Disclaimer: Mobile Suit Gundam 00 and all related characters are the legal property of Sunrise. It is possible I own exactly one nameless mugger.

The bed dips and rises when he leaves it, and it wakes her every time.

As far as most of the world is concerned, the Gundams had no pilots. Celestial Being was a faceless force, an entity beyond human representation, and they are glad of it because of all of them they were least hidden.

He does not hesitate, as though there was never any other choice, and perhaps there wasn't. "I think I'm more well known as 'the shuttlecock pilot' in any case," Allelujah says, and they share a look that is almost more apologetic than mirthful.

Her own is just as quick a selection. "Are you sure?" he asks her, and she nods; their fingers brush together when he hands her the pen. A single tear stamps the paper next to her signature on the passport application, a true watermark nestled next to the name of Marie Smirnov.

She cannot say for certain whether it is the military training, or the sudden absence that seems almost tangible.

Someone pulls a gun on them in Belgium and her military training betrays her, hand flying to her hip for a weapon that no longer rests there. There is no Celestial Being to intervene in the violence one human can wreak on another, but Allelujah lunges past her with a speed that startles her, and the gunman has no time to adjust their aim before their head is bouncing off the brickwork behind.

It is when the fisted grip presses upward against their throat with a control too measured, air supply choked off too skilfully, that she moves to lay a hand on his shoulder and says, "Hallelujah."

He tucks his hand under her chin when he walks past her, and it would be a caress were he not grinning so broadly.

Tonight there are flickers in her head and the faintest thread of pain, and she draws the nightgown around herself because he never allows the pain through.

It's stilted and broken, a damaged radio's warble, and she can't quite catch her wince or the hand that twitches towards her head. Instantly it cuts off, door no longer strained to be held open, and he is by her side in two steps, physical presence supplanting mental.

"I'm sorry," he says, and there's regret and worry and frustration to be heard in his voice, and none of it should be there. It is not his fault, this shattered link, and she reaches out to brush her fingers against his forehead, slipping under the hairline to trace the mark she left him for daring to try and change their world. She draws a breath, because these words have to be spoken now. She has stripped their understanding away.

He captures her wrist in a gentle grip, smile warm. "Don't apologise."

He barely more than a silhouette against the window, curled in self-defence and palm pressed against his head as though he can catch the whispers and memories and keep them locked inside.

"I felt them," he says one day, and she lowers the dress she is examining to look at him. He does not look at her. "They called out to me. They told me to stop."

Threads of fabric tear under her fingers, and she makes herself relax her grip, smooths the taut material with her thumb. The shop is small but crowded, and she keeps her voice as low as his own, a murmur beneath the surrounding chatter. "I know they used the information they had attained. Used our brainwave patterns. They were meant to be like me."

"I felt them die," he says, and it sounds conversational but she has to rest her hand on his wrist because his fingers are clenched too tightly to slide her own in between.

"Allelujah?" she says, and he doesn't startle, simply turns slightly where he sits as though it was only the acknowledgement he was waiting for.

"The HRL, right?" he says cheerfully, and they must both look at him with a noticeable blankness for he adds, "Your accents…that's where you're from?"

From. Belonging to. Created by for the use of. She thinks of having a purpose, of being a part of a grander scheme where the individual did not serve the individual but instead the masses. She thinks of being made for the people, but not a person herself.

She thinks of hands so large and yet so careful teaching her the art of borsch, and pride in his voice when he takes her to Moscow. She thinks of a child's voice sounding out the words he does not know so well to tell her the tale of Ruslan and Ludmila, tiny fingers turning the pages.

She feels Allelujah's hand at her back, and says, "Yes."

His eyes meet her own, holding them so steadily it's almost a challenge, but the curve of the smile below is too gentle to be called a smirk.

She slips in the mud and a hand on her waist steadies her.

The glass drops through his fingers and she ducks to catch it.

Clasps snap and are mended. Holes wear through and are patched closed. Things are lost, and sometimes they are found again (though that single toothbrush is never recovered). It is never perfect, but the rest of the time it is more than alright.

He holds out his hand, and she steps forward to take it.

A/N: Written for an Allelujah/Marie competition, this was a bit of a slapdash affair, but I've ended up rather fond of it anyway.