Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Follow the Money ( Chapter 19 )

Reflections:

Chapter 19: Follow the Money

 

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:

 

If I have ever, no matter how inadvertently, shown scorn to those writers who get swamped by real life, sumimasen! I didn't mean it - please call off the revenge of the universe. To those people whom I owe emails to, please bop me over the head; I neglected to include my address book in my scheduled backup (Stored in different directory. Duh.) and my archived messages were corrupted during a computer crash a couple of months ago. But I'll proudly point to the fact that I didn't lose my fics, even though events have gobbled up all my free time and made this update come very late. I hope someone out there still remembers it…

 

Special thanks to Kelly, Lita, Gillie, and Gay for fending off my bad typing habits with a stick. (And my tendency to do strange things to the spellings of the characters' names.) And for giving encouragement and commentaries on the plot. This only turned out as well as it did because of your invaluable help.

 

 

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“So, tell me, how many times does this make?” Carelessly, Yohji up-ended his beer bottle over his open mouth, draining the last of the foamy droplets clinging to the dark brown glass, then he slammed it down onto the Villa's battered kitchen table. The team's hacker stepped over the man's outstretched legs, slanting him a puzzled glance on his way to the refrigerator.

 

“Hm? How many times what, Yohji-kun?” Polite as ever, Omi ignored the ferocious scowl the older blond leveled at the beamed ceiling of the kitchen.

 

“This… You know, sitting around doing a mission post-mortem after having our asses handed to us by those bastards. This is what, the fifth time? Sixth?” Dragging himself erect, he snaked an arm past the smaller Weiss and grabbed another bottle from the open `fridge. Omi frowned, but said nothing as Yohji twisted off its cap and drained nearly half. “It's getting to be a tradition, know what I mean? We scratch our heads over the evidence, and make excuses, while the truth is that we're clueless and pathetic.” A particularly wild gesture sloshed beer, and Omi plucked the bottle from his lax fingers.

 

“Yohji-kun. I think you've had enough for now.” The gurgle of the sink's drain was surprisingly loud in the stunned silence, and the teenager took advantage of the pause to glance warmly at Aya and Ken. “It's thanks to the two of you that things didn't turn out much worse for us. I've emailed the information about the rental vehicle to Manx-san at the blind drop, together with a coded message that the four of us are okay. Not the fastest way to communicate, but very safe. And right now, safe is good. Right, Ken-kun?”

 

The unspoken request for support was met with silence as the wretched soccer player kept his eyes firmly fixed on the interlocking patterns of wet rings that his own bottle was making. He realized that he ought to speak up, to give Omi the support he was looking for, but somehow, thinking about it was all the farther it got.

 

Why am I so miserable? Last night ought to have been a fantasy come true; granted, a fantasy he hadn't even known he was entertaining, but still… the sex had been fantastic, and more over, he'd felt like Aya wanted to be there… had wanted Ken, psychoses and all. And being wanted just as he was, for himself, hadn't happened in a long time. But I had to go and spoil it by bringing up all that stuff about that book.

 

Aya hadn't said one word about it, either. He'd come down to breakfast as calm and unruffled as he'd once held sway over the kitchen at the Koneko, neat and clean in a faded black sweater and old jeans. And if the man moved a little stiffly, and if the shadows under his eyes looked a bit more gray than usual, it wasn't apparent by the way he nodded a silent greeting to his colleagues, and set about fixing a bland meal of rice and tea. By contrast Yohji - rumpled, scowling, glaring from heavy-lidded eyes - gave the impression of being someone who was only up so early by virtue of never having gone to sleep. The green glare he slanted at Aya sent a chill down Ken's spine. Jealousy? No… it was almost as if the older man was the one who'd had the argument.

 

Almost as if he'd gotten dumped.

 

The idea made Ken pause.

 

How the Hell had Yohji gotten so involved? Did he really have such a stake in what went on between his teammates? It wasn't as if they were family" Ken stopped dead, and backed up to think that one over again.

 

Did Yohji see them as his family? Aside from the fact that it put a weird, almost incestuous spin on what had nearly happened between the two of them last night - which Ken really didn't want to think too hard about - there was the whole question of `when did that start?' The frowning ball player had to admit that he had no clue whatsoever. Until a few short days earlier, if somebody had asked, he'd have described the older man as a no-good, lazy pervert. And if the questioner was someone who knew Weiss' history, Ken might even have added a cutting comment about Yotan being the spineless, fickle, womanizing type - and not the kind of person that anyone in his right mind would rely on, especially not when it meant putting one's life on the line during a mission.

 

Not someone Ken would trust with his back. Not a friend.

 

Ken had never had too many real, close friends, and post-Kase, post landing in the shadowy nightmare world of the White Hunters, he would have said the list had narrowed down to just one - Omi, who knew all his dirty secrets and never said a word about them. But now, a growing warm spot in his belly suggested that the list had doubled in length. Silly gratitude made him shove his largely untouched beer toward the wire man, and get up to snatch the carton of eggs from the refrigerator, plucking the skillet from a confused Omi's hands just as the younger teen was about to wash it.

 

The plates of steaming food rattling onto the table seemed to jump-start a grin onto Yohji's face, and an answering one turned the clock back to seventeen-and-full-of-optimism-for-the-future for Ken. Shaking his head in resignation, Omi got up and put the sticky pan to soak in the sink, muttering, “Honestly…” but there was no rancor in the complaint. If anything, the hacker was pleased by the shift in mood. As soon as the other Weiss had mouths full so that they couldn't complain, Omi reached under the table for his backpack, and yanked out a pad of yellow scratch paper.

 

“Aw, Kid…” Yohji groaned. Apparently the scrawled notes meant something to him, and craning his neck, Ken recognized them as being in the former detective's handwriting. The man washed down a bite of toast, adding, “Does it have to be during breakfast?”

 

“Yes.” Omi fought to stifle a snicker. “Who knows when I'll get another chance to hash this over while people's mouths are too full to effectively argue?” The paper rustled as the pad flopped onto the table, and Yohji rolled his eyes with a put-upon air of martyrdom. “Ken, Aya, we put a lot of work into this, the last couple of days, and I think we're finally on to something. To recap, based on the files Manx-san shared with us, Yohji and I believe that what we've stumbled into is a money-for-weapons scheme, with the artwork being sold forming the basis of the fund-raising segment. Basically, we have leads to a number of individuals who have been involved with revolutionary forces across Asia. To raise money, they're selling off stolen or missing artwork last seen in Eastern Europe, which matches the Communist backgrounds of most of the people Manx-san identified. Because Japan provides a lucrative market on neutral ground, they held the art auction here.” With a small bow and flourish, he passed the verbal buck as well as the pad to the other blond, who sighed theatrically as he shoved his plate aside and took possession of the papers.

 

“Yeah, so… Based on their questions, the same people are interested in the Press Club. And not just because that was where Ayan was headed. They had some kind of involvement with that before spotting our oh-so-unobtrusive-and-easy-to-hide pal, here. There's gotta be something we're missing.” Yohji muttered doggedly. Lighting up, he blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, watching it curl and dissipate in the conflicted air currents of the high ceilinged room. A real sigh followed the smoke. “Aya, tell me again. What was that Press Club mission about?”

 

Red brows drew together in sharp annoyance, but the irritable protest that the mission in question had never even begun failed to materialize. Instead, Aya repeated with some asperity, “Government secrets. Someone was selling intelligence, and Kritiker had a tip that the leak would be meeting with a buyer at the luncheon. I don't know any more than that.”

 

Bewildered, Ken looked from red head, to elder blond, and back again. He coughed discretely, clearing his throat, and finally gave up and admitted, “O-o-okay… I don't see what selling stolen art has to do with buying information-”

 

“Government documents! That's it!” Omi interrupted. His excited squeal was lost as he thundered up the stairs, leaving the remaining Weiss to stare at one another in embarrassed consternation. “ `Follow the money,' Yohji-kun!” The gleeful shout drifted down to the first floor, distorted by distance and the oddly shaped spaces of the chalet.

 

Ken figured he could always plead mental distress, later, but he had to open his mouth and say, “What?”

 

Aya and Yohji were both nodding, but it was the swordsman who answered patiently, “Not weapons. Information, Ken. What good does a gun do if you don't know where to aim it? But it costs money to buy information… There's no way to bring such a large amount into the country, without leaving electronic footprints. So, they smuggled in the art instead. The profits were intended to bankroll the purchases negotiated at the Press Club luncheon… except that a certain Fujita who was not quite what he seemed to be, was present at the art auction, and also obtained an invitation to the luncheon. They must have thought that he knew more than he actually did.”

 

“Yes, Aya-kun.” The soft agreement was nearly inaudible as Omi's footsteps slowed, then halted, right in front of his teammate. Aya glanced up, scowling a little, until his sharp, violet gaze settled on the laptop that the boy held out to him. When the swordsman made no move to take it, their data expert gave an enormous sigh of resignation. With a subdued thump, he set down the laptop that he had retrieved from his room, spinning it around so that the other three Hunters could see. The disgust in his tone was clearly audible as he added, “I can't believe that we didn't make the connection sooner.”

 

“Hey, kiddo…” Yohji clucked his tongue sympathetically, waving the cigarette held casually between his fingers like a baton. Slow trickles of smoke wreathed his head, drifting lazily. “Having people out to kill you all the time does kinda interfere with thinking stuff like this out, you know.”

 

“I guess. I had been looking for indications that the funds have left Japan, headed for a military hot-spot. There hasn't been any, so they must still be holding the money. If the reason was to buy the stolen documents, then the question becomes `did they succeed?' If not, the money is still here, somewhere, and perhaps we can trace it, when it does move.” Pensive, he gnawed at the full curve of his lower lip, unconsciously imitating his Tanagawa cover persona. Yohji stared for a second, nearly going cross eyed, a faint pink flush blooming across his cheekbones, and Ken wondered What the heck is that all about…?

 

A pen flipped up into the air, and Omi's hand darted out to intercept it, ignoring the wire man's irritated growl. Using it, he drummed a rapid, thinker's tattoo on the edge of the table, his foot bouncing in time on the rung of his chair. “Okay, okay… So, discovering that Aya-kun was investigating both Press Club and auction pushed them into abducting him. When no answers were forthcoming, they let Aya-kun go in order to see who his contacts were. Which led to the attacks on us.” He paused and glanced meaningfully at the other three. “If the money is still here, and if we can find the key to where that money is being held, I think we'll finally be able to take the fight to them.”

 

Slowly, Yohji nodded. “Yeah, I'd say your theory holds water. Damned well, in fact. Congratulations, Omitchi, I think you've broken the case wide open.” Blind-sided by the compliment, delicate features slowly turned to a bright fuchsia, and the smaller blond ducked his head in awkward pride.

 

“Thank you, but we're not done yet,” he demurred. “It looks as if they were staying with the owners of the Hot Body at one time, but now that the association to the club has dried up, I have to admit that I've got no idea how to go about finding them again. We need to find the loose end that will unravel everything for us. Then we'll be ready to take them on.”

 

“We should let it go.” Aya's quiet baritone snapped up all of their attention, and to judge by the way Omi's mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing without a word, the pronouncement left at least some of them stunned like beached fish.

 

Yohji managed to pull himself together first, sputtering, “ `Let it go?' Are you nuts, Ayan? Why would we back off now, when the kid is finally getting us close?”

 

Determined violet stared him down. “This is politics. I would have thought you had learned your lesson when Takatori Reiji staged his coup, and we were placed in the unenviable position of being maneuvered into dealing with him by another of the breed. That we were used by one Takatori against another for political gain is something that should never have been allowed to occur in the first place.”

 

“Yeah, politics suck, but damn, Aya" ”

 

“But nothing! We have no right to judge others on the basis of their political leanings.” Aya countered, pale features gone fierce. “It is the height of hypocrisy for creatures such as ourselves to dictate to them.”

 

Ken surprised himself a bit when he opened his mouth and what came out was a chilly “Shut up, Aya.” And more to the point, to judge by the stunned silence that descended over the gathered Weiss, he had just yanked the rug out from under everyone else's feet, too. But done was done, and recklessly he figured that since he'd gotten started, he might as well get the whole thing off his chest. “Okay, fine. We're all agreed that getting involved with the different sides in a political situation is not only stupid, it's moral suicide. You can't tell right from wrong, there is no evil in having a different point of view, yada, yada… And that's got fuck all to do with our current situation.” Suddenly, irrationally, Ken felt fury building like the heat of a straight shot of vodka to the gut, or the adrenaline hit of discovering that the last opponent wasn't down for the count. Roughly, he shoved his chair back from the table, ignoring the crash as it toppled, and shouted, “They stopped being a gray area, Aya, when they decided to start using murder, theft, extortion, and kidnapping to further their supposed political goals. A Dark Beast is a Dark Beast, and I will not allow them to get away with it!”

 

Silence reigned in the villa's cramped kitchen, broken only by Ken's harsh panting where he rested his hands flat on the table, looming over the stunned red head. Drained by his outburst, the brunet straightened slowly, and said flatly, “If you're not with us on this, then get the fuck out.” as he turned and walked quietly through the door.

 

What the Hell just came over me? Ken wondered. His mouth was dry, and his palms clammy, as if he'd just broken up with the love of his life… Shit. he thought miserably, I guess I just did. His damned short fuse - shorter lately than ever - had screwed him over again. There was no way that Aya would let this slide, but neither was there any hope that the stubborn, narrow-minded, unyielding bastard would give in and do a one-eighty to see it from Ken's point of view. Frustrated, the brunet flung himself down on the sagging couch and lay moodily kicking at the leg of the coffee table, letting the continued conversation from the other room wash over him.

 

Omi's conciliatory, careful tone was easily identified, even if the content was too softly spoken to actually have meaning. And then there was Yohji's warm bark of laughter, riding up over top of the youngest Weiss's embarrassed protests. Of Aya's low baritone, there was no hint, which just fucking figured" Ken pulled his train of thought up short, sharply reminding himself that he shouldn't have expected anything else; Aya was Aya… and in this case, that meant sticking to his guns and refusing to participate in what amounted to planning an ambush with deadly intent. Now that there was no way to pretend that they could get out of the mess without bloodshed, the wary swordsman would be distancing himself, and they'd have to go it alone.

 

Inexplicably tired beyond all endurance, Ken rolled onto his side, hiding his face into the couch's back cushions as he curled up. Maybe if he denied it all hard enough, it would all go away? He closed his eyes.

 

He must have been more than half asleep, because the first warning Ken got that anyone was there was when the edge of the couch dipped even farther, rolling the startled athlete down the gravity well and into a solid presence. The bitter smell of cigarettes lingering around the man's clothes identified it as Yohji, and the athlete growled warningly; he was not in the mood for another combination round of pep talk and flirtation. But when the minutes passed, and the expected lecture failed to materialize, Ken wriggled over onto his back, only to find that the tall blond wasn't paying attention at all.

 

Yohji was sitting slouched, elbows on his knees, hands dangling, empty, as he stared out the deck's plate glass windows as the mountainous view. Well… out the half that wasn't boarded up; Ken winced internally at the reminder of Aya's earlier outburst. The wire man's abstracted air was almost as out of character as Abyssinian smiling sweetly had been, and without thinking, the puzzled brunet gave an interrogative grunt, earning himself a wry twitch of lean shoulders.

 

“Sorry, kiddo. Just thinking.” A crumpled cigarette pack appeared out of his shirt's breast pocket, and he exhaled a long stream of smoke before continuing. “For the record, I agree with you. No matter if Kritiker's played us for fools in the past, getting us mixed up with those damned Takatori and their personal agendas, right now, somebody needs to take a stand, and that would be us. It doesn't matter what their ideology is, if they slip off the straight and narrow, we take `em down.”

 

Bitterly, Ken couldn't resist snarling, “Too bad somebody else doesn't agree, too.”

 

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Yohji took another leisurely drag on his cigarette. “Dances With Swords here, he's having a bit of a moral dilemma. I think, deep down, he knows that you're right.”

 

“So what? So he thinks I'm right. If he's still not willing to `take a stand' against the bastards, it doesn't mean anything, anyway. He should just stay out of our way, and let us get on with it.”

 

Yohji waved a hand airily, dismissing the complaint. “You're missing the point, sweet cheeks. Everybody agrees that what they're doing is wrong - but maybe we should be re-thinking how we handle the fact. Just because Kritiker has trained us to think in terms of deadly force, doesn't mean that's always the right course to take. Maybe we ought to think about other solutions. Like Aya's.”

 

Incredulous, Ken levered himself up onto his elbows. “You can't be serious! They kidnapped Aya. They've tried to kill us not once, not twice, but what? - six times now? You can't seriously think we can offer them the Olive Branch of Peace, and have them quit taking shots at us.”

 

“No, I don't.” Yohji answered patiently. “This time, yeah, I think the only option is to terminate them. But that doesn't mean that there couldn't be other missions where we should take a second look at what Kritiker gives us, instead of blindly going along with their orders.” He turned to sit sideways, one long, jeans clad leg drawn up against Ken's ribs, and the old, frivolous Balinese was gone. The new, grimly earnest one said, “I'm well aware that they aren't going to like it when we start thinking for ourselves, and that they may just get some other group to do the dirty work if we start making a stink, but it still bears thinking about. From Kritiker's point of view, the most important thing is mission success. They don't really care about the how, just the end results. And I think we ought to start looking at other methods for getting to the goal.”

 

“Like not killing the bastards?”

 

“Like not killing, if the situation doesn't warrant it.” the blond agreed soberly. “For one thing, I think we'll all be able to sleep a lot better at night, if we can look back at an assignment, and know that we only went after the real scum, not some penny ante hood that mostly deserved a swift kick in the nuts.”

 

“Yohji! What's the point? It's still not going to make things right with Aya, make him want to come back to us! We can't kill a guy only part way - it's like telling some girl she's only a little bit pregnant. If we have to take somebody out, there isn't going to be a half-way point that we can stop at- ” It was the hard grip on his shoulders as much as the sudden shaking that cut off Ken's tirade. Yohji gave him one final, teeth rattling jolt, before getting up to pace the worn green carpet.

 

“The point is, if Aya sees we're doing our best, he might be able to live with the knowledge that sometimes we'll still have to finish some sick fuck off, and then he'll stay with us, and we'll still be together.” Breathing hard, fists clenched, Yohji spun around and practically screamed, “Don't you get it? I just want us to stay a team!” From across the barrier of the low table, the brunet stared in stunned amazement.

 

“Ooookay….” Ken replied hesitantly. “Stay a team. Got it.”

 

Shaking his head wearily, the older Hunter dropped back onto the couch with a spring-breaking thump. He threw the mangled remains of his cigarette at the ashtray, and sighed, “Sorry, Kenken. I didn't mean to take it out on you. I… just couldn't take the idea of us splitting up, not when we just finally started to get things right, you know? I" it's been a long time, but… I'm finally waking up to the fact that I don't want to lose you guys.”

 

Waking up… Weirdly enough, there was a lot of sense to the playboy's babblings, and uncomfortably, Ken had to admit that except for the attempted kidnappings and death-threats, the past couple of weeks had been the best he could remember for a long time. They really had been pulling together like a team, and it had felt pretty damned good.

 

Like family. And the sex hadn't exactly been a mark in the `con' column, either.

 

They had been theorizing that it had been Kritiker's intent from the start that they bond. And now that it was beginning to happen, he could see the difference it made not only to their performance in the field, but for their personal sanity. Maybe he wouldn't go so far as to suspect that Manx or Persia had set the whole scenario up - the damage inflicted on Aya had been too real, for one, and people had died when the office front had been compromised - but he could definitely see some Kritiker psychologist gleefully rubbing his hands and taking advantage of the situation when it presented itself. Glancing over at the once-again puffing on a cigarette assassin, he wondered if he ought to share that paranoid little thought, and decided against it. It wasn't as if it made a difference in the long run, anyway.

 

“So…” Ken began cautiously, “Do you think I ought to go tell Aya I'm sorry?”

 

“Hm? Nah… I'd let him stew on it.” Yohji took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “You've hit him with a lot, already. First, your brilliant insight into the Himura / Saitou thing in the book, and second, the whole scene in the kitchen a little while ago. Add hot man-sex from last night onto that, and the boy's head has got to be spinning.”

 

Sputtering, Ken began to choke and had to sit up on the couch while Yohji helpfully pounded on his back. The dangerously amused gleam in the wire man's eyes warned him that he could expect no quarter; not when it came to providing entertainment. Weakly, the younger Hunter whispered, “You heard us?”

 

“You bet. Brought tears to my eyes. Of course, it also made me want to whack Ayan over the head for being an idiot… Especially after I did the honorable thing and took myself out of the running for your affections.” One lean hand came to rest on Ken's thigh, stroking suggestively up over the protective barrier of fabric. Yohji smirked and let it drop when a hot blush and an involuntary squirm toward the couch's armrest told him that he'd scored a direct hit. But Ken couldn't help the escape attempt; the touch and the words reminded him mortifyingly of begging his teammate to fuck him silly, while the rest of him had been simultaneously fixating on a certain red haired prick.

 

Still… if Yotan already knew about it, there was no reason to not ask him for advice.

 

Cautiously, Ken said, “About Aya…” The words stuck in his throat at the sight of the enormous, anticipatory grin. On second thought, this was not one of his better ideas. “Um, forget it.” Floundering out of the old couch's devouring embrace, he managed to get his feet onto the floor before Yohji's darting hand seized his upper arm.

 

“Hang on, Kenken. You have the look of a man with a whole lot of questions. Give - before the curiosity kills me.” There was still amusement in the bright, green gaze, but no malice, and Ken found himself relaxing, settling back against the worn cushions and drawing his knees up to his chest. Snickering, his partner slouched down and let his head loll back. “So what's on your mind?”

 

“I…” His fingers picked nervously at a small frayed patch on the knee of his jeans, and Ken swallowed hard, mind involuntarily flashing to the obscenely ripped pants he'd worn for his stint undercover, and from there to Omi in the alley, and all sorts of other thoughts that he really didn't want to be having. But one kept rising to the fore in spite of the distractions, and he blurted it out before he could change his mind again. “I think I'm in love with Aya.”

 

Silence.

 

After a long moment, Ken risked sneaking a glance at his companion, only to find Yohji staring at him, a tiny line creasing the skin between his eyebrows. Without the sunglasses, the clear green was painfully intense, and the suddenly embarrassed brunet squirmed. But before he could open his mouth to take the declaration back, lean callused fingers barred his lips. “Don't, Kenken. Don't start second guessing, or making excuses, or putting `buts' on what you feel.” At Ken's awkward, hesitant nod, the silencing hand fell away, and Yohji let his head hit the back of the couch with a thump. “Jesus. I didn't see that one coming, I can tell you. I guess the question is, what do you want to do about it? Aya is so screwed up, there's no guarantee he'll ever feel the same way.”

 

“I know.” The spot on the knee of his jean ripped with a small sound like a tired sigh. Miserable, he tucked his hands between calf and thigh to keep from making the hole any bigger. “And we fight constantly. I'd have thought love was all warm and floaty, but it's not. I guess the only good thing about this is that I can see how shallow what I had with Kase and Yuriko was in comparison… which is a plus. I kinda need the reminder sometimes to let that stuff go, and not… God. I'm babbling.” His face fell forward, hitting his knees and muffling the whining complaint.

 

“Stupid kid.” An arm snaked around Ken's shoulders, pulling him over so that he could hide against warm, tobacco-scented cotton. A quiver ran down the brunet's back, and he realized without surprise that he was crying silently into Yohji's embrace, tears slipping effortlessly from beneath tightly shut lids.

 

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

 

 

The living room was slipping into the gloom of evening by the time a cramp in Ken's calf forced him to slowly uncoil and gingerly stretch. Yohji's fingers were still threaded through the untidy length of dark brown, supporting the back of the younger man's skull, but the slow petting had ceased, suggesting that the other Hunter had also dozed off. But a sudden twitch down the length of the skinny body, and Yohji was wide awake and alert again.

 

“Yo, Kenken. Feeling better?”

 

“Yeah.” Oddly enough, he was. It looked like there was some truth to the idea that sometimes a good, therapeutic melt-down was just what the doctor ordered. Then again, he grimaced and massaged his leg, there was a lot to be said for doing it into his own pillows instead of a scrawny assassin with no padding to speak of. A muttered comment to that effect got him a playful cuff to the side of the head, and then the older man was putting him into a loose half-Nelson and hauling him in the direction of the brightly lit door to the kitchen.

 

Omi glanced up as they stumbled through the door - Yohji snickering like a hyena, and Ken growling - and went back to stirring a pot on the stove. A tiny thread of steam escaping from the rice cooker promised that there would be food soon, and Ken's stomach rumbled hopefully. The taller blond let him go with a small shove in the direction of a chopping board piled with onions and carrots, while the smaller called apologetically, `Sorry, Ken-kun, but if you could cut those up, please? We're running low on supplies. All we've got left for fresh ingredients is root vegetables.”

 

“Eh…” Ken rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. Was Omitchi trying to tell him something? That because it involved cutting, the chore went to the team member who preferred blades for work? Although, by that logic, Aya and his katana ought to get stuck with prep duty just as often. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that their tactician preferred to keep him away from the seasoning side of the cooking process; Ken's creations did tend to the `hot' end of the spectrum. But the others weren't paying attention. Instead, Yohji was trying to reach over Omi's head and snitch a peek into the bubbling pot, while the teenager fended him off with a big spoon. The lanky ex-detective snatched up a spatula and struck an exaggerated fencing pose, yelling “En gard!” while their dinner's defender dissolved into giggles. Ken shook his head and picked up the cleaver.

 

In some ways, he supposed he'd always been aware that the pair tended to horse around when the rest of Weiss wasn't looking. Yohji had slipped easily into the role of irresponsible big brother as soon as he'd joined them, and it was only Ken's dislike of the man that had kept him from registering Omi's fondness on a conscious level any sooner. But now that he couldn't help but see it, the closeness just left an ache in the pit of his stomach… one that said `that could be you and Aya, if you hadn't screwed things up so bad by yelling at him.' Except that it wouldn't be, because Aya didn't do stuff like that. A memory of Aya's broad, relieved smile ambushed him, and Ken groaned, because in some alternate dimension where he wasn't a killer, there probably was a Fujimiya Ran who hadn't sold his soul for revenge, who did laugh out loud, and do stupid things like duel with kitchen utensils.

 

Of course, that version of Aya wouldn't ever have met Ken, so the whole exercise was moot, anyway.

 

Appearing at Ken's elbow, Omi startled the athlete into almost adding his thumb to the pile of cut-up carrots. The small hand darted in, deflecting the descending knife with an exasperated huff. “Ken-kun,” he said severely, “No accidents. I am not driving you to the emergency room.”

 

“Yes, Omi.” he replied meekly. The unspoken `like last time' did its job, and he concentrated on only chopping what he was supposed to.

 

“Could you go see if Aya wants to come down? He really should eat something since he's still recuperating.”

 

“But…”

 

“I'll finish this. I know you hate doing onions, anyway.” Persistent fingers had the cleaver's handle out of Ken's grasp before he could say anything else, and then equally implacable hands were planted in the middle of his back, shoving him out the door and in the direction of the stairs.

 

“I don't think this is a good idea, right now!” the brunet protested helplessly. No one was listening. Defeated, Ken turned his plodding steps toward the stairs, and Aya. “Sheesh.” he muttered under his breath. Just because he'd been mooning about how there was only three of the four that made up Weiss on hand didn't mean that he wanted to go beard the lion in its den. Damning his best friend for meddling, Ken had no choice but to go up.

 

There were no lights on anywhere, leaving the upper floor dark and empty feeling. For a second, the athlete hesitated, shifting his weight from one stocking foot to the other, entertaining the idea that there was no one there at all, that Aya had somehow slipped away and left them. But it wasn't as if he could go back downstairs and face Omi without checking to be sure. Ken shook himself all over and, mind made up, marched toward the half-closed door to his teammate's room.

 

Only to stop dead on the threshold.

 

Quit being such a chicken. Ken told himself firmly. If Aya was still mad, what was the worst he could do, anyhow? Scream `shi ne' and chase him with a drawn sword? The man had sworn off killing, had held back even in a pitched fight against people who were trying to slaughter them, so it wasn't likely that he'd do anything lasting… right? Gently, the younger Hunter nudged the door the rest of the way open, and peered in past the jamb.

 

The bedroom was marginally brighter than the hall, thanks to the rectangle of the skylight overhead. It wasn't difficult at all to make out the shape of a person, loosely curled on his side under the fluffy bulk of a comforter. Ken crept closer to the bed, ready to bolt at the first sign of hostility, but there was none. Just the rusty darkness of fly-away strands of hair against the white pillowcase. The rest of the man was buried under the covers, invisible to the eye, and ridiculously, the first thing that came to mind was being very small, and hiding from Sister Mary-Margaret, believing that if he couldn't see her, then she couldn't see him - despite the fact that there had been a tell-tale lump under what should have been absolutely flat, taut bedding. The memory brought an involuntary smile to Ken's face, and completely without thought of consequences, he reached out and smoothed the short strands.

 

And, of course, Aya noticed. It would have been silly to think that an assassin wouldn't. But all the realization did was to make the athlete wish he could kick himself as a slim, pale hand pushed back the shroud of blankets.

 

In the dim light, Aya's eyes were the color of old bruises, an effect that extended to the exhausted shadows beneath them. Tensing, Ken more than half expected to be summarily ordered to get the Hell out, but instead, the other man shifted over and held open the all-enveloping quilt in silent invitation. Mouth dry, the former soccer player stared, then hastily shucked off tee-shirt and jeans, and crawled carefully into the fabric cave. Before he was even settled all the way, a hard muscled arm snaked around his middle, tucking him close against the redhead's bare chest. Hot from being under the comforter, the skin was a crazy quilt of textures: smooth and unblemished side by side with the thin, hard lines of old scars, and the swollen puffiness of the new. That, more than the steady beating of a heart against his cheek finally convinced Ken that he was neither hallucinating, nor simply dreaming, and allowed him to relax in tiny, twitching stages.

 

There was absolutely no explanation that made sense as to how they could go from being lovers the night before, to quarreling bitterly about Aya's whacked-out obsession with the Meiji era assassin, Himura Kenshin, to arguing again during their post-breakfast strategizing session, to finally snuggling together in Aya's bed at dinner time. None. Absolutely none.

 

Unless the entire world had gone insane.

 

Then again, if the lingering brush of lips against his forehead was any indicator, Ken was willing to sign on that sanity was seriously over-rated. Typical to the response of any male over the age of puberty, the light, dry touch sent an instant shiver of anticipation straight to the brunet's crotch, and it was a trial to resist the temptation to do a Hell of a lot more than to simply lie there. But at the same time, he couldn't get their last bedroom brawl out of his mind, or the hurt fury in Aya's repudiation. The whole business of honor, and atonement, was real to him.

 

Nuts or not, Aya believed.

 

The butterfly-light caresses had reached Ken's closed eyelids, and he shivered in the self-imposed darkness inside them. Hoarsely, he whispered, “Aya, I'm sorry. Earlier, I said some" ”

 

“Shh.” The tip of a hungry tongue grazed the upper curve of the brunet's cheekbone, and Ken felt a faint quivering radiating outward from just behind his belly button. “We're not discussing it any more.”

 

Not… discussing… So typical of the unsociable man. Yet, with the drugging sensations of wet velvet curling around the crest of the nearer of Ken's ears, and steady breathing ruffling the unkempt length of bitter chocolate hair, Ken would have gladly agreed to pretty much anything. Dimly, he supposed it was something in the way his head was wired; that his arms were tightening painfully around a slim waist, and everything that they had fought about was fading into insignificance. “Ah, Aya…” All that mattered was the ankle hooked around Ken's calf, tracing the contours developed first by playing soccer until he dropped, and later in his life by endless repetitions with weights and running until the memories blurred in the hum of endorphins.

 

“No more talk.” The husky reply bypassed Ken's brain totally, following the concentrated, southward rush of blood. The receding tide of mental acuity was leaving all the good reasons why this was a stupid thing to do beached, high and dry, along with all the other flotsam of too much stress and too many bad situations.

 

Of course, it didn't hurt that a certain long, elegant body had rolled onto its back, tugging the distracted athlete up on top, aligning them perfectly. Ken groaned, tucking his face into the hollow between the swordsman's shoulder and neck, inhaling the sharpness of sweat and the lingering medicinal smells while he tried, desperately, to not give in to temptation.

 

It didn't feel like the redhead was deliberately trying to keep him from talking about that - more like Aya was in a mood where he didn't want to be thinking, himself. Ken supposed vaguely that he should be pissed that he was being used, but everything felt so good. And not just in the hentai sense, either. The slow care of each touch, the way the slender body under him writhed just enough to plant the idea that Ken ought to do it back, that the attention would be welcomed, was almost too heartbreakingly sweet. Even the slightly cooler, harder brush of the finger-splint across the fabric of his briefs was nice. Human. And that little contact was probably the thing that made the younger man drag Aya's mouth back up from its slow and thorough tasting of his ear, made Ken hold the pale, delicate face still between his two hands, and in the end, made him kiss away every doubt and worry.

 

Ken reflected that breathing was pretty overrated, too, just like sanity was, when he reluctantly broke the lip lock, and lean his forehead down against Aya's while they both panted quietly. “Aya… Is this… what… you want?”

 

“Yes.” Barely audible, the affirmation was followed up by another kiss, this one a lot fiercer and demanding. Saying it was like giving up on self-restraint. Unerring in its aim, the hand slid between their bodies, cool against the straining of Ken's erection inside his shorts. When Ken opened his mouth - he couldn't for the life of him tell if he meant to reply, or to just moan - a tongue curled around his, saying shut up more effectively than words.

 

So turned on that he was shaking in tiny fits and degrees, Ken's finger tips dug helplessly into Aya's shoulders, unable to string enough coherent thoughts together to remember to avoid the sore spots. But it didn't seem to matter. The ankle that had started out rubbing the back of Ken's calf hooked itself higher, opening muscular thighs so that Ken settled abruptly down between them. Positioned like that, there was no hiding the fact that the arousal was working both ways; heat radiated from two hard lengths sandwiched against their bellies. He squirmed helplessly, wanting to get to where he could move more, conflicting with the awareness that it would mean giving up the oh, God! sensations of being right where he already was.

 

Aya's hand managing to grab both of them at the same time, and then squeezing their cocks together was the final straw. Ken got out a sharp grunt of astonished protest before he was coming in hard spurts, soaking the cotton briefs and spilling over the hand joining them. The heat and wet wrenched the noiselessly gasping redhead along after him.

 

Coming down, long minutes later, Ken was still shaking with the aftershocks and only just beginning to drowsily notice how gooey he felt, and also how unstrung and loose Aya was under him. Ken nuzzled the sweaty hollow between the swordsman's jaw and plastered-down hair, murmuring, “Hey…”

 

“Mm?” The vague noise vibrated against the brunet's cheek, and Ken had to smother an inappropriate urge to snicker. His human-sized pillow didn't sound at all inclined to move, but on the other hand, if they didn't, Omi would probably come drag them down to dinner. Or, worse, get Yohji to do it, and in the older blond's mood, that could be a dangerous option. But when he made to roll off, Aya's arms tightened reflexively, refusing to allow him to leave, and only resumed lazily stroking the length of his back when Ken subsided.

 

“C'mon… we need to get up. Dinner'll be ready soon.”

 

“No.”

 

The flat monosyllable left no room for discussion - meaning that it equated to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Instantly, Ken bridled and snapped, “Aya, up.”

 

This time, his partner-slash-lover ignored the command completely, clever touch devoting itself to derailing Ken's train of thought utterly. But in the post-sex lassitude, without the distraction of raging hormones, the younger Hunter had enough presence of mind to identify the ploy for what it was, and to fight back with a pained grunt as inadvertent pressure on a combined burn/bruise on his shoulders served as a wake up call. “Hey, quit it, would you? I'm trying to talk to you- ”

 

Swinging a katana sometimes for hours a day in practice or actual battle had given the redhead wrists corded with steel - and more than enough strength even after everything that had happened to pull the protesting athlete down into another consuming kiss. It wasn't until their slow, squirming dance reached the point where his sensitized body couldn't stand any more, and Ken had to break off to lean, gasping, against Aya's bare skin that he could get back to the incomplete sentence. The tight pain in his chest made Ken choke out, “A- Aya, I'm sorry for the stuff I said, about that Meiji Ishin guy, Himura Kenshin. I… just don't want to see history repeating itself. I don't want you to push us… me… away.”

 

“Ken…” Even troubled, the soft sigh of his name felt like a caress, and distracted by it, Ken had trouble remembering why he needed so badly to talk this all out. He was almost ready to agree when the rich voice whispered, “I don't want to discuss this right now.”

 

That did it.

 

“Then when?!” Sitting up astride Aya's waist, the comforter slithering toward the floor, the miserable brunet burst out, “When it's too late? When you're gone? You can't do this, Aya. Listen to me - I know I'm always just the guy who sees everything in black and white, as simple as… whatever… but this time, I'm telling you - dealing with the crap around us is not as easy as just saying `I will not kill.' What are you going to do when you have no choice but to act to save the innocents? To protect what you love? I- I'm not enough. I can't fix what's wrong for you. You have to let people help you.”

 

Conflicting emotions darkened the redhead's stormy eyes. Unable to face having the whole discussion one more time, Ken flung himself off the man, nearly tumbling onto his ass on the smooth plank floor. He snatched up his shirt and jeans, adding stiffly, “Fine. We're not talking. Omi's expecting you downstairs for dinner.”

 

The slam of the bedroom door put a final punctuation mark at the end of the conversation.

 

 

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

 

Another tense meal. Another round of not talking, of Ken avoiding looking at his companions… or, to be more precise, avoiding the memory of slender fingers gripping his cock like a sword's hilt, of grinding against the sweet contrasts of hard and soft, baby-smooth skin and wiry, blood red curls" Ken felt like slamming his head repeatedly into the scuffed maple of the table until his body quit throwing the hopeful images out where they could snare him.

 

Why the fuck had he opened his mouth and thrown the whole stupid mess into Aya's face twice in one day? Was he stupid? Or just terminally masochistic?

 

The worst part was, Ken really didn't know. Oh, he was getting resigned to blurting out inappropriate crap; the soccer player had begun facing up to the volatility of his temper a while ago. It was like being possessed by a demon, or what Sister Mary-Margaret had once referred to as `foot in mouth disease.' In Ken's place, he'd been opening, inserting, and chomping on his leg up to his freaking knee" Not a one of them had responded to Ken's suggestion that Aya get out if he couldn't handle what they would have to do. The shorter Hunter couldn't decide if that was a good thing, or not.

 

And Omi, bless the little pain in the ass, was resuming their earlier discussion as if the whole argument about whether bad politics was a punishable offense had never taken place.

 

An abstract jumble on the laptop's screen was supposed to be a roadmap to their conclusions on the case. The thing was, it was debatable whether anyone beside the little genius understood his cause/effect flowchart; the boxes, interconnected with looping lines and microscopic print supposedly covered the same thing as his verbal meanderings were just giving Ken a headache. After a few minutes, he'd muttered his excuses and left the others alone, retreating to his room and some mind-numbing exercise, the only really good way he knew of to not think. Okay, scratch that. Sex did a dandy job of reducing him to gibbering, drooling idiocy, too. But it came with so much post-orgasm baggage that Ken figured he'd rather not, and just say that he did. Celibacy was looking better all the time. An odd sound from downstairs brought Ken up short in the middle of some careful stretches, head tilted to one side as he struggled to make sense of it. Only when it was repeated did he finally recognize it as the muffled peal of a doorbell.

 

We have a doorbell…?

 

Frowning, he ran for the stairs, nearly colliding with Omi who burst from his own bedroom. “Sorry, Ken-kun!” the smaller blond yelled over his shoulder, already half-way to the living room below. Other voices, vaguely identifiable as Yohji's and Aya's, plus a higher pitched one that had to belong to a woman, drifted from the direction of the kitchen, only to be over-ridden by Omi's excited greeting. The strange tones didn't sound like Manx's, yet who else would come all the way up the side of a mountain to see them? Who else even knew where they were? But she had to be a friendly to have gotten in as far as the kitchen; otherwise his teammates wouldn't be chatting with whoever she was, they'd be trying to neutralize the threat. So… what the Hell was going on?

 

Ken reached the kitchen door in time to meet four expectant faces: his partners and…. Birman. The slender woman had broken with tradition and dressed in practical gear - a short, rusty brown leather jacket over a plain, navy blue, button-down shirt, jeans, and laced-up hiking boots - but it was unmistakably her, from the sleek, short-cropped, blue-black hair, to the faintly hostile expression on her oval face. She paused in the act of pulling a thick folder from her backpack to give Ken an abrupt nod of welcome, but still spoke as if he weren't an interruption, “- you have to realize that not only is what we're doing counter to Kritiker's protocols, but it goes against my own better judgment. I'm only doing this because you, Bombay, made a strong case for its necessity.”

 

“I know, Birman-san.” their tactician said patiently, “But Aya-kun and I have discussed this at some length. The key to what's happening has to be the stolen documents case. Maybe if we go through the mission parameters, and the final report, we'll be able to spot something that will help us.”

 

“Huh.” The handler shot the younger of the blonds a pointed look, but refrained from commenting further. If anything, her sour expression suggested that she was unhappy, but resigned. She pulled out one of the plain, ladder backed chairs, seated herself at the maple table, and flipped open the folder. Her level voice gave no hint either of her mental state, but Ken found himself wincing anyway; Birman was not likely to forget about this. Ever. Over her head, he silently expressed that opinion to Omi, who gave a faint nod and took a seat beside the older agent. Yohji dropped into a chair opposite, stretching his long legs out in the cramped space, but Aya - and Ken - remained standing.

 

“Suspicion that documents were being stolen and smuggled to outside forces first surfaced not long after the end of Takatori Reiji's coup. Initially, we had no idea what was involved, and no man-power to pursue the matter, but beginning three months ago, stopping the flow of information became a priority. When word began circulating that certain highly-classified reports were on the market, our intelligence division focused on finding out who the potential buyers were, and then when the sale was to be made. That led us to the recent Press Club luncheon. This man- ” The woman slid a glossy photo of a middle aged, balding man from the packet in front of her, and laid the picture in the exact middle of the table. “- who had been our contact, turned up dead shortly after passing us the date of the meeting, before he was able to provide us with any particulars. His death left us in an awkward position, with no way to proceed any further. And that's when we decided to offer the mission to you, Abyssinian. Your cover persona, Fujita, was already well established. It was felt that your attendance at the luncheon, while a little out of the ordinary for who you were pretending to be, was not unreasonable.”

 

Nodding, Aya finally pulled out the last vacant chair and seated himself. “I saw nothing wrong with your logic at the time. Many of the journalists know Fujita as a free-lance. While not a member of the press corps, his presence would not have excited comment.”

 

It was a bit unnerving to hear the steady baritone refer to himself as if Aya and Fujita were separate entities, but not really surprising. Ken was used to seeing the mental gymnastics that allowed the redhead to function as a florist during the day, and as Abyssinian at night. It was just spooky, and fleetingly, the athlete wondered if the person that Aya had been before his parents' murders and his sister's coma formed yet another, distinct personality. But worrying about that was a luxury for another day; right at the moment, Yohji had filched the picture of Kritiker's dead snitch, and was addressing their handler. “So. Aya was going to go in. Alone?”

 

“No. Given how much was riding on the outcome, we determined that a two-man team would be best. Fujita-san was going in through the front door, so to speak, while another agent was in place as a member of the convention center's wait-staff. He had access to the non-public areas, and was going to monitor those, while Abyssinian took care of the attendees.” she said slowly. A grimace twitched her mouth, and Birman met Aya's puzzled gaze with difficulty. “You would have found it out in the briefing packet, had your kidnapping not occurred, so this is hardly a secret…. Your partner for the mission was Knight, from the Crashers unit.”

 

Crashers? Aya had been a part of a group by that name, and the association couldn't have ended happily, if the subtle warning in the woman's tone was any indicator. There was a sense of an entirely different conversation taking place behind the audible one. What little color the pale redhead normally possessed drained away entirely, and for a second, Ken thought he was going to have to jump to keep the swordsman from fainting dead to the floor. Then Aya shook himself, demanding angrily, “Yuuchi? Why? Why would he- ”

 

Birman snapped flatly, “Like you, Knight takes solo missions without the rest of his team. Despite not having worked together in over two years, it was felt that the chemistry that had allowed the two of you to partner so effectively would still apply. Should there be a leak, that time apart would also make it unlikely that the two of you would be connected in anyone's minds. And lastly, he volunteered.”

 

“But- ”

 

“But nothing. There was a good chance that this was our last opportunity to catch the bastards betraying our country's security in the act. We needed the best. Your personal history with Crashers was immaterial.” Controlled fury said clearly You're out of line, Abyssinian. Back off! as her dark eyes flashed. Taking a deep breath, the woman continued more softly. “Unfortunately, without Fujita, the mission was pretty much of a wash. We didn't dare try to introduce an unknown in your place at such short notice, which left Knight alone. Aborting the mission and pulling out was discussed, but we also didn't want to draw attention to Knight's presence after he had spent nearly two months getting into place. We decided that some chance of catching them in the act was better than none at all, but in the end, we never caught sight of the buyers. All we were able to recover was a small packet of sample documents, which we suspect were intended to either establish the authenticity of the items for sale, or as a gesture of good faith.”

 

“Which means that the seller still has the goods, and the buyers still have the cash, just like Omitchi figured.” The lazy drawl drew the attention of the other occupants of the kitchen to Yohji. The former detective leisurely drew the cigarette pack from the breast pocket of his tailored white shirt, shook out the last stick, and placed it between his lips. Only when the empty package was crumpled and tossed on the table, and a veil of blue smoke drifting in front of his intent green eyes did he look around the waiting circle. “Think about it, people. They're not going to give up so easily. They still want those classified documents, and now that they feel comfortable that we're not a threat, they'll come out to get them. And that will be our chance to cut the bastards off at the knees.”

 

A fierce joy blossomed in Ken's chest, making it uncomfortably tight for a minute. Aya's qualms be damned; the enemy needed to be dealt with. And soon. It was past time for Weiss to take the offensive, to carry the fight to their quarry before they could grind the Hunters down under the constant weight of pursuit. He exchanged a grin with Yohji, the two of them agreeing in complete harmony for once.

 

Their handler nodded as if she'd expected both the conclusion, and the agreement. “It will definitely be a plus to get these people off the playing field, not only in terms of personal safety for the four of you, but also by removing the constraints on Kritiker, as a whole. They're more than just a nuisance, gentlemen.” Photographs of scorched ruins joined that of the organization's informant on the table. “Tanagawa is a mess.” Birman added succinctly. “The arson squad found that woman's body in the wreckage. They haven't released any information “pending notification of next of kin,” but it looks like the real issue is that they can't make up their mind if it's a case of a disgruntled former employee deliberately setting the fire for revenge, or an insurance scam that went bad. That we're having to keep our heads down like a flock of nervous ostriches isn't helping; we simply don't know enough to guess at the methods used. You reported explosions, correct?” Her sharp eyes ranged around the table

 

Omi fielded the question, nodding emphatically. “Yes. I put everything I was able to deduce about the size and locations in my report. The odds are that they used straight C4, and off-the-shelf detonators, but as those are controlled materials in Japan, Kritiker may be able to learn something from it.” A floppy disc skidded across the wooden surface, coming to rest next to Birman's hand. Nodding, she picked it up and tucked it inside her jacket as she got to her feet.

 

“The only good news is that it doesn't appear that any of you were connected to the fire.” She slanted a hard glance at Omi, and sent the folder that she had brought across the table in exchange. “Bombay, I assume that I don't have to tell you this, but that file on the stolen documents is very classified. If you decide to pull another stunt like your little undercover mission, do me a favor, and burn it first. And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll let myself out and get off this God-forsaken mountain. If you need anything further, use the blind email drop, and either Manx or I will be in touch. Got that?”

 

At the unspoken admonition that they not trust a contact by anyone else, Ken shivered. They - all of them, even Aya - nodded their understanding of the order. Omi bounced out of his chair and walked the grim-faced woman to the back door. Only when the rumble of her SUV's engine engaging disturbed the silence did he turn around and somberly address the rest of the team, “I hope we get lucky. And soon. Or it's going to be a long, cold summer stuck up here.”

 

 

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

 

“So much information… and nothing makes any sense!” Frustrated, Omi beat his forehead on his folded arms before collapsing with a moan onto the scrubbed planks of their kitchen table. Yohji fished crumpled photocopies out from under his elbow and smoothed the worst of the wrinkles.

 

“Maybe it'll make more sense in the morning.” he offered sympathetically. The neatened up stack of paper went back into the folder, and the folder was tossed onto the middle of the table as the hacker whined and pounded a fist half-heartedly. The display didn't seem to bother the older assassin, who absently patted a thin shoulder and went to work gathering up the tattered pages of his scratch pad as if sitting up until 3:00 a.m. beating on the same hopeless series of questions was nothing new.

 

And maybe it wasn't. Ken rubbed the back of his hand across gritty eyes and reflected that he had no idea exactly what the P.I.'s life had been like in the Before Weiss era. For all he knew, Yohji's occasional stories about fist fights and rescuing damsels had been the exceptions rather than the rule, and the man had really spent all his time sifting through documents or sitting on boring stake-outs. Certainly, he had attacked Birman's file with the knowing sigh and head-shake of someone who had been through it all before. Flashing a grin at their youngest teammate, Yohji chortled, “Not that I plan to be up at oh-God-awful to help you, mind you. But it's the thought that counts.” Omi snarled a muffled obscenity, but failed to summon the energy to get up.

 

“We're soooo close, Yohji-kun. Just one more piece of data, one more piece of the puzzle, and it'll fall into place. I just know it will.” Blearily, he turned his head so that messy blond hair fell over his forearm, past where his cheek was pillowed, making him look far too childish to have stayed up half the night combing through records without success. A yawn drowned out another protest, turning it into a mumble of “…so close…”

 

The Kritiker agent's visit had left them all feeling determined and focused, but as the hours waned, it had turned to discouragement. Following the money was all well and good - if there was a trail to follow. They'd been through every permutation that they could think of - reasonable and un - and… Nothing. More than once, Ken had noticed Aya opening his mouth as if to say something, but each time the redhead had subsided silently, doggedly going through the stack of printouts and copies with the rest of them, sad eyes shying away from the photos of the club where Honey had died.

 

But this time, he cleared his throat and said softly, “I… might have something.”

 

Ken frowned. He'd never seen Aya really at a loss before. Even at the worst of times, the elegant man held true to his breeding and up-bringing, acting as self-possessed as a member of the Imperial family. But… no, there it was again; something was bugging the guy. The swordsman shifted uncomfortably, pale lips thinning into an almost invisible line of unhappiness, and the premonition of bad things coming got even stronger. Then Aya took a deep breath and opened his mouth. “Omi. I… I've been running the bank records search program on the desktop computer in the den.”

 

Puzzled, wide blue eyes blinked at Aya, and a soft, alto voice said, “A search…? On what? I mean, against what? You have to have very specific information to get anywhere with that thing.” The hacker, normally the most astute of them when it came to sifting through data, stared in tired confusion, but Ken knew exactly what Aya was referring to.

 

The credit card search.

 

Just before they'd headed out the last time, him and Omi to Tanagawa, Yohji and Aya to prod the cops, he'd seen the old tower computer, hard at work on something, and he'd managed to convince himself that it was okay, that it would be better to let Aya continue with whatever he was up to. He'd managed to avoid throwing it in the redhead's face in front of the others, then forgotten it all in the frenzy of worry over Omitchi and Yotan's safety. And now, here it was coming out on its own. Yohji's frown already said that the playboy had a bad feeling about where the conversation was going, and Ken just knew that when the man found out that Aya had been sitting on a potentially vital piece of information, there would be Hell to pay.

 

The worst part of it was that the sinking feeling in his gut said that Ken really should have known better, too.

 

Why, oh why, hadn't one of them - Aya or him - let the others in on the secret right away? Why had Ken been so stupid as to think that it would be okay to let the anti-social redhead deal with it on his own? How could he not have realized that if they were to have any hope of succeeding, they needed to pool all their resources?

 

It was like none of the shouting over the past weeks had even happened, for all the difference it had made. There was the same, weird feeling to the whole situation, just like what Yohji had complained about earlier. How many times were they going to go through the same cycle of clashing with the enemy, and then retreating to lick their wounds and try to figure out what was going on? Add to that the déjà vu feeling of watching Aya admit to withholding information again. Except this time, the picture was distorted, like watching a reflection in a bowl of agitated water; the images kept dancing and breaking apart.

 

Aya was displaying neither the urge to claw his way clear and run, nor the frantic denial of last time. Too stubborn, or too oblivious to acknowledge the trouble headed his way, the slim shoulders were as straight as a soldier's during a parade ground review. Aya looked Omi in the eye, and said the words that damned him irretrievably. “I had a partial credit card number.”

 

“What?” Bewildered, a small frown clouded the teenager's face, and Ken nearly groaned out loud. Trusting to a fault, Omi was having a hard time catching on, but the thunderous growl coming from the senior of the blonds meant that Yohji had no trouble at all.

 

“You son of a bitch,” he hissed, pushing back slowly from the table. “And you were planning on telling us all this when? After the next time those sick fucks try to flambé us, maybe? Or maybe once they take a crack at Ken? Christ knows that if anyone deserves it, it's him. After all, he's just the sorry bastard who's in l- ”

 

“Yohji! Shut up!” Desperate, Ken caught at the advancing assassin's arm, swinging the taller form forcibly off course and into the corner of the kitchen counter. When the senior Hunter's fist automatically cocked back, Ken hung on grimly, earning himself a baleful glare from the man towering over him where he sat.

 

If only Aya had shut up, as well.

 

“I am telling you - and breaking with protocol to do it.” The way the red haired assassin's jaw snapped shut on the final word told Ken that Aya did believe that he was being entirely reasonable, that he had weighed the necessity for secrecy, and deemed the admission to now be reasonable, where as in the past it had not been. The soccer player rose to his feet slowly, stepping into the line of fire and drawing the hot gaze of two irate sets of eyes to himself.

 

“You gotta listen to me. Beating the crap out of him, after what he's been through is not going to make things better, Yotan. If you gotta hit something, then hit me, `cause I saw the computer and I didn't say anything, either.” The vibrating tension in the long, ropy muscles spasmed, and the shorter man swallowed hard. Yohji had grown up on some very mean streets indeed, and had learned to fight with a fanaticism that was almost equal to how Ken viewed playing soccer. If the blond decided to get serious, there was a good chance that he could clean the floor with Ken's broken body, and that there wouldn't be a Hell of a lot that the ball player could do to stop him. “Look, it's not like it matters, anyway.” he said wearily. “We didn't know that the information was useful until a few hours ago, and even if we had, there's no guarantee that Birman would have given anything more to us, anyway. You both know that, so just let it go already.”

 

Instead, Yohji simply shook off the restraining arm, and snarled, “You'd better hope this information isn't a day late and a dollar short, Fujimiya, because if it turns out that it could have kept Honey alive, or kept Omitchi from getting beat up, your ass is grass.” Shoving roughly past the frozen redhead, Yohji stormed up the stairs, and distantly, they felt the slam of a door shake the house. Trembling, Ken sagged back into his chair. That mulish look would have been amusingly similar to the sour one on Aya's pale features - if it had been a laughing matter. A suddenly exhausted Ken raked a hand through his hair, wincing at the tangles in the too long strands. “God,” he muttered. “You two are such idiots.”

 

Warm arms circled him tightly from behind, and it was Omi's voice that whispered, “Ken-nii-chan…” the way he used to, back when they were both so much younger, and the ex-goalie had been sunk in grief for his own lost future. Funny, but he hadn't really been dreaming about soccer plays, or the roar of the excited crowd in a long time… and Ken couldn't decide if that was a good thing, or bad… But the thin body pressed to his back was reassuringly alive.

 

Being alive was good.

 

Shuddering, the brunet's breath gusted out of his lungs. Holding on to the past never did any good, and sometimes he didn't understand the way both of his older partners could cling to old pain and older regrets. Sure, he'd never completely let go of the wistfulness that came with seeing his old team playing on TV - his soccer mates, rather than those he now lived every day with - but it was the here and now that was the most important, and the conflicted emotions that tore at his insides whenever he got too close to the three other young men.

 

Soccer was just a game. They were an increasingly important part of his life.

 

After the fact, Ken could now see that rescuing Aya from the hospital marked a watershed between the mindless, killing rages that had slowly been consuming him, turning him away from both his companions and the beliefs and feelings that had made his existence bearable, and where he now stood with some of his self-respect regained. Incoherently, his head swung slowly from side to side.

 

What if this time they didn't…?

 

“Ken-kun?” A pleading note in the husky-soft voice called the young man back to himself. Ken groaned aloud, fisting a handful of sweaty, bitter chocolate brown bangs, and giving them a harsh tug. He squeezed his own eyes shut, intent on blocking out the varying expressions of worry. But before the trembling athlete could completely succeed in slamming shut the opened window to his soul, he sucked in a deep breath, shoving the looming horror away. He could deal with it later, when it wasn't their lives that were at stake. Hoarsely, he whispered, “ `m all right, Omi. Let's get this over with.”

 

Omi cleared his throat, breaking the ominous silence. “Er… Well, I guess you'd better tell me about the credit card number, Aya-kun. How many digits have you got, and where did you get it from?” Bless him, the hacker simply opened another window on his laptop, preparing to resume typing, then got up to pour fresh cups of tea as if the air wasn't too brittle and thick to breathe.

 

Slowly, Aya slid back a chair and joined them at the table. The inflectionless voice shook a little as he said, “The basement. Where I was kept. I found a scrap of paper in some trash. It wasn't supposed to be there… I'm pretty sure of that. After a while, I realized that it was part of a bill of lading… but there was no company name, just a list of packing crates… and the piece of a credit card number.”

 

A sturdy ceramic mug filled with steaming liquid appeared on the table in front of the stunned redhead, and Omi asked softly, “What made you think it had anything to do with your kidnappers?”

 

“The crates… I recognized the descriptions from Birman's data concerning the art auction.” Aya's voice was steadier as he cradled the cup between his hands as if he were chilled to the bone. Long, violet eyes flickered up to look at the thin boy standing at his side, and away. “Kritiker didn't pick up on the shipment until after it was delivered to the hotel, so I knew that was a dead end, but… I thought… maybe the card number…” The low whisper died away entirely, and Omi scrubbed both hands wearily over his face.

 

“Okay. No promises, but maybe if I put it together with the car rental company Yohji-kun and I picked up on, the hotel the auction was held at, the catering company whose truck they used to abduct you, the cell phone records from the disaster with the police, Birman-san's data from the failed buy… maybe I can do something with it.” His childishly small hand settled onto the swordsman's tensed shoulder, and shook it lightly. “For what it's worth, I don't think telling us sooner would have made a difference. Honey-san dying, they're to blame for that, not you. Now, go get some rest. I'll call you if I have any questions.”

 

Stiffly, Aya nodded and stumbled to his feet. Like a sleepwalker, he shambled slowly for the stairs, and his waiting bed. When Ken made to follow, Omi's quiet voice pulled him up short. “Ken-kun, is there anything else we should know about?”

 

Mutely, the athlete shook his head, and fled.

 

 

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

 

Author's Notes:

 

In case you're curious: A “bill of lading” is a written receipt or contract, given by a carrier, showing a list of goods delivered to it for transportation. The straight bill of lading is a contract which provides for direct shipment to a consignee. The order bill of lading is negotiable; it enables a shipper to collect for a shipment before it reaches its destination (this is done by sending the original bill of lading with a draft drawn on the consignee through a bank). When the consignee receives the lading indicating that payment has been made, the lading will be surrendered to the carrier's agent, and the carrier. www. mmd. admin. state. mn. us /mn06008. htm

 

What Aya was researching on the computer when Ken spotted it in Chapter 12 was a torn fragment of one of these. In this instance, a credit card was used as a surety, rather than a bank draft - mostly because I figured that the routing numbers for a bank would be too easy to trace. My apologies for stretching the facts a tad in the interests of the plot.