I am afraid.

That was the first thought that crossed the young Shinigami's mind, standing silently in the cover of darkness in the corner of the bedroom. His gaze was piercing through his mask, dark and contemplative, focused intently on his prey. The small figure squirmed across the room, let out a small whimper. Began to cry.

A shot of terror ran through him.

Someone will wake up. Someone will come and see me.

Footsteps clicked down the hall and he froze, taking a step back, further slinking into the corner. His eyes momentarily flitted to the mirror on the opposite side of the room, contemplating escape.

What a terrible idea this is.

But the footfalls did not come closer. A light turned on. He heard ice cubes clinking into a glass, the tap being turned on to get a drink. A cough. A sniffle. The light turned off and the footsteps padded away, leaving silence to reign once again.

Except, of course, for the ragged breathing from the infant across the room.

He had spent a great deal of time thinking about the target, losing many nights of rest and neglecting other duties. The concept sat squarely in the forefront of his mind immediately after it had occurred to him, unwavering and unflinching in its desire to be carried out. The idea came with its own set of rules: who, what, when. The how, of course, was set very much in stone.

He granted himself one further second of doubt before crossing the room quickly in two long strides, his own steps like ghosts of a whisper across the floor, his cloak muffling any sound his shoes might have made. Gingerly, Shinigami reached over the side of the crib, placing a slender hand on the chest of the restless child. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the struggling of the muscles, gasping and straining to fill tired and sickly lungs. Closing his eyes, he focused his energy to calm the restless breathing. Almost instantaneously, the little girl's breathing steadied, evened, and slowed.

It became slower.

And slower.

In the last moment, when he had thought his task might have been complete, small blue eyes opened, sudden and wild with fear. He panicked. Without a second thought, his free hand lifted the mask from his face and he leaned in, golden eyes gentle and warm as white-streaked ebony strands fell into his face. He smiled, safe and inviting.

"Don't be afraid." His voice was barely a whisper, a quick escape of breath. The smile soured, his expression sad. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and he gently lowered the child's eyelids as she fell into eternal sleep. "I am here to guide you home."

"Are you sure you want to do this, Shinigami?"

His weapon's eyes were wide and concerned. Warm. Liz had spent no shortage of time telling her meister that she did not approve of his idea, and was trying her best to convince him to not carry out the task at all. In all other situations, she would encourage Patti to convince him in her "special way", but he had been firm in his request that the topic remained between them. And Liz, however frustrated she might be with his eccentric hyperfocus on such a stupid idea, had honored it.

Nonplussed, however, he waves a hand to dismiss her.

"I asked you to call me Kid." He tilted his head quizzically, the gesture so much like his father's had he also worn the comical mask. Instead, he had the mask perched atop his head. He told her once that he didn't like peering through the eye-holes. It had been Patti's suggestion to wear the mask as he currently did, since he had been so adamant that he wear it in homage to his father. Kid, however, continued on, unaware that Liz was scrutinizing his body language. "I've asked at least eight times by now. I would prefer you not make me ask again."

"Okay, fine. Kid," Liz narrowed her eyes, her gaze frustrated. Sometimes, she thought her meister was wholly incapable of listening to her. "Are you sure you're comfortable with this? Your father never took trips like these."

"And how could he? My father was bound to Death City in a way I never will be." Death the Kid, now commonly referred to simply as Shinigami, shrugged. "I am not needed here, not all day of every day. We no longer are in conflict with the witches. We no longer need to hunt for aberrant souls. Without the madness of the kishin needing to be so closely guarded here in Death City, we are all free in a way my father could never have been."

Kid hesitated, and Liz sensed his discomfort. There had been little discussion about his father's death beyond her attempt to comfort her distraught meister shortly after the event itself, and since then Kid staunchly refused to talk about it with anyone.

"Now is the time to show compassion for humans we frequently, though inadvertently, left in the line of fire for so many years. Humans can choose their own fate. There is no need to interfere."

He chuckled, though his laugh had long since become dark. "Perhaps guiding human souls to their final resting place may even become habit."

It had started so slowly.

Privy to the life and death of all living things, there had been an abundance of opportunities for Kid to make his first attempt. All one had to do, he realized, was pay attention. He had found himself called to the souls of the suffering: the frightened infant whose soul emitted waves of terror as death approached; the elderly widow who might otherwise have passed alone; the brutally injured teen in the last throes of life after a traumatic accident. In those instances, he could feel himself drawn to the opportunity to ease pain, to quiet restless and frightened souls in their final journey. He could not be everywhere, not at once. There were, of course, duties to attend to. But somehow, Kid began to feel—to know—that these were the places he needed to be.

As the trips became more frequent, people began to wonder. People began to ask questions, often turning to Liz as Shinigami's closest confidante. Despite endless prodding, Liz held true to the promise she had made the day he hesitantly broached the topic, and offered no information to offer regarding the whereabouts of the ever-wandering Shinigami.

But then, Spirit died.

The Deathscythe had suffered greatly in the last few months. Illness ravaged his body, with age doing him no favors in his ability to recover from the continuing deterioration in his condition. Kid had hesitated at approaching a soul he knew in their final moments. He couldn't know, not for certain, that his presence did not hasten the process. As such, he debated long and hard on even visiting Spirit when the end was approaching. It did not help at all when, on the occasions he did visit briefly, Maka eyed him warily, as if challenging him to tell her when her father's time had come.

Yet, when Spirit did die, Kid had been with him; there once again to quietly bring a weary soul home.

As for the rumors, they did not start right away. Like all gossip, the stories started small and vague, details left foggy and unclear, incomplete. Some claimed to have seen the wisps of the well-known cloak in the dead of night when a loved one passed away. Some said they heard the soft tenor of a young man in the room of a dying child. A nurse said she had seen reflected in the mirror just the edge of a white mask at the bedside of an elderly patient.

I've heard Shinigami comes to take you in the dark of night now.

It was slow. Insidious, like the growth of a cancer. Death City, once the home to many who had come to trust the care of the Shinigami, began to hesitate. Doors closed if he was on the street, mothers guided their children away, people shut their windows. It wasn't until a shopkeeper closed the door in his face that Kid even paid the shift in his city's opinion towards him any mind at all.

From then on, he was very aware of what people whispered behind him, the stories that they told. He would occasionally ask Patti if she had heard anything, as Patti was the only one who even occasionally let what she heard slip—and that was only if he slid the question into conversation nonchalantly and managed to catch her off guard.

He must think he gets to decide.

For the first time, he began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Nothing in his life had ever felt quite so right to him, to be at the side of those who suffered, to grant them comfort in their last moments. He had grown adept at sneaking in and sneaking out, as undetected as the thought he could be. For the first time, he was able to provide comfort—true and honest comfort—in a time of need.

We should be afraid of what Shinigami has become.

"Shinigami."

In the quiet of the Death Room, he turned, his gaze distant and unfocused. Years had passed. He no longer corrected people, asked them to call him Kid. That time had come and gone. He was no longer a child. He had grown: jet black hair, sanzu lines neatly connected, his tall and rail thin frame constantly hidden beneath a cloak and mask. It was a rare opportunity now, to find him without the mask, hood down.

"Hm?"

Maka had aged well. Her hair had grayed, her green eyes tired. There had never been harsh feelings between his classmates and him. Not once had his friends questioned his intents. Not once had they come to suggest they'd begun to fear him as so many humans had. By the time they'd approached old age, the rumors had spread outside of Death City. Caricatures of skeletons in a tattered black cloak, horror stories of the grim reaper coming in the night—the story compelled a generation to begin fearing Shinigami.

She smiled at him, folding her hands together. "I know you prefer to be called Kid…but in here, it's hard to break the habit. Do you even correct people anymore?"

His smile, in return, was sad. "After eight or so tries, I stopped asking."

Maka giggled. She knew that eight or so meant eight exactly. Death the Kid had grown. He would outlive her, of course, as he had many of their friends already; all of the people he had grown up knowing. But he would never simply abandon his 'quirk' for symmetry.

But her gaze quickly turned serious.

"You never came to see Black*Star." Maka's voice was level, but sad. She tilted her head, folding her hands. "I know he didn't blame you. But he asked for you, you know. Until…"

His gaze had been on her, but quickly turned to the mirror, shoulders tight and back set.

"We aren't all quite so fortunate to be Shinigami," she added.

"I have been busy."

She stiffened, suddenly aware of the ripple of guilt that swam across Kid's soul, and sighed. "You have always been a terrible liar, Kid."

Maka stepped forward, one hand hesitating a few inches from his, wanting to force him to turn to her. Instead, her eyes slid to the mirror, watching his golden eyes as he watched her.

"I suppose it wouldn't matter," she hesitated, her hands dropping to her side, "if you came anyway."

"I don't know what you are suggesting. I spend much of my time here." His eyes trailed to her face in the mirror, watching him, and then away again. "I had had every intention of visiting, but I had duties here I couldn't abandon."

But Maka remained unfazed, waiting patiently. She gently straightened the long braid lying neatly over her left shoulder, and inwardly chuckled as Kid's left hand twitched uncomfortably at the sight. The waves of guilt she had become aware of in Kid's soul did not quiet. The silence between them stretched, the wind whistling quietly in the background.

"What do you think?"

Suddenly, he turned, facing her, gaze sharp and quizzing. There was anger there, but no fire. The fury she could sense coming from him was not directed at her. She hesitated, feeling a surprising pang of fear. Maka knew it was out of tradition, but Kid, with his father's cloak and his tall frame, cut an intimidating figure in the brightly lit room.

"Do you think I sneak into people's rooms at night and kill them?"

She took a step back, aware of a sudden wave of insanity that rippled through him. She instinctively crossed her arms, protecting her torso, her gaze narrowing. With another step away, he took one forward, closing the gap.

"That I make the decision myself?"

She had never in her life feared Shinigami—Kid or his father. Never until that very moment, when Kid was approaching her with eyes hot with anger, his mask haphazardly atop his head, crooked and casting a rather ominous shadow across his face. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was threatening her. But, she knew him. And she knew, no matter how angry he might seem, Kid would never hurt her. She just needed to convince her body to agree.

"That I am someone to be feared?"

He almost spat the word, his hands balled tightly into fists at his side. And suddenly, she knew what to do. With Kid still looming over her, she reached out and threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly and burying her forehead into his chest. "I would never think that, Kid."

He instantly deflated, the wind taken out of his sails. His shoulders sank.

"It started so simply," he said quietly. "So many souls, left alone in their final moments. Suffering, afraid—and with no light at the other side."

"Humans don't know," he rumbled, gently extricating himself, nervously plucking at a stray strand of thread on his jacket sleeve. "You don't know," he corrected himself, gaze turning to the mirror, "when you will die. You have no way of knowing. You can't. It would violate the proper order of things. "

Unsure of how to respond, she simply nodded, biting her lip.

Without turning his gaze from the mirror, he straightened the mask atop his head, swallowing hard. "But I do."

It wasn't as though the thought hadn't crossed her mind. Of course he would know. How could she have imagined anything different? He was a Shinigami. The Shinigami. The God of Death. There was no rational reason for him not to know when a person's time came. No wonder he had avoided Soul in his last few days, had been unusually scarce before Liz and Patty had taken their final trip to New York, had downright refused Tsubaki preparing a small 'anniversary' party for their successes. It simply had never occurred to her that Kid might not just know, but also grieve.

"Oh, Kid." She trailed off. Her mind wandered to an image of her father and his, sharing the burden of such knowledge. She became acutely aware of how many things had changed. Unlike his father, Kid had no personal weapon—in so much as he refused to. The fighting was over, he had said. If a kishin egg needed attending to, he would do it himself. There would be no more Deathscythes, because this was an era in which they were not needed. She simply hadn't noticed before that this effectively isolated Kid from all potential or real confidantes.

"I hadn't expected a backlash," he added warily. "Nobody had ever been afraid of Father. At least, not for any length of time."

Kid turned away from her again, leaving Maka to stare at his back. "It felt right, you know. Like, for once, I was in the right place at the right time. And I knew," he sighed, "it was the right thing."

Maka stared in silence. She had been curious, certainly, and had had her own theory of what she would find if she confronted Kid, but this was not quite it.

"I was afraid, when your father died, that you might figure out." He was quiet, wringing his hands. "I suppose I was quiet enough, then."

It had been a very long time since anyone had brought up Spirit in her presence, and Maka chewed at her lip. She and her father had never been on the best of terms, but she still mourned the loss of her father as any child would. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. "He was smiling."

She could see his shoulder tense, his head bowed and focused on his feet. "What?"

"When I found him. He was smiling." She wrung her hands, "like he was just sleeping. And having a pleasant dream. He hadn't smiled like that since Shinigami-sama…"

"Please," his voice was quiet and hesitant. "Don't."

The slight hiccough of his shoulders did not elude her, yet she wisely held her tongue. Kid was quiet for a moment, hesitant. He did not look up when he spoke again.

"Would you want to know?"

Maka hesitated, unsure if she followed. "I don't understand."

"Would you want to know when," he stated again, quietly.

She shook her head slowly, mouth slightly agape. Would she want to? She wasn't certain. As a child the prospect had frightened her, the stuff of nightmares; imagining what the world might be like if she were suddenly not in it. But in old age, she felt more at peace with the idea of dying; it wasn't an event that felt eons away. Now, death loomed just out of reach, just a hair's breadth away—literally and metaphorically.

She hadn't been aware that he'd turned again to face her until his face was inches from hers, and she was surprised to see his face streaked with tears. He reached out one hand, gently resting it on her chest, just above her heart. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how her heart was racing; now with his touch, it began to slow. Her eyes felt suddenly heavy, her body suddenly floundering under its own weight.

He never took his eyes off of hers as he gently helped her to the floor, crouching beside her.

"You are the last one, Maka," he said quietly. The tears did not stop, not even as he gently smoothed strands of hair from her face. "I'm sorry."

And she was afraid.

Maka had never thought she was unusually afraid of the act of dying. In fact, she had spent much of her life thinking the contrary: she was not afraid at all. After all, she had spent her whole life serving Death himself in one aspect or another. She considered herself rather friendly with him, even. And yet, she was aware now that her time had come. He didn't have to say a word to express that knowledge; she simply knew. With that in mind, she became acutely aware of just how afraid she truly was.

"Don't be afraid."

Staring up at his face, streaked with tears, pained, she wondered how anyone could misconstrue his intentions. The Shinigami she saw here was in no way menacing. He himself was not dangerous. She saw in his face genuine concern, and she never doubted that this was his expression for every loss. She didn't doubt the gentleness in his tone as she heard him speaking, faintly, over the unusual cacophony of silence that was overtaking her, buzzing violently in her ears.

"I'm here to guide you home."

A/N: First, do not own. Second, this takes place after the manga. Spoilers if you squint.

I wrote this after wondering how the "shift" in what we might say is the perception of Death and the perception of Death in the series. Nobody in Death City seems afraid of Lord Death; I simply was wondering where and how that paradigm shift came about. That then became this monster.

I hope you enjoyed!