Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Words ( Chapter 7 )

Reflections: Words

Chapter 7

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought.

Ken curled his body forward, knees drawn up to his chest, arms around his shins, forehead resting on top, his old soccer jersey stretch out of shape as he tented it over his cramped legs. If he twisted a little harder, maybe he could turn himself inside out and disappear totally. Choking, he resisted the temptation to seek comfort by rocking, even when he began to shake. Light footsteps that had been about to walk on by past his open bedroom door instead approached at a rush.

"Ken-kun!" The last couple of years had made the anxious voice that called his name as familiar as his own. Omi. It was ironic, but it always seemed to be the other boy who came by when he was falling apart. His tremors gave way to a miserable giggle that had its origin somewhere in the depth of his chest, and he couldn't seem to make it stop. The mattress shifted and dipped to one side as the slight blond scrambled aboard. Slim arms that were stronger than they looked wrapped around Ken's shoulders. The giggles gave way to a noisy, open-mouthed sob as the older boy launched himself at his friend, squeezing a strangled meep! of protest out of him. After a moment's hesitation, Omi's arms came up around him again in turn, and they began to rock together gently to murmured reassurances, nonsense words that meant everything, and nothing, but comforted. He wasn't alone; Omi wouldn't let him fall.

Although what he had was solid and compact, Ken wasn't physically that big of a person. But in comparison, the kid was just a shrimp. Maybe that was why they all tended to underestimate him? But the younger boy was no lightweight when it came to shouldering the traumas of his friends. He cared about all of them, even Aya when Aya was being a prick, because Omi was nice. He didn't just make a show of being empathetic and understanding, he really was. It made the athlete feel completely like the thoughtless klutz he often came across as. Worse, it made him feel like he was taking advantage of someone who was too kind to tell him to buzz off and get a life. What life? He was such a screw-up that he was letting Aya, who was too badly damaged to take care of himself, down too. The indestructible swordsman had had what could best be described as a panic attack, and had freaked out in front of all of them, ending up unconscious and hurt again.

And Yohji had said that Ken was the best at reaching this strange, new Aya. Stupid. Ken didn't deserve to be anywhere near the man.

"Ken-kun…" Omi groaned quietly, clearly torn over whether to try to make him see reason, or to simply let the matter go after listening to what bits of the stream of stuttering, teary babble made even half-way sense. His rational side won out, and he tried again. "Ken, you tend to see the world as black or white. As good, or as bad. Sometimes, it isn't that way, and neither is Aya-kun. I don't think he was ever really cold, or heartless at all. And as for how he's been acting now, it isn't so strange, really. Even before we knew his story - what it was that drove him to seek revenge - we all knew that he loved and hated passionately. Just look at how he's acted around his sister, and whenever he saw a Takatori. That's not a man made of ice. Whatever he went through this past month has just put a crack in that façade. You had nothing to do with it."

Sniffling, Ken drew back far enough that he could see the blond's serious, determined frown. It ought to have looked cute on such a childish face, but instead the stern expression aged him, giving him the benefit of the greater number of years that he had already invested as a Hunter. It also made it easier to believe what he was saying. Hesitantly, the brunet asked, "Do you really think that's all it is? That now the stuff that Aya used to hide is all hanging out and getting poked at and talked about by us?"

"I do." Omi replied firmly. He gave Ken's shoulder a final squeeze and shifted back away from the older youth. There was a faint blush staining his fair-skinned cheeks, and the front of his once-crisp white shirt was rumpled and grubby. At the guilty start Ken gave, he hastily added, "But that doesn't mean that I think we should take things at face value. Kritiker has quite a bit invested in us, which is why they do exams on a regular basis - i.e. physical and mental. We should do the same. Now that we're not on the run all the time, I think it's time for Aya to answer some questions with more than a grunt, and an `unknown.' "

For the first time all day, Ken really felt like grinning. He scrubbed his sleeve across his swollen eyes and drippy nose, earning a shudder from the fastidious hacker, who fumbled for a box of tissues on the nightstand beside his bed. What Omi had said was true; Aya didn't evade questions, he flat-out stone-walled them. Maybe demanding some straight answers, preferably in words of more than one syllable was the right approach. No amount of searching on Omi's part had turned up an identity for the stranger that had put Aya into a panic. So they would have to extract the information from the one person who did have an idea what was going on, and that was the recently rescued swordsman, himself. The kid sat down cross-legged next to him, clear, dark blue eyes considering whether the crisis was over yet. Mellowed, Ken shook his head a bit, muttering, "Get a grip, Mom. I'm okay." Omi opened his mouth to protest, but the older boy didn't give him a chance. Ken ruffled the silky-straight blond mess and slid off the bed. "Come on, let's go see how he's doing."

Resigned, Omi rolled his eyes and followed. Some things never changed.

************

Resolve to get some answers made no difference when the target in question was still out cold. Indecisive, Ken hovered at the foot of Aya's bed, unable to decide what to do now that his original plan was thwarted. Omi drifted in to stand beside him, his shoulder brushing against the taller athlete's. Worried now, Ken glanced down at the team's pinch-hit medic, whispering, "He's out so much of the time. Is this normal?"

The boy gave him a pitying glance, but just patted his arm reassuringly instead of calling him an idiot. Ken was grateful for the consideration, because he sure felt like an idiot. "Normal? He's been better than normal. Think about what he looked like a few days ago when we took him from the hospital. Since then, he's managed to not only get to his feet, but to fight off two sets of attackers. It wouldn't be strange if he slept for a week to make up for it."

"Hmm. I guess so." the older assassin replied grudgingly. He moved up along side the mattress till he was even with Aya's waist, thinking hard. The slender redhead did look way better than he had when Ken had first seen him in the hospital bed, wrapped up in bandages. And he knew for a fact that Omi was right; the swordsman had managed to push his body to obey and perform, when he shouldn't have been able to stand up straight, let alone fight. Considering, he stole a side-ways glance at the blond youth waiting a few feet away. Omi's expression had softened, becoming melancholy and thoughtful, his sunny grin relaxed into a mild curve of pink lips that seemed more genuine, and less of a deliberate mask. Aya wasn't the only one who pushed himself to his limits, or who hid from others. How much of the younger assassin's understanding was perceptiveness, and how much was based on his own, darker experiences? The kid needed some down time, too. He had been forcing himself to help keep Yohji going, after the older man had collapsed during the first fire-fight. He babied Ken, and watched out for Aya. He took care of running interference with Manx, which had to be worse than all his other jobs put together. It was a miracle that it wasn't Omi tucked into that bed beneath the fluffy quilts.

The germ of an idea was taking root in his brain. In spite of himself, Ken felt a grin stretching his cheeks. It was too cute, and it would work, too. "Omi, climb up on Aya's far side, would you?" he commanded.

"Huh?"

"Just do it. You said it seemed to do him some good when he had me sleeping next to him, right? Like it let him relax, and really rest. So if we both stay with him, it should do twice as much good, right?"

"Uh, I don't think it works that way…" The kid was panicking, backing slowly toward the open door to the hall.

"Omi. Just do what I say. Or I swear I will hurt you." Ken's voice dropped ominously, and the boy blanched, flicking a sharp glance between the unconscious swordsman and the very conscious soccer player. Omi was very fleet of foot, but he also knew that Ken would hunt him down, having the ability to carry a grudge for a long, long time. Weighed against Aya whom he might be able to escape before the man ever woke up, it was clear which would be the smarter course of action. Defeated, the younger member of Weiss put both hands on the footboard and boosted himself up and over, landing lightly on his knees on the mattress. After a moment's hesitation, he crawled carefully up and lay down between Aya and the wall, curled loosely onto his side so that he faced toward their teammate. Surprise widened his blue eyes when Ken slid in on the other side, taking up a mirroring position that left Aya stretched out on his back between them. He gulped when Ken reached a hand across and laced their fingers together, allowing their joined hands to rest on top of Aya's stomach. Suddenly very sure of the rightness of his course of action, Ken whispered, "We'll wait for him to wake up, together. Okay?" Surprised, Omi nodded slightly, then let his eyes drift shut.

************

Something snapped Ken into complete, wakeful alertness, and he wasn't entirely sure what. It took a lot of effort to keep his eyes closed, and his body relaxed, feigning sleep, when for all he knew it could be the next wave of murderous intruders that had tracked them to Villa Weiss, and was even now moving into position out in the corridor behind his back. His back that was very stupidly toward the open door.

Letting out a slow, relaxed breath, he concentrated on what his senses could tell him. There were only the usual, faint sounds of the house: the soft creak and shift of its log walls, the faint rattle and hum of the furnace through the heating ducts as the blower kicked on and a breath of warm, dry air ghosted over the back of Ken's neck. Added to that were the quiet, sleeping sounds of two teammates, both still deeply out of it. Nothing threatening to his ears, anyway. Beneath his imprisoning arm, he felt the slow rise and fall of Aya's living body, a body that radiated heat all down his side. Omi's fingers were still firmly in Ken's grasp: thin, light fingers with their distinctive callus on the side of the first knuckle of the forefinger from gripping his throwing darts, and on the pads of his middle two from grasping the steel string of crossbow in preparation for cocking it. They were all warm, and trusting in Ken's.

"Might as well get up, kiddo. I know you're awake." A soft rustle turned away from the open door, and a footfall down the hall told Ken that the speaker was heading for the stairs.

Yohji.

Well, so much for sleeping in. Whatever time it was. Ken carefully disentangled his hand, sliding back and off the bed without fully sitting up. The move avoided the tell-tale dip and rise of the mattress, and got him away without waking either of his companions. It was too much work to search for his house slippers in the dim twilight of Aya's bedroom, so he simply padded out in stocking feet. Twilight. That mean that it was evening again, and he had slept away what little remained of the afternoon following the fiasco with the security tapes.

His blond teammate was waiting for him on the shabby couch in the darkened living room: elbows planted on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them, shoulders slumped. The brief, bright orange glow in the gray light told Ken that Yohji was smoking, as if his nose hadn't already warned him. Judging by the stale reek, the older man had been at it for hours.

"Were you looking for me?" Ken asked quietly. The orange dot brightened sharply as Yohji inhaled, then headed for the ashtray as the former detective stubbed it out.

"Nah. Just passing by and noticed you were awake."

"Huh." Ken waited, drawing on Siberian's patience, because he sure didn't have any of his own when it came to Yohji and his mind-games. Even when he was being serious, there was always some kind of an ulterior motive to the playboy's actions, just like how Aya went to the other extreme, and never paid any attention at all. Then it hit him. Extremes. Black and white. The memory of Omi's words sent a shiver straight down his spine, waking chilled gooseflesh in its course. He was making assumptions again, damn it. How much of his dislike of the older man was founded in reality, and how much was the result of his own stupid prejudices?

Now that he really paid attention, he could tell that there was something… off… about the eldest Hunter. Whatever it was that had overwhelmed the man back in the mansion's kitchen wasn't gone, just suppressed. Ken was getting that shivery vibe again, like when his instincts told him that there was an as-yet undiscovered guard lurking in the shadows when they went out on a mission. He wished fervently that Omi had been the one to wake up, and not him. The kid was way better at managing his team, at keeping them all focused on the job and not on the idiosyncrasies that would tear them apart.

His prolonged silence was wearing on Yohji. The older man fidgeted, took out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, and put it away without taking another smoke from it. Frustrated, he raked a hand back through the thick waves of his long hair, and swore under his breath. "Crap. Look, I'm sorry I fucked up, okay? I didn't mean the stuff I said about you, or about Omittchi. Sometimes, I just open my mouth, and stuff comes out. I didn't mean for you to take it wrong… it just gets my goat to see you and the kid making a fuss over that asshole."

"Uh, s- sure…" Ken stammered. Whatever he had been expecting, a blanket apology wasn't it. And especially not one that sounded sincere. Yohji didn't do sincere. Pissed off, sarcastic, irresponsible … yes. But hurt and something less definable, just like now, didn't seem right at all. And it puzzled him that Yohji hadn't included Aya in the plus column, but rather was directing his grievances on the injured man. Surely, he didn't blame Aya for getting hurt? But Ken was taking too long, and before he could pursue any of that, Yohji got an obstinate set to his jaw and the time for confidences was over.

The tall man rocketed out of the couch, stalking angrily over to the sliding glass doors that looked out onto the balcony, and the ferocious beauty of the mountain vista beyond. Ken felt a momentary pang of jealousy. Yohji's loose-limbed grace was nothing like Aya's tightly controlled movements, but both men still had a kind of untamed wildness to them, something that the younger man definitely lacked. He could trip over his own feet just crossing the room, but he had never seen Yohji trip and fall except when he was dead drunk, and even then it wasn't the kind of spill that would end up with a split lip or a sprained ankle. Now, vibrating with tension and bad temper, Yohji was feral discontent made human. It was like watching the thrashing tail of a jungle cat.

"So… what are we going to do about Aya?" Yohji asked abruptly, gone coldly professional. He half-turned, leaning his long body up against the door frame. Against the unrelieved black of his sleeveless tee-shirt, the skin of his face, and arms, and a narrow slice of exposed belly were ghostly pale, clearly visible while the rest of him faded into the gloom. Ken felt a brief rush of tension when all of the smoldering anger in the hooded dark eyes fixed on him, and he understood very well how a deer felt in the cross-hairs of a rifle. Then the blond glanced out the windows and casually lit a cigarette after all. The lighter's flare illuminated the hard planes of Yohji's face, turning him into a stranger. His reflection lay across the window glass, thin and dark as a wraith, its accusing glare still fixed on the younger man.

Do about Aya…? Addled by the resentment pouring off his companion, the first thing that came to mind was the horrible old joke about the six hundred pound gorilla: …anything Aya wants. Ken wasn't crazy. There was no way he was going to try to badger a katana-wielding, short-fused assassin into doing anything.

Impatience made Yohji push off from the wood and metal supporting his back, and brought him pacing back across the room to stop directly in front of Ken, well inside his personal space. It was a move calculated to intimidate, and shorter brunet had to admit it worked. Yohji might be on the skinny side - there wasn't an ounce of fat to soften the whipcord lines of his spare frame - but he more than made up for it by exuding bass-ass attitude. Theoretically, Ken could take him, but he knew from past observation that the other man was a dirty fighter close-in. If he won, it would cost, and big time. Instinct might be telling him to attack now, without warning, but common sense said it would be a dumb move. The whisper of off… decided him, and borrowing instead from Omi's play book, the younger Hunter took a step back.

"We," he said with forced calm, "are going to talk to Aya. We're not on the run anymore, and it's past time to hear his side of what happened while he was missing."

Mercurial, the tension drained out of Yohji, leaving behind tired and anxious where there had been anger. He finger-combed a heavy fall of hair back from his forehead, reluctantly answering. "Yeah. You're right. We need to hear his side… but, you know, I kinda think I don't want to know what happened to him."

What Ken read from him strongest of all was guilt.

**************

"Sit here, Aya-kun. I'll get you something to eat." The up-beat light alto was unmistakably Omi's and brought Ken back into the kitchen in time to see the irrepressible boy propelling his teammate into a chair at the long side of the table. The kid's laptop clattered onto the scarred wood opposite. It was nearly midnight, and they were finally up and about.

Yohji made an exasperated noise, fishing for a new cigarette but leaving it unlit at Omi's glare. He dropped into the chair at the foot of the table, leaving Ken no choice but the head. The kitchen was okay - nowhere near as nice as what they had back home, above the Koneko - but serviceable in an old-fashioned way. Everything was done in dark, honey-gold wood, and was probably original to the time of the European businessman who had built the Swiss-chalet-styled cabin in the very Japanese mountains. But even though it was Western, and terribly out of place, Villa Weiss was welcoming whereas the mansion that they had stayed at only a couple of nights earlier had only been harshly modern and pretentious.

It had been Omi's idea for them to convene in the kitchen, setting the four of them around the plain table. It avoided the appearance of a panel sitting in judgement against a lone defendant. Not that Aya was likely to be intimidated, but he was smart enough to see the inequality of three against one, and the last thing they needed was to put him on his guard. The kid bustled around, parking a plate of rice balls in front of them, pausing, and then nudging the onigiri closer to the redhead. Aya's gaze flickered up and down, checking out the plate of food and its chef, while a tiny smile of thanks touched his lips. Omi's grin brightened in response before he turned away to fetch cups of tea for the older assassin and himself.

Ken had the distinct feeling that Aya was aware that Omi was trying to manipulate him, and didn't care.

The blond hacker finally quit running back and forth and took the chair opposite the redhead, clunking his mug against the corner of his laptop. Curious, Ken wondered what he was up to. It was unclear whether Omi intended to act as interrogator, or if he was just taking advantage of the extra elbow room for his computer. Aya's soft, dusk gaze was unreadable, and open and guileless though the expression might be on the youngest of their members, it was no more revealing. It could get interesting pitting the two smartest Weiss against each other.

Calm, Aya took a sip of his tea, wrapping slimly elegant white fingers around the big ceramic cup. He seemed to be waiting for the teen across the table to make the first move. Omi inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, gifting him with a rueful smile that was transparently honest. "Ne, Aya-kun… you know I have to ask you about the pictures we were looking at? Who was the foreign man walking with Iida-san?"

Aya shrugged; the barest lift of his good shoulder, more of a don't know, not interested than anything else. His low voice was flat. "There's nothing I can tell you. I don't know his name." He picked up one of the rice balls and took a neat bite out of it, but his hand was trembling ever so slightly.

The kid had been hunched over his laptop, fingers poised to begin typing, but now straightened, leaning back in his chair. There was no point in trying to force the older man to answer that question. They could work up to the identity of the stranger; time to change tactics. "Okay. So start with when you checked out of the hotel, after the auction."

There was a pause that sank into annoyed silence.

The redhead had almost reverted to his normal, taciturn behavior, and it just wasn't acceptable. Omi heaved a deep sigh, and tried again, turning on every bit of his considerable charm. "Aya-kun, please? We were so worried about you… What happened? Please tell us." Wheedling, the boy leaned across the table, the tips of his outstretched fingers just grazing the backs of Aya's knuckles where they showed white and tense around his mug.

None of them could resist when the kid used wide, Pacific Ocean blue eyes as if he were a puppy dog begging for a loving home, treats, and walkies all at once. Even when he had learned that Omi was a member of the hated Takatori by blood if not by upbringing, the unsociable older assassin still caved in the same as anyone else and forgave. It was a dirty trick, and Omi was honest enough to use it only when he really, really wanted something, when it was important for the well-being of the whole team. Just at the moment, he wanted answers, and recognizing that determination, Aya could only give in with poor grace, lips thinning down unhappily.

"I went back to the apartment Kritiker had provided me with." The low voice was monotonous. Nodding, fingers flying over the keys, Omi encouraged him to continue. Short, staccato sentences signaling his reluctance, Aya went on. "I finished my report, my impressions of the buyers of the stolen art. I encrypted it, and emailed it to Kritiker. I spent the next couple of days reestablishing my cover persona in the neighborhood-- "

Startled, Ken gave an involuntary mmph?! At the apartment? There had been no sign that he had even made it to the place. And what was the business about Aya `reestablishing' himself? It didn't help that their computer expert continued to nod, brightly offering, "Yep. Fujita Masahiro." as if the name would explain everything. As far as the soccer player was concerned, it didn't explain a damn thing. What made it worse was Yohji snapping his fingers and leaning forward in his seat as if everything had suddenly come clear.

"Of course. Your writer guy."

Oddly enough, it was Aya who took pity on the scowling athlete and offered an explanation. "Fujimiya Ran is dead." he said shortly. "Fujita Masahiro is the part I sometimes play when I need a cover that has some real presence to him, and who also has a documented history. Fujita is a writer, and when he isn't off chasing some article or story, he lives at the apartment Kritiker provides."

Put that way, it made sense. Aya could hardly go around as himself, not when his old life was gone and buried. The redhead was silent for a long moment, visibly sorting and ordering his thoughts. Irritably folding his arms across his chest, he added, "This was all according to Birman's instructions." as if that was all the explanation that was necessary. Yohji opened his mouth to say something, annoyance pulling him out of his show of lazy good humor, then jerking as Omi kicked his shin beneath the cover of the table. Safe at the far end of the table, Ken smirked and stuck out his tongue. The kid shot him a warning glare that said clearly, Don't push your luck!

Fortunately, Aya only blew out an annoyed breath over their fooling around. He had apparently decided to soldier on and get the inquisition over with. "On the third day-- " Ken glanced at Omi, who mouthed silently the 18th, the same day that the American, Benson, was supposed to have left for the States. He nodded his understanding. "-Birman called to tell me to expect a courier with an invitation for the Press Club luncheon coming up. She said that she would be by the following day to drop off the file for the mission-- "

"What!?" exclaimed Yohji, annoyance at the rest of Weiss forgotten in favor of their handler. "Birman didn't say anything about another mission." The former PI's point was apt: if Aya had had another assignment that they weren't aware of, then there was a whole pool of potential suspects and possible sources of clues that they had overlooked. Thanks to the handler, and her passion for secrecy, it was possible that they had been looking in the wrong place.

Aya's head jerked up sharply. His pallid face twisted, and he snapped with savage intensity, "Because it had nothing to do with anything! Yes, I knew the gist of what it was going to be about, but I never even saw the files on the target."

Ken watched in sick fascination as a single bead of sweat formed in the hairline at Aya's temple, broke free, and skated down the curve of his cheek. Thankfully, Yohji saw it too, and opted to give Aya a disingenuous grin, carelessly asking, "So, what kind of a mission did Birman have in mind for Fujita-san? Investigating the rubber chicken at the banquet?" It would have been entirely Aya-like if the swordsman had simply glared and refused to answer, but instead he grudgingly offered, "There's a foreign reporter who's suspected of leaking sensitive government documents. Kritiker had a tip that he was going to meet up with his contact during the luncheon. I was to see if I could identify who he met with. There was to be no contact involved." The way his mouth closed into a tight line communicated very definitely that he had said all he would on the topic.

"Hmm." The taller blond had to be satisfied with that. And, to be honest, a simple surveillance assignment shouldn't have been dangerous. `No contact' in their profession meant that Kritiker was only watching and gathering information; should the leak need to be stopped, that would be an assignment for some other day. Although, it might still fall to Aya and the rest of Weiss if it was an order for termination that came down. Kritiker was woefully short of teams that did what they did. Yohji shrugged, snagging a rice ball from the plate as he rose to rummage in the refrigerator for something to drink. The tight wound spring that was their partner relaxed imperceptibly when the line of questioning was dropped. Ken had a suspicion that Omi hadn't really let it go, that he was planning on tackling Birman over the previously unmentioned assignment, and he was glad he wasn't the one who would be in the woman's shoes when the kid pinned her down. It was going to hurt.

To Ken's surprise, Yohji brought not one, but four beers back to the table and passed them out. Without pausing his rapid typing, the kid shuddered delicately. If he had to drink, Omi preferred the sweeter mixed drinks, especially concoctions that involved fruit or ice cream. Shrugging, Ken decided to go along with it and twisted the top off of his bottle. They were all perfectly well aware that Aya rarely drank, but maybe just this once he would follow suit, and it would serve to take some of the edge off of his defensiveness. Maybe it would bring back the pleasant personality that had possessed him since he had reawakened, and maybe it would blunt the silent anguish that lurked at the back of his violet eyes. One could hope.

"Omi…? How long has it been since the pain meds you gave me?" asked Aya quietly. The flying digits faltered, slowed, and came to rest on the table's surface as their owner considered.

"Um, a little over twelve hours. And the last batch was only the Tylenol with Codeine. It should be out of your system by now." The boy was as courteous as ever, but it was obvious that he was thinking that a certain someone should have asked the question before passing around the alcohol in the first place. Yohji's wide mouth quirked up in amusement, spoiling the contrite effect he was shooting for as he kowtowed from his chair.

"Maa, Omittchi. Aya's an adult; you don't need to mother him."

The kid's swift scowl was fierce as he snapped, "He's an adult who's been hurt pretty bad, and may not be completely aware of what's going on around him. You can't expect anybody who's been spending half his time unconscious to keep track of stuff like that. That's why I do it."

The retort took Yohji aback. Then he began to chuckle. The object of the conversation gave a resigned sigh and twisted off the cap on his bottle of beer, drawing the attention of both blonds to himself. Aya growled, "Enough. I appreciate the concern, but I'm not fragile."

For a long minute, all three of them gaped at the redhead. Aya appreciated them? Would wonders never cease? Ken felt a dislocating moment of déjà vu. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that had had him convinced that that Aya wasn't Aya?

For his part, the center of attention ignored the stares he was getting. Aya crooked one long forefinger around the neck of the brown bottle, allowing it to rest against the backs of his other knuckles as he took a long pull of beer. Entranced that even such little gestures were unintentionally graceful, Ken's eyes followed the movement of the man's Adam's apple, just visible above the high collar of his sweater as he swallowed. Suddenly embarrassed, the soccer player looked away and caught a glimpse of the rapt expression on Omi's face before the boy could hide it.

A weird warmth in his heart gave Ken pause, and he had to smother a grin behind his beer. It was looking as if Omi had developed a crush on their no longer quite-so-aloof swordsman. Given that handsome man was oblivious to ninety-nine percent of the world's population, Ken didn't rate his inexperienced partner's chances very high. Unless of course Omi could provoke him into screaming `Die, Takatori!' and rushing at him with his sword. Unfortunately, that didn't seem like the kind of attention that would satisfy the teenager's newly awakened fascination with the red headed prick.

Except that Omi's interest had only surfaced after Aya had transformed into this new and improved, more human model. The warmth that had briefly suffused him gave way to a fierce frown that drew Ken's brows together, creating a deep crease that almost immediately began to ache from the tension. It wasn't only jealousy, although there was no doubt he was possessive of their compatriot; it was more complicated than that, being made up worry for the team as a whole, and a conflicting desire to protect the blond youth from harm as well. Safely hidden below the surface of the table, his hands abruptly clenched until the tendons in his wrists vibrated from the strain.

Yohji suddenly looked up, alerted by a sixth sense of his own. His gaze shuttled rapidly between the other Weiss, managing to miss the momentary entrancement that had gripped the kid, but still sensitive to the emotional currents. As both a detective and an assassin, he was sharply observant; it was only a matter of time before whatever was going on fully involved all four of them. Ken was definitely not looking forward to it. The wire man's interaction with Aya usually consisted of teasing games designed to crack the redhead's silence. Yohji swore, drank, womanized, showed up late for work, smirked, and insulted… until Aya's infamous temper exploded. Eternally lazy, Yohji then fought back just hard enough to prevent Aya from using him to wipe the floor, taking immense pleasure in pushing the other man's buttons.

The problem was, Ken just didn't know how this version of Aya would react.

Kitty-corner to both Siberian and Balinese, Omi caught the fierce defensiveness from one side, and the single-minded hunter's concentration from the other. Hastily, he broke the increasingly ominous silence by coughing and bouncing up from his chair to grab bowls and spoons. "Hey, guess what?" he chattered breezily, "We left ice cream in the freezer last time we were up. I've got red bean, New York style vanilla, and uh, tangerine. Who wants what flavor?"

A slow smile quirked the older blond's lips, but failed to reach the hot summer green of his eyes as he remained focused on Ken opposite him. Drawling with barbed good humor, he replied "Hmm, tough question, Omittchi. Which do you suppose goes best with beer?"

Embarrassed, the kid flushed and tried to keep himself from fiddling with the handful of spoons. It was a bit cruel of Yohji to draw attention to the fact that Omi hadn't even tasted the unopened bottle that still sat in front of him.

"Kudoh. Stop it." Aya's low voice slid across the developing confrontation like his sword's blade. His mouth tightened unhappily. "Omi, put away the ice cream. You wanted me to tell you what transpired during the period that I was missing. Very well. But only on the condition that all of you sit down, and behave. Quarreling among ourselves is pointless. None of us is the enemy here."

Ken found himself exchanging an uneasy moment of shared consideration with the blond at the far end of the table. Shifting as though the straight-backed wooden chair was suddenly made of poison ivy, or worse, Yohji gave a reluctant nod. It was rare for him to be awkward or unsure of himself, but it did happen. Sympathy put out the last hot embers of his resentment and anger, and Ken nodded as well. Their hacker had already returned the bowls to the counter and slid back into his seat as if he had been reprimanded by a teacher at school.

Faced with their subdued attention, Aya was reluctant to begin. He took and deep breath, and expelled it uncharacteristically noisily, then ran a shaky hand back over the short clipped strands of his hair, succeeding in getting some of the fine threads to stand on end. "I…" he said, faltering to a stop almost immediately. Swallowing hard, he steeled himself and plunged into his report. "I had been visiting a coffee house, asking questions about changes in the neighborhood, mentioning that I was back from a long trip, and that that was why things struck me as different. It wasn't so far from the truth, except that the journey had only been as far as the Koneko. I left the coffee house, intending to go home and change, as it was getting on toward dusk, and I was planning to visit a jazz bar that was a hang-out for the more artistic up-and-comers of the area. I was hurrying, and the shortest route to the apartment led down an alley. So, of course a man accosted me. I had gone that way often, and now here was an idiot whom I dared not teach a lesson to, for fear of ruining my cover. It was extremely annoying." A short, bitter smile flashed across his pale face as Aya spun the empty beer bottle across the darker rings of condensation it had left on the left on the table. Softly, he stated, "That was the first of two critical mistakes that I made. I stupidly assumed that the situation was a simple mugging." The bottle shone wetly as he caught it easily with his off hand. Mesmerized, he stared at the sweating glass until Omi cleared his throat apologetically.

"You said `two mistakes,' Aya-kun. What was the other one?"

Ken opened his mouth, a sudden wrench in his gut telling him that he did not want to hear the answer to this question. More than anything, he wanted to tell Omi to take it back, to pretend that the words had never been spoken, but it was already too late. Aya's shadowed eyes flicked up, meeting and holding the boy's gaze. "My second error lay in that I let them take me alive."

The anguished statement froze the blood in Ken's veins. It was one of the very real risks of belonging to Kritiker; an operative could not afford to be captured, and yet their teammate had. The swordsman shifted restlessly under their horrified, combined regard, reaching up to absently dig his thumb hard into his torn shoulder, letting the pain counter the struggle briefly visible until his face was again carefully neutral. Omi winced noticeably, unable to speak, and it was as if Ken again felt Aya's stitches popping as they wrestled with the desperately silent assassin over the security tapes from the whorehouse.

"I… was paying attention to the man who had approached me. He was dressed like any other vagrant… dirty, ragged, but armed with a knife. I sidestepped his first lunge, knocking him with my laptop's bag, making it look clumsy, like an accident. The move put me close to a van parked behind a restaurant. It had been there the previous day, seemed to belong to that business, and so I thought nothing of it; it was marked with the logo of Hummingbird Catering… Then the side and rear doors opened, and it was no longer myself against one drunk, but four well-trained professionals." Aya paused when Omi held up one hand peremptorily.

"Got it. A truck belonging to Hummingbird was reported stolen in the right area." He continued to scan rapidly down the scrolling computer screen, making a disgusted noise as he neared the bottom. "Crap. Would you believe I eliminated the theft because the vehicle was recovered less than twenty-four hours later, and a disgruntled employee was implicated?"

The former PI was the one to shrug it off, saying, "Let it go, kiddo. If Aya says they were pros, you probably wouldn't have gotten much from it anyhow. You gotta remember, the trail was cold by the time Birman realized that the Ice Prince was missing, and even colder by the time she fessed up." Aya gave a brief, jerky nod of agreement.

"They knew what they were doing, Omi. I believe it was their intent that I vanish without a trace. Initially, I entertained some hope of preserving Fujita's identity, but it quickly became apparent that there was no chance of success if I continued to fight as him. The switch in styles allowed me to take my assailants by surprise, and I believe that I… killed… the one who first accosted me." His voice faded, sounding nauseous in a way that forcibly reminded Ken of his own early days with Weiss, before the slender, red haired assassin had been recruited to balance out their group. Back then, he had emptied his stomach every time he had come down off the berserker high that rage and hurt sent him to, only to discover that his hands had destroyed yet another life. Ken didn't know whether to be glad, or revolted that his raging no longer got such a strong response from him. On the one hand, it was a relief to not hurl every time the guilt wracked him, but on the other, he dreaded the day when he no longer felt anything.

Aya had given up the pretense of addressing his teammates, his dulled voice likewise bleeding away its burden of emotion, until he sounded like a machine. "The odds were now three to one. While I was certain that I could defeat them one on one, it was obvious that I was not going to be given that chance; they were accustomed to working together as a unit. My only hope lay in escape. I made the decision to go for the small gap left by the dead man, passing between the ones armed with tonfa and nunchaku. I used the laptop as a shield against the tonfa man, which had the side bonus of destroying the machine so that if it were captured, there would be no chance of the encryption on Kritiker's files being broken. Unfortunately, while I was able to dodge the nunchaku, the tonfa were another matter. He had me disarmed in seconds."

Ken could well imagine how, having spent enough training time with the wooden batons to respect what they could do in the hands of a master. The hand grip fitted perpendicularly to the shaft made it possible to spin the length of hardwood, gaining enough momentum to deal a punishing blow that could shatter more than the fingers and wrist that the fight had cost Aya. And it was a good choice against a sword too, in that the baton could be snapped into line with its wielder's forearm to block an incoming strike, or reversed so that the handle acted as a hook to snatch the weapon from an opponent's hand. Oh, yeah… The presence of tonfa went a long way toward explaining how Aya had come to get the crap beaten out of him.

"…but, ultimately, I was not able to flee. The fourth member of my attackers proved to be armed with a gun, and he was not hesitant concerning its use. I made it less than half-way down the alley before he had shot me three times. This-- " The hard ball of his thumb again dug into the tormented muscle, dragging a suppressed tremor from him. "Just as tonfa and nunchaku are bludgeoning weapons well suited to subduing an opponent, this was not intended to kill; they wanted me alive."

"Why, Aya?" Utterly serious, Yohji leaned across the table, taking the beer bottle from the younger man's white-knuckled grip and setting it gently aside. He ran one of his own, sensitive long fingers down the swordsman's injured wrist, the light touch as compelling as a blow to judge by the way Aya had to stifle a jerk away.

"I don't know. The first couple of days were the worst. I was in a lot of pain, and they didn't feed me, or let me have any water. T- that man, the one on the tape, all he asked me was who I was… I kept telling him I was Futjita Masahiro, but it was the wrong answer… When I quit waking up, they left me alone." he whispered, shaking with the effort to not wrench Yohji's hand away. The blond still read the reaction for what it was, and withdrew his hand slowly, avoiding any quick movements that might spook Aya.

Omi paused his rapid-fire typing and got up to fetch a glass of water for injured man, the hard tilt to his set mouth just daring the irresponsible playboy to make a crack about his mothering instincts. Yohji hardly noticed what he was up to, leaning back with one arm hooked carelessly over the wooden chair's back and his entire focus on the silent redhead.

When he wasn't annoyed by the other blond, Omi enjoyed teasing him about being a big kitty cat, on the prowl for a handout. Or a warm lap, as the case might be. Just then, though, his singular, feline hunting attention was fixed entirely on Aya, and his tone was sharp as he rapped out, "Where were you kept?"

Startled, the slender redhead replied automatically, speaking as though he was giving a report on a mission. "Underground, judging by the constant temperature and the high level of humidity. End of a hallway with at least four other doors on it. Room that had been used as a laundry, maybe. There was a utility sink, and bits of lint around a floor drain."

"And?"

"It was a western-styled building, possibly from the 1950's, to judge by the basement itself. A traditional house would not have had one. Given the concrete block walls, and the amount of space, I would guess a business."

Grimacing, Omi turned his computer slightly so that Ken could also see the screen. There, in a brief newspaper article was a description of the closed down brothel; Aya was dead on.

Yohji raised a hand, halting any questions or comments from the rest of the group. He was thinking hard. "Did they ask you any questions about Kritiker?" he demanded at last.

"No. Or, to be more precise, not when I was conscious." Warily, Aya answered the question, and fixed narrowed violet eyes solely on the investigator. He was well aware that Omi was more than his match if it came to ferreting out information on the internet. There wasn't a database in existence that the kid could crack, given a little time. Similarly, he had a gift for putting the machines to work to help him. The detective, on the other hand was something a bit different. For him, it always smacked of serendipity. Yohji didn't surf the `net, he surfed people, reading them with an uncanny accuracy that let him turn a situation to his advantage.

Yohji tilted the chair back onto two legs, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of the table. His tight black tee was riding up a bit, exposing the ripples of his taut stomach as he rocked. The next question was casual, almost indifferent. "So, how long do you think you were out?"

"Four days." Aya said definitely. Some of the strain eased from his tensed frame, and he leaned back a little in his seat.

"Hm?" One of Yohji's tawny brows quirked up, politely inquiring.

White fingers traced Aya's jaw and chin, a ghostly caress. "Beard." answered the other man simply. At the perplexed looks that the others leveled at him, he elaborated, "I hadn't shaved in four days."

Oh. That made sense. Of the three senior members of the group, Ken knew that Aya rarely had to shave. Yohji would probably have a tidy goatee if he let himself go, while the soccer player knew that the best he could manage was sort of a wispy, Chinese scholar look that was completely at odds with his personality, aside from being damned silly in general. Aya though, would have his fine, alabaster skin forever, unless God took a hand.

Yohji though, was the one who had to argue, unable to resist smirking and prodding at his prey. "Hey, how do you know that they didn't send someone in to shave you while you were out?"

"Because, you idiot, why would they bother to shave me when they left me lying in a puddle of my own filth?" The swift retort was more in keeping with the personality that they were used to, except that the old Aya would have done it with a frigid, narrow-eyed glare. It sounded more horrible, stated with Aya's precise, educated diction, when the words shook. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house anyway, between the pilot lights on the stove, and the waste heat from the quietly humming refrigerator. Ken fiddled with the hem of the soccer jersey he had on over top of a turtleneck, debating on whether he should peel it off or not. In contrast, Aya looked as if he wished that the bulky dark blue sweater that he had on was bigger and heavier. It already hung down past his knuckles, with loose folds bunched together around his hips, but the slim man kept tugging it closer.

"Aya…?" Intimate and soft, the older blond said the redhead's name as he gently lowered his chair to sit four-square on the floor. His lazy gaze had gone serious and focused on their partner as if he was the most important thing in the entire world. "Aya, you can tell us what they did to you. We can help you to heal."

Startled, the injured man reared back, and a degree of anger kindled in the narrowed twilight eyes. Aya snarled, "Fuck off, Kudoh. I wasn't raped."

The words were like a slap. Ken felt himself recoil, and out of the corner of his eye saw Omi likewise pale and start back. Yohji held his ground, his generous mouth turning down in dismay. Sympathy flooded his easy-going features, and he said with uncharacteristic gentleness, "Aya, you don't have to act as if it was nothing. You're not alone-- "

The chair toppled to the floor with a crash as Aya surged to his feet. Unwittingly, the furious redhead was echoing his teammates' earlier conversation as he shouted, "Not everything is about sex! Can't you get that through your head!?"

Yohji prepared to argue the point, just as he had argued Benson's motivations with the rest of them while Aya lay unconscious at the first safe house a few days earlier. Ken blinked. Had it really only been a couple of days? The tight, bitter stubbornness in the set of the blond's shoulders telegraphed his intention to keep digging at the weakness he sensed in their partner, as if it were a pocket of infection that needed to be lanced. As if he were trying to perform the same operation on himself? Ken's attention wavered between the two men. Where had that sudden insight come from, he wondered. Something along the same lines must have occurred to Omi, because the younger assassin was bouncing in Yohji's face, and then grabbing him by the wrist and towing him bodily out of the kitchen. Once the two blonds were out of sight, Aya sighed and righted his chair. He slumped into it, too exhausted to fight to stay on his feet.

"Aya…?" Hesitantly, Ken took a step toward him. The redhead addressed him without raising his head.

"Yohji is wrong. I wasn't sexually abused." He paused, then continued in a bare whisper, "There are worse things than rape."

There was no help for it; Ken took another step, and another, until he could rest a hand lightly on the rounded curve of the man's shoulder. His voice was just as quiet as he asked, "What, Aya? What's worse?"

"Being left a- alone." A tiny hitch in the word, and it cut like a knife. That was all it took for Ken to reach for the person he had fought beside, and lived with, and never given much thought to before. He knew it was the right decision when a shudder ran through the sweater clad back as the soccer player's light touch descended.

Ken held himself perfectly still, not daring to presume any farther, even though he desperately wanted to envelop the wounded man in a hug. The sensation gave him pause. Wonderingly, Ken considered. Just when had he made the transition from thinking of Aya as hostile and unapproachable, to wanting to comfort? When had the stubborn man gone from being a compatriot, a co-worker, to being someone that he cared about? Why did it matter that the trembling in the tense shoulder beneath his hand increased, and that Aya was biting his lower lip in his struggle to maintain control? Without conscious volition, Ken shifted a final half-step closer and gave in to the temptation to hold and comfort.

A muffled curse met his efforts as the redhead buried his face into Ken's stomach, but the hands that fisted into the loose fabric of his sports jersey were irresistible. With Aya clutching the fabric over either hip, there was no way that the younger man was going to leave, even if he had been inclined to.

"Ken, how is…" The question died away as soon as Omi caught sight of his friends. Irresolute, the boy stopped in the doorway. Before he could retreat, Ken jerked his chin imperiously, willing Omi to understand and to come closer. Surprise shot the younger Weiss' brows into his hairline, but he obeyed the summons, joining the pair of them at the kitchen table. The soccer player flicked his gaze downward, praying that the silent command would make sense, relying on the instinctive way that he and the kid had always managed to work together. Still on the verge of spooking, Omi gave a hesitant nod in reply, and slid his arms around Aya from behind.

The brunet breathed out a sigh of relief and briefly closed his eyes. That had been harder than signaling the next play during a game had ever been, but at least their resident genius had been smart enough to figure out what it was that he wanted done. And, better still, it seemed to be working.

The tensely miserable grasp in the fabric of Ken's shirt was easing as Omi rubbed his cheek over the messy strands of dark crimson hair. Aya relaxed back against the kid's chest, no longer quite so determined to lock out the world by hiding his red-splotched face against Ken, although his eyes remained tightly closed. The athlete made an abortive attempt to free himself, stopping when Omi gave him a tiny but unmistakable shake of the head, followed by a glare that would have done the master, Fujimiya Aya, proud. The boy spoke softly, directly into the ear that he appeared to be nuzzling, "Aya-kun… let's go to bed."

Ken couldn't help himself; he gave a choked, sputtering gasp. Not only had sweet little Omi just said what he thought he had said, but that was definitely `nuzzling.' Blue eyes were challenging him to say word one, and to be honest, the athlete wasn't sure what he would say, so he held his peace, even when the petit blond pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of the red hair. It was inconceivable that Omi was trying to take advantage of their friend; scrupulously fair and honest, the kid would never condone it. Which meant that he had to be trying to distract the older man for some reason, and Ken was just typically clueless about it. He would just have to play along.

"Please, Aya-kun? Can we go?"

The man gave a single, jerky nod of ascent, and climbed awkwardly to his feet, making him the one to let go of Ken, rather than the other way around. It was plain that the slender Hunter was nearly out on his feet as he allowed Omi to steer him toward the door and the stairs beyond. "Coming, Ken-kun?" The request was anxious; Omi was nowhere near as confident as he was letting on.

Ken cleared his throat diffidently. "Um, in a minute. I promise. I just want to clear away a couple of things, okay?"

Things named Kudoh Yohji.

Innocent blue eyes caught his, widening until they threatened to spill worried tears. Ken added quietly, "I promise." Aya had let go of his shirt-front, and went willingly enough when the brunet made shooing motions at them.

***************

"So, the kid got our favorite redheaded asshole off to bed?" The mild inquiry came from the shadows of the living room. After the comparative brightness of the kitchen, it took Ken some effort to spot the older Hunter, slouched in a battered comfy chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Yeah." the brunet answered noncommittally. Ken didn't really want to try to explain just what the snuggling had been. Although he was sure it wasn't sex, like Yohji would undoubtedly suggest. Or, he was mostly sure that it wasn't. He was still having a hard time dealing with the littlest of their company saying that he had liked being petted by Aya. But right now was not the time to think about that, and Ken firmly pushed the whole thing out of his head. "Uh, Yohji. There's something I want to ask you-- "

"Hn. So it's finally time for that father-son chat? You sure you're ready for it, kiddo? It can be a lot of fun if it's done right-- "

"Yohji! Why is everything about sex with you?!" exploded Ken. He was just winding up for a good rant when the former detective's snickers caught him by surprise. "What?" he demanded suspiciously, "Just what are you up to?"

Still chuckling, the older man dragged himself upright in his chair. "I know you'd never get up the guts to put the moves on our good buddy."

Ken opened his mouth, intent on protesting that he did so have the courage, then stopped dead. This was getting to be one of those verbal traps that he always seemed to fall prey to. If he complained that, no, he wouldn't dream of approaching Aya, he would either be perceived as a coward, or, alternatively, dense as a post for not noticing just how gorgeous their teammate was. Any other ideas that came to mind were even worse. His only hope was to ask his question, and to then escape. Grabbing his courage with both hands, he demanded, "Hey, quit trying to change the subject, would you? I just want to know, how did they find Aya, anyway? "I mean, the Hot Body. How did the cops know to go there?"

"They had a tip."

"Anonymous, right?"

"Shit. Yeah, of course it was an anonymous tip. Now, ask me how I know."

Bewildered, Ken nodded. "Ooo-kay… So how do you know?"

The lanky blond held up his cell phone, smirking as the shorter assassin's confusion grew. "When I returned the car, just before the party at the loft apartment, ya know? I put in a call to this guy I used to know… Not Kritiker, not the internet, just a good, old-fashioned informant. Well, when I checked our voicemail, to see if there was anything new from your girlfriend Honey, there was a message from him. He says that the tip was a little… `odd,' `cause it wasn't just about the missing granddaughter." In one of his sudden reversals of mood, Yohji was abruptly serious again, adding, "Omittchi has been saying since the beginning that there was a reason that the police were interested in our friendly kenkaku, why information on this case was so hard to come by. Now, what do you think?"

The problem was that he didn't know what to think. A horrible suspicion that had begun niggling at him was fast settling into a strong certainty. Ken took a deep breath and plunged in. "Okay, I'll bite. How much do you want to bet that Aya was supposed to get found? I'll bet that the cops, and the guys who had him were counting on sitting back and watching where he went, just so they could follow him home." There was a weighty pause, then he finished softly: "To us."