Archive of Our Own

It was 2005, and life at Homurahara Academy had felt off since the start of the school year for Sakura Matou. Shirou had graduated and was now attending a university in England instead of remaining near Fuyuki, or within Japan at all. Shinji’s university career was marked by his monthly visit to drop off laundry and collect next month's worth of money for womanizing and eating cheap food.

Sakura kept her routine as much as she could. Fujimura insisted that she keep coming to the Emiya house for breakfast and dinner - how else was she going to eat? - and suggested that she remain in archery club as well. Sakura knew why Fujimura was so demanding - she appreciated it, truly - but the Emiya household wasn't the same without Shirou. There was no one else's cooking to level against her own, no one for Fujimura to play jokes on, no gentle ragging on Shirou, only awkward silence and straining ears for the sound of footsteps that were halfway across the planet.

Shirou wrote. There was a letter every week, wonderfully detailed, full of bad attempts at drawings, vivid food descriptions, recipes, and countdowns to summer vacation when Shirou could come back and have real Japanese food - she should see the weird stuff London tries to pass off as Japanese cuisine. There were always allusions to the fact that he couldn’t condense everything he wanted to tell her onto paper, and that Shirou wanted to see everyone else in Fuyuki as well.

Sakura wrote back. She sent packages of ingredients that were impossible to get otherwise, news articles about the first anniversary of that strange sickness that overtook the school last year, and made sure to tell Shirou how she was doing in archery club because it was always one of the things he asked after. Phone calls were always talked about, but they remained impossible to schedule and too costly for two students besides.

The letters lasted longer anyway.

London had been a simultaneously exciting and exhausting experience for Shirou Emiya. Clock Tower had been demanding. Exacting. Terrifying. Full of strange magic and stranger magi who had either looked at him and seen a lowly apprentice to ignore, or else a way to talk to the great and powerful heir of the Tohsaka family. It had allowed him a greater understanding of magecraft, the society around it, and precisely why it was that Kiritsugu Emiya always spoke of being a magic user rather than a mage. To be a mage was to be selfish, to only wish to advance the cause of a single family, to be too narrow minded and ignore the outside world. It was no place for heroism or for justice, and he was glad that graduation was tomorrow. He had learned what he needed from the magi there, and he didn’t want to stay a moment longer.

Celebrating graduation was something Rin had insisted upon, regardless of Shirou’s feelings on magi, dragging him out to one of the multitude of pubs that boasted its three hundred plus years of business on the sign hanging just above the door. It was a gathering place for magi, and tonight it was happy to play host to some of the soon-to-be-graduates. They were those that Rin and Shirou got on with over the years, even if they weren’t close friends, and they were all bound by the sense of accomplishment of having overcome all the years of work that Clock Tower demanded.

It was inevitable that the question of what’s next for everyone? come up over the course of the evening. There had been enough rounds for everyone to be honest, and for everyone to only slightly remember come morning. The answers weren’t anything surprising. There were mentions of research, of conferring with family about the direction of the crest, of looking for good matches to wed and continue lineages, coupled with occasional talk of taking a year off to spend in the regular world in order to figure things out.

When it was Shirou’s turn, he shrugged lightly. “I don’t know yet.”

Responses of fair, don’t blame you, sounds like a good place to start were given, and Shirou thanked everything that Rin was in the bathroom at the moment. She was already keen on staying in London to take care of several old Tohsaka patents and to develop new ones in order to get some money back into the Tohsaka bank accounts before heading back to Fuyuki, and was assuming Shirou would remain with her as an apprentice. She’d continue to be a proper mage.

Shirou was intent on, at the very least, going home for a while. Making sure that Fujimura had kept the house in good shape, spending time with Sakura and seeing if there was any way she’d like to take over the home full time, with full deed of ownership, the whole package. He’d stay for however long the process took plus a month, and then head out to be a proper magic user.

University was as demanding as everyone said it would be in its last year, but Sakura didn’t mind at all. The excellence that each and every class demanded was easy to match, and the freedom of being on campus was something Sakura refused to take for granted, even four years in. Shinji was worlds away in Tokyo still, having finished his degree and supposedly working so that the Matou had more money to throw around, and Zouken saw little reason to interfere with Sakura’s studies. That he had consented to let Sakura go to university at all was a surprise, but he had only muttered that it was harder to keep up appearances these days, and that four years was enough time to figure out what to do next.

The what to do next comment had left Sakura chilled, knowing that whatever Zouken came up with, there would be no getting out of it. The hope that Shinji would go to Clock Tower had long been dashed, and it was clear that he was happier in the capital where no one cared about being a mage anyway. Perhaps that was the best way to counteract whatever Zouken had in mind. To use Shinji as a way to meet new magi and make friends of them before heading down the path Zouken had in mind. A single new idea could--

The mobile phone that Sakura had purchased for herself rang, the tone cheerful and bright. Caller ID paused for a moment, and then a name flashed on the front of the bright pink flip-phone. Emiya Shirou.

“Hello!” she said into the phone brightly, relieved that her roommate was out for the time being. The last time a call with Shirou had been overheard, her roommate had boldly asked if Shirou was her long-distance boyfriend.

Shirou’s voice was just as chipper. “Guess where I am today!”

“Well, last time you said you were heading east, soooo,” Sakura paused, trying to think. “Somewhere between Europe and Japan?”

“India, actually,” Shirou said. “For a few months.”

“Doing what?”

“Some charity work,” Shirou said calmly. “A lot of construction, actually, and I promise to be careful so don’t worry.”

“All right, good, I’m glad I didn’t have to even say it,” Sakura said. “There’s no mage stuff involved?”

“Not at all,” was the response, cool and calm. Shirou had told Sakura about Clock Tower when he visited Fuyuki during summer breaks, stemming from a need to talk about it with someone who would see the same absurdities that he did. Sakura had listened, and now only ever mentioned magecraft when she was alone. “Rin’s been okay with me taking some time away from that kind of stuff.”

Sakura paused. That sounded unlike Rin. “Really?”

Shirou sighed. “Kind of. There was a fight, but she called yesterday to say she understood, really, and to let her know what I want to do after I finish up here.”

“I’m sorry you two fought. When you say a few months though, how many--”

“--Three or four, I think.”

Sakura could feel a little smile creeping up her face. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s when I finish school.”

There was a little thud on the other end, and Sakura knew that it was from Shirou slapping his palm to his forehead. “How could I forget! I can’t believe I called when you were probably studying or writing or--”

“You weren’t, you didn’t!” Sakura said quickly. “Actually, Shirou? Do you think that you could come to the graduation ceremony? I’ve already asked Fujimura, but I was hoping you could make it as well.”

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in Shirou’s voice, only a proud, “Of course! Just tell me what the date is and I’ll book the flight right away!”

Sakura smiled, recited the dates, and waited to make sure Shirou had them written down. “It won’t be too much of a problem for your work?”

“I’ll just explain that it’s something important that I can’t miss!” Shirou said enthusiastically. “You haven’t invited anyone else?”

“Just the two of you.”

“Okay,” Shirou said. “I’ll cook dinner too, since Fujimura won’t forgive me otherwise. I--” His voice cut off, and Sakura could hear quick muttering, followed by an exhausted sigh. “I have to go. Can I call you this time tomorrow?”

“Please. And I want to hear all about India tomorrow!”

“You will. Take care until then.”

“Good bye.”

The dead air on the other end of the line was a sad sound to hear after Shirou’s voice, but Sakura didn’t mind. Tomorrow meant another phone call, more details, and hopefully an address to write to as well, in case phone calls became impossible to manage. With a smile, she turned her attention to the kitchen, well aware that it was dinner time and that her roommate would appreciate something when she got home too.

Shirou loved the early mornings. The sun always shone through the mish-mash of alleys that made up the town he was staying in, and being up with the sun meant a few precious hours without the oppressive humidity that swept over the island by nine o’clock.

Besides, he got to make breakfast for half of the residents in the area, and there was nothing that Shirou appreciated more than a massive wok, eggs from the chickens that lived behind Mrs. Lee’s, and a few scant spices that challenged him to make something from nothing.

It wasn’t justice, going into communities like this and helping out randomly before moving on. Justice involved learning about a mage who failed to clean up after an experiment in a little isolated town, leaving a wake of terrifying monsters that terrorized whatever humans were nearby for the sake of their own survival. Justice was about finding things no one else was willing to risk their lives against and doing just that, even if a landslide had to be made in order to take care of the problem. This was what Sakura had called, in her last letter to Shirou, good work, deeds that spoke to character and a sense of fairness rather than anything like justice as Shirou had tried to put into words many times over the years.

The phrase was a useful one, the kind of thing that Shirou found himself holding onto tighter and tighter as he grew older. For now though, the knowledge that he was cooking for others where budgets were thin and that he’d be called upon to perhaps haul some better materials over in the next few days were enough to propel Shirou into the tiny kitchen he was now working out of and greet it as an old friend.

“Good morning,” he said to the silent room, grabbing his apron off of the hook where it dangled from. “Let’s get to work.”

Silence responded, and Shirou smiled.

The knock on the door echoed throughout the corridor of the Emiya household. Sakura frowned as she picked herself up off of the floor, away from her lunch, confused about who would be knocking at 12:45 on a Saturday. Fujimura was away for an English teacher’s conference in Tokyo, and Shinji knew better than come by the house. Grandfather was an option, but Sakura couldn’t imagine that there was anything so important as to warrant leaving the house. He had gone out of the way to learn to use a phone for the sake of that.

When she opened the door, Sakura couldn’t help but draw a sharp intake of breath. “Shirou!”

It wasn’t just Shirou on the doorstep of his own home. The now much taller, much tanner Shirou with flecks of silver in his hair was flanked by three others. Rin was to his left, looking much the same as Sakura had seen her last year when Rin had swung by unannounced to check in on her. Long hair tied back in a single ponytail, red coat, turtleneck, gloves, but the other two standing on Shirou’s right? Sakura didn’t know them at all. Both were from the west, that much was obvious, but their relation to each other was impossible to tell. One of them, the man, was tall with long black hair and a dangerously grumpy look, his red coat made of thick wool and boasting the smell of too many cigars. The young woman beside him had to be in her twenties in spite of her gray hair, and the blue eyes that stared at Sakura were just a little unnerving. Her whole appearance was, really, as she looked a little too much like the young western girl who had stayed with Shirou ten years ago.

They made for a strange group, but strange morphed into ominous when Rin cut in.

“You have to get out of Fuyuki,” she said quickly. “There’s something going down that--”

“Excuse me?” Sakura asked, feeling a flush of unexpected anger. “You can’t show up at the door unannounced and--”

“Rin,” Shirou cut in wearily. “I’ll do this. Sakura, can I come in for a minute and explain?”

Sakura paused, looking around Shirou to observe the two westerners. They seemed unperturbed by all of this, and so, reluctantly, Sakura stepped back to allow Shirou in. He shuffled in, almost like a stranger in his own home, and Sakura shut the door behind him.

Shirou settled himself down on the little step used for taking off one’s outside shoes and putting on house slippers. That he made no move to take off the thick, black boots he had on meant he wasn’t planning on staying, and Sakura reluctantly sighed when she realized that fact.

“What’s happening? You usually write or call before you come by to visit.”

“This isn’t really a visit,” Shirou said, looking up at her. It was impossible to miss how much more muscular he had grown since they had last seen each other two years ago, and how much more tired he looked. Sakura hated that, and she hated that she didn’t know what was causing any of it. “Do you remember all the strange things that happened ten years ago? The illness at school, everything with Shinji--”

“--Yes,” Sakura said flatly. “This is related?”

Shirou nodded. “The thing that caused it is trying to start up again. We’re trying to stop it, but Lord El-Melloi II - he’s the tall one in the coat - thinks that in trying to do so, we might destroy a lot of Fuyuki. Maybe all of it. So we’re trying to make sure the city’s evacuated before--”

Sakura wasn’t listening. She was staring at Shirou with her mouth open and eyes as wide a dinner plates. She had heard, over the years, mutterings about this event. It was impossible to miss with Tokiomi who, when he thought that both of his daughters were in bed, would speak with Aoi about the problems of having two heirs and one crest with this Grail being so important. Zouken Matou’s methods made it impossible to ignore what a mage would do to win this cup, and everything that had happened at Homurahara Academy last year was nothing but a reminder that while everyone else went about their daily lives, magi could still influence everything for the sake of a single goal. That willingness to sacrifice everything had been an undercurrent in Shirou’s complaints about Clock Tower as well, and yet, here he was, acting every bit of the thing that he had said he despised.

“I see,” Sakura managed, her voice thin and on the verge of breaking. Not down into tears or off into anger, but simply teetering out and not being able to find any more words. “The entire city?”

“There’s going to be an emergency broadcast soon,” Shirou said softly. “Tsunami warning.”

“A tsunami warning,” she repeated, breathless. The part of Sakura that knew how most magi would approach such a situation, thought it was practical. It saved the most lives possible while allowing for events to take their toll on the city. It was clever, commendable to even care. The rest of Sakura could only look at Shirou in mute horror, not because he was speaking of destruction and saving lives, but because somehow, all this destruction counted as a good deed in his mind.

“Lord El-Melloi II’s adoptive grandparents are leaving in a bit. He’s said he’ll ask them to pick you up if you’d like--”

Sakura shook her head no, feeling numbness take her over. She must have heard Shirou ask Sakura, are you sure? because the word no left her lips, and there was something said about packing up and Shirou seeing himself out. Snippets of conversation followed that - a man asking in stunted Japanese about how things went, but anything beyond that went out of earshot, and then was cut off by the door clicking shut.

Packing was automatic, and Sakura was an hour away on a train heading to Tokyo when her mobile buzzed with a tsunami warning for Fuyuki and the surrounding coastal areas. She sighed, tapped the screen to acknowledge that she had seen the alert, and then put the phone away. Her grandfather probably knew what was behind the warning, and he was likely going to stay.

Shirou never lingered after he used magecraft to ensure that the world remained just and fair. His reality marble invited too much scrutiny, and Rin had remarked long ago that such things invited sealing designations from the Mages’ Association. But he did check in every so often to look at the aftermath of his actions, spacing visits apart by months or years. Desert villages flourished when he went back after a while. Families seemed just a bit better off, safer from threats of magecraft and other parts of the world that loomed, and for that, he could rest easy with everything such actions required.

So it went for Fuyuki. The city had suffered great damage in taking apart the Holy Grail. The temple atop Mount Enzou had taken the brunt of it thanks to the Mages’ Association having a last stand there, but residential areas had suffered as magi tried to use them for cover, and the leylines of Fuyuki shifting thanks to explosives planted underneath them by some mage who, according to Lord El-Melloi II and Reines’ theory, had participated in the 4th Holy Grail War. Those areas took the longest to recover, even a year later, and Shirou couldn’t help but feel responsible. It was why he was staying in the city for a week, to help with reconstruction, and no one questioned his presence. He didn’t look like Shirou Emiya anymore; he looked like--

--Never mind what he looked like. He was strong, he helped to move beams upright, and he could walk away knowing that soon people would live in their houses again. Better houses, stronger for what the land had been through, and an apology from one of the people who had brought what once stood there to its knees.

The nights were long, though, and lonely. Rin was in America to look into a particular lab that was growing gems she wanted to use in her next patent. Lord El-Melloi II and Gray remained in London, debating with other magi about this, that, or another thing and making backroom deals to clean everything up, and the idea of going back to the Emiya house filled Shirou with dread. Sakura’s mute, horrified face still lingered whenever he sat and wrote letters to her, and her seemingly straightforward replies made him suspect that she was not over the fact that Fuyuki’s destruction had been orchestrated by a small group of magi. Staying in the Tohsaka mansion just made Shirou feel worse, and so after cooking dinner, he forced himself to walk the city streets.

His feet, however, chose to stick to familiar routes, taking him to school, and then to the downtown area, and then back towards the house that he had since handed over to Sakura. Shirou tried to force himself down different paths, but the muscle memory won out in the end. Tonight was no different, and Shirou was one block away when he heard Sakura’s voice asking if it was actually him.

“Yeah,” Shirou admitted, looking everywhere but in Sakura’s direction. She didn’t seem to notice, or care.

“Is it just you here?” she asked, arms weighed down with groceries. Shirou could see tops of carrots and daikon poking out, and he tried to focus on the question.

“Yeah. Just me. I’m here with some of the construction crews.”

Sakura’s lips pursed together, evaluating the response before a hint of a smile flicked across her face. “That’s good, they’ve needed all the help they can get. Will you help bring this stuff inside?”

“Of course.”

Familiarity ached as Shirou took half of the bags from Sakura, and the two walked together towards the house. All of the doors creaked as they should have as they walked back inside, the old house slippers somehow fit, and the process of cooking with Sakura came from pure memory. The certainty of the kitchen - that a blade will always cut, that the oven door will always groan as it opens, that Sakura will always forget where dashi ingredients are even though it is her own house - felt like slipping into an armchair long since worn in. Shirou smiled, passed Sakura the salt, and let his idealism slip away for the rest of the evening.

The first letter came two weeks after running into each other again. It came not from a specific address but from a PO box in Tokyo, which was a change. Up until now, Shirou’s letters had come from London, even if he said he was in South America or the Middle East or somewhere else entirely. A note beside the PO box asked Sakura to use this as the primary mailing address.

Inside, the letter tried to be the same kinds of letters as before. Observations about where Shirou was now - a desert, although the exact one wasn’t given - notes about the food he was eating, comments about how hard it was to even find a mailbox here. A promise to write every week again, and through it all, the effort to be happy, to be reassuring, to hide the danger Shirou was in showed. The man who had spent an evening cooking with Sakura wanted to be the only Shirou that existed, and even on the page, it seemed to be a losing struggle. The passages about food eaten seemed to peter out thanks to an interruption and then being forced to come back to writing. A desert was a desert, and a comment about how sand gets everywhere definitely talked about a firearm.

Sakura sighed as she put the letter down, setting a vase of flowers atop it to keep the paper from blowing away. She’d reply tomorrow, perhaps. Maybe the day after that. Whenever it felt like she had the ability to speak to the person Shirou wanted to be in that letter.

Shirou stares up at the World, the brilliant, blinding light it exuded, and considered the offer.

Become a hero. Create miracles to save what needs to be saved. Be able to be what your Saber was, back when the Holy Grail still existed and the conflict didn’t happen every ten years.

He shouldn’t hesitate. He shouldn’t look at this with a modicum of doubt. The yes should be immediate.

Too many things stay Shirou Emiya’s tongue. The thoughts of being a magic user. The inability to visit Fujimura whenever. The look Sakura gave him when he said, in so many words, that destroying the Grail could also mean destroying Fuyuki. All the little things heroes don’t get to have, because heroes are not allowed to be content. And as he hesitates, it was with the knowledge that there were one hundred lives hanging in the balance. He hesitates with the knowledge that with a single word, he could save many more than that. He hesitates with the knowledge that the legacy that would follow his death would be contested, but the actions done in secret would leave the world a better place.

The World reminds Shirou that he doesn’t have much longer to decide, that his indecision is a choice in and of itself, that if silence was his ultimate response, the nuclear plant that the bright light hovers over would still cause a catastrophe.

Finally, Shirou speaks.

“Yes. I accept.”

The world fades, and Shirou can’t shake the stirring of voices in his head. Kiritsugu’s happiness on their last night together, Rin’s scoffs when Shirou said too many times at Clock Tower that something was unfair, Lord El-Melloi II’s suggestion that they approach taking apart the Grail as magi rather than heroes so that they could all live another day, Sakura asking about which daikon to buy, Fujimura laughing as Shirou fell for another prank. The glorious cacophony was a world of its own, and it only rose as the light fall away. Fall away until the World’s voice sounds once again. Softly. Urgently.

“Get to work.”

Shirou Emiya has been dead for five years.

Sakura still has all the letters, of course, hidden away in the storeroom under lock and key. They’ll be the kinds of things that collectors and libraries want, the kinds of things that offer insight into the actions of a man who fought to end a war and was made into a scapegoat. They’ll also be the kinds of things whose talk of magecraft will encourage the public to think of Shirou Emiya as a crazed madman who believed magic to be real, and so, Sakura knows, their existence must be kept secret.

That Shirou Emiya was from Fuyuki is a dark secret now, muttered by the city in shame. That his house was given to a friend years ago is never remarked upon, but there are still stares from those who can’t fathom why she’d hang onto the building at all. She should be ashamed to have once associated with him and tear the place down, not use it as a home and as an archery range where she offers classes. Thankfully, no student or parent seems to mind, and Sakura breathes easy.

Not that staying in the house is easy. There’s too many memories, too many reminders that the dark secret Fuyuki wants to forget was someone who wanted to do his best to help others. Someone whose teacher and primary guardian loved to play practical jokes on him, someone who in another life could have gone on to become one of the chefs whose eateries had lines out the door and reservations booked for months. Someone who tried to make up for what damage he did cause, and probably would attempt to make up for it now if he had a chance.

Sakura saw the change in him. Better than anyone, perhaps, because he let her see. Shirou had told her about Fuyuki’s potential destruction. He had given her the house as if he anticipated something happening one day. He had come back every so often looking tired and clinging to what once was his daily life, and called to talk about absolutely nothing at all.

The only blessing, in the death of Shirou Emiya and the knowledge that things could have been different, is that his death forced Rin back into Sakura’s life. It had been Rin that showed up on Sakura’s door to break the news and explain the particulars, and it is Rin that calls on every anniversary to make sure that Sakura is okay. Part of Sakura wondered why it was Shirou’s death - not taking apart the Holy Grail, not the death of Zouken Matou, not Shinji’s moving away - that prompted Rin to finally keep in contact, but Sakura had decided not to ask about it. She knew the answer, that it was mage stuff, and she didn’t want to dive into that world. She was happy with monthly phone calls and surface conversations that spoke to strained friends checking in on each other without examining the past too much. Far easier than trying to make up for a gap of twenty plus years.

The phone rings.

“Sakura?” Rin’s voice comes through the other line. “Is it too early in the morning?”

“Not at all,” is the response. “Isn’t it late in England?”

Rin hums lightly. “I’m in America, so it isn’t too bad. How are things over by you?’

“Rainy, mostly. No one’s said anything to me or left anything on the doorstep, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The rest of the conversation had been played out times before with questions about business, about Rin’s child, about what was for dinner, about nothing of consequence. For a moment, Sakura ponders bringing up the letters, knowing that Rin would want to ensure their safety, but she lets the thought go. They can talk about it on another day, one not characterized by loss and the horrid circumstance that had finally seen them re-enter each other’s lives.

It is 2004, and Archer Emiya has lied to his Master about going out and doing surveillance to find other servants to fight. He could care less about them, about the Grail War, about any of it. He simply needs to find Shirou Emiya, and prevent everything from ending as it has.

He knows his own daily movements, of course. He remembers every step, every dumb fight with Fujimura, every dish washed after dinner. He has lived this life already and can predict it with the sort of numbing accuracy that comes from viewing something one too many times. He knows he could check on Fujimura for a change of pace, or go to the grave of Kiritsugu Emiya for the sake of looking at something else that doesn’t happen to be the walls of the Tohsaka home or his younger self, and it is in that realization that Archer realizes he should, should check in with Sakura.

It’s too easy to remember her life at this point in time. Shinji. Zouken. The quiet pressure of the Grail War making those two even worse than usual. She might as well have lived at the house for all the good being home did, and Fujimura would have all too happily allowed it. Archer had never questioned how Fujimura knew what was going on in that house, but then again, he never wanted to.

He wills himself to the grocery store, knowing Sakura will be there. Archer remembers the dinner - a warming hot pot with some of the best beef that he had ever had - and for all that he despises himself, Sakura was happy. He can allow himself delicious food for the sake of easing things for her.

The fluorescent lighting of the grocery store is all too familiar, and Archer manifests himself right behind a pile of daikon all begging to be cut up and cooked. There’s only a few shoppers milling around the fruit and vegetable section, and none of them seem to have taken notice of Archer’s sudden manifestation.

A flash of purple catches Archer’s eye in the distance, over by the meat section. It takes precious little time to walk over, and soon enough, Archer is beside Sakura, who has barely realized that there’s someone else beside her.

It is strange seeing her so young again. The last time Archer saw Sakura was two years before his death, and they both had changed so much. He had grown, gone grey, changed eye colour, and gained a permanent tan. Sakura had grown her hair out and gained some muscle of her own, now in charge of Fuyuki’s only archery range and giving lessons to those willing to join the range. Her timid disposition had been replaced by a low threshold for skirting around issues, and an exhaustion with those who had strayed too far from her own high expectations of them. Not that Archer could have ever blamed her for being disappointed in how Shirou Emiya had turned out.

“Excuse me--” comes Sakura’s voice, recognizing that Archer is in the way of where she needs to be to get the right kind of beef for dinner.

“Ah, my apologies miss,” Archer replies, side stepping to his right. “Hot pot tonight?”

Sakura blinks, then nods. “Yes. How did you--?”

Archer smiles, gesturing at the shopping basket in Sakura’s free hand. “Lucky guess.”

“Oh, well,” Sakura flushes a brilliant red, before turning her attention towards the beef. “Thank you. Hm,” she frowns, biting on her lip slightly. “This is all awfully fatty beef.”

There’s a pause as Archer looks at the meat just above where Sakura stands, shuffling through containers before picking one up and offering it. “This one looks a lot better.”

“Ah!” Sakura leans forward, inspecting the package before taking it. “This is perfect, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” is the response, and for a single moment, the anger and resentment towards the world, towards the Grail War, towards being a counter guardian is gone. Archer is in high school again, and he is simply grocery shopping with his friend. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“I will,” Sakura says.

She walks on to the next aisle, and Archer watches for as long as he can. There’s a Grail War to worry about, there’s Shirou Emiya to take care of, there’s Rin Tohsaka to contend with, but in all of this, there is gratitude for ensuring that his last interaction with Sakura can remain something unscarred by the rest of the actions of Shirou Emiya and his attempts to be a hero of justice.