Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 90 ( Chapter 90 )

90

 

You can trust your heart to make you weak
And break down your fear of safety

 

Sunlight slanted past the blinds, danced across my eyelids until I woke up. Uneasy dreams spun into wakefulness in a wash of terror: where the fuck was I? This wasn't the hotel; it sure as hell wasn't a car.

 

Then I recognized the sleeping form beside me, honey-dappled hair falling soft across his pillow.

 

That's right, I'd lain down while Yohji secured his apartment for the night, and I must have dozed off before he'd come to bed. I took several deep breaths, willing myself to calm. I was somewhere relatively safe for the first time in months, and it had freaked me out. This couldn't be a good sign.

 

Silently I got up and padded to the bathroom. I debated showering, but didn't want to make too much noise this early; Yohji would probably be sleeping for a few more hours, and I didn't feel petty enough to wake him.

 

I settled for washing my face and running a wet comb through my hair. Though I'd stopped coloring it, the texture still felt wrong to me - it seemed too brittle lately. I snarled at my reflection as the comb peeled even more strands into its teeth. Yohji kept quality hair-care products for himself; I'd have to make use of them later.

 

As I smoothed my hair back into place, I noticed something that made me gape stupidly at the mirror. I leaned closer, reached up, separated the russet mess by my left temple.

 

White gleamed among the red, bright and unmistakable.

 

I knew it was silly of me, but I muttered a curse at this first inexorable sign of age. Not like I'd been under a lot of stress lately, or any of a dozen other good reasons my hair might have for turning traitor like this - I still took personal affront. For a moment I debated yanking it out, but then superstition cautioned against it. If I pulled one, might a dozen spring up instead?

 

With a resigned sigh I combed my hair back down, then fluffed it with my hands. I chided myself for being so damn upset. After all, Brad already had notions of gray, and it only made him more handsome.

 

Then again, he was older than me.

 

I returned to the bedroom, quietly unpacked clothes for the day and dressed, all the while torn between frustration at myself and envy at Yohji's peaceful slumber. At least he was getting some decent sleep; he'd come to bed some time after I'd fallen asleep, I could only guess how late that might have been.

 

Moving quietly, I made my way to the kitchen. I wanted some coffee in my blood before I turned on the television to see if there had been any disasters during the night. Odds were good that, if Farfarello had gone hunting, his trail would be all over the morning news, and I had to admit I wasn't quite ready to find out just yet.

 

Coffee maker, beans, grinder, filters, and water: all the makings for breakfast's first course lay within easy reach. I assembled the necessary components with steady determination, then turned my attention to the refrigerator. The expected array of leftovers made me chuckle; I'd been that bad myself once upon a time, though I'd never cultivated the discipline needed to actually eat them before they turned nasty.

 

Finding nothing that struck my fancy, I turned to the pantry. When in doubt, Pocky and coffee made a damn fine meal. I grabbed an orange to complete my feast, then searched for a mug.

 

I paused, the cabinet door open, glasses and mugs reflecting the kitchen light. How quickly I'd gotten used to sharing his home. Again. Always.

 

Leaving…wouldn't be easy.

 

Frowning, I set the mug on the counter and left the coffee maker to its work. I put the orange in a bowl, tossed in the Pocky, and took the whole lot into the living room. The television remote was right where it should be, adding to that feeling of sublime familiarity. I keyed the buttons and hit the mute before curling up on the sofa with my breakfast.

 

I picked at the orange peel as I watched the news program. The television blathered on in silence, people's lips moving and faces showing no sign of distress, except in regard to the weather forecast. This coming weekend would be a bad one for the golfers, judging by the little film clip and quick segue to the regional radar. I shook my head. Never had been very fond of golf.

 

From the kitchen came the sound of the coffee maker finishing its cycle in a loud, rattling belch.

 

I switched the television back off and returned to the kitchen, setting the bowl down so I could claim my prize of hot caffeine. After a first cautious sip, I parked myself at the kitchen counter and slumped over the steaming mug, letting the fragrant warmth caress my face. The steam picked up the scent of orange peel from my fingers and wafted it skyward; this was better than a shower any day.

 

The smile snuck up on me before I realized it, and I laughed softly. I'd never had my own apartment, or made a home with a lover. Those things belonged to another world, one I had never been invited to share. And yet here I was, playing the part as though I had always been here.

 

For the first time in my life, I felt normal.

 

That nagging little voice in my head reminded me that this was borrowed time, if not stolen, and the price could be steep. I ignored it. I'd already learned all its lessons, the lessons of duty and obligation; I wasn't about to forget them any time soon. But right now, for this moment, I was my own man, and it felt damn good.

 

I took my time peeling the orange, and when I discovered it was the kind without seeds I devoured the slices ravenously. Juice clung to my lips and chin, and stained my fingernails; it also notified me of a small cut on one finger, the acid burn making me flinch and raise said digit to my mouth. Only after finishing off the fruit did I give my hands a proper washing.

 

Leaning back from the sink, I stretched, feeling the bones in my back creak and shift. The sensations settled into a dull ache in my right shoulder, reminding me of my first night in this apartment. So much had changed, and yet so much had been established in that short time.

 

Brad had known. He had basically sent me back here, more than once. What did he expect me to do?

 

What did he want me to do?

 

I refilled my cup, tore open the Pocky, then carried them both back to the living room. Absently I gnawed at a chocolate-covered cookie stick, giving silent praise to the Japanese for their snack foods. This stuff was infinitely addictive, and it went damn fine with fresh oranges and coffee.

 

It had been the first of the local fare I'd acquired a taste for, and Brad had always made certain there was a box stashed somewhere in our apartment.

 

Why did it keep coming down to a comparison between Brad and Yohji in my mind? Why did I insist on trying to second-guess the impossible? I wandered through Yohji's apartment, a Pocky stick clenched in my teeth like a designer cigarette while I pondered the impenetrable logic of Brad Crawford. More than once I had touched Brad's mind: there was no way he'd willingly give me over to another man. He had a jealous streak that would keep me under his thumb forever, given the chance. Underneath all the posturing of an Esset team commander, something in Brad wanted me to be his alone.

 

Was that the same something that kept pushing me away?

 

Again, I was no closer to wisdom for the asking. “Damn it.”

 

“You okay?”

 

Badly startled, I jumped, bit through the Pocky stick, watched half of it fall to the floor to land in front of a pair of bare feet.

 

Yohji leaned against the wall, watching me; he wore only a pair of jeans and his watch.

 

“How long have you been there?” I blurted, picking up the lost cookie and chiding myself for being so damn jumpy before congratulating myself for not spilling any coffee.

 

He shrugged. “Couple of minutes. Is everything all right?”

 

“Yeah, just trying to puzzle some things out. Checked the news, so far so good.” I caught the pun as I said it, tried not to snicker. “You're up early, for you.”

 

“Couldn't sleep any more, figured I may as well get some breakfast. I know a place that has a great take-out menu, what do you say to a picnic brunch?”

 

I didn't miss the subtle relaxing of his muscles, or the movement of his right hand away from his watch. He'd noticed I was missing from his bed, and grown worried. To lighten the mood, I smirked and said, “What, you're not going to cook noodles for me?”

 

Yohji laughed. “They have noodles there. And Western-style foods - they do a mean California omelet.” He took a step toward me, liberated my coffee mug, took a swig. “I was thinking we could drive around and look for your friend. I used to get paid to find people, you know.”

 

I chuckled. “I'm broke.”

 

Yohji's eyes sparkled with mischief as he gathered me into his arms. “That's all right,” he murmured against my ear, “you can pay it off like a divorcee in a noir movie.”

 

The last bit of tension popped like a soap bubble. “You cad!” I pounded lightly on his chest. “Taking advantage of your clients like that! I should report you, to…to…who the hell would I report you to, anyway?”

 

Instead of keeping on with the banter, Yohji just looked into my eyes, drawing me into a gentle stillness for the moment. “I'll help you find him, if I can. Before anything happens.”

 

I nodded, grateful for his understanding. Then I frowned. “You know, he's usually nocturnal when he's on the hunt.”

 

“That means there's a chance he'll be holed up somewhere to sleep.”

 

“Good point.” Though I had to admit to myself I had no idea where he might go to ground. Then again, this could be a good thing - if I couldn't find him easily, neither could anyone else.

 

Yohji finished dressing and stashed my gear in his closet safe. I turned off the coffee maker and checked my gun. No way in hell would I go after Farfarello unarmed. Friend he may be, but those make the most dangerous adversaries.

 

Yohji joined me in the living room, paused to tug his pants leg over a small gun holstered against his calf. I was pretty sure the gesture was so I'd know he was armed. “Ready?”

 

I followed Yohji to the door, mindful of the spiderweb of wire sealing the apartment. His habit of booby-trapping his home reminded me of Brad, right after this whole mess began. I wondered how long he'd been doing that, if it was something he'd picked up years ago or a recent affectation. I also wondered if he'd ever caught anyone.

 

Then I remembered that he hadn't used the wire that first night I'd broken in, hurt and desperate. If he had, I would have been in more trouble than I could have imagined. This was no token alarm he'd rigged up now: these wires meant business. Garrote wire at ankle and neck height, razor wire at odd intervals in between. If anyone had tried to break in during the night, at the very least they'd have ended up in a hospital.

 

When done, Yohji opened the door and checked to see if anyone were on the stairs or in the hallway. Pronouncing it safe, he told me, “Okay, go on out, I'll be done in a second.” As I stepped into the outer hallway, Yohji drew some wire from his watch. He carefully ran the wire up the inner edge of the door, fastened at top and bottom like weather-stripping. He repeated this on the door frame, then laced a few strands between the two.

 

My sense of safety shuddered. Clearly he was worried that my presence might bring danger to his home, and so was I. “Yohji, are you sure -”

 

“You're worth it, Shooga.”

 

“Sorry, don't know that one - what's `shooga'?” I asked, following him down to the parking garage.

 

He gave me a crooked smile and said, “It means `ginger'. I know it's a little lighter than your hair, but for some reason it seems to fit.”

 

“Uh huh.” I scowled. “That wouldn't be a reference to a certain American television show, would it? I'm not that spoiled!”

 

Yohji blinked, apparently perplexed. “It just seemed rude to call you Akage, it's so generic.”

 

As I got into the passenger seat of the Seven, Yohji set his driving shades in place and stated, “Lovey was spoiled. Ginger's the princess.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

A/N:

You can trust your heart to make you weak
And break down your fear of safety

 

“Dance Floor Metaphor” - The Crüxshadows Frozen Embers

 

Personally, I started going gray when I was in my late teens. So did Steve Martin. But for Schuldig, finding that first white hair was like a kick in the nuts. He'd finally managed to convince himself that this wasn't a vacation, he would be on the lam for the rest of his life, and in spite of this his team could miraculously escape anything - except time. He downplays Brad's gray hair, though he's noticed it before; funny thing about the gray, it can be hidden when you're in serious need of a haircut, then seem to sprout from nowhere once the trimming is done. Mine does that. Before I know it, it'll be silver-white, except where it's dyed something totally inappropriate.

 

But you know what? No matter what happens with Schuldig, Yohji will always think of him as his ginger-haired companion.

 

Pocky - a very tasty Japanese cookie snack: http://www.amazon.com/s.html/102-1928954-0388941?ie=UTF8&am p;node=3580501&index=gourmet&field-keywords=pocky

Shooga - ginger

Akage - red-haired