Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Mission ( Chapter 10 )

Reflections: Mission

Chapter 10

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

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

"… now the Two Bad Men, kinda took advantage of some things at the Dolls' House, but they weren't stupid. They made sure that they kept out of sight of the hookers. But one night, they made a mistake, and while they were bringing in a certain package, the Little Brother Doll saw them." Yohji paused, most likely lighting another of his revolting cigarettes. The moment of silence lifted some of the spell his darkly amused voice had cast, both over Tsanakia's office at the police station, and over his more distant audience at Villa Weiss.

It was the detective who snarled, "What the fuck are you talking about, Kudoh? Would you quit with the fairy tales? This isn't Beatrix fucking Potter - it's an investigation!" The flat of his palm slammed down on his desk, the gunshot crack of noise startling Ken into jumping where he sat on the floor. Although, he could sympathize. It was pretty annoying having to put up with Yohji paraphrasing the Tale of Two Bad Mice. Then again, it could always have been something a lot raunchier. The playboy could be a truly inspired storyteller when he wanted to be. The exasperated cop yelled, "If you can't get to the point, get the hell out!"

"Tsk." The former PI's tone was by contrast calm. "You need to loosen up and play along, Tanuki. The question you should be asking is, `And what did he see?' "

What did he see…? Confused, Ken blinked at the blank screen of the laptop, imagining that Yohji was getting pretty much the same stares on his end. For a minute there, he had even forgotten that the whole thing was made up, that `the Little Brother Doll' - Omi - had never been at the Hot Body, had never seen anything. Yohji's artful re-telling of what they knew of Aya's captivity had been woven together with the details they had gleaned from the tapes and from Honey. Omi - or Yuki-chan as he had been introduced - gave a sullen, teenaged grunt, knowing that he was to provide confirmation, to speak as if it had been him, and not Honey who had witnessed the bloody and beaten man being hauled into the brothel. There had to be just enough truth to make the story believable, without giving away the hooker, or their collection of tapes' existence.

Fact, it was supposed to be news that Aya had been a prisoner for three weeks, as that was a detail that the cops had withheld. Fact, neither Iida nor Mishakawa supposedly had knowledge as to the identity of the redhead who had been stashed in their basement, although they had known of his presence. Fact, none of the whores interviewed had admitted to even being aware that there was anyone down there, although a couple had complained over their bosses' prolonged absences. It was as if Aya had been invisible the entire time.

And, fact, Tsanakia knew more than he was letting on. Tsanakia was too cagey to admit to anything concrete, especially not with `Yuki' in his office, but reading between the blanks was going to be informative, according to Yohji.

But even as the cop obediently said, "Ooo-kay… So what did the kid see? And what do you know about it, Kudoh?" the wily detective was turning aside Yohji's casual play-acting with questions of his own. Ken felt a frisson of apprehension.

There was something wrong with the interview.

If Yohji sensed it, he gave no indication, instead sticking strictly to his smart-ass persona. "Hmm. Now, that's a question Yuki-chan should answer, isn't it?" Yohji laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "Tell him, kid. Tell the nice officer what you saw."

"I-- " Omi's voice trembled, childishly high and uncertain, lacking the attitude he had shown earlier. One of them at least was catching on to the looming disaster. He coughed, and tried again. The plan was to stick to Honey's story as closely as he could, and finally the words poured out. "I saw the two men carrying some guy. He was beat up really bad."

"Did you know the man? The one they had?" Yohji asked.

"Um… No…?" Omi replied hesitantly. This wasn't going exactly according to the script that he and the older Hunter had worked out, but his instinct was to play along. It just would have helped if he had been sure what it was his partner wanted. The police inspector was being unnervingly silent.

"Was he a regular customer?"

"Oh. No. Not that I… knew everybody. I didn't hang out at the club too much. I'm sorry." Even as a street-toughened prostitute, Omi was apologetic and far too polite. Ken snorted quietly, trying not to drown out the laptop's over-worked speakers. Omi would probably be saying `gomen' for inconveniencing the firing squad the day they were all caught and sentenced for all the Dark Beasts they had put down.

"How did you know?" persistent, his partner nudged at him.

"Oh!" Ken could almost hear the understanding clicking into place. The next sentence tumbled out at Omi's normal break-neck speed. "He had red hair. Dark red, like blood."

"Big deal. Anybody would know that. We put the guy's picture on TV, for Christ's sake." Tsanakia snapped derisively. "If this is all you got, quit wasting my time."

But their younger partner wasn't finished. "He was tall, but thin. Not big-shouldered. He had long red hair. It hung down on either side of his face. And he had been shot, or stabbed, or something. Here, in the shoulder, and in his side, and in his leg."

"How did you…?"

"I told you. I saw them. The two gaijin that are friends of the owners. They were the ones carrying him. They took him down to the basement. I didn't wait to see if they came back up again."

Tsanakia's doubts were apparently gone, and he demanded eagerly, "Describe them."

"One is French, or something, but he talks like a colonial, like he's from Vietnam, or something? The other guy is from one of those East European countries. I don't know… Russian, or Bulgarian, or whatever. He has black hair, slicked back, but he isn't Japanese. I'd never seen them before, but they knew the owner, Mishakawa-san, and he let them in."

"Really?" The police detective's voice went suddenly, dangerously quiet. "And just how did you get close enough to see all this, hm?"

"I… I was supposed to wait in the office, to check in with M-Mishikawa-san. But I got bored… I wasn't supposed to be out wandering around, in case a customer saw me, b-but-- " The small assassin audibly shrank back, relying on his youth and innocent appearance to appease the older cop. It was a gamble, but without knowing precisely what had set off the man's suspicions, it was also the best he could do.

"You're lying." The desk chair creaked ominously in counterpoint to the flat accusation, then heavy footsteps were advancing on Omi. In a swift rustle, Yohji was out of his chair, placing himself between the bulk of the detective and his quarry.

"Easy, big fella." he murmured. "Don't rip the brat. He's telling you the truth. As far as he knows it, anyhow."

"Oh? You'd think so, wouldn't you Kudoh. Well, let me tell you, buddy, your little rent-boy is lying. And how do I know? Simple. It wasn't the basement of that whorehouse that we got the redhead out of. It was Mishakawa's apartment building. So, take your lame stories and get the fuck out of my office. I've got better things to do with my time." The glass-rattling slam of a door put the final punctuation mark onto Tsanakia's bald statement. Yohji swore quietly, but with feeling.

Not the whorehouse? Then again, most of Tanagawa had been built at the same time. If Aya had never seen anything but the basement, what was to say he hadn't been somewhere else? A fragment of the TV broadcast that had started Weiss onto Aya's tracks flashed through Ken's mind: -found during a recent police raid in Tanagawa- The authorities had never said exactly where Aya was when they located him. All of them, they had all assumed that it was in the Hot Body, had been misled by the vague details of the press releases. Seated on the floor, Ken twisted around in time to see an expression of complete and utter shock cross Aya's face.

In the poorly lit living room, it was hard to make out the color of Aya's too wide eyes, but it would have been difficult even in the full light of a sunny day, as his pupils expanded, swallowing the lilac and silver of his irises whole. A shuddering exhalation made his whole body convulse, and then he was tripping, nearly falling in his haste to unfold his long legs from the sofa's embrace and bolt. Without thinking, Ken threw himself into the older man's path, his shoulder taking him just at thigh level and tumbling both of them. The aging couch creaked in protest as their combined weight struck. The brunet ducked instinctively, Aya's wild swing ruffling his thick hair.

It had taken all three of them to bring Aya down the last time he had panicked, and this time, Ken was alone.

He was vaguely aware of Yohji and Omi's oblivious voices pouring from the laptop's speakers, but they might as well have been on the moon for all the difference they made. Aya was twisting, trained reflexes kicking in as muscle memory took over for his unreasoning mind. The hard heel of a palm scrapped past Ken's ear; had it connected with his jaw, it might have broken his neck, snapping his head back. Desperate, the shorter athlete retaliated with a sharp punch into his captive's side, aiming for his healing wounds. A harsh grunt told him that he had found his target, and Ken followed it up with a second punch, lower, into Aya's kidneys. Pain made the slender assassin curl reflexively, seeking to protect the injury even as he stabbed stiff fingers toward Ken's vulnerable throat. The only reason the blow failed was that his broken fingers weren't strong enough. But as it was, the metal foundation of the velcro splint tore a ragged furrow across the side of the brunet's neck.

Aya was squirming like an eel, his swordsman's honed reflexes and agility making him next to impossible to hold onto. With a grunt of pain, Ken hooked a leg around the redhead's knees, toppling both of them onto the floor between the couch and end table, sending a small lamp crashing to the floor in a shower of broken glass and electric sparks. A frantic twist on Aya's part made it so that his assailant took the brunt of the impact, and the corner of the table hurt like a son-of-a-bitch when Ken's shoulder struck it on the way down. The abused muscles spasmed, and Ken's numbed fingers lost their grip on Aya's sweater.

He was going to die.

Aya's knee was on his solar plexus, grinding Ken mercilessly into the green shag carpet, A shard of glass was agonizingly sharp in his lower back, a counterpoint to the burn of the scrape on his throat and the blossoming throb of his shoulder. Aya had his left arm cocked back, not about to make the same mistake of striking with his injured hand a second time, and Ken felt a flood of resignation. He was going to die at the hands of a teammate, because he couldn't, just couldn't bring himself to fight back.

The blow didn't come.

Tremors shook the swordsman's thin figure. He drew in a ragged breath, and the shaking became enough to qualify as a full-blown seizure. The poise and grace that normally characterized the slender man shattered as he threw himself backward off of Ken. The coffee table caught him across the shin, sending the laptop skidding perilously close to the far edge. Then he was hurtling toward the drape-cover glass of the balcony doors.

Panicked, Ken floundered. Feeling was returning to his numbed arm, sharp needles stabbing through the abused shoulder joint, but his fingers still refused to cooperate when it came to scrabbling for purchase on the arm of the couch, desperate to pull himself up out of the gap between it and the end table.

Glass shattered explosively. Aya's elbows impacted first, his arms instinctively coming up to protect his lowered head. The drapes billowed wildly, tearing from their track overhead as the man went through where glass had lately been. Ken was on his knees, lunging forward without bothering to rise to his full height.

It was the tangled fabric of the curtains that saved them.

Hobbled and blinded, Aya crashed down onto the deck of the balcony. Had he been thinking, rather than reacting blindly, it wouldn't have mattered, but now, his erratic movements cost him precious seconds. Blood from his torn forearms streaked the white lining of the drapes, nearly black in the graying light. Rain made the wooden porch floor treacherously slippery. He barely made it to his knees before Ken flattened him, driving the sobbing breath from his lungs.

Grimly, the smaller Hunter took advantage of the unexpected advantage and looped a fold of cloth around his opponent's head and torso, twisting it savagely. He wasn't about to stop and analyze why Aya hadn't pressed his advantage - it could be his stupid declaration about killing being wrong that had stayed Abyssinian's killing blow for all he cared. What was important was that he subdue the other assassin, and do it quickly. Glass crackled in the tangle of material, and Ken bit back a curse when a splinter of it found his own hand. Aya was still fighting him, but his movements were increasingly uncoordinated, possibly due to a lack of oxygen, possibly because even the cold-blooded Hunter had limits, and they had been surpassed.

Ken eased up on the stranglehold he had on the fabric around Aya's neck when the body beneath him grew slack with unconsciousness. Shit. He was so not looking forward to explaining this to Omi and Yohji, when they got back. He flipped the drapes off of Aya's head and fumbled for a pulse with his off hand, his still-tingling fingers on his right not being up to the task. He couldn't find the pulse point on the swordsman's carotid, but the shuddering breath the limp figure sucked in was a good enough substitute. Ken sprawled back onto his rump, leaning his back against the logs that made up the house's walls, and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Okay. Assess the damage. Aya was out cold. Again. Until the ex-soccer player got him back into the house and out of that ridiculous sweater, he wouldn't know exactly how badly he was hurt, but it was likely that the curtains and his clothing had protected him from all but fairly minor lacerations on his way through the window. And Ken knew for a fact that he hadn't punched anything hard enough to seriously injure the man. He, himself, would probably be sporting some outrageously bright colors by morning, once the bruises that he could already feel stiffening his body reached their full potential, but overall he had been lucky. Aya could have killed him.

Ken had to wonder about that. If the swordsman had indeed lost his edge, and not just on some dim level recognized that he was fighting a teammate, then Weiss was screwed. No amount of persuasion was going to be enough to get Kritiker to leave Aya with them. Kritiker wanted Abyssinian, not Fujimiya Aya. He rotated his shoulder experimentally, relieved that not only was it not dislocated, it didn't even feel as if the rotator cuff had torn, or anything. Briefly, he considered lugging the damned redhead up to his bed, and pretending that nothing had happened, but with the shattered evidence all around, it would be impossible to hide their fight.

And just where had Aya thought he was going, when he had plunged at the window? He had to know that it was a substantial drop to the muddy ground below, even assuming he avoided hitting the piled rocks that provided a firm foundation for the projecting balcony. Groaning, the athlete dragged himself up the wall, clutching at the smooth curve of each log in turn. He was getting wet, and it was too damned cold to keep sitting outside in the rain thinking.

Getting Aya to the battered couch essentially used up all of Ken's strength. There was no way that he was going to attempt the staircase to the second floor. Aya would just have to deal with the spine-twisting piece of furniture. There was an old afghan flung carelessly over the back of the chair closest to the cold fireplace. Ken snapped it up, shaking it out over the unconscious man, then turned back to the gapping hole where the sliding door had been.

He was pretty sure that there was a sheet of plywood out in the generator shed, left over from the last time they had smashed a window. That had been a while ago, when they had used the remoteness of the cabin to lure a pack of Dark Beasts out of the city to where they could be safely disposed of. Come to think of it, it had been a while since Michiru had been by the flower shop… Ken was certain that she had never completely understood their role, and had written off their involvement in her rescue as a coincidence, but in a way it was too bad. She and Omi shared a real interest in computers, and had managed to be become friends, and their hacker didn't have so many friends from outside their team that he could afford to lose even one. Ken wrestled the plywood up the back stairs and through the kitchen door. It was so tempting to wait for the other half of his team to get home, but he could already feel the house chilling down. With night approaching, and a cold wind rolling down off the mountains together with the storm front, that was a bad idea. To say nothing of the breach of security that the broken door represented. In fact, the athlete was kind of surprised that they had managed to not take out the thin tracery of wires in the process. Or, bare minimum, not set off the alarms hooked to the sensors that would register tampering with the glass itself. The alarms hadn't given off so much as a peep.

Worry of a different sort coiled in Ken's gut. With Aya out of the action, he was effectively all alone on a mountainside, miles from any witnesses. It was the isolated estate where they had first sought shelter, all over again. Hastily, he leaned the sheet of plywood against the side of the kitchen table, and riffled the silverware drawer for the automatic hidden way in the back. He checked the clip, fished another from the drawer, and slipped the gun inside the waist-band of his jeans, against the small of his back. Maybe it was just paranoia, but Ken was damned certain that Omi had made sure that every safeguard had been activated before he and Yohji had headed for Tokyo. His anxious stride carried him quickly back into the living room.

Peaceful in oblivion, Aya was still on the couch, right where Ken had left him. Rain, and a chilly breeze gusted fitfully in through the open door, but there were lighter patches in the sky where it looked like the clouds were beginning to break up. It was almost April, for Christ's sake, and that meant that it was about time for the weather to shift away from the lowering, cold gray of winter into a more spontaneous, changeable pattern. There was still several hours of daylight left, and if his teammates were heading straight home after the fiasco with the cops, they should be back well before full dark. He could do it. He would do it, would protect his injured friend.

But first, the brunet admitted, he had a duty to warn the team.

Sound was still pouring from the laptop's speakers. Omi and Yohji, of course, had no clue what they had just missed out on. The older blond's familiar, infuriating, welcome drawl said, "Ow. That's it. That's the last time I let you tape anything to me." Omi's answer was lost as Yohji divested himself of the stripped down communications gear, but the older man's reply made Ken choke with the sudden need to have them home. "Yeah, right. You're still under eighteen, kiddo. And besides, I don't need a pity-fuck, I need a hair transplant. How could you not know that you were sticking that damned thing to my scalp?" The teen's laughter rang out bright and clear.

Ken fumbled for the laptop's keyboard. It sounded as if Yohji had ditched the receiver he had worn, but secrecy wasn't important just then. The computer could act as a cell phone just as well. The shrill ring of the phone came out of the laptop's speakers, cutting across the wire man's startled curse.

"Yeah? Kenken, that you?"

It was weird to hear his own voice issue from his mouth, and from the laptop, too, as Yohji put his phone on speaker so that Omi could hear. "Hai… Um. We got a problem."

"What?" That was Omi. The anxiety that flooded from the petit teenager was concrete. Ken sighed and ran a hand backward through his hair. Jesus fucking Christ, but he hurt. There was a lump that he had missed during his earlier self-inspection forming on the back of his skull. He wasn't even sure when he had gotten hit there. Sighing again, he spilled out the truth.

"Aya freaked again. Something about the cops not finding him at the Hot Body set him off. I'm guessing it has to do with what ever happened to him a week before he was found. Anyhow, he's out cold again, so that's all over. The bad part is that we broke one of the balcony doors, and no alarms went off. You set `em, didn't you? Before you left?"

"Y-yes…" Omi's voice was distracted, thoughtful. It was obvious that he wanted to ask if Aya was okay, but professionalism won out. "I never disabled them. Since we couldn't go outside and risk being spotted by any watchers anyhow, there was no point."

"Crap. I feel like a sitting duck. If they know where we are, what are they waiting for?" Ken dropped down to sit on the floor beside the coffee table, struggling to keep his voice down. Not that there was much chance of waking Aya up…

"We don't know for sure that it's enemy action." Yohji's said reasonably. "Maybe something shorted out."

Ken and Omi both snorted their disbelief at the same instant. While it wasn't impossible that some component or other had failed, taking down the house's defenses, it wasn't very likely, either. Their resident techie was a perfectionist, and the more so when it involved protecting his surrogate family. The teenager took the phone away from his partner. "Look, Ken-kun, it is possible. You know how to run the diagnostics program. Get it going while you secure the window. Then take Aya upstairs, just in case. Your room would be a good choice, as you don't have a skylight, and you're not above the balcony, or the porch roof so they would have to work harder to scale the outside wall. We're almost to the drop to switch cars now, so it'll only be about an hour and a half till we're home." Omi's no-nonsense, brisk orders were effective at calming Ken's lingering panic.

"Yeah, I can do that…" Nodding, Ken relaxed. It would be no big deal to take the laptop off the surveillance relay that the younger Weiss had set up, and he did know how to use the diagnostic programs that the hacker had written; they all did. And the suggestion about moving to his room was a good one, too. It was the most defensible, plus it would give him an unobstructed view of the drive that was the only way a vehicle could approach the Villa. With the snow gone, an assault force would have to hike the mucky ground to come at them from above. Assuming that the whole security net woven around Villa Weiss wasn't toast, he would hopefully be forewarned if they tried it. He was a Hunter, and Weiss, dammit. He wasn't going to loose it now, not when he had an injured teammate to protect.

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

Much to his surprise, Ken had drifted into a light doze when the slam of a car door jerked him awake. Wedged into a corner between his dresser and the window, he would peer through a crack in the blinds without exposing himself, and he did so, spotting the edge of the rear bumper of a car in their usual spot beside the shed. Automatically, he glanced over at his bedside clock, and was alarmed to note that it had been closer to three hours, than to one and a half since he had spoken to his friends.

On his bed, Aya stirred, rolling first onto his side, wincing, and then sitting up. The normally self-possessed redhead was rumpled and disoriented, but with returning consciousness, his gaze both sharpened and retreated into wary circumspection. Their eyes met for a long moment, but when Aya opened his mouth to speak, Ken waved him off sharply. "I'm not interested, right now. Omi and Yohji just got back, and they're late." He bolted out of his chair and headed for the stairs, automatically reaching to feel for the gun tucked out of sight under his shirt.

He had no idea if Aya was following, or not. And frankly, he didn't care.

Ken ran into the kitchen to find that the back door was standing wide open, and Yohji leaning crookedly against the front of the stove, fumbling in the next cabinet over for a dish towel. His other hand was pressed so hard against his side that his finger joints showed white. His beautiful sports coat was stained red. Ken's heart spasmed.

"What the fuck happened, Yohji? And where's Omi?!"

The older blond staggered, righting himself with a hand on the corner of the kitchen table. It left a bloody print. "Out in the car. He's okay - just sleeping it off. We… we got hit as we were switching cars at the parking garage…"

Ken didn't bother to wait to hear the rest, shoving roughly past the taller man as he rushed out the kitchen door.

A black Datsun four-door was parked askew in the sheltered nook between the generator shed and the back porch, its driver side door not quite latched right. Grim faced, Ken ignored that, skirting around the hood to the passenger side and wrenching open Omi's door. Groggy blue eyes, nearly black with the degree of their pupil's dilation, blinked up at him as the slim youth sagged out the open door. If he hadn't ended up braced against Ken's stomach, he would have tumbled to the ground. Recognition brought a particularly ditzy grin to his lips. "Oh, Ken-kun… it's you. We home yet?"

They had been hit at the drop. Fuck. Ken grabbed the slight blond and shook him roughly. "Were you followed?"

"N… no. I'm sure. Yohji was careful. That's why we're kinda late…" His voice trailed off into a yawn.

"Shit, Omi. What are you on?" Grunting, the athlete grasped him by the upper arms and hauled him erect. The slim blond swayed, then drooped as his knees buckled and Ken's strength was all that kept him from falling to the ground.

"Um, pretty basic sedative, I think." he mumbled, gesturing vaguely back into the car's interior. "I saved the dart to analyze later, but I think I recognized the markings. It's meant to be fired from a gun… I've read about game wardens using these in the parks when they have to relocate animals that are interacting with humans too much…"

Ken gave up trying to prop the slight figure against the side of the car while he reached for the syringe dart on the dash. The damned thing could stay in the car. It wasn't as if he knew how to do whatever voodoo it was that their tech had in mind, anyway. Skeptical, he eyed his friend. "Uh, never mind. Do you think you can walk?"

"I don't feel too good, Ken-kun." Omi pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, alternating between nauseous pallor and an embarrassed blush. Growling, the brunet hauled him unceremoniously over to a patch of winter-killed grass and held him up as he hurled what little food he had in his system over the bleached yellow blades. "Ew…" the teen moaned, shivering. "I hate doing that."

Ken sighed and rubbed the narrow back patiently. The reaction was par for Omi, unfortunately. Built small in general, they had had to take the youngest Weiss to an orthodontist to have a couple of teeth removed to make room for his adult set, and Ken had sat with him to make sure that he didn't say anything compromising under the anesthesia. Of course, the kid hadn't let slip word one about their alternate life-style, but he had thrown up spectacularly all over his friend's lap. At least this time, it was the straggle of dead grass that got the benefits. Omi retched again, and spat.

"Better?" the brunet asked gently.

"Yeah. A bit car-sick, too. The way Yohji-kun drives, I should know better than to fall asleep." Omi sounded stronger, more like himself, and managed to stand up straight under his own power. Ken gave a guilty start.

"He was bleeding."

"How bad?" Still half braced against the solid mass of Ken's chest, the smaller youth peered up over his shoulder anxiously.

"Don't know. I ditched and came looking for you."

"Oh…" Omi moaned, and shivered convulsively, the movement sending distracting ripples of light down the silver mesh shirt that he wore. A chilly gust rolled down the mountainside, bearing with it the clammy damp of melting snow and spring mud. Half-frozen, he chaffed at his arms, warding off goose bumps as he added, "Kannon be merciful, but I hate being sick!" in a childish whine.

His friend snickered. "Geez, Omi. So where's your coat?" Ken wrapped his arms roughly around the slight figure, struggling against the urge to make any additional comments as his younger partner cursed under his breath, half snuggling back against him, and half fighting to stand on his own. Omi lost the battle and hung on his arm, retching again, spattering the dead grass with thin bile.

"Trunk. Car. Yohji… made me… take it off. Got… sick on it." he wheezed.

"Poor Yohji." Ken remarked, stroking the fine, fair hair back from the youth's forehead and cradling the feverish bare skin against his palm. Omi relaxed, leaning into the support. The patch of thin, late afternoon sunlight that they stood in was marginally warmer than the open air, but still not enough make up for the see-through shirt and knee-length black shorts that the skinny teen wore. With no insulation and sick to his stomach, he was at risk of hypothermia, but Ken was reluctant to drag him into the house until the worst was over. It would only embarrass everybody.

Although, if Omi had already tossed his cookies in front of the wire man, it was kind of a moot point.

"Yeah." Against his will, the small blond giggled. "He turned green. I thought he was going to lose it, too. Considering I was in no shape to drive, putting my coat in the trunk was the least I could do." His shivers were diminishing, the worst of the bout over with, but Omi made no effort to free himself.

"Um, I was just, you know, wondering…" Ken began hesitantly, but then his voice died away. His armful made a tired, interrogatory noise, encouraging him to continue. "I, ah, wondered why tranquilizers always knock you for a loop?"

"Dunno… Kritiker's doctors say it's psychosomatic. Of course, now I'm starting to wonder if it might have been a memory of when I was kidnapped… They kept me drugged a lot, and I was so scared, and helpless. It could be that my body remembered, even when my brain forgot."

"Hmm." Without thinking, Ken shifted to better block the freshening breeze. What Omi had said made sense. They had sat up together, one long, terrible night not long after Takatori Reiji's death, and the youngest assassin, trembling and sick, had told the older boy everything that he had learned, recalled, or surmised about his abduction. Personally, it made Ken glad that the bastard was dead, and his older sons gone with him, even as his best friend had broken down and cried from the grief and loss - emotions that were probably more caused by the demise of the teenager's dreams than any physical loss. In that light, it made sense that there would be other, more subtle consequences.

Omi's thoughts had moved in parallel with his, and then jumped ahead. He rubbed a hand tentatively over Ken's forearm where it was locked around his waist. "Ne… Ken? About Aya…"

The way he flinched was automatic, and unfortunately not something that Ken could conceal, in close contact as they were. The petit blond sighed, plainly exasperated. Hastily, the athlete jumped in before his friend could say anything that he didn't need to know about that situation. "Look, what's going on between you two is none of my business, okay?"

"Ken, shut up. I said we'd continue the conversation when I got back, and I'm back. So, deal." At the unexpected steel in the soft alto voice, Ken clamped his jaw shut. Omi gave another exasperated sigh, and turned around in the circle of his arms to stare up at him. There were only a couple of inches in difference between their heights, but so close together, it was hard to ignore. Dark blue eyes gentled as Omi searched for signs of criticism, and found none. He whispered, "I know this makes you uncomfortable, but it isn't going to go away."

"I know." miserable, Ken agreed. "But I hate it that Aya led you on, and then dumped you. Even if he is freaking out every time we turn around."

"Dumped me? Oh. He didn't. At least, not exactly. We talked a lot, about what I wanted. And what it came down to is that even if the sex would be good, it would be even better if it was with someone I loved. So I decided to wait." His delivery was matter-of-fact, but Ken urked! as he distantly noted that sly amusement crinkled the outer corners of the entirely too-smug hacker's eyes. Then Omi's mouth quirked up as well, tilting the laughing eyes further as he lost the fight to hold in his chuckles. The chilly metallic fabric of his shirt whispered across the back of Ken's neck, raising goose bumps, as slender arms twined up and around.

"Omi!"

"Relax. It's okay." The smaller blond leaned his face into the juncture of Ken's throat and shoulder. His words were muffled. "It'll be a while before I do anything. I've wanted people to care about me for such a long time, but it goes both ways. I need to learn how to open up, too. I'm not ready for a commitment. Not yet, anyhow." Mute, Ken nodded and tightened his own grasp around the trim form.

And he did understand, too. While Omi was in many ways the most giving and emotional of the Weiss Hunters, he carried his share of sorrow and darkness, tucked away deep inside where the vulnerability could be shielded from the outside world. Manx and Persia had cared about the kid while he was growing up, but it was a distant, casual kind of thing, depending on time and availability. Before that, the reports they had gotten their hands on had described a home life of wealth and privilege, complete with a mother who committed suicide, and father and brothers too busy with their own concerns to make time for a lonely little boy. And then there was the whole kidnapped-tortured-abandoned business. It was no big surprise that Omi had trouble taking the final step to trust and open his heart all the way. Ken felt a surge of warmth toward the young man pressed against him, and carefully kissed the teen's temple. "It's okay. This is good too, right?"

"Yes, it is." surprised, Omi laughed against the side of his neck. "Best friends?"

"Best friends." the brunet answered solemnly. "Now, if you're done abusing the weeds, can we go inside? We're either gonna freeze out here, or Yohji is gonna come looking."

Omi shuddered theatrically. "Ew. I like Yohji-kun. A lot. But I can do without having to explain some things."

"Okay. How about Aya comes out after us?"

"Ack! NO. We are not going to think about that." Suddenly motivated, Omi squirmed, ducking out from under Ken's arm and dashing for the back of the Villa. Laughing, Ken followed.

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

"Eat it."

"Ayyyyaaa… Come on. Just one-- "

"Yohji. No. You've lost a lot of blood. Now eat before I force you."

Astonished, Ken and Omi pulled up short just inside the Villa's back door and stared. Except for a couple of scratches, it was as if Aya had never fought a losing battle with Ken and a plate glass window. If anything, he seemed to have reverted to a calmer, more pleasant incarnation. Yohji, shirtless, was sitting on the counter, his long legs swinging, while Aya methodically cleaned an ugly gash that stretched diagonally down across the blond's ribs. An open bottle of juice and a plate of cold left-overs sat on the counter between rolls of gauze and the first aid box. But the really weird note was the pack of cigarettes jammed haphazardly in the back pocket of the swordsman's jeans.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Yohji glanced up and grinned. He waved over Aya's head, then winced when the swordsman prodded his wound with one slim forefinger. "Ah, bastard! Where's your bed side manner?"

The redhead snorted and awkwardly switched the tweezers to his splinted hand. "Hold still. There's a piece of cloth in there."

"Yeow! You never use enough of the local. I want Omi to do this." the senior Hunter whined petulantly. His spread hand hovered over Aya's shoulder indecisively, but he didn't dare interfere.

"Hn." A hint of a smile ghosted across Aya's pale face; then he bent his head to better see his task. A shred of clotted red came free, lifted carefully by the tweezers. More of the same crimson streaked across the back of his knuckles, and his fingers seemed dipped in it. The instrument and its prize clattered onto a plate and Aya fumbled absently for a sterile pad, still intent on the bloody mess scoring the other man's side. Yohji rolled his eyes and snaked a leanly muscular arm past the preoccupied redhead, and handed him the pads and a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"You're hopeless. Omittchi does a better job." he groused.

"So refuse to pay the bill." Aya retorted. Ignoring the proffered bottle, he reached instead for a shallow basin of faintly steaming water. He slopped a liberal amount of it over the wound, sending a flood of pink-tinted fluid down into the waist-band of Yohji's slacks. Nor did he pay attention to the sputtered protests that followed that action.

Curiosity engaged, the team's medic abandoned Ken in favor of checking on the patient. Omi picked up a discarded dish towel and went to work helping to mop up the excess wet. "So, what are you using?" he asked politely.

Aya spared him a glance. "Provodone iodine in warm water."

"Good choice." the younger Weiss said approvingly. "Isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide are bad for something like this; they kill too much of the surface tissue and slow healing. Although… this does seem a little more `hot' than `warm.' "

"Hn. Someone complained the first batch was too cold." Aya replied dryly. The scowl that he leveled at the injured man lacked its usual bite, but Yohji still flushed, the rosy color flooding down his smooth chest.

"Well, it was." he complained sulkily, folding his arms. He glared at the far bank of kitchen cabinets, refusing to look at his companions. Omi shook his head and sighed, "Yohji-kun. Don't be like that."

Aya was more than willing to let the petit teen take over the actual bandaging, stepping back from the counter to take a chair at the table. At the weary slump of the swordsman's shoulders, Ken overcame his reluctance and joined him, taking the chair on the far side. But once there, the brunet hadn't a clue what to say, or how to begin a conversation. He really wanted to ask if Aya had an evil twin, because seriously, that goofy theory was once again gaining popularity in his mind. But then Aya glanced up at him and, unable to meet Ken's eyes, his hurting gaze promptly fell to the floor.

Omi's nimble fingers deftly finished cleaning and drying the wound before applying a clean pad of gauze and a liberal number of strips of tape. Smoothing down the last of them, he added warningly, "No exertion, Yohji-kun. We wouldn't want to set your recovery back."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." At the mixture of fond exasperation in the teenager's glare, the former PI managed to summon one of his trademark smirks. "Hey, don't be that way, Omittchi. It's not like there are any babes out here to tempt me to be bad. Unless you want the position. You'd look really cute in a dress."

The youth's expression turned to a glower. "Ha, ha. Dream on. You need to go lie down. I need to see if Ken-kun found anything out when he ran the diagnostics for me. Come on, Ken-kun."

"Hmm?" Roused out of his stupor, Ken dragged himself up from the table, and away from his bemused contemplation of Fujimiya Aya, pain in the ass extraordinaire. Behind him, as he followed Omi into the other room, he could hear Aya wearily chivying the protesting playboy into agreeing to first eat, and then to go sleep.

"So, what do you think happened?" the astute hacker asked, fingers already flying across the keyboard of his laptop. Ken didn't need to ask if he was referring to the crashed security system; it was obvious that he meant the tall, cranky, red haired problem instead.

"I have no clue." he admitted, scrubbing a hand across his tired eyes. Since the smaller teen had appropriated his usual spot on the floor, the brunet stretched out on the couch.

"I'm starting to think we've underestimated how serious the situation is." Omi replied, his visible attention still fixed on the screens flashing by.

"Hn."

The blond's mouth twitched, then quirked up into a grin. "Have you been taking Aya-lessons, Ken-kun?" he teased.

"Huh? No, I… guess I just don't know what to say." Ken fidgeted briefly, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally settled for flat on his back, staring up at the massive logs that served to support the floor above. "After you and Yohji left, we had a fight, me and Aya. Not a physical one, or anything. Just shouting. But it seems like shouting is the best I can do, and it's not helping him."

"Hmm." After a moment, when nothing further was forthcoming, Ken glanced over at his friend, and snickered.

"Now who's taking lessons?"

"Oh, shut up. I'm thinking." But Omi's tone was amiable, and there was still the faint echo of his earlier smile on his face. Finally, he clicked the last of the windows closed on the laptop and stretched, arms high over his head. "Well, that should get the security system back up, at least."

Worried, Ken rolled back onto his side, demanding, "How much of the house was down, anyway?"

"All the interior cameras, and the sensors on the glass doors." was the prompt reply. "I kind of expected the cameras, since I was using some of the house software to run our gear while we were visiting the cops. This laptop can only handle so much, after all. The windows are a different problem, though. They go straight to the panels in the utility room, and I've had problems with them before. If the weather is stormy, they flex too much in the wind and keep giving me false alarms. It looks as if you two somehow managed to not disturb the magnets that tell if a door has been opened, and the pressure sensor failed on its own."

Omi's open, earnest expression was more persuasive than any number of well reasoned arguments. Ken groaned out loud. "I can't believe it. Yohji was right; it really was just a coincidence."

"Yes, I believe it was." the smaller assassin agreed, nodding. "They do happen. The world is a complicated place, and sometimes, it's hard to figure out what's connected, and what's just random, universal perversity. But the important thing is that you and Aya were never in any real danger. The Villa's security, like any good system, is built around redundancy. The outer parts of the system did not fail, and it is highly unlikely that an enemy could have breached the cabin. In point of fact, I'm relieved that you two managed to not set off any of the booby traps."

Ken felt his blood run cold; he had forgotten that Omi subscribed to the theory that any good electronic system needed a mechanical back up that couldn't be disarmed or defeated by hacking. Yes, it definitely was a good thing that he and Aya hadn't set any of the traps off. Relieved, he put that worry out of his mind, and turned his attention to Omi himself. His best friend still looked pale and a bit green around the gills, although he seemed to have shaken off the other effects of the tranquilizer. "Um, I should get you something to eat. I hope that pig Yohji didn't finish all the left-overs." He rolled off the couch and bounded for the kitchen, trying his damnedest to ignore the smothered giggle from behind him.

Yohji not only had not finished all the left-overs, he had fallen asleep before even really getting started, his head pillowed on his loosely folded arms where he sat at the scrubbed maple table. Ken stopped short, not so much out of any fear that he would wake his older teammate, but rather at the sight of Aya, standing silently at the window above the sink, looking out at the distant lights of the city spread below.

At some point, Aya had rolled up the baggy sleeves of his sweater, cleaned the myriad cuts on his forearms, and stuck band-aides over the worst ones. It would have looked funny at some other time in their lives, but just then, all it did was raise a twist of sadness in Ken's chest. He didn't want to see Aya sporting the visible marks of his attempt to escape, not any more than he wanted to see the hopelessness that was briefly there in the shadowed eyes.

"It's my fault that Yohji and Omi got hurt."

"Excuse me?" Aya's words, when they had come, were so low that Ken didn't think he could have heard them right. Mouth set in an unhappy line, the thin redhead turned around and leaned back against the rim of the sink, his arms folded defensively across his chest.

"I could have told them, that it wasn't the whorehouse. But I didn't. It's my fault they were unable to complete their mission at the police station. I caused them to fail."

"But, how…?" Confused, Ken stopped when he realized that he had taken several steps toward the pale man. He carefully forced himself to unclench his fists, and to release the pent-up tension in his shoulders.

Aya's long fingers brushed across the still vivid bruise on his cheek, the gesture as unconsciously elegant as everything else about him. Ken was reminded of the brief glimpse they had had of a poised, well-dressed young man on Kritiker's recording of the art auction. How could he not have figured out sooner that that was the world that Aya belonged in? The pain in Ken's chest redoubled, and he took another, involuntary step closer. Unaware of the brunet's distress, Aya pressed lightly against his cheekbone, and let his shaking hand fall to his side. "This," he said quietly. "I gather from your conversations that it occurred a week before Weiss took me from the hospital. I got it while trying to escape. I saw enough of the place where I was held, that if I hadn't been so determined to keep matters from you, I could have told you that it was not the whorehouse. But I… didn't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."