Braus. This happens to be a rather rough draft that I hammered out in less than 24 hours (I suppose being an English major in college certainly had its benefits), so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors.

Constructive criticism is certainly welcome, but I would like to clarify that I am only doing this for fun - as a hobby of sorts. I'm attempting to keep my brain functioning and trying to improve my writing one baby step at a time. Practice makes perfect, after all! I should also note that this is an AU fic (which I tried desperately to avoid). I will, at a later date, be posting a multi-chapter story with this pairing in their actual Universe at a later date. I have the majority of it typed up - just hit a creative snag and out popped this one instead! Please see the end for any additional notes, I promise I'll stop prattling on now.

Without further ado, here is Black Cadillacs!

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Disclaimer: I do not own any property or rights to Shingeki no Kyojin. This is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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It rained. It had rained all night, well into the morning, and continued throughout the service. It had rained during the fucking service, and now at the grave site, the clouds showed no signs of stopping. Jean Kirschtein cursed silently as a drop of water hit his obnoxiously broad shoulders. There must be a small puncture somewhere on this thing, the young man grumbled as another few drops began to fall in silent succession. The tarp had been stretched over the site after a slight window of opportunity during the stormed out service, but there hadn't been another break in the weather since. It wasn't as if the tarp really helped at this point anyway; as one of six pallbearers, Jean was required to abandon his umbrella en route to the grave in favor of hoisting the casket. They had carried the damn thing outside through the ribbon-like path that swam through glossy headstones and weeping willow trees, minding their step and their slippery grip on the polished handles. Sure, there had been ushers to come and hold umbrellas over the pallbearers heads, but it had done little to shelter the men, and Jean found himself growing more and more irritated by the water seeping in through his thick jacket and down into his bones. Thankfully the graveyard itself hadn't flooded as grandly as the roads leading to the church had, and that was the only silver lining Jean could see in this entire situation. Sadness stuck to every inch of the air, clung to every soaked tree, and for a moment the young man thought he was going to faint from its congestive presence. It only took a moment for Jean to pale as he glanced over at the church and its small parking lot, thinking of what his car must look like amidst the rushing waters, beginning to angrily chastise himself for buying such a low-lying, ostentatious vehicle instead of something more sturdy and practical…like a Jeep.

They had begun positioning the casket above the moistened soil. There had been talk before the service began that morning about stalling and waiting a few days for the ground to dry out, but the invitations had been sent out, and the ground probably would take more than just a few days. There had even been talk of cremating the body beforehand but Jean had fought voraciously against the idea of cremation,

"Marco wanted to be buried," he lashed out, "he said so. He told me himself – Marco wanted to be buried in a graveyard and we're going to bury him there. End of fucking discussion."

That was that; what Marco had wished, Marco had received. Jean felt the familiar pooling of claustrophobic hurt deep in his throat and chest. Marco had wanted a lot of things – things Jean couldn't have provided during their friendship, and definitely couldn't provide during his hospitalization. They hadn't been a match for blood type, and even if they had, Marco's body had wasted away so much from the crash that even had he received enough blood, even if he had woken up from the coma and gained his senses, they didn't even know if he would be the same Marco. He wasn't even the same Marco during those last few weeks – sunken cheeks and bruised eyes, cuts and internal bleeding that never stopped.

"You need to fight," Jean remembered every single detail of the day he last visited his friend; "You need to fight, Marco – for your parents, for me, for our friends." He had been sitting in the uncomfortably flat chair next to the young man's bedside, curtains opened slightly to filter sunlight through. It was unnaturally cold in the room, Jean recalled wishing to open the window and allow some fresh air through, but the hospital was a cold, distant place like that. Every square inch of Marco's room was full of blooming flowers, but the young man remained shriveled, dying, losing breath every second whilst the flowers thrived on filtered sunlight and water.

"I'm tired," Jean looked over to his friend, picturing Marco's soft, wan smile, "I'm tired and nothing else can help. You don't deserve to be the one in this fucking bed, I do."

Marco was pallid, so drained of colour that even his freckles had faded into watery puddles on the bridge of his nose and cheeks. The face of his friend was so swollen that Jean had hardly recognized him when he had first come to the hospital to visit. They had shaved his head, his blue-black hair gone just like that, and now a large, gruesome scar caked in dried blood snaked its way across his crown. Jean had joked that he looked similar to Connie when they first shaved off their friend's hair during their sophomore year of college, hoping for at least a twitch of his lips, a shift in his facial features, but nothing came to fruition.

"You deserve to live," Jean silently exhaled before gathering his things and exiting the room, turning around one more time to see if there had been a change, but when he looked he only saw how deep the shadows had filled in around Marco's face, the sun behind his profile setting.

That had been two weeks ago. Two weeks before the time of death and two weeks before the obituary notice and two weeks before this blasted service and this rain and this sadness. Jean just wanted to fucking go home – he had work the next day, and work didn't stop for death or for mourning. Work didn't stop for anyone, especially in Jean's profession, and there was no way to appeal to get an extension on his next article when he had already pushed it ahead twice already.

Words were being spoken, and the thunderous pour of rain had begun to subside just enough that the priest's voice could be heard. Jean attempted to focus on every single inch of that casket and its polished wood – the way it mirrored the milky white of the tarp as it clashed against the dark clothes of the funeral procession, any small detail that the young man could focus on meant another moment without crying. Jean had cried all of the tears he had to cry before this day, but how did it feel like his sore eyes had more to give? Blinking away the tears, he glanced up at the sallow faces across from him. Friends, family, co-workers, an ex-girlfriend or two, Marco's nurses – a majority of the people who had attended the actual service had left, but there still was easily a dozen or more bodies here crowding around, watching a deeply loved person descend.

A few words were spoken, soil was thrown, a prayer was whispered through hush voices, and that was that. The rain had finally stopped ironically, small drops pattering against the tarp and dribbling off of its edges as the congested crowd parted their ways, some holding hands and dabbing at eye corners with dilapidated tissues, others wandering off deeper into the cemetery with their umbrellas still perched despite the clear air.

There was a tap on his back, and Jean turned to see Connie's face.

Connie Springer had grown up – they all had – but Jean hadn't seen him in what seemed like decades, though it had only been a few years since they graduated with their bachelor's degrees. Connie had approached him when he had landed in the city a week prior to help with the planning and to offer his condolences to the family and friends. Their entire friend group had attempted to assemble, but there had obviously been conflicts. Despite all graduating from the same high school, and half of them from the same University, people had moved away, had started new lives and families – hell, some of them were only reachable by way of e-mail or air mail due to traveling. Connie had been one of the few that could actually attend, but he was also the only one who had kept in contact with Marco, despite moving across the country to the west coast and beginning medical school. Jean knew the two corresponded through video calls once in a while as well as social media updates and text messages from time to time. Jean had become more or less of a hermit since he first began working for the local newspaper, and now that he was running for editor, the pressure had been unreal. He also probably wasn't going to get the position now, especially with pushing back this story so far. Whatever, it didn't matter anymore – he had wanted to be an actual writer, photojournalist on the side, and definitely did not want to be stuck writing empty article after article for the local paper. Editor could be pushed back…maybe even erased, at this point.

"It was a really nice service," Connie remarked, withdrawing a cigarette from his pants pocket. Jean eyed it incredulously. Since he had been back home, Jean had seen the young man smoke nearly three packs. What kind of future doctor smokes fucking CIGARETTES?

'If you have to ask that question,' Connie had replied when he first took out the pack, 'you've clearly never been to med school.'

Connie ignored Jean's stare at the cigarette and instead inhaled. The cherry glowed, emitting a warm red and smoke lifted, swimming through the sky like a spirit. How fitting for a graveyard. The two young men remained quiet as Connie smoked, Jean preferring to hold his tongue for once in his life in favor of staring at the cemetery's nauseatingly green grass. It was almost alien, as if from another world, and a strong smell rose from it.

"Marco would have really liked it," Connie said finally, stabbing out his cigarette butt into the wet earth and pitching it back into the carton. For whatever reason, he never threw them on the ground, but instead held onto the pungent leftovers to throw away when they were closer to a trash bin.

"Yeah," Jean breathed in the cool air, "yeah, he would've." There was something about using the past tense that brought about a stirring of sadness in Jean.

"So, are you still okay for going to the wake?" Connie shoved his hands into his pants pockets and flashed his eyes up at Jean. Marco's parents had decided to invite close friends and family over to their house for refreshments after the service, but Jean hadn't decided if he was really going to go. He felt that to a point he really should – Marco's mom was still reeling from the death, his dad seemed as stoic and untouched as ever. Jean's parents had moved away a year or so prior, further north to where the mountains met the sea, and they lived in a small gated community with a house, a car, a picket fence, and a small plot of grass in the front and in the back.

"I suppose," Jean almost felt like asking Connie for a cigarette – he had actually quit himself once college was over and Marco was diagnosed, even though it hadn't been anything attributed to cigarettes, "Honestly I just want to go home and forget this stupid day ever happened but it'd be a bit too selfish on my behalf."

Connie nodded.

"Do you need a ride there?" Jean asked his friend and the young man, in turn, shook his head.

"Nah, I came in my parent's car. I think I remember the way, if not I've brought a GPS just in case. It's still the same address…right?"

Jean nodded, and Connie cleared his throat after a beat of silence.

"Okay. Well, I'm going to head over now, before this rain decides to randomly pick up again." He turned around, waving though Jean couldn't see. He could hear his footsteps though, the dirt sloshed underneath and Jean wished he could just sink deeper and deeper into its packed soil until he choked on roots and found some rest himself.

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Time passed. Jean watched the sun break through the parting clouds and while it warmed the air, there was still a bite of cold. Ah, that must be it. A front had swept through and Jean hadn't even noticed. Who watches the weather anyway? Who even has a television? Who forks over money for cable? There were so many more important things for money to go towards than reruns of sitcoms Jean never cared for.

The young man was so engrossed in thought, he hadn't even heard the quiet steps approaching him from behind until a voice had called out and he realized it was directed towards him.

"Excuse me?"

Spinning to his left, Jean saw a girl…woman? Young adult…young adult female…that was the proper way to describe her, he decided.

When he didn't respond, she waved her hand in front of his face rapidly.

"Excuse me? Hello? I'm here for a…a funeral service…for Marco. Marco Bodt?" Jean blinked at her jarred at the hand motions and he flung himself backwards a step. She was wearing dark denim pants, a white v-neck, and a large, brown leather jacket – definitely not suitable funeral attire. Not to mention the girl appeared soaked through to the bone.

"You've missed the service; it's been over for several hours." What nerve this girl had.

In response, her bottom lip quivered slightly. Her hair was thick, almost too thick, and a deep, voluminous red-brown, swept up into a pony tail with some wet, matted bangs framing her face. There was uneasiness to her character and dark circles that glowed against her skin – it looked as if she had been traveling.

"R-really? Several hours?" The girl rubbed her eyes, "I'm so sorry I've disturbed you; but…are you certain of this?" Her words fell out slowly, and she seemed to be planning them out before speaking.

"I was there. I essentially planned the service, trust me, I'm sure." Jean reached into his blazer pocket to retrieve the crumpled program he had folded up prior to carrying the casket.

The girl received the booklet gingerly, her eyes lighting up,

"So, you must be – Jean?" She smiled and Jean felt himself flush, more from annoyance than from anything else.

"Yes." This was starting to gnaw on his nerves, "You can keep the program. I have more in my car. I'm sorry you missed the service. His grave site is back behind me a few feet – unmarked – if you'd like to pay your respects there."

The young man began to walk away, but the girl had caught up to him and appeared in front of his line of vision again. Jean stalled as she gripped his shoulder and sneezed violently, leaning her head down as to not sneeze directly onto Jean's clothes or near his face, covering her mouth and nose with the program. When she turned back around, tears were pooling in her eyes. She was so close to him now that he could see that she had very faint freckles littered across the tip and curve of her nose. While she wasn't jarringly gorgeous, she was a pretty girl in a soft way – her corners were all smooth, much like an oil painting.

"Could…do…do you believe that…" She seemed superiorly troubled and while his nerves were on fire, Jean held his tongue once more and instead retrieved a tissue from a small pack in one of his pants pockets to offer the girl.

"Thank-you so much, I'm so grateful." The girl smiled towards him and sneezed again into the tissue before rubbing it over her eyes. "I'm sorry, I know this is forward, but could you possibly give me a ride into the city? I walked nearly the entire way here and I really don't want to have to do that again."

God fucking damnit. There was always a catch with girls, wasn't there? Her honeyed eyes gazed up at his, and Jean felt too guilty to look away from them. They bore into him and her eyelashes, slick with rain water, were unfavorably hypnotizing.

"Sure," Jean sighed and nodded up towards the church and where his car was parked (and hopefully still intact), "follow me."

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They sat silently in Jean's car as he drove down the road, passing tree after tree. Albeit a little slow to start from the water, the engine was still quiet and there didn't seem to be any major signs of damage, so at least one thing was going well today. The city was a short drive from the country, but it was quickly becoming darker and darker the further they drove, which was becoming worrisome. It wasn't normal for Jean to do favours like this one, but what harm could a girl do to him? She was of average height, but he easily had four inches, maybe more, over her, and despite the solid structure of her body, he clearly had muscle power over her form.

"So," Jean finally felt like talking, "you never told me your name."

The girl had been quiet since they got in his car, only laughing (and eventually sneezing) when they had reached the parking lot and Jean began complaining out loud about the rain water, studying his tires and bumpers for any damage to the paint or body work. Other than that she had opted to stare out quietly at the passing foliage.

"I'm so sorry, how rude of me," she turned to look at him with a smile, "my name is Sasha."

"'Sasha'," the name didn't ring a bell, "so, how did you know Marco?"

Her cheeks flushed slightly, Jean could see the heat pooling and almost slammed his head into his steering wheel. Had Marco…had Marco had a girlfriend? Or was this just some psycho girl who had been obsessed with him? There was no way…Marco hadn't had a girlfriend since he'd broken up with his last one a year or so ago.

"We…" her voice trailed off, "we are, were, friends. Coworkers, I suppose. We worked at the same restaurant a few years ago when I lived here in the city."

Jean tried to recall just where it was they may have worked together. Marco was a fan of the odd job, consistently bouncing around from place to place. In college he had studied Political Science, attempting to go to law school or possibly even government, but had decidedly taken a few years off in order to save up money before even trying to pay for law school. Sure, his parents had cash – but Marco had wanted to at least begin a stable foundation for what he was hoping to be a…future.

"Which one?"

"'Scouts', it was just a regular old bar and grill, he wasn't there too long and by the time I moved away he had already left," the girl turned our gaze onto Jean, "but he did mention you. He mentioned you…quite a bit, actually."

"You recognized me pretty fast so I did gather that."

"Well, not too many males have your looks."

"Meaning?"

"Your hair I suppose, it's very…different, and your face is rather angular and long," Jean's ears heated and were probably bright pink right about now. He had always been rather self-conscious about his facial features, but…

"Hey!" He barked, his tendons yellowing as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, "my face is NOT – "

"It's a compliment," Sasha interrupted him before a gasket could blow, "Marco described you accurately – you're just as attractive as he made you out to be."

This time, Jean's ears heated pink for a different reason and he huffed instead of raising his voice. Oh. Well. That…that was different.

"You mean Marco thought I was attractive, or that you thought I was attractive from what he told you?" The words were out before Jean could stop them, but he rarely thought before he could speak, and it was a legitimate question that Jean was almost frightened to hear the answer to.

"Both," Sasha quipped, flashing a rather dazzling smile at the young man, "how's that for an answer?"

Jean didn't reply and instead began to feel a greater heat stirring. Suddenly this car was too small and this girl was too strange and this entire situation was slowly spiraling out of absolute control. It was nice to take his mind off of the sadness, but he only found himself feeling claustrophobic and angry at himself for asking such a question when he really hadn't desired the answer as much as he thought he had.

They sat in silence until the familiar flickering of city lights began to engulf them, shadows dancing along the dashboard and seats, welcoming them into a warmer, drier atmosphere. It was then that Jean realized, much to his chagrin, that he had no idea where this girl was supposed to be dropped off to, and that he had also missed the wake. It was unintentional but completely what he had wanted to do after Connie had asked him if he was actually going or not. Whoops. He'd apologize to his old friend later, maybe he should message him and go get a couple of beers or something…

"You can just pull over wherever," Sasha broke his thought process, unbuckling her seatbelt as a ringing alarm began to tone, signaling that something was obviously wrong, "just pull to the side and I can get out. Thank-you so much for the ride, Jean."

The young man turned on his blinker, pulling off into a small niche in the sidewalk and clicking open the passenger side door.

"No problem," he responded as polite as he could. "I'm sorry you missed the service."

Odd silence enveloped them once again, and Sasha loosened her grip on the doors handle, as if she was contemplating not getting out.

"I'm very sorry, Jean," she spoke finally, coughing slightly into a cupped palm, "really. Thank-you for the program and thank-you for the ride here." Her eyes turned to his and for a minute he actually thought she was going to try and kiss him.

She didn't.

Instead, Sasha rooted through the front pockets of her brown leather jacket, retrieving a phone and some waterlogged cards tied with a rubber band. After inspecting one from the center of her pack that simply had the edges wet and bent, she gave Jean the card and pressed a few buttons on her phone before tucking it back away.

"That's my card," she beamed at him, as if he needed assistance with figuring that out, "we should meet up sometime, get something to eat –maybe some tea. Talk about Marco, and…well. Either way, when you have a moment, please give me a call. My number's on there, below my name. I'm going to be in town for a few months."

With that, the weird girl exited the car and began walking towards the public transport tunnel, disappearing into the smoke and soot of the city all together. Jean stared at the card for a moment, memorizing her name and focusing on the number that rested below it. Hell, he half expected it to proclaim a profession such as 'medium' or 'spirit guide' but all it said was her name, number, and e-mail. Eventually, the young man just tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Whatever. He'd keep it, but he wasn't going to contact her any time in the future. Some stories – like the one of Marco and his apparent kinship with this girl – seemed better off collecting dust on the shelf of an attic rafter.

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Notes:

Well, now that was fun! I feel I may have left a lot of information out, so I will acknowledge that the city they are in does not have a name, but it is on the Eastern Coast of...the United States? Possibly? All of the characters are in their early to mid-20's, and for now the fic is going to have a simple 'T' rating, but this will change in later chapters solely for when things start to get a little bit spicier, both in the plot and within the character relations.

Thank-you all greatly for reading! I hope I didn't bore you to death or disappoint you too greatly. I haven't written a creative story in a few years and I'm sure there were a lot of plot holes dancing around with bad sentence structure. Yikes.

Depending on the response I receive, I will decide whether to continue or not. I will more than likely continue regardless, simply because I'm having a blast writing this, but chapters will definitely appear more frequently if I see a positive response from readers and fans of SNK/AOT. Again, I hope you enjoyed it, and if you do have any personal questions you'd like to direct to me, please visit my tumblr link on my author's page.

Ta! x