Disclaimer: Don't own Death, don't own other obscure references. Making no money. That's about it.

Note: I'm really not sure how good this is, but you guys gave me too many egoboosts about the other Sandman fics, so there it is.
 

Rap, tap, tap, pong, splat, splash, splash, rapping, tapping, icelings in the air, little bits, little things, rap, tap, splosh, "Ouch!", rapping, tapping, piece of sky lying on the pavement.

Rainy day.

A boy sat in a sterile white room somewhere in a national hospital.

"Hi, Tommy!" He turned. Looking around, studying the walls in confusion, he spotted a skinny young woman with clear white skin sitting opposite him on a couch colorfully contradicting her black-and-white visage. She was arranging game pieces on a board. "Chess?"

Eyeing, maybe staring at the board, Tommy sighed. He leaned against the back of his own colorful couch. He looked down. "No, not today, sorry. Don't feel like it."

The woman gritted her teeth as she continued to arrange the game pieces. The rain was tapping on the roof like a clock, tap, tap, tap, tock, tick, time running out. Her sister would enjoy Tommy's despondency.

'I'm not going to give Despair that sick pleasure, oh no', Death thought. Her fingers slipped on the smooth ivory pieces, nervous...

"C'mon, Tommy, just one game," she said sweetly, fluttering her large black eyes. Rap, tap, the rain went. A woman was walking nervously back and forth in the corridor.

The boy (no older than fourteen) sighed again. Chess with Death, how many times had he been at this game, struggling? He stopped counting when he was eight, because he didn't know to count over one hundred back then. He was sick of the game. At times like that, he usually reminded himself he was very lucky for her to be giving him the chance, delaying the ultimate inevitable by another victory. And he always beat her. As strange as it might seem, Death was a very bad Chess player. He imagined she had better things to do in her eternity of existence than learn to play the game well.

He leaned his head on his palms. Death gave him a reassuring smile, the kind she was so good at. Her silver ankh dangled over the board almost menacingly, reminding him all the unpleasant things about the game. The woman in the corridor quickened her steps, and was walking with fists clenched, occasionally glancing toward a door marked "Surgery Room -- Keep Out".

Tommy made the opening move, and then decided it was a bad one. Death looked with concern into his blue eyes as her fingers gripped the black piece. Everything about her was black. He felt a chill run down his spine.

Death pondered. Tommy's move was unfortunate, but she couldn't reverse it. She couldn't let the blond, cheerful boy win. Destiny would be steaming, and she didn't suppose the universe would approve either. The game has to run its track, as do all things.

So she holds the game piece and moves as she must. Win the game, end the life. Chess with Death. She hated cliches.

It was more than once that her siblings asked her why, why this particular boy. What led her to question her duty and push fate a few pages ahead. Dream was especially obsessive about it, and even more disturbed by her utter happiness at Tommy's constant victories.

"Why do you bother?" he asked her once. They were sitting on the edge of a pond and she was letting her feet make small circles in the water. Two awkward figures like a scene out of a movie in black and white, and the green of the grass and the blue of the pond. "You cannot deny yourself, my sister. This boy should have died long ago."

And she twirled a strand of her hair on one skinny finger, wondering if it would ever form anything other than a messy mop, and told him exactly what she thought. "I bother because he's a little kid, Dream. It's not his fault, y'know. I just think he deserves... I dunno, a second chance?" Then she sighed and pulled her legs away from the water and took his hand, feeling frightened. "Am I making sense at all?"

He just smiled. And that was a monumental statement by itself. She had all the answer she needed.

"You're gonna beat me again, I tell you," she was smiling now. Tommy studied the game pieces, frowning. They stood there like statues, like symbols, reflections of his life carved in ivory, everything he was and all he'd ever be in these tiny things. He felt insignificant. Next to Death, that was understandable. The rain was tapping on the ceiling, dripping down the walls. The woman was sitting outside and gnawing at her fingernails.

King, bishop, rook, sixty-four squares. His life on a board. Move the pieces, play out the game. Checkmate was inevitable, would come sooner or later, like all things, like death.

Death... she was winning.

He wondered what would happen if one day, she would finally, actually win.

He shook his head slightly and felt his eyes refocusing on the board and on the pale hand Death was waving in front of his face. "Earth to Tommy? Jeez, kid, keep the daydreams for my brother, willya?"

Blinking, he reached out for a game piece.

His memory trailed back to times that seemed ancient. Involvement with the Endless -- Chess games in particular -- made time twist in odd ways. He wouldn't forget the day. He was ready for the inevitable back then; maybe it should've played out as things do. He couldn't help but wonder at the use of anthropomorphic personifications, which were doubtlessly the universe's way of playing tricks on itself. Whoever came up with the idea that Death should be given her own choice? How did it make him end up?

He was having a hard time breathing again, his throat had been feeling blocked for days. Nothing seemed to relieve it. Lying down made it somewhat easier, so he lay, he lay all day long and listened to music, systematically ignoring the books and Chessboard that lay on the table next to his bed. Loud music, powerful and all-drowning, dark, brooding music. He was sad.

Genetic disorders suck. Cystic Fibrosis sucks. For a six years old he knew enough curses to have no trouble describing his condition. He coughed and breathed in with an effort. And that was when she appeared.

"Hi, Tommy," she said simply.

Her hair was as dark as a raven; her skin was as white as snow. Her eyes were sparkling and enchanted. She had an odd, warm smile.

They talked a bit. She invited him to a game of Chess. And he won.

See you in a month, she said and winked. He blinked, and she was gone.

It took him a while to figure out who she was, why she came, why they played. The thought that a cliched fairy tale saved his life wasn't appealing. And then they played systematically, every month or so, for eight years.

With time, he came to like her.

"Check," Death said simply. Tommy looked down at the board, woken from his daydream by the sound of her voice. Check. The only escape for his king was a doomed route. He could see it -- he could see it, he knew it, he knew all about doomed routes.

Rap, the rain rapped on the roof, tap. Rap, tap, the skies will be clearing soon. The woman was trying to peer through the keyhole. Trails of tears smearing the make-up beneath her eyes.

"What's going on in there?" Tommy asked, pointing toward the room, his attention still on the board. Maybe he was just trying to distract Death. Dirty trick, but she seemed to welcome it. Death tilted her head to one side, her hair almost knocking off the game pieces. A bishop fell and rolled across the board. She picked it up and placed it exactly where it stood before. She had basic morals.

"Oh, nothing you should be worried about," she said lightly. "That's you in there, Tommy."

Trying to look disinterested, he studied the board intensively, suddenly seeing himself in a self-conscious delusion in every one of the pieces. His mind sought the way out with growing hunger.

"The transplant? Finally?"

Death simply nodded. She was staring intensely at the board. She didn't want him to make the move. The more time it took the better. She didn't want him to move, she didn't want to move after him. She forced herself not to look up at his face. What would she do if she did? What could she change?

"Then I'm in there? And we're... playing in here?" he asked uncertainly.

"You can thank my brother for that."

"I thought they said I wasn't getting a new lung after all..."

The king one square to the left. Death's fortress was closing in. Fate was preparing to seal without one thought of mercy in mind.

"They were wrong, I guess. If you're interested, it belonged to one Mike Dukes. I paid him a visit this morning. Nice fella, really, not such a loss. He was so..." She made a face, "Ordinary..."

"Too ordinary to play Chess with you?" Tommy asked, still keeping his tone shallow. Sixty-four squares, thirty-two game pieces, two contestants, one's life. What did Death have to lose?

The pale Endless winced. "I.. just didn't have the time."

Twenty-four game pieces, she had fifteen. Tommy was losing. He wasn't focused, he wasn't trying. She didn't want to continue playing. Why did she even start it? Why didn't she just do her duty and spare herself and Tommy this tension, this pain?

"Do you know how to play Chess?" Death asked with a smile.

He was just six -- he thought he didn't know. Then she arranged the game pieces, and time soon proved him wrong.

"I hate taking little kids," she told him as he beat her without knowing how. "And I sure hate taking someone like you. You're a fighter, Tommy; you made it this far, even though it hurts. Would you mind if I gave you another chance? If you beat me, you beat death, you get to live a little longer."

Her words, said so casually, as if from a mouth and a mind that knew life and death and everything in between, understood them all and juggled them along with the expertise of a god, made him shiver and flinch. He was just six years old and he didn't want to die. He wanted to grow up and be an astronaut, or a pilot, he wanted to make it to the first grade.

He looked at the board and his fingers playing over it. He looked up at her.

"Checkmate."

Death gestured with her head toward the surgery room. "They're having trouble in there."

"Is that why I'm here with you?" Tommy asked, semi-bored, his eyes locked feverishly on the board. Kings, bishops, rooks, no move yet, any move will determine his fate, any move. Touch the wrong game piece, make the wrong choice. Oops, you're dead.

Leaning back, Death readjusted the ankh that fell loosely on her side, away from the board, its oddly shaped form no longer hovering just in view. Squares, black and white, life and death.

Tap, the rain tapped on the roof, like a dying man's last words, trying with tremendous effort to prove that he was still there, rap.

Death looked up. Tap, rap, tap, tapped the rain.

Tommy cast a glance across the board.

He was cornered. Nineteen pieces, fourteen of Death's. Over, it was over, finally over. The transplant wasn't going to succeed. His mother and father, his little sister, his grandparents, they soon would be huddled outside the room crying. Death would take him by the hand and her wings would flutter. Finally he'll get to see her wings.

"If you don't give up than the game isn't over. If you don't make the choice to lose hope than hope isn't lost. Never despair, not while I'm around. You'll get your shots with my sister if you're lucky. And if you're really lucky, than you'll get ones with the better parts of my family too."

Death told him that. She told him most of the best things about life. Death seemed to appreciate irony.

He wondered if hope was part of her family and understood everything. He wondered if Death was real or if she was just something his mind constructed to make sure he keeps fighting, keeps playing the game, keeps trying to win.

All that passed through Tommy's head in the second in which he reached out and displaced two of Death's game pieces into more comfortable positions. When his hand shot back, she removed her gaze from the roof and smiled at him as he made his move.

"Wow, now that's an escape," she said with certain surprise, with a tone he never heard her use before. Was it amusement, anger? With Death, it was sometimes impossible to tell.

She made her move nonetheless, and Tommy made his, and they both played on until the skies began to clear and a single sunray made its way into the room and caught fondly on Death's ankh and Tommy's hair like a caressing lover, like a friend comforting one in mourning. And Tommy lifted his eyes from the board, sixty-four squares, ten game pieces, two contestants, a life, a smile, and said quietly "Checkmate."

Death's face lit up.

"I guess the day's yours, then," she replied. If she knew what he had done, she showed no sign of it. She was Endless, how could she not know?

It never did occur to him that she didn't care. He was too busy thinking about other things. Victory, hope, determination, life. Life in particular.

They rose from the couches and shook hands, and Death snickered as she said "But now I have no idea when I'll be seeing you again!"

Tommy looked at her in the eyes as the game board faded from existence. Black and white, life and death, the light from the window pooling on the exposed table. "Hopefully not soon," he said with a laugh. "But I'll keep my Chess playing skills polished, just in case."

And Death looked at him and smiled.

***********

"Tommy? Tommy, sweetie, can you hear me?"

Tommy's blue eyes opened slowly. He blinked at the bright light in the strange room. He noticed he was lying, covered with a blanket. His chest ached, but his breath was surprisingly easy. Hazily, he remembered a game. Something in black and white...

A face was crunching over him, a smiling face, loving blue eyes filled with tears of joy.

"Mom?" Tommy whispered. He was tired, he hurt, but he was alive. And the realization was overwhelming.

His mother, his father, his little sister, his grandparents, all in the room, broke into a wild gleeful conversation, each coming to him, hugging him, letting him know the transplant was successful, he was going to be all right. They surrounded him with joyous warmth he could swear he remembered seeing radiating from the eyes of a tall, thin Goth girl with skin as pale as moonlight and hair as dark as night. But now it was more real, more alive.

In that celebration of his new life, he completely missed the Chessboard lying abandoned in the corner of the room.

And outside, in the brand new day, under the stunningly clear blue skies, Death threw her head back and laughed as the sunlight petted her face.