Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Ma Vie En Rose ❯ When I Grow Up ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Miko No Hoshi 
Things go bad for Aya on a solo mission, but Yohji's there.
Warnings: Friendship. Cross-dressing.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 03.23.2011 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.6K | Visits: 467 | Status: Completed
Things go bad for Aya on a solo mission, but Yohji's there.
Warnings: Friendship. Cross-dressing.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 03.23.2011 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.6K | Visits: 467 | Status: Completed
Notes: Well, as I was pestering blackorcid to dress Aya in frilly pink things in her wonderful fic, “Stepping Up,” it was brought to my attention that I could dress him that way myself. So, I did. This is dedicated to blackorcid for the idea and for being an awesome reviewer.
Ma Vie En Rose
“Are you going out tonight?”
Fresh from the shower, Yohji hadn’t expected Aya to be waiting for him in the hall, much less holding his katana. A quick check of his face had the blonde breathing a sigh of relief, more confident that a lack of anger meant he wasn’t destined to be viciously attacked. A solo mission, then.
“Not sure,” he answered, using one hand to smoke and the other to hold the small excuse for a towel around his hips. It was laundry day, and the only things left in the linen closet weren’t much bigger than tea towels. “Why?”
Aya just shook his head, but Yohji was clued in. Not one to be interested in the blonde’s social life, Aya was asking if Yohji was going to be home. Which, now, he was.
“Where’s your mission at?”
A tiny, half-smile that wasn’t the least happy, “I can’t say.”
Of course not. He never could. But if Aya was asking for Yohji to be home, asking, in this barely allowed way, that the older man linger around in case he needed backup, it had to be serious. No, not just serious. Aya did serious with his eyes closed. He went out without a word, usually with only Yohji knowing that he had a mission at all, coming back at early morning hours, often as the sun was starting to rise, covered in blood, and just as often bleeding as not.
They were bad missions, all of them. As far as Yohji was concerned, every mission where you went alone was a bad mission; there needed to be somebody to watch your back, give you a heads up, at least to drag your ass out of there if things went to hell.
But Aya didn’t worry. He showed up at Yohji’s door just long enough to flash him a glimpse of his sharpened blade and a stiff nod, just so he would know; he came and went silently, tending his own wounds, never explaining where or why or who had been described in the sealed folders Manx handed only to him. When cornered, she acknowledged that they were dangerous, and that Aya was the only one who would take them.
He needed the money. It was no secret to Yohji what it was for, but the odd expression he saw tonight, made him wonder if it was worth it.
Yohji looked him over. He wasn’t dressed for the mission, still in his worn jeans and faded black t-shirt. That was strange, too; Aya didn’t put things off.
“My green coat’s at the cleaners,” he said, seemingly from nowhere, “I won’t be able to score without it.”
“Hn,” Aya turned, but not before Yohji saw the slight relief in his eyes.
“Careful, Aya,” he said softly, but it was never acknowledged and he wasn’t sure the other had heard.
~*~
Dressed not in stylish club gear, but his worn navy sweat pants and a white tee, Yohji had tied his hair back and settled in for an evening of quiet not-waiting-for-Aya. With the lamp still on, he had fallen into a doze, sitting on his bed hunched over an old copy of Auto Digest.
The phone’s ringer was set on loud, and the sound broke suddenly into the early morning silence. He started at the sound, shoving his glasses back up on his nose as he flipped open the cell and pressed it to his ear.
“Aya?”
“Balinese,” the voice at the other end rasped out; he barely recognized it as Aya’s. Already on his feet, Yohji listened closely. “Mission…problems. Need...” The words broke off into heavy, gasping breaths that didn’t sound good at all.
“Where are you?”
“Tokyo Grand, behind…parking garage…maintenance.”
He was downstairs, forcing his bare feet into his tennis shoes and trying to find his keys.
“Need…”
“Need what, Aya?”
“Antidote. Clothes.”
Oh, fuck.
“Antidote for what?” he questioned, trying to stay calm.
“Don’t know. Clothes. Yo…Yohji, hurry.”
“I’m coming. Hang tight.”
“Emergency…Transmitter. Have to…”
The line clicked and Yohji swore. Ready to walk out the door, he circled back. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went up to the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the sink; from beneath it, he pulled out the medical kit. He had it open and was digging for the general antidotal shot before he realized it would be smarter to take the whole thing. Slamming it shut, he hurried to his room, knocking loudly at Omi’s door as he passed.
Aya had insisted on clothes, and Yohji would bet they were for cover. Likely he was too bloody to make an escape or even show up at the hospital. But the last thing Yohji had time to do was dig around in the sad excuse for a closet that Aya kept, so he snagged the first things he saw on his own room floor: a pair of jeans he had worn to the shop that day and the t-shirt he had pulled from the drawer earlier, dismissing it as proper lounge attire because it had been too loose and, thanks to a laundry accident, slightly pink.
By the time he had bundled these under his arm, Omi was in his doorway, looking too alert to be wearing fuzzy kitty cat PJs.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Aya’s hurt. Some kind of poison. Fucking solo mission.”
Omi nodded, stepping out of his way and following him down the steps without missing beat.
“Call Manx. See what kind of shit he’s into.”
“Right. Should I—”
Yohji’s cell phone suddenly emitted a shrill tone that transformed quickly into insistent beeping: the emergency transmitter. A similar sound came from upstairs, and before either could say anything, Ken was rushing down the steps in just his briefs, phone in hand, taking instant attendance to see who wasn’t accounted for. No one turned on the easily traceable signal unless they couldn’t make it out.
“Aya,” Ken stated.
“I’m going.”
~*~
It was a little past two in the morning, and traffic was sparse, though it picked up a little as Yohji headed downtown. Following the map displayed on the inconspicuous looking “navigation system” Kritiker had installed in his Seven, he bypassed the questionable club section of the district and made his way quickly through the business and tourist sections.
When the Tokyo Grand loomed large in front of him, he watched the map carefully, circling the block to pull into a dimly lit parking garage. On the first basement level, he pulled up to a metal door in the northwest corner; there was a burned out light above it, but the corner was dark. Undeterred, he tucked the kit and clothes awkwardly under his left arm, trying to keep his watch free enough to use.
The lock on the door was busted, the frame bent, but he didn’t have time to study it. Without hesitation, he opened it and went inside.
The room was dark, lit only by a harsh red glow of a safety light. Littered with tools and pipes and various other tetanus-inducing apparatuses, it was a hazard, and Yohji was relieved to find his hand falling of its own accord on a light switch. He could hear difficult breathing.
“Abyssinian?” he called quietly.
“Here,” was the even softer answer. If Aya was talking, then it was safe; Yohji flicked the light, and a dull, yellowish light lit the concrete room.
And there was Aya, hunched in the corner beside the rusted workbench, sitting on the floor with his back against the concrete wall. His hair was plastered down across his forehead, and his eyes were closed, but these were peripheral details.
Aya was in bad shape: gasping for air, right hand over his chest, clenching and enclenching as if trying to manipulate his lungs into working.
Aya was wearing pink. Tied around his neck and draped over his thin form was a satin pink evening gown. There was a slit running from the hem to his upper thigh, revealing one long leg and, was it, in the light he wasn’t sure, a hint of a lace.
Obliquely, he wondered why Aya would bother with stockings.
Thankfully, most of his brain was being concerned with getting Aya breathing and home. Kneeling beside him, he tossed down the clothes and opened the kit before sitting on the dirty floor.
“Yohji,” Aya looked up at him, lips parted as he struggled for air.
“Yeah. Take it easy,” he assured, needle in hand as he dug for the small bottle that might or might not help. It was a general kind of thing, and while it worked for most common poisons, it was no telling who Aya had been dealing with. Someone who liked pink, obviously.
Filling the syringe, he dropped the bottle and then tapped it. Aya watched it with wide eyes, and Yohji remember that, despite his vehement denial of the fact, Aya had some serious reservations about getting shots. He watched the swordsman carefully as he drew one thin arm across his own lap. Aya’s skin was hot to the touch.
“Sorry, man,” he stated, grabbing Aya hard around the upper arm to hold him in place; it proved to be a smart move, as the second the needle touched his skin, Aya tried to jerk away. “Easy,” Yohji said again, holding him in place with impressive strength as he emptied the syringe into his arm. When it was empty, he tucked it away. There was no immediate effect, and that made it all the more imperative to get Aya out of there and home.
“C’mon,” he tugged on the arm he had captured, but Aya seemed to sense his intention.
“Clothes,” he got out, head falling back against the wall as if the word had cost him.
“Shit, we don’t have time for that.”
Still, he knew he needed Aya’s cooperation, at least until the man had the decency to pass out. Reaching around, he undid the tie at Aya’s neck, slipping the dirtied satin down to bunch around his thin waist. There was a large, dark bruise forming over his lower ribs on the left side that could mean something was broken. A brush of fingers made Aya try to suck in air and fail, causing him to choke. Yohji lifted him a little off the wall until he calmed, then grabbed the wrinkled pink t-shirt and pulled it over Aya’s head.
There was blood, he saw, on the right side, matting his hair, but in the dim light it was hard to tell how much.
He then went back to the inexplicable dress, having to undo a hidden zipper before he could get it over Aya’s hips and almost to his knees. And, god in heaven, Aya was wearing panties. They weren’t pink; they were white and lace and matched the top of the stockings. Around his right thigh was what Yohji at first thought was a black garter belt, but, as Aya shifted to pull on it, he saw was something much more utilitarian.
The black strap held a curiously flat knife strapped to the inside of Aya’s thigh. Like he didn’t have enough to hide.
“Off,” he demanded, well, it was probably supposed to be a demand and not a whine.
“Aya, we don’t have time!”
“Off,” he tried to grab and tug, but his strength didn’t seem to be there.
“Mission,” Aya gasped, gesturing in the general direction of the garter. Not about to try to decipher that while Aya was laying on the floor of a parking garage, he pulled the thing off, dropped the knife, and shoved the belt into the pocket of his sweats
This appeared to content him, and Aya let him go back to tugging down the dress, revealing more about the mission as he went. The knife handle was bloody, which probably meant mission accomplished, but it had clearly been hard. The bottom of the pink satin was splashed with blood, more than it should have been for one person. Aya was wearing heels, and Yohji didn’t want to think of how hard an escape, let alone fighting, in those things had been. He pushed them off, wondering if it was supposed to be a kill mission at all.
Slightly disgusted, Yohji yanked the bloody dress off and rolled it up around the shoes and knife before going back for the stockings. He tried not to think of what precisely he was doing, nor of how smooth Aya’s legs were, not in what other contexts he had repeated these motions. Then they were off, and he was trying to put on the jeans, dragging Aya up, trying to get him to balance while Yohji settled the snug jeans around his hips. God, Aya was thinner than he thought, fitting easily into Yohji’s jeans that hung, just a little, below the hem of the pink t-shirt.
“There,” he decided, “you look great. Now can we go?”
All he got in response was a soft moan.
Unable to gather Aya, kit, and clothes and still walk, Yohji made a quick dash to the car with the latter, dropping them indiscriminately into the trunk. He went back for Aya; the man’s eyes were closed, his head propped against the wall and his breath still short. When Yohji got an arm under his shoulders, Aya’s head rolled to drop against his chest. His body was hot, burning with fever. Despite his best attempts, he couldn’t get Aya to walk, so Yohji hefted him up into his arms and stumbled out the narrow doorway to deposit him in the passenger seat of the Seven. Using the seatbelt to support his nearly limp body, Yohji arranged him to lean against the door.
He spared Aya a glance as he buckled himself in, but he couldn’t do anything but get him home. So Yohji threw the car into gear and took off.
Stopped by a red light, he looked again. Aya’s breathing was getting better, his chest rising and falling, still shallow, but with a more confident rhythm. But he was definitely unconscious. There was blood on his neck, dry, having dripped down from the wound on his head. Just as Yohji reached out to touch it, to check for swelling, the light changed.
He slid into the alley behind the shop, near the back door that led into the small, tiled hall and beyond that, and a fairly secure lock, the mission room. Before he got Aya out, Ken was holding the door open. It wasn’t the first time he had crossed the threshold with an unconscious teammate in his arms, but it was the first time it was Aya.
Omi stood nervously by the couch. He had spread a sheet out over it, and gotten a pillow from his own bed. Here Yohji carefully placed Aya, settling his arms over his stomach. He was wearing pink nail polish; it matched the t-shirt. Unfortunately, it also matched the flush of unnatural fever across his cheeks, revealed as his hair fell away from his face when he arched at the uncomfortable prodding of his head.
“Concussion,” Omi stated, kneeling beside the couch to touch the wound with his fingertips. He had changed his PJs for a pair of khaki short and a gray t-shirt. “Is he breathing hard?”
“Better,” Yohji concluded, leaning over Aya at Omi’s side. “I gave him the shot. What did Manx say?”
“She’s—”
Before he could finish, the interior door was shoved open and Manx stalked inside; it was difficult to tell whether she was worried or angry. She moved Yohji and Omi without a word, kneeling down in her short skirt to take Aya’s wrist. She seemed to check the pulse, then used her grip to extend the appendage. Pulling a syringe from her pocket, she uncapped it with her teeth and plunged it deep just below the crook of Aya’s arm.
Standing, she handed an identical syringe to Omi.
“Two hours,” she ordered. Omi nodded, then watched her watch Aya. In very few minutes, violet eyes blinked, opened fuzzily, then squeezed shut. Aya groaned, trying to roll to his side and hissing in pain as Yohji moved to push him back down.
“Easy,” he told him. “It’s okay. Manx gave you something.”
The look Aya gave him was searching, and he placed a reassuring arm on the swordsman’s shoulder.
“Abyssinian,” Manx leaned over him, seeming to ignore his current state that was obviously pained and half delirious, “Did you complete the mission? Where is the data?”
Aya made some indecipherable sound, closing his eyes and pressing his lips.
“Abyssinian!” she demanded.
“Don’t fail,” he said so softly they had to lean forward ot hear it. It made Yohji smile, but Manx looked cross.
“I know you killed Harata, not to mention half his staff,” she was definitely angry about that, “but we need that data.”
There was a searching lift of a hand, a gesture to Yohji. Manx’s hard stare was transferred to him, but it took a second to realize what she might want. Reluctantly, he lifted his hand from Aya and pulled the black strap from his pocket. Manx practically snatched it from him, giving him an idea of how important Aya’s mission was to the organization; this was no chump change blueprint or cult list.
With a few deft moves, she had removed a small data card from the belt and tucked it securely inside her own blouse. This seemed to calm her significantly.
“Harata had some variation of a new drug, Ludovic; the injections will take care of it, though some people have been less tolerant of their effects. Give him the second dose in two hours, even if you have to hold him down to do it. I assume you don’t need a hospital?” she directed to Aya.
“No hospital,” he whispered, head twisting to press against the back cushion.
She nodded.
“Take care of him,” were her last words before the door closed behind her.
The three of them shared a look, and Ken went to the door to lock it and set the system. He looked tired, with his hair uncombed and wearing only a pair of jeans. Still, he came back to the couch, as ready to help as the others. Yohji was rearranging Aya’s arms again, and trying to get him to tilt his head in a direction that let him breathe easier. Omi was feeling his forehead, clucking over the fever.
“Ken-kun, will you get me a cool cloth?”
Ken nodded and went to the small bathroom to run the water.
Aya mumbled something. Omi’s eyes widened.
“Yohji, trashcan.”
Knowing full well not to hesitate over those kind of instructions, Yohji moved quickly to snatch the small metal bin from under the computer. Omi was tugging Aya onto his side, and placing the can beside the couch, Yohji reached to help, a hand at the swordsman’s back and the other, carefully, over his injured ribs, letting Omi guide his head and push back his hair as he was sick. It was painfully clear that he hadn’t eaten much of anything as he got up only a little liquid before turning to dry heaves.
“Try to breathe,” Omi instructed, and Aya took a gasping breath as they laid him back.
Ken used the cloth to wipe his mouth, folding it in half to wash his face and staring, just a second, as silver eye makeup came off on the rag. He went back to the bathroom to get another which Omi placed gently on Aya’s head. Lifting the t-shirt, he felt Aya’s ribs; nothing was broken, but they were probably bruised. They washed the blood from his hair and neck as best they could. Their patient seemed out of it, eyes opening only occasionally and speaking a few words that weren’t lucid. Within twenty minutes, he settled into what seemed to be a restless sleep.
“Should we put him upstairs?” Omi asked, standing beside the couch to look down at him.
“Leave him,” Yohji replied. Aya’s bed wasn’t any better than the couch, and he really didn’t need to be moved.
“Do you think those jeans are comfortable? I could get him some PJs.”
Yohji knew the boy was desperate to do something, but stripping Aya down again wasn’t going to get them anywhere, especially not after he woke up.
“He’s fine.”
“Let me unbutton them at least. They’re tight, Yohji-kun.”
He had mumbled a fine before he remembered why exactly he should have prevented that move. But by that time, Omi was sliding down the zipper on the pants, staring at the revealed edge of the lacy underthings before looking away with a slight blush and a particularly sad expression.
~*~
They had to give him the second injection around five, and as per usual, Aya managed to rouse an precisely the wrong moment. He wasn’t quite there, but he pulled away from the needle with instinctual strength. Yohji had to sit on him, literally, straddling Aya’s waist as he pinned him to the couch and held his shoulders. Violet eyes were wide with fear and questions.
“S’okay. Just Omi,” he tried. But Aya jerked again when the needle went in, eyes reflecting betrayal that despite understanding it wasn’t completely present, hurt.
Within minutes, he was out again.
~*~
Thirty minutes later, he started to shiver, temperature rising. Omi checked it twice before calling Manx as it spiked at two degree over one hundred. She insisted it was normal, and with blankets piled on top of him, it broke within the hour.
Yohji pressed damp bangs away from Aya’s face, letting his fingers run down the side. He was very pale, but then, he was always very pale.
~*~
Around six-thirty Omi and Ken reluctantly went to get ready to open the shop. Yohji stayed, dozing as he drifted off sitting in front of the couch, jerking awake every few minutes to check Aya’s temperature and pulse and state of awareness.
~*~
When Omi came to check in just before eight, he wrinkled his nose at the smell in the room. Yohji knew it was the fingernail polish remover he had used to take of the perfectly painted pink on Aya’s hands, but he didn’t say anything and Omi didn’t ask.
“How is he?”
“Getting better, I think.”
“Has he woken up yet?”
“Not really.”
~*~
A little after nine, Aya woke up. Despite Yohji’s orders to stay down, he got off the couch and made his unsteady way to the bathroom. The blonde waited, listening carefully in case Aya decided to pass out again while he was in there. A few minutes later, he reappeared, leaning heavily in the doorframe for a moment before staggering back to the couch and dropping onto it with no portion of his usual grace. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and let his head rest in his hands, red hair falling to obscure his face.
“Okay?”
There was a grunt in return, and Yohji wasn’t sure how to interpret that. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Aya rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter.
“Disk?” he asked.
“Manx took it. She was pissed, too.”
“Hn.”
“Yeah, fuck ‘em. How many guys did you take out last night?”
“Eleven,” he paused, then reconsidered, “Twelve.”
Yohji whistled in appreciation, twelve guys with nothing more than a knife, all while wearing satin.
“Kudou,” Aya started, obviously uncomfortable with the subject he was broaching. Yohji could guess what it was.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Remember when we infiltrated that strip club? I had to wear a fucking g-string while you fought off the target.”
Aya nodded solemnly. Yohji had hoped for a smile, or at least what passed for one from Aya.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.” At Aya’s glare, he refigured his words, “Okay, it was pretty bad. Pink is definitely not your color.”
“Kudou,” he stated cooly, making Yohji smile.
“No, I think you’re more of a black satin kind of guy. Or maybe lace. What do you think about chiffon? No?”
Ah, there it was, the slight upturning of lips that indicated that Aya was amused at his antics. It felt better to put the man at ease over the whole ordeal. It hadn’t been Aya’s fault their employers were sick bastards who liked to dress them up and send them on impossible missions.
“You okay, seriously?”
Aya nodded.
“Then I’ve just got one more question.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow at him, an invitation to continue without a promise of an answer.
“How the fuck did you run in those heels?”
“Carefully, Kudou. Very carefully.”
~end~
Notes: So, do you like Aya in pink?
Converting /tmp/phptvne3u to /dev/stdout
Ma Vie En Rose
“Are you going out tonight?”
Fresh from the shower, Yohji hadn’t expected Aya to be waiting for him in the hall, much less holding his katana. A quick check of his face had the blonde breathing a sigh of relief, more confident that a lack of anger meant he wasn’t destined to be viciously attacked. A solo mission, then.
“Not sure,” he answered, using one hand to smoke and the other to hold the small excuse for a towel around his hips. It was laundry day, and the only things left in the linen closet weren’t much bigger than tea towels. “Why?”
Aya just shook his head, but Yohji was clued in. Not one to be interested in the blonde’s social life, Aya was asking if Yohji was going to be home. Which, now, he was.
“Where’s your mission at?”
A tiny, half-smile that wasn’t the least happy, “I can’t say.”
Of course not. He never could. But if Aya was asking for Yohji to be home, asking, in this barely allowed way, that the older man linger around in case he needed backup, it had to be serious. No, not just serious. Aya did serious with his eyes closed. He went out without a word, usually with only Yohji knowing that he had a mission at all, coming back at early morning hours, often as the sun was starting to rise, covered in blood, and just as often bleeding as not.
They were bad missions, all of them. As far as Yohji was concerned, every mission where you went alone was a bad mission; there needed to be somebody to watch your back, give you a heads up, at least to drag your ass out of there if things went to hell.
But Aya didn’t worry. He showed up at Yohji’s door just long enough to flash him a glimpse of his sharpened blade and a stiff nod, just so he would know; he came and went silently, tending his own wounds, never explaining where or why or who had been described in the sealed folders Manx handed only to him. When cornered, she acknowledged that they were dangerous, and that Aya was the only one who would take them.
He needed the money. It was no secret to Yohji what it was for, but the odd expression he saw tonight, made him wonder if it was worth it.
Yohji looked him over. He wasn’t dressed for the mission, still in his worn jeans and faded black t-shirt. That was strange, too; Aya didn’t put things off.
“My green coat’s at the cleaners,” he said, seemingly from nowhere, “I won’t be able to score without it.”
“Hn,” Aya turned, but not before Yohji saw the slight relief in his eyes.
“Careful, Aya,” he said softly, but it was never acknowledged and he wasn’t sure the other had heard.
~*~
Dressed not in stylish club gear, but his worn navy sweat pants and a white tee, Yohji had tied his hair back and settled in for an evening of quiet not-waiting-for-Aya. With the lamp still on, he had fallen into a doze, sitting on his bed hunched over an old copy of Auto Digest.
The phone’s ringer was set on loud, and the sound broke suddenly into the early morning silence. He started at the sound, shoving his glasses back up on his nose as he flipped open the cell and pressed it to his ear.
“Aya?”
“Balinese,” the voice at the other end rasped out; he barely recognized it as Aya’s. Already on his feet, Yohji listened closely. “Mission…problems. Need...” The words broke off into heavy, gasping breaths that didn’t sound good at all.
“Where are you?”
“Tokyo Grand, behind…parking garage…maintenance.”
He was downstairs, forcing his bare feet into his tennis shoes and trying to find his keys.
“Need…”
“Need what, Aya?”
“Antidote. Clothes.”
Oh, fuck.
“Antidote for what?” he questioned, trying to stay calm.
“Don’t know. Clothes. Yo…Yohji, hurry.”
“I’m coming. Hang tight.”
“Emergency…Transmitter. Have to…”
The line clicked and Yohji swore. Ready to walk out the door, he circled back. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went up to the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the sink; from beneath it, he pulled out the medical kit. He had it open and was digging for the general antidotal shot before he realized it would be smarter to take the whole thing. Slamming it shut, he hurried to his room, knocking loudly at Omi’s door as he passed.
Aya had insisted on clothes, and Yohji would bet they were for cover. Likely he was too bloody to make an escape or even show up at the hospital. But the last thing Yohji had time to do was dig around in the sad excuse for a closet that Aya kept, so he snagged the first things he saw on his own room floor: a pair of jeans he had worn to the shop that day and the t-shirt he had pulled from the drawer earlier, dismissing it as proper lounge attire because it had been too loose and, thanks to a laundry accident, slightly pink.
By the time he had bundled these under his arm, Omi was in his doorway, looking too alert to be wearing fuzzy kitty cat PJs.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Aya’s hurt. Some kind of poison. Fucking solo mission.”
Omi nodded, stepping out of his way and following him down the steps without missing beat.
“Call Manx. See what kind of shit he’s into.”
“Right. Should I—”
Yohji’s cell phone suddenly emitted a shrill tone that transformed quickly into insistent beeping: the emergency transmitter. A similar sound came from upstairs, and before either could say anything, Ken was rushing down the steps in just his briefs, phone in hand, taking instant attendance to see who wasn’t accounted for. No one turned on the easily traceable signal unless they couldn’t make it out.
“Aya,” Ken stated.
“I’m going.”
~*~
It was a little past two in the morning, and traffic was sparse, though it picked up a little as Yohji headed downtown. Following the map displayed on the inconspicuous looking “navigation system” Kritiker had installed in his Seven, he bypassed the questionable club section of the district and made his way quickly through the business and tourist sections.
When the Tokyo Grand loomed large in front of him, he watched the map carefully, circling the block to pull into a dimly lit parking garage. On the first basement level, he pulled up to a metal door in the northwest corner; there was a burned out light above it, but the corner was dark. Undeterred, he tucked the kit and clothes awkwardly under his left arm, trying to keep his watch free enough to use.
The lock on the door was busted, the frame bent, but he didn’t have time to study it. Without hesitation, he opened it and went inside.
The room was dark, lit only by a harsh red glow of a safety light. Littered with tools and pipes and various other tetanus-inducing apparatuses, it was a hazard, and Yohji was relieved to find his hand falling of its own accord on a light switch. He could hear difficult breathing.
“Abyssinian?” he called quietly.
“Here,” was the even softer answer. If Aya was talking, then it was safe; Yohji flicked the light, and a dull, yellowish light lit the concrete room.
And there was Aya, hunched in the corner beside the rusted workbench, sitting on the floor with his back against the concrete wall. His hair was plastered down across his forehead, and his eyes were closed, but these were peripheral details.
Aya was in bad shape: gasping for air, right hand over his chest, clenching and enclenching as if trying to manipulate his lungs into working.
Aya was wearing pink. Tied around his neck and draped over his thin form was a satin pink evening gown. There was a slit running from the hem to his upper thigh, revealing one long leg and, was it, in the light he wasn’t sure, a hint of a lace.
Obliquely, he wondered why Aya would bother with stockings.
Thankfully, most of his brain was being concerned with getting Aya breathing and home. Kneeling beside him, he tossed down the clothes and opened the kit before sitting on the dirty floor.
“Yohji,” Aya looked up at him, lips parted as he struggled for air.
“Yeah. Take it easy,” he assured, needle in hand as he dug for the small bottle that might or might not help. It was a general kind of thing, and while it worked for most common poisons, it was no telling who Aya had been dealing with. Someone who liked pink, obviously.
Filling the syringe, he dropped the bottle and then tapped it. Aya watched it with wide eyes, and Yohji remember that, despite his vehement denial of the fact, Aya had some serious reservations about getting shots. He watched the swordsman carefully as he drew one thin arm across his own lap. Aya’s skin was hot to the touch.
“Sorry, man,” he stated, grabbing Aya hard around the upper arm to hold him in place; it proved to be a smart move, as the second the needle touched his skin, Aya tried to jerk away. “Easy,” Yohji said again, holding him in place with impressive strength as he emptied the syringe into his arm. When it was empty, he tucked it away. There was no immediate effect, and that made it all the more imperative to get Aya out of there and home.
“C’mon,” he tugged on the arm he had captured, but Aya seemed to sense his intention.
“Clothes,” he got out, head falling back against the wall as if the word had cost him.
“Shit, we don’t have time for that.”
Still, he knew he needed Aya’s cooperation, at least until the man had the decency to pass out. Reaching around, he undid the tie at Aya’s neck, slipping the dirtied satin down to bunch around his thin waist. There was a large, dark bruise forming over his lower ribs on the left side that could mean something was broken. A brush of fingers made Aya try to suck in air and fail, causing him to choke. Yohji lifted him a little off the wall until he calmed, then grabbed the wrinkled pink t-shirt and pulled it over Aya’s head.
There was blood, he saw, on the right side, matting his hair, but in the dim light it was hard to tell how much.
He then went back to the inexplicable dress, having to undo a hidden zipper before he could get it over Aya’s hips and almost to his knees. And, god in heaven, Aya was wearing panties. They weren’t pink; they were white and lace and matched the top of the stockings. Around his right thigh was what Yohji at first thought was a black garter belt, but, as Aya shifted to pull on it, he saw was something much more utilitarian.
The black strap held a curiously flat knife strapped to the inside of Aya’s thigh. Like he didn’t have enough to hide.
“Off,” he demanded, well, it was probably supposed to be a demand and not a whine.
“Aya, we don’t have time!”
“Off,” he tried to grab and tug, but his strength didn’t seem to be there.
“Mission,” Aya gasped, gesturing in the general direction of the garter. Not about to try to decipher that while Aya was laying on the floor of a parking garage, he pulled the thing off, dropped the knife, and shoved the belt into the pocket of his sweats
This appeared to content him, and Aya let him go back to tugging down the dress, revealing more about the mission as he went. The knife handle was bloody, which probably meant mission accomplished, but it had clearly been hard. The bottom of the pink satin was splashed with blood, more than it should have been for one person. Aya was wearing heels, and Yohji didn’t want to think of how hard an escape, let alone fighting, in those things had been. He pushed them off, wondering if it was supposed to be a kill mission at all.
Slightly disgusted, Yohji yanked the bloody dress off and rolled it up around the shoes and knife before going back for the stockings. He tried not to think of what precisely he was doing, nor of how smooth Aya’s legs were, not in what other contexts he had repeated these motions. Then they were off, and he was trying to put on the jeans, dragging Aya up, trying to get him to balance while Yohji settled the snug jeans around his hips. God, Aya was thinner than he thought, fitting easily into Yohji’s jeans that hung, just a little, below the hem of the pink t-shirt.
“There,” he decided, “you look great. Now can we go?”
All he got in response was a soft moan.
Unable to gather Aya, kit, and clothes and still walk, Yohji made a quick dash to the car with the latter, dropping them indiscriminately into the trunk. He went back for Aya; the man’s eyes were closed, his head propped against the wall and his breath still short. When Yohji got an arm under his shoulders, Aya’s head rolled to drop against his chest. His body was hot, burning with fever. Despite his best attempts, he couldn’t get Aya to walk, so Yohji hefted him up into his arms and stumbled out the narrow doorway to deposit him in the passenger seat of the Seven. Using the seatbelt to support his nearly limp body, Yohji arranged him to lean against the door.
He spared Aya a glance as he buckled himself in, but he couldn’t do anything but get him home. So Yohji threw the car into gear and took off.
Stopped by a red light, he looked again. Aya’s breathing was getting better, his chest rising and falling, still shallow, but with a more confident rhythm. But he was definitely unconscious. There was blood on his neck, dry, having dripped down from the wound on his head. Just as Yohji reached out to touch it, to check for swelling, the light changed.
He slid into the alley behind the shop, near the back door that led into the small, tiled hall and beyond that, and a fairly secure lock, the mission room. Before he got Aya out, Ken was holding the door open. It wasn’t the first time he had crossed the threshold with an unconscious teammate in his arms, but it was the first time it was Aya.
Omi stood nervously by the couch. He had spread a sheet out over it, and gotten a pillow from his own bed. Here Yohji carefully placed Aya, settling his arms over his stomach. He was wearing pink nail polish; it matched the t-shirt. Unfortunately, it also matched the flush of unnatural fever across his cheeks, revealed as his hair fell away from his face when he arched at the uncomfortable prodding of his head.
“Concussion,” Omi stated, kneeling beside the couch to touch the wound with his fingertips. He had changed his PJs for a pair of khaki short and a gray t-shirt. “Is he breathing hard?”
“Better,” Yohji concluded, leaning over Aya at Omi’s side. “I gave him the shot. What did Manx say?”
“She’s—”
Before he could finish, the interior door was shoved open and Manx stalked inside; it was difficult to tell whether she was worried or angry. She moved Yohji and Omi without a word, kneeling down in her short skirt to take Aya’s wrist. She seemed to check the pulse, then used her grip to extend the appendage. Pulling a syringe from her pocket, she uncapped it with her teeth and plunged it deep just below the crook of Aya’s arm.
Standing, she handed an identical syringe to Omi.
“Two hours,” she ordered. Omi nodded, then watched her watch Aya. In very few minutes, violet eyes blinked, opened fuzzily, then squeezed shut. Aya groaned, trying to roll to his side and hissing in pain as Yohji moved to push him back down.
“Easy,” he told him. “It’s okay. Manx gave you something.”
The look Aya gave him was searching, and he placed a reassuring arm on the swordsman’s shoulder.
“Abyssinian,” Manx leaned over him, seeming to ignore his current state that was obviously pained and half delirious, “Did you complete the mission? Where is the data?”
Aya made some indecipherable sound, closing his eyes and pressing his lips.
“Abyssinian!” she demanded.
“Don’t fail,” he said so softly they had to lean forward ot hear it. It made Yohji smile, but Manx looked cross.
“I know you killed Harata, not to mention half his staff,” she was definitely angry about that, “but we need that data.”
There was a searching lift of a hand, a gesture to Yohji. Manx’s hard stare was transferred to him, but it took a second to realize what she might want. Reluctantly, he lifted his hand from Aya and pulled the black strap from his pocket. Manx practically snatched it from him, giving him an idea of how important Aya’s mission was to the organization; this was no chump change blueprint or cult list.
With a few deft moves, she had removed a small data card from the belt and tucked it securely inside her own blouse. This seemed to calm her significantly.
“Harata had some variation of a new drug, Ludovic; the injections will take care of it, though some people have been less tolerant of their effects. Give him the second dose in two hours, even if you have to hold him down to do it. I assume you don’t need a hospital?” she directed to Aya.
“No hospital,” he whispered, head twisting to press against the back cushion.
She nodded.
“Take care of him,” were her last words before the door closed behind her.
The three of them shared a look, and Ken went to the door to lock it and set the system. He looked tired, with his hair uncombed and wearing only a pair of jeans. Still, he came back to the couch, as ready to help as the others. Yohji was rearranging Aya’s arms again, and trying to get him to tilt his head in a direction that let him breathe easier. Omi was feeling his forehead, clucking over the fever.
“Ken-kun, will you get me a cool cloth?”
Ken nodded and went to the small bathroom to run the water.
Aya mumbled something. Omi’s eyes widened.
“Yohji, trashcan.”
Knowing full well not to hesitate over those kind of instructions, Yohji moved quickly to snatch the small metal bin from under the computer. Omi was tugging Aya onto his side, and placing the can beside the couch, Yohji reached to help, a hand at the swordsman’s back and the other, carefully, over his injured ribs, letting Omi guide his head and push back his hair as he was sick. It was painfully clear that he hadn’t eaten much of anything as he got up only a little liquid before turning to dry heaves.
“Try to breathe,” Omi instructed, and Aya took a gasping breath as they laid him back.
Ken used the cloth to wipe his mouth, folding it in half to wash his face and staring, just a second, as silver eye makeup came off on the rag. He went back to the bathroom to get another which Omi placed gently on Aya’s head. Lifting the t-shirt, he felt Aya’s ribs; nothing was broken, but they were probably bruised. They washed the blood from his hair and neck as best they could. Their patient seemed out of it, eyes opening only occasionally and speaking a few words that weren’t lucid. Within twenty minutes, he settled into what seemed to be a restless sleep.
“Should we put him upstairs?” Omi asked, standing beside the couch to look down at him.
“Leave him,” Yohji replied. Aya’s bed wasn’t any better than the couch, and he really didn’t need to be moved.
“Do you think those jeans are comfortable? I could get him some PJs.”
Yohji knew the boy was desperate to do something, but stripping Aya down again wasn’t going to get them anywhere, especially not after he woke up.
“He’s fine.”
“Let me unbutton them at least. They’re tight, Yohji-kun.”
He had mumbled a fine before he remembered why exactly he should have prevented that move. But by that time, Omi was sliding down the zipper on the pants, staring at the revealed edge of the lacy underthings before looking away with a slight blush and a particularly sad expression.
~*~
They had to give him the second injection around five, and as per usual, Aya managed to rouse an precisely the wrong moment. He wasn’t quite there, but he pulled away from the needle with instinctual strength. Yohji had to sit on him, literally, straddling Aya’s waist as he pinned him to the couch and held his shoulders. Violet eyes were wide with fear and questions.
“S’okay. Just Omi,” he tried. But Aya jerked again when the needle went in, eyes reflecting betrayal that despite understanding it wasn’t completely present, hurt.
Within minutes, he was out again.
~*~
Thirty minutes later, he started to shiver, temperature rising. Omi checked it twice before calling Manx as it spiked at two degree over one hundred. She insisted it was normal, and with blankets piled on top of him, it broke within the hour.
Yohji pressed damp bangs away from Aya’s face, letting his fingers run down the side. He was very pale, but then, he was always very pale.
~*~
Around six-thirty Omi and Ken reluctantly went to get ready to open the shop. Yohji stayed, dozing as he drifted off sitting in front of the couch, jerking awake every few minutes to check Aya’s temperature and pulse and state of awareness.
~*~
When Omi came to check in just before eight, he wrinkled his nose at the smell in the room. Yohji knew it was the fingernail polish remover he had used to take of the perfectly painted pink on Aya’s hands, but he didn’t say anything and Omi didn’t ask.
“How is he?”
“Getting better, I think.”
“Has he woken up yet?”
“Not really.”
~*~
A little after nine, Aya woke up. Despite Yohji’s orders to stay down, he got off the couch and made his unsteady way to the bathroom. The blonde waited, listening carefully in case Aya decided to pass out again while he was in there. A few minutes later, he reappeared, leaning heavily in the doorframe for a moment before staggering back to the couch and dropping onto it with no portion of his usual grace. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and let his head rest in his hands, red hair falling to obscure his face.
“Okay?”
There was a grunt in return, and Yohji wasn’t sure how to interpret that. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Aya rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter.
“Disk?” he asked.
“Manx took it. She was pissed, too.”
“Hn.”
“Yeah, fuck ‘em. How many guys did you take out last night?”
“Eleven,” he paused, then reconsidered, “Twelve.”
Yohji whistled in appreciation, twelve guys with nothing more than a knife, all while wearing satin.
“Kudou,” Aya started, obviously uncomfortable with the subject he was broaching. Yohji could guess what it was.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Remember when we infiltrated that strip club? I had to wear a fucking g-string while you fought off the target.”
Aya nodded solemnly. Yohji had hoped for a smile, or at least what passed for one from Aya.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.” At Aya’s glare, he refigured his words, “Okay, it was pretty bad. Pink is definitely not your color.”
“Kudou,” he stated cooly, making Yohji smile.
“No, I think you’re more of a black satin kind of guy. Or maybe lace. What do you think about chiffon? No?”
Ah, there it was, the slight upturning of lips that indicated that Aya was amused at his antics. It felt better to put the man at ease over the whole ordeal. It hadn’t been Aya’s fault their employers were sick bastards who liked to dress them up and send them on impossible missions.
“You okay, seriously?”
Aya nodded.
“Then I’ve just got one more question.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow at him, an invitation to continue without a promise of an answer.
“How the fuck did you run in those heels?”
“Carefully, Kudou. Very carefully.”
~end~
Notes: So, do you like Aya in pink?
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