Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Mirror Images ( Chapter 16 )

Reflections: Mirror Images

Chapter 16

 

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

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

 

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Author's Notes: A lot has happened since the last up-date. Aside from my devoting a good deal of time to other fics, Reflections has been gifted with not one, but two pieces of art Lyl (author of the lovely side story, “Darkness”), and Literary Eagle have both done drawings of characters from the story. Lita's can most easily be seen on her website if you should happen to be interested. http:// literaryeagle. tenchifanart.com/ fanartother. html

 

I can't tell you how thrilled I am! Thank you both.

 

And, to all the kind reviewers, a heartfelt thank you as well. Coming from the old world of print `zines and paper fandom, it's a novel and rather pleasurable feeling to see a review so soon after I've written something. And - wow! - some of the comments have been so great!

 

L.A. Mason (aka LibraryCat)

 

P.S. Oh, dear… My entire, loyal cadre of beta-readers is unavailable for one reason and another. Any errors in plot, grammar, punctuation, etc. are entirely my fault!

 

 

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“Van.” The word, murmured in Aya's low voice from just above the level of Ken's ear, confused him. He didn't want to think, but just to hold on tight and pretend that the disastrous evening had never happened, that Omi and probably Yohji hadn't gotten sucked into a trap, leaving a crippled Weiss. Unfortunately, the implacable red head wasn't going to let him. “Ken. Now. We need to get to the van and regroup.”

 

Reluctantly, the younger Hunter relaxed his hold and stepped back from Aya's warmth. After being enfolded in the man's leather coat, the chilly rain cut like a knife, and Ken shivered.

 

But Omi was waiting, too, and there was only the pair of them left to get him - and Yohji - back from the enemy.

 

Aya shrugged off his jacket and settled it around the miserable brunet's shoulders. Then he was slipping noiselessly down the narrow alley, cat-footed in the darkness. The concrete pavers formed a shallow vee down the center, running with black water headed for the storm sewers, but somehow the shadow Ken followed avoided splashing ankle-deep. Grumpily, the younger man shook one soaked foot and reflected that he should just be so lucky.

 

The white van had been parked unobtrusively under another burnt-out street light the next block over from the boarded-up whorehouse. With its scuffed paint and dented fender, it looked completely at home sandwiched between an older sedan and another delivery vehicle. Aya paused in the alley to inspect the approach to the Kritiker vehicle, before crossing the open stretch of sidewalk in a couple of swift strides. Ken followed, arriving just as his teammate opened the rear doors and clambered inside. A few seconds later, and they were both squinting in the blessedly dry darkness. Sighing quietly, Aya flicked a switch and lit the interior in a dim, underwater blue glow.

 

Startled, Ken blinked and peered around. A heavy curtain kept the light from leaking out into the driver's portion of the small vehicle. The windowless rear, where he and his companion crouched, was cramped: a steel rack loaded with an impressive array of surveillance hardware was bolted to floor and ceiling against one side-wall, while equipment-filled storage shelves occupied the opposite side. A small rolling chair had been shoved forward nearly into the drapes, leaving just enough space in the narrow center aisle for Aya and himself to stand hunched over. If Ken were to straighten up, he would crack his head on the underside of the van's exposed metal frame. Claustrophobia made him grimace, and mutter, “Geez, Aya… Nice place you've got here.”

 

Aya didn't bother to respond to the comment, but busied himself with pulling a duffel bag from the bottom shelf. He nodded at a small monitor and said, “Turn that one on. It will show you the view outside.”

 

“Oh. Okay, sure.” Obediently, Ken reached for it, then turned back just in time to watch Aya's lean back emerge from his wet sweatshirt as he stripped. The clear ripple of muscle was washed in shades of electronic blue and darker shadow. “Urk.”

 

Emerging from the wadded up fabric, sharp eyes rendered an odd blue-black by the dim lighting glared at the floundering brunet. Aya pulled on a dry black turtleneck, and fished another one from the bag on the floor that he balled up and threw at Ken. “You're soaked. Change clothes.” A pair of faded black jeans followed.

 

“Hey!” the younger man protested, fending off the assault. “I'm not-- ” The complaint died as Aya efficiently peeled off his own pants, loosely folding them before dropping them out of the way by the curtain. The red head glanced up, frowning.

 

“Now what?” he snapped impatiently.

 

Now what? Ken could think of a few dozen inappropriate answers for that question. Most of which involved long, muscular legs and the body that they belonged to. Blushing, he closed his mouth with a snap. Whatever else might have changed since their missing teammate had been recovered, Aya still had the capacity to make Ken feel like a complete idiot. He knew, intellectually, that it was the worst possible time to start thinking in terms of what it would take to make Aya incoherent, but that didn't stop his traitorous libido from spinning lurid, Technicolor fantasies. Oh God, but he wanted desperately to wrap himself around that demanding steel body, to feel Aya arch, taut but unyielding in his arms. Ken didn't care if he was top, or bottom; it would be like making love to a sword: beautiful and deadly.

 

He realized he was still staring stupidly when one angular red brow quirked up, and Aya's lightning-fast slap made his ear ring. “Ow!”

 

“Clothes. Now.” Repeated in that implacable baritone, the command allowed no arguments, but Ken's jaw jutted out mulishly.

 

“Only if you turn around, first. I'm, ah, not wearing anything under these.”

 

A second eyebrow, tinted nearly purple instead of its normal wine red by the strange illumination, joined the first. Aya replied calmly, “I know.”

 

“You what?” It came out in a squeak that would have been more appropriate - or at least more expected - from Omi. Ken clutched the armful of clothing in front of his groin and tried to back up, ending up with the interior door release goosing him painfully in the rear. He was treated to a tiny, upward lift of Aya's pale lips; the swordsman's version of Yohji's trademark smirk. It grew marginally broader as the man seated himself on the lone chair to pull his boots back on.

 

There was something just so terribly unfair about having finally Aya unbend enough to tease when they had a mission to focus on.

 

Ken's scowl turned ferocious as his fingers clenched into the mangled fabric. To his surprise, a strong hand closed over his, and squeezed. “Come here.” A pause, then, “Please.” Reluctantly, the younger Hunter went.

 

Bent over by the threat of the low ceiling, Ken standing wasn't much taller than Aya sitting. But even if he had been, he didn't think that he would have felt in control of the situation. Approaching had placed him between the red head's knees, and when Aya's grip shifted to the exposed crest of his hips, Ken felt as if he were going to spontaneously combust from some peculiar mixture of passion, and panic. For a second he thought the other man was going to kiss him, but instead Aya fixed his gaze on the middle of Ken's cropped tee-shirt and began to speak, his normally toneless voice vibrating with intensity.

 

“We will get them back, and not because of some phenomenal wit or wisdom on my part, Ken. I'm as mortal, and as fallible as anyone else. But we will do it, because we - all of us - are a team. I can no longer envision a world that does not have the three of you in it, and I will not accept that Omi and Yohji's loss, now when we have just found one another, is fated. I refused to give in when all the doctors said that my sister's case was hopeless, and I will not give up now.” He paused, slanted eyes flicking up in an effort to gauge Ken's response, and hesitantly, the brunet found himself nodding.

 

It was hard not to agree, when Aya exerted the full force of his considerable will. And what he was saying was true: if anyone could make something happen just through the power of his desires, it would be Abyssinian. Tension that he hadn't known was knotting his stomach eased, and Ken blew out a soft breath. “Yeah.” he agreed. “We'll do it.” Dropping the wadded up clothing, the athlete let hope buoy him, driving away the debilitating exhaustion as he looped his arms lightly around Aya's shoulders and again leaned into him. And, just as he had in the alley even though this time there was no leather coat's warmth to share, the red haired man's arms wrapped Ken into a hug.

 

“I owe you for last night.” Aya said huskily. The tip of his index finger traced the faint line of a scar just below Ken's bottom rib, and the younger assassin had to swallow hard to avoid sounding strangled.

 

“Y- you don't owe me. For anything.”

 

“What if I want to?” The hand had slid around behind Ken's back, underneath the sagging weight of his clammy shirt, stroking the suddenly tense curve of the brunet's spine. A second warm touch joined the first, and Ken thought for certain that his heart had quite beating altogether as every drop of blood in his body rushed elsewhere. Silky burgundy hair teased against his abdomen as Aya tilted his head and brushed a light kiss over Ken's chilled skin. “It seems very likely that the enemy is aware of the existence of all four of us. Given that your contact, Honey, had met both you and Yohji, it's a reasonable assumption…”

 

“Um, Honey i- is… ah…” stammered the younger man. It was inconceivable that that low, sexy voice could go back to talking about the mess that they were in, while at the same time the slender, callused fingers and the clever mouth drove him absolutely nuts. Ken had a brief thought that Aya was actually a closet sadist, but another kiss, followed by a puff of heated breath against his navel, made his knees shake and drove the idea clear out of his head. Still, he had to try again. “O- Omi and I, we saw Honey again tonight. She had a phone number for passing tips to those strangers visiting her cousins… Misha—Aw, shit, Aya…” Ken's voice died away into a whine; Aya's tongue had traced the rim of his belly button and he swore his eyes crossed at the sensation. Certainly he lost the ability to follow a logical train of thought at the sweet, hot wetness.

 

“You had her call the number?” Teeth scraped where the tongue had lately gone, and Ken had to lock his knees before they folded.

 

“Yeah. Gave the cover story, `bout Omi… being… and me, following him.”

 

“Hmm.” The thoughtful noise vibrated deliciously. If it hadn't been so damned cold in the unheated van, it would have melted the shivering athlete into a puddle of goo on the spot. As it was, he gave a shaky laugh.

 

“Hey, you know this is the strangest debriefing I've ever had. Wonder if Birman would do it to Yohji? It'd blow his last fuse.”

 

“Possibly.” Ken's skin felt the smile more than his ears heard it. Then Aya was releasing him and shoving the dry clothing back into his arms instead, saying, “You're cold. Change. I won't look.”

 

Except, now he kind of wished the swordsman would watch, would devour him with those strange eyes that were so reticent, yet carried a discrete heat in them as Aya scooted the chair back, turning to a laptop wedged into the collection of surveillance gear.

 

“Did you receive a call from Manx?” Abstracted, the red head asked the question as his fingers flew across the computer's keyboard.

 

Ken hopped awkwardly on one leg as he struggled with the sodden fabric of his jeans. Once they let go, he kicked them to the side and nodded, then amended the gesture to saying, “Yeah. Omi picked up a file from her. Seems a Kritiker site got hit hard, and they've disappeared into the woodwork till the heat is off. Did you get it, too?”

 

“Yes. Her last official act was to provide a link to an file storage site on the internet where she had left a couple of encrypted files, the most important of which was a floor plan to the Hot Body.” The chair squeaked as Aya shifted, reaching for a sheet of paper slowly being spit out by a tiny printer. He extended it in Ken's direction, eyes still firmly locked on the screen. Accepting it, the athlete gave a quiet snort of amusement; obviously Aya intended to stick to his declaration that he wouldn't peek.

 

“Nice going away present, at least. Wish that bitch Birman was as accommodating.” remarked Ken casually. Parts of the sketch were crooked, and others nearly unreadable, but it was still better than nothing at all. He rotated the print out until the main entrance was facing down, and it clicked with his mental impression of the surrounding streets. “Wonder how she got a hold of this?”

 

“She doesn't say.” Aya paused. “Ken, I think you're doing Birman a disservice. She's not an affectionate individual, but she is very good at her job. Don't let your own preconceptions blind you to that.”

 

Annoyed, the other Hunter growled under his breath. “Screw that! You didn't hear her all the times we asked for help while you were missing. She didn't even want to admit you were taking solo assignments.”

 

“And Birman was right to do so!” the older man retorted. Forgetting his promise, he swung the chair about and glared up at his half-dressed partner. “It was my decision to take on those jobs. I knew the risks, and found them to be acceptable. Putting other agents in harm's way in an effort just to recover me would have been the height of irresponsible behavior on her part.”

 

“ `Irresponsible!' Jesus Fucking Christ, Aya. Just listen to yourself! The woman was willing to leave you out there to die.” Furious, Ken took a deep breath, and stopped. He knew better than to shout while on a stake-out, but God it was tempting to blast the stubborn red headed prick with both barrels.

 

Aya's reply was equally low, and equally furious. “And perhaps it would have been better if I had. Omi and Yohji would not be in danger now, and perhaps your `God' that you are so fond of calling on would have been pleased to have a chance to wipe the slate clean of my sins.”

 

“You can't know that! For all we know, those bastards might have tracked us down anyhow, except there'd only be three of us left to fight `em off. And for your information, they're the Dark Beasts, not us. You dying wouldn't have made a single fucking thing right!” The tenuous control on his temper snapped and Ken's fist shot out, fully intent on knocking a little common sense into that hard head at the same time that he knocked his ass to the floor. Aya's forearm deflected the blow, sending it crashing painfully into the steel equipment rack. But it was his quiet words that froze the follow-up punch in its tracks:

 

“Tell it to the innocents that I've killed. Because I am no better than the Beasts.”

 

Anguished, Ken allowed his hand to drop to his side, fingers going lax. He whispered, “Shit, Aya… I didn't mean it like that.” but the rigidly erect man had turned back to his laptop and resumed typing. Only the fumbling, uneven rhythm betrayed his agitation, until finally, after backspacing once too often, the man shoved his chair back and rose abruptly to his feet, cracking his skull against the van's roof. Ken's arms automatically reached for the slim form as it staggered.

 

“Aya, stop!” he pleaded. To his surprise, the swordsman made no effort to fend him off, only raising a hand gingerly to feel the top of his head. The shaking fingers were dabbed with shiny maroon when he lowered them, and an expression of hurt confusion streaked across features that were suddenly young and vulnerable. Startled, Ken tightened his grip as he was reminded that Aya was only a little older than he was himself; the red haired assassin was so self-possessed that Ken tended to forget that little detail. He sighed. “Sit down, before you fall down, you moron.”

 

The mouth compressed tightly in pain twitched into a tiny smile, but Aya obeyed, Ken's hand still firmly gripping his shoulder.

 

There was a ton of stuff packed neatly into the storage side of the van, but at first glance, the former ball player didn't see the distinctive red cross on a white ground that he wanted. “Hey… where's the first aide kit?”

 

“Second shelf, on the end. But I doubt that this is a fatal wound.” His voice was stronger, sounding more normal with the wry undercurrent of mocking humor that Ken was slowly coming to recognize. He wondered fleetingly why he had assumed the older assassin to be so completely devoid of a sense of humor up until now, but he shrugged the thought off.

 

“Huh. At least let me be the judge of that.” Turning, Ken again found himself standing between a set of jeans-clad knees with Aya's hands on his hips, holding him steady. Then Abyssinian's thumbs rubbed slowly, distractingly. The breath left Ken's lungs in a woosh as he stared down at the bloodied fingertips, and his next question came out strangled as he said, “Why are you doing this?”

 

“Because I want to.” was the impatient reply.

 

There were hot patches forming on Ken's skin on the other side of his shirt, matched to each point of contact. Choking, he demanded, “Okay. You want to. Why now?”

 

“Because I am… relieved… that you weren't taken, as Omi and presumably Yohji were.” the red head responded promptly. Ken goggled.

 

“You answered my question?! You talked.”

 

“Of course I did. It isn't that I can't speak, merely that I choose not to. There is enough inane conversation in the world without my adding to it.” The statement, in its mix of arrogance and unconscious condescension was so typically Aya-ish, that in spite of himself, Ken began to laugh. Only Aya could take being caught in the tangle of relief, worry, and probably more than a little guilt, communicate it in a typically understated way, and somehow come out of it sounding as though he were doing a person a favor in the process. Things were still far from okay with the world, but they had slipped back onto the right track

 

“Ri-i-ight.” Grinning, Ken stuffed the metal box back onto the shelf as Aya let go of him. Standing hunched over like that was a bitch on the back, so he settled cross legged on the floor instead, smile fading as he returned to business. “Okay, I figure it like this. They could have taken Omi in the front door and right out the back, but I kinda doubt it. So long as they stay in the Hot Body, they've got home field advantage, and that pretty much off-sets any pluses we get for being native to Tokyo, while they're the outsiders.”

 

Resting his elbows on his knees, Aya leaned forward, intently listening. “Agreed. It would explain why they so openly walked with Omi. They were counting on someone on our side seeing, and following. As Yohji would put it `come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' ”

 

Ken chuckled; that did sound like the wire man with his fondness for silly hyperbole. Warming to the topic, the athlete added, “And I don't think we can count on them having the same crap surveillance gear that the original owners had, either. We'll have to expect that they're watching for us, and doing a good job at it. Do you think you can hack their system?”

 

“Possibly. Just as you're Omi's backup on explosives, I've been his on electronics. However, they will be watching for precisely that, and will undoubtedly have redundant systems in place.” A tiny evil smirk appeared on the swordsman's otherwise expressionless features. “However, if we're lucky, we may have one small advantage to work with in that area: Honey's tapes.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“We have actual footage from inside the whorehouse. It might be possible to substitute our own for theirs, depending on the locations they've selected for their cameras. I can see a number of possibilities along those lines. What we do not have, however, is an estimate of their other strengths, such as man-power, and the skills of that man-power.”

 

Now that he was back on secure ground, planning an assault, Aya's hesitation was gone. Ken leaned back on his locked arms in relief, half allowing his shoulders to rest against the loaded storage shelves. What his teammate had said was true, but it would require a trip all the way back to the mountain cabin to retrieve those tapes, and then the time to manipulate the images with the van's equipment. Time the athlete feared that they didn't have, and he said as much.

 

“Incorrect. They won't torture Omi or Yohji gratuitously. They're no point, since they have no way to contact us, to let us know that there's a threat to their well-being. Look at their treatment of me - I was largely ignored during my captivity.” Aya's low voice trembled minutely on the last word, and he turned back to the laptop and busied himself with pulling up another file on the brothel. “They will have expected us to move immediately, and it should already be apparent to them that we won't act tonight.”

 

“Well… Then what are we gonna do? I thought about setting a fire, and driving them out But I couldn't figure a way to get close enough.” Even before Ken finished putting the idea on the table, Aya was shaking his head in negation.

 

“No.” he said firmly. “It might force them out of the building, but they would probably leave Omi and Yohji inside, turning our move into a trap in the process.”

 

“Leave them? Hey! That's sick.” Ken complained. And it was. He feared fire enough, after nearly burning to death when his soccer career went up literally in flames, that his stomach roiled at the thought of Omi and Yohji being cavalierly abandoned that way.

 

“I agree.” Steady, and calm, Aya could as easily have been discussing the weather. Except of course that the weather probably fell into that category of inane chatter, too, and Aya didn't do inane. Unaware of the reason behind Ken's derisive snort, the red haired man raised an eyebrow, but continued, saying “You have to remember, the only value that the hostages have is to draw the rest of us out of hiding. It would be entirely reasonable to leave them in the burning building in order to force us to go to their rescue.”

 

Growling softly, Ken beat his clenched fist against the corrugated steel floor. It would be just like the bastards to do that, too. “Okay. Fine. We can't smoke `em out. So… we don't go after them at all. We'll wait till they get tired and give up, and ditch Omi and Yohji like they did you. ”

 

“Again, no. I was bait. The purpose behind letting me be found was to see where I would end up. I provided a trail for them to follow, where none existed. If we do nothing at all, they will very likely have no qualms about terminating the hostages.”

 

That put a chill down Ken's back that had nothing to do with having stood outside in the cold rain. While whatever screwy internal logic that the swordsman subscribed to might have turned him off to killing, it didn't stop his brain from still thinking - or talking - like an assassin. Terminating… Ew. Not a word the athlete liked to hear used in relation to his friends. The younger man sighed and confessed, “Then I'm out of ideas, Aya. What do you think we should do?”

 

“We need diversions. A fire has merit, but only if we apply it somewhere else. I was thinking that we might be able to use it to knock out electrical service to the area. That would negate much of the advantage that they enjoy in having the familiar territory of the whore house as a base, and - assuming that fortune smiles on us - it will also disrupt much of their security equipment.” Aya turned the laptop around as far as the tight quarters would allow, and tapped the screen to draw attention to it. A map of city streets crisscrossed by colored lines meant nothing to the Hunter seated on the floor, so Ken waited patiently for his partner to elaborate. A humorless smile turned Aya's face into an alien mask in the wash of blue light. “There's a transformer on a pole in the alley, right here. Disable it, and several square blocks will be without power for hours until it can be replaced.”

 

“They'll know it was us, though.” the brunet Hunter protested.

 

Aya nodded approvingly, obscurely pleased by the fact. “And so what if they do? I said `diversions,' plural. We need to find that woman, Honey, and send her in. They will still be unsure as to her role in recent events. If she claims to be there looking for something relating to her cousins, or to their business, the enemy will waste their energy focusing on her, and her motives. And that's where you come in. You'll be our third diversion.”

 

“Huh?” Sighing, Ken forestalled any further explanations by holding up his hands. He was hungry, dead tired, and in no mood for mental gymnastics. “On second thought, skip that. I'm sure that you'll get around to explaining that sooner or later. But what about you?”

 

“I represent the wild card. They know that I was already severely injured when Weiss took me from the hospital. It would be reasonable for them to consider me to have been neutralized, since, with luck, no one on their side has seen me since.” The long fingers came to rest on the computer's keyboard. Aya went on, voice low and deadly serious. “Our opponents have to have figured out that the real threat is just the four of us. Kritiker is simply a support network. I believe that they have concluded that we are neither military, nor police, if for no other reason than that dead bodies have been getting cleaned up without media attention, and without and leaks through the police headquarters. Also, they have traced the money for the safe houses to accounts that are not controlled by the government. Kriitiker supplied the guards at the first mansion, vehicles, and so forth, but their role has been entirely passive… reactive. If they kill us, there is a good chance that they won't feel a need to pursue Kritiker any farther.”

 

“Oh, that's just great!” Ken snapped bitterly. “If the big-shots at Kritiker think like you do, we're dead meat.”

 

“They have no choice!” shot back Aya. The red head's cool mask slipped, real anger twisting his features into a harsh scowl. “We may be an elite team - especially given how reduced the organization is following the beating that it took at the hands of Takatori, and Esset - but we are not the only one. If Kritiker didn't pull back, they would be putting all of their other operations in jeopardy, as well. I don't like being hung out to dry any more than you do, but would you want the lives of every agent, every analyst, every secretary and office worker, to be riding on your shoulders? I do not.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and controlled himself with an effort, before adding in a quieter tone, “There are those within Kritiker who are innocent, too, Ken. I don't want their blood on my conscience.”

 

Bewildered, the brunet slumped back against the uncomfortable shelves. He really had no idea what to do when Aya got like that. One part of him wanted to offer comfort, while another was certain that it would be rebuffed and didn't want to take the chance of being rejected. To his surprise, some of the same uncertainty was mirrored on the elegant features opposite as the other man hesitantly cleared his throat. “I know you don't want to hear this, but we should go back to Villa Weiss and regroup. We need to rest. Or we won't be of any use to them at all.”

 

No need to ask which `them' he was referring to. Ken rolled his head from side to side, feeling the pop and grind of his stiff neck. He hated the idea of just driving away, and leaving his two companions behind, but there was good sense to it. It wasn't as if there was enough time left to do anything effective tonight, any way. Pretty soon it would be dawn, and no one would notice one more shabby old van on the road. They could go home, to the silent, empty house in the mountains, and get some rest. Then, they could come back and kick some serious butt. Nodding, Ken rose to his knees and stretched awkwardly. “Okay. Sounds like a plan to me.”

 

Startled, a faint smile flitted across the other man's features. “What? No arguments?” The intimate warmth in the low voice sent a different kind of shiver down the ex-soccer player's spine, and drew an answering grin to his lips.

 

Aya was back to teasing? Maybe there was a God in heaven, after all.

 

 

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

 

When the van came to a shuddering, jolting stop, Ken floundered awake and peered blearily out the dirty windshield. The sight of a familiar log wall finally clicked and he groaned; dammit, they were already back at the Villa, and he had again slept through his turn at driving. But before he could open his mouth to apologize, the driver's side door had slammed and his partner was walking slowly up the plank steps to the kitchen door. Ken hastily scrambled out and ran after Aya.

 

The exhausted red head leaned against the wall, half-lidded eyes dark against skin that was bruised to nearly the same shade of purple. A fresh twinge of guilt bit at the younger man, but as he opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, an explosive sneeze drowned out the words. Instead, as he wiped his nose on the hem of his grubby tee-shirt, Ken muttered, “…elite team of assassins, my ass.”

 

Aya's eyes had drifted shut, but his pale lips quirked up into a small smile. “We can always hope that they laugh themselves to death.” he offered.

 

“Yeah, right.” The shorter brunet fumbled the back door open, disabled Omi's alarms, and propelled the swordsman through first. Once the door slammed and security system was reset, he sighed. “Food. Shower. Bed. Come on.”

 

Aya straightened his slender frame and nodded. “Why don't you go wash up? I can make miso… and Omi probably left onigiri or some other left-overs that will be edible cold.”

 

For all of five seconds, Ken entertained the thought of asking Aya to skip the food and join him in the shower instead, then dismissed it. His head ached, and felt like an over-fiilled helium balloon on a string. The rest of his body wasn't much better. Crap… Of all the horrible times to come down sick, this had to top the list. Maybe he could stave off the worst of it with a cocktail of vitamins and traditional remedies…? Without bothering to answer Aya, he shuffled off in the direction of the utility room, stripping off his borrowed jacket and grungy shirt as he went. Normally, the idea of being half-naked in front of the other Hunter would have bothered him, but right then even being totally naked wouldn't have done much.

 

A rap on the bathroom door what seemed like a minute later roused Ken from his stupor. He shut off the steaming water and finger-combed his dripping hair out of his face.

 

The knock came again, sharp and emphatic.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, I'm moving.” Ken shouted, finally coming fully awake. Irritably, he grabbed a towel and slung it around his hips, half in a mood to tell a certain handsome red head where to stuff his impatient, hard-nosed, rigid… He wrenched the door open, but there was no one there.

 

Ken shut his mouth with a snap.

 

In contrast to the miserable overcast of the night before, sunlight streamed down the long second floor hall, slanting in windows and skylights, spilling out from the open bedroom doors. Unfortunately, the former ball player was in no shape to appreciate it; the bright, mid-morning light made his eyes water and only served to remind him that it felt like it had been days since he'd had a decent night's sleep. He stifled another sneeze that felt as if it were going to blow his brains out through his ears, and stomped in the direction of his room.

 

The varnished floor felt cool under his feet, then radiantly warm as the grumpy brunet stepped into a patch of sunlight. In spite of himself, a small satisfied moan slipped out; the heated wood just felt so good to his cold, bare toes that he had to stop and wriggle them for a minute, enjoying the flush of color it brought to his skin. Maybe, he ought to skip food and clothes, and just make like one of Momoe-san's cats and bask in the light? Nah, probably not. The memory of the demanding knock on the bathroom door drew his lips down into a scowl and he headed for his dresser.

 

There was a tray loaded with covered dishes sitting on top?

 

Bemused, Ken blinked. No, there definitely was an old, red and black lacquer-ware tray sitting on top of his dresser. With some trepidation, he lifted the plate that had been pressed into service as a lid for the biggest bowl, and steam wafted out. Red miso, loaded with tofu and with tiny rings of green onion floating on top, filled the container nearly to the brim. A smaller bowl held fresh, hot rice, and another was reserved for some kind of thick stew. A mug of tea rounded out the selection.

 

His bad mood shriveled up, and Ken felt about two inches high. He hitched the towel a bit higher around his waist and headed for the corridor, just in time to see the bathroom door snick shut. Slowly, the younger man turned back.

 

It wasn't as if Aya never did things for other people. It had taken his teammates a while to catch on, but the taciturn red head could be as generous as he was secretive.

 

But only on his terms. Only when he wanted to. The damned man really was a cat like his namesake.

 

Ken absently picked up the bowl of soup and gulped it down, ignoring how it stung his sore throat, just as he paid no attention to how nice it felt to put something warm in his empty belly. The stew followed, just spicy enough to give his tongue a pleasant buzz, but Ken hardly noticed. His thoughts were too busy revolving around the muddled emotions that a certain red head elicited.

 

The problem was, Ken didn't know what to make of Aya any more. On some levels, his absence had changed nothing - the cold, analytical mind was still one hundred percent Abyssinian's - but on others, it was as if a completely new and different person had joined the White Hunters. Or, maybe it was just that the too narrowly focused athletle was finally seeing what had been there all along. Maybe… Ken was the one who had changed?

 

Setting the bowl aside, he let his towel drop to the floor and stepped up to the mirror mounted on his closet door, seeing only the raised, shiny pink welts or the puckered white lines of scars, not the ripple of dense muscle. Ken reached out, brushing his fingertips over the reflection of a particularly nasty one that ran vertically just below his belly button. He barely remembered the sensation of the switchblade sinking into his flesh, but the image of Abyssinian darting toward him, sword piercing the Dark Beast from behind was clear as glass. The scarlet point of the katana protruding from the man's abdomen had very nearly followed the knife blade home into Ken's gut; it would have been ironic to have died by accident, by his teammate's hand.

 

Ken's hand dropped to his side.

 

It might have been better if he had died.

 

He hadn't been able to stop the Beasts from taking Omi away.

 

Weakly he pounded both closed fists against the mirror, then leaned his forehead against the cool surface, silent tears overflowing from wide, blind eyes. How could he have just sat there in the bar, while those two goons walked out with his best friend…? A treacherous part of his subconscious whispered, Remember Kase. He was your first best friend; didn't messing things up with him teach you not to mix friendship and love?

 

Yeah, he'd fucked that up royally; too stupid to see the resentment building under the surface of adoration. But Omi's not like that! he argued back, and that inner devil's voice fell silent - neither defeated nor repentant, but only too willing to let self-doubt fight its battles for it. A harsh sob tore itself from Ken's throat.

 

Arms, cool and damp from showering, circled him from behind. The distraught brunet made a futile attempt to resist as he was pulled back from the hard, chilly glass against a body that was nearly as hard, but that radiated warmth beneath smooth skin beaded by cool droplets. Flannel brushed the backs of Ken's bare thighs as his captor shifted, effortlessly balancing both their weights. Shivering with the strain, Ken clamped his lips closed, holding in the urge roar out his revulsion, and to smash the traitorous mirror with the image it showed him of a young man who didn't deserve caring or comfort. Over his shoulder, beautiful, pale features, made unfamiliar by the mirror's reversal settled into a thoughtful frown.

 

Aya.

 

Ken's body vibrated with tension, torn between conflicting desire to jab/pivot/punch his way free, and the need to crumple to the bare floor and curl himself up tight. Words, low and urgent by their tone, but without any decipherable meaning, flooded the shorter man's ears. The shaking was approaching the level of a seizure when sharp pain at the side of Ken's neck short-circuited everything.

 

“…Ken… Ken…”

 

“My… name…?” he whispered, dazed. The soft repetitions were like a spell, a magical binding to bring his soul back to earth.

 

“Ken, hold on for a little longer…” Fervent, and strong… like the hand, seen ghostly white in the mirror but made of solid, mortal flesh that stroked down the younger Hunter's abdomen. When the splayed fingers occluded the ugly, raised line of the scar below his navel, a tremor of a different kind rocked him.

 

Even with the incongruity of the splint supporting his broken finger, Aya's skin was so perfectly fair and pale against his own tanned flesh and the trail of dark hairs on his belly. The callused pads of each fingertip kneaded at the firm muscles, then as Aya licked where he had bitten, changed to the scrape of nails. Wet claret colored hair that was nearly black in reflection was plastered sleekly to the assassin's skull. Water dripping from the short strands caught at the sunlight, momentarily bright as diamond, before running in a silver trail down Ken's bare shoulder.

 

He shivered at the contrast of hot tongue and cold water.

 

A tingling was spreading from each point of contact: the inflexible arm locked across his chest, the hand that now traced the outer curve of his navel, the moist brush of soft lips against his throat, and the shifting play of muscles all down the length of Ken's back. The younger man whimpered softly and leaned back against that irresistible strength.

 

Companion. Partner. Savior?

 

Savior… God, Aya's breath and lips where hot against his skin, murmuring a sibilant near-prayer of `don't give up' and `hold on.' The tingling was growing into an inferno, consuming sense and will. But it wasn't right that the stubborn red head further run down his already dwindling reserves for Ken's sake. He half turned his head, intending to tell Aya `Stop, I'm not worth it,' but ended up intersecting with that persistent, insistent mouth. Startled, Ken froze.

 

If the impromptu kiss surprised the swordsman, he hid it well. Pliant lips traversed Ken's, leisurely but thorough. The tip of a tongue teased briefly, savoring the lingering salt of miso and tears until the stunned brunet felt his own lips part involuntarily to invite the skillful invader in, even as a ragged moan escaped. If this was the sort of talents that Crashers cultivated, maybe he ought to consider switching teams.

 

Teams.

 

Oh, Christ… his team. Breathing hard, Ken flinched back, breaking that distracting contact. Drowning in defeat and grief, he'd let one very real fact slip away: Omi and Yohji weren't dead. At least, not yet. One or both of them was waiting at the club in Tanagawa, waited for their teammates to come bring them home. He had no right to be screwing around with Aya when the others were in God knew what kind of trouble. His awkward stiffness communicated his thoughts more clearly than words, and the deceptively strong arm that held Ken fast tightened, refusing to let him pull the rest of the way away.

 

“Stop. You're not doing them any good, being like this.” A subtext of annoyance mixed with worry under the quiet statement told Ken that he was trying Aya's patience, but he didn't really care. It wasn't unusual to have the deadly red head take over the leadership role during a fight; his ability to think through situations, and react swiftly with emotionless detachment made the swordsman a good commander when things got hairy. At times like that, any of the Weiss would trust him with their lives. But now, the last thing Ken wanted was to be manipulated and directed, whether it was for his own good, or that of his team.

 

Because they weren't just his teammates, dammit, they were his friends. He didn't give a flying fuck whether Kriticker had set them up to bond together, or not. All that mattered was that they had, and that Omi and Yohji were depending on him to come through and save their butts. Growling his frustration, the athlete twisted, intending to break himself free, even if it meant punching Aya into next week. What exactly he was going to do after that, Ken had no clear idea, but he wasn't about to stay put and -

 

Sharp teeth sank into the straining tendons along side the brunet's neck, and this time, they didn't let go. At a low, warning rumble that vibrated through his back and into those damned teeth, Ken instinctively froze, his body having more sense than his brain at the moment. His rapid pulse was pounding though every muscle, making his scalp burn with the beginning of a monster headache, and he was breathing in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the exertion. Somewhere, dimly, he was aware that Aya too was trembling from fatigue, and it was that bit of human weakness that finally broke Ken's desire to fight his way free. A minute sag in previously rigid muscles earned him a faint sigh and a relaxing of the bite Aya had on him. The returning blood flow brought with it a surge of pain, and the younger man whispered, “Ow… That hurts like a son of a bitch, you asshole.”

 

Aya wearily leaned his forehead into the side of Ken's neck, and unexpectedly chuckled. It sent a twinge of guilt through the brunet. The older man had been taking one hell of a risk, relying on pain to shock his companion to his senses; had Ken slipped into a berserk rage, he probably wouldn't have felt a thing until after it was all over - until the fat lady had sung, and his assailant was lying in a pool of blood. But it also reminded him that he didn't understand. Hesitantly, Ken asked, “Aya, why are you here? Why are you looking out for me?”

 

The answer was oblique. “You need to get some rest.”

 

Exasperated, warm brown eyes rolled toward the ceiling and heaven beyond. “That's not an answer.”

 

“Yes, it is. You're so tightly strung that it will be a miracle if you sleep. How do you expect to aid Omi and Yohji like this?”

 

The prompt, acerbic replay made Ken snort derisively. At some point he had obviously crossed a line into an alternate dimension where the irascible swordsman actually deigned to respond when spoken to. It was too weird. But even so, Aya did have point; Ken was light-headed with fatigue, but there was no way that he was going to be able to sleep. Not with his treacherous subconscious lying in wait to show him pictures of his friends, maimed… or worse. The athlete shivered; the tendency to think with his heart, instead of his brain, was going to be the death of him, one of these days. Being reckless was fine for the middle of a pitched battle, when it could put an opponent on the defensive, but it had no place in this sort of slow, methodical operation. The problem was, he didn't see how he could just follow Aya's cold example and let it all go.

 

The soft sigh was repeated against the younger man's neck. “You need to be distracted.” It wasn't a question, but a statement. “Look at the mirror.”

 

Confused, Ken obeyed, and found himself trapped when his eyes met the slanted twilight darkness that stared with the unblinking intensity of a hunting cat. Seen like that, his cheek rubbing slowly against the curve of the ball player's skull, lipping at unruly, bitter chocolate brown strands while drying threads of his own caught fire in the sunlight, Aya was uncanny and fey. The swordsman looked inhumanly, achingly beautiful, and Ken felt his ability to move or to speak slip away.

 

“Keep watching.” the hot breath on his nape commanded.

 

Aya was at most three or four inches taller, but with his contained bearing, it usually felt like more. Now, with the exotic purple veiled behind long lashes as he dipped his head to trace the lines of tendons and bone, down the side of Ken's neck and onto his shoulders, the difference became trivial. Gracefully oblique eyes flicked up, amethyst-bright in a reflected gleam of light that glowed on translucent porcelain skin, and turned the former soccer player's tan to gold. There was a streak of cruelty in the red head. Most often, it seemed to be self-directed, a masochistic punishment for sins real and imagined, for surviving when so much of what he had cared for had not. But now it was aimed at Ken - victim or prey, he wasn't sure which - with the same single-minded focus that he normally devoted to the blade. And like his kenjitsu katas, every move was languid, lethal perfection.

 

It ought to have been terrifying, not exhilarating. “Aya, no. Don't-- ”

 

A light kiss beside his jaw silenced him. Skillful hands stroked down Ken's chest, lingering over the clearly visible contours of bone and muscle as if memorizing every curve and line. Standing there, watching Aya watch him while heat like raw alcohol fillied his belly, the younger man couldn't help but wonder about Aya's prior team, about Crashers. With a guilty start, he realized that the ethereal red head standing behind him couldn't have been all that much older than Omi was now, when he had been learning to use his graceful body as a weapon, just as he wielded a sword. What had it been like, for someone who obviously hated opening up to people? And, who was it that had taught that boy to fight the Dark Beasts that way? Disturbed, Ken caught the violet eyes in the mirror's reflection, and felt Aya go still against his back. They stared at one another, enthralled by their images, until the slender assassin put his mouth to Ken's ear, and whispered, “Stop thinking.”

 

It was hard to tell if it was the command itself, or the puff of moist, warm breath that was responsible, but Ken felt his brain stutter and his mouth go dry. If Aya didn't want him obsessing, or second guessing, he had certainly picked an effective way to achieve his ends.

 

But he ought to be bothered by it. Was Aya doing this because he wanted to, or because he was canny enough to recognize a sure-fire way to get the hot-tempered athlete off of his back? At that thought, Ken made an abortive attempt to step out of the taller man's embrace, only to discover that - weary, or not - there was a lot of strength in the wiry arms. He knew that Aya was far more than a pretty package, that there was an inflexible will and a good measure of physical prowess, too, packed into a slim body that looked more like a dancer's than a fighter's. But sometimes it was still a surprise.

 

“A- Aya, stop. Y- you don't-- ” Ken repeated, sputtering. Desperate, he captured the pale hand that dipped below his waist, immobilizing the nimble fingers before they could reach the erection that the younger man found that he had absolutely no control over. Mortified, he stared at that mutinous flesh, violet and dusky-rose clearly visible in the sunlight as it swelled. God, what in Hell was he doing, shamelessly flashing in front of a mirror like that? Not that embarrassment had the least effect on the hard-on jutting from dense black curls. The athlete gulped and blurted, “I- it's not like you have to do this. You don't own me, or anything.”

 

Aya twisted his right wrist against Ken's thumb, the weak point in the imprisoning circle, and easily freed himself. When the callused fingers made a grab to recapture him, the swordsman's left intercepted, smooth muscles bunching along his forearm with the effort it took to stop Ken from interfering. Aya's low voice hissed into the brunet's ear, “I told you, I want to.” as his fingers curled around Ken's cock.

 

The younger man whimpered, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty house. A confused jumble of impressions overwhelmed him - Aya saying the same words, `I want to,' in the blue dimness of the stake-out van; Omi kneeling in the alley, sweet determination sealing his innocent mouth around his best friend's erection; and now, feeling the red head hot and hard at attention against Ken's backside - his control broke. Semen, glistening white, splattered across his reflection.

 

Somehow, he didn't have a clue how, Ken found himself flopping onto the yielding surface of his bed, too dazed to protest when strong hands pushed and pulled at him to get him off the top of his covers and underneath them instead. There was a moment's pause, and then he was nudged firmly over onto his side, and out of the middle of the mattress. The bed dipped, and brunet managed a stupid grin when a warm presence settled along his back.

 

Eyes closed, the grin lingered as the Ken sank into dreamless slumber.

 

 

 

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